(Hunger isn’t just an emptiness of the stomach. It’s the silence that follows when dreams begin to cost too much.)

The sun above Ormoc burned without mercy, turning the streets into sheets of light. Nox Ando walked through them slowly, the soles of his shoes thin enough to feel the heat rising from the concrete. Sweat trickled down his neck, but it wasn’t the heat that bothered him most—it was the hollow ache that had made a home inside him. Two days without a real meal had a way of dulling thought. Everything felt distant. The laughter of school kids passing by. The sputter of tricycles. The smell of kwek-kwek frying in oil so cheap it stung his eyes.

He looked away from the street food cart. He couldn’t afford to look too long—it was like staring into something sacred. In his pocket, the last of his allowance sat folded: five hundred pesos for the whole week. He’d already done the math: one hundred fifty for project fees, two hundred for the baon he’d promised himself to stretch into Friday, fifty for the water refill station, and the rest—he didn’t know yet. Maybe emergencies. Maybe hope.

He could live with hunger. Pride was harder to swallow.

Nox stopped at a small sari-sari store and bought a sachet of instant coffee. “Mainit na tubig lang, ate,” he said softly. The woman nodded, poured him a paper cup, and watched as he stirred the dark powder. No sugar. He liked it that way—it felt honest. Bitter but real.

As he walked toward the school, he passed a group of boys laughing near the basketball court. One of them called out, “Oy, Nox! Barkada namin maglalakwatsa mamaya!”

He smiled faintly. “Next time, pre. Wala akong budget.”

They jeered good-naturedly, but one of them—the tallest—clapped him on the back. “Kaya mo ‘yan, Ando. Ikaw nga valedictorian namin eh.”

He grinned. “Valedictorian ng gutom.” They laughed, but his smile faded as soon as he turned away.

He thought of Shyn. She was probably waiting under the acacia tree near the gate—their meeting place since Grade 11. He could already picture her: hair tied in a loose ponytail, uniform sleeves rolled just a bit, eyes that made the day feel less cruel.

When he found her, she was sitting on the low stone fence, a paper cup of lugaw in her hands. “Nox! Dito!” she called out, smiling like the world wasn’t hard.

He sat beside her. “You already ate?”

“Not yet. I was waiting for you.” She tore a piece of plastic spoon in half and offered it. “Share tayo.”

He hesitated. “You eat first. I’ll get something later.”

She rolled her eyes. “You always say that.” Then she scooped a spoonful of lugaw and held it near his lips. “Come on. Don’t make me eat alone.”

The smell hit him—ginger, rice, a faint trace of chicken bones boiled too long. It wasn’t much, but right then it felt like a feast. He took the spoon quietly, savoring the warmth.

“Salamat, Shyn.”

She smiled. “You say that like it’s the last meal we’ll ever share.”

He looked at her, and for a second, it hurt to love someone that much when you had so little to give. “Maybe it is,” he said, half-joking.

“Don’t say that.” She bumped his shoulder lightly. “After graduation, everything will get better, ‘di ba?”

He nodded, though he didn’t believe it fully. He’d passed every exam, finished top of his class, and yet the future still felt like a locked door. College cost money. Money he didn’t have.

Graduation came on a day that smelled of cheap cologne and sweat. The school’s covered court had been transformed into a hall of crepe paper streamers and mismatched monoblock chairs. The heat gathered under the roof like a living thing.

Nox adjusted the toga that itched at his neck. It was borrowed—three years old, the fabric faded and smelling faintly of mothballs—but he wore it like armor. When his name was called, applause echoed, and for one fleeting moment, he felt weightless. He walked across the stage, accepted his diploma with both hands, and smiled for the camera someone’s uncle was holding.

It was done. Years of walking to school, skipping meals, studying under candlelight during brownouts—all for this single paper that didn’t guarantee anything.

After the ceremony, Shyn found him near the gate, still holding his diploma. She threw her arms around him, laughing. “You did it!”

He hugged her back gently. “We did.”

“Don’t say goodbye yet,” she whispered, as if sensing something heavy behind his silence. “You’re going to find a way, Nox. I know you will.”

He wanted to believe her. He wanted to believe that love could pay tuition fees, that hard work could feed you, that the universe didn’t care how small your wallet was as long as your heart was big enough. But poverty was louder than faith.

A sudden voice cut through the noise. “Nox!”

He turned. His sister, Flora, stood at the entrance, her face drawn tight, eyes sharp with urgency. She was still wearing her work uniform from the small diner she served at, sweat darkening her collar. She looked like she’d run all the way there.

“Flora?” He frowned. “What are you doing here?”

She didn’t answer immediately. Her gaze flicked from the diploma in his hand to the girl beside him. Then she said it—clear, steady, and final:

“You’re done here. We’re going to Cebu.”

The world seemed to pause. The noise of laughter, the cheap pop song from a nearby speaker—all of it faded into the sound of his own pulse.

He stared at her, confusion tightening his chest. “What do you mean? I—Flora, I can’t just—”

She stepped closer, gripping his arm. “Nox, please. No time to argue. Pack your things tonight. We’re leaving first trip tomorrow.”

He glanced at Shyn, whose smile faltered. Her hand slipped from his.

Flora’s eyes softened for a moment. “It’s not a choice, Nox. You’ll understand soon.”

The sun dipped lower behind the rooftops, casting the street in gold and shadow. For the first time all day, Nox forgot his hunger. Something heavier had taken its place—a weight that had nothing to do with the stomach, and everything to do with the heart.

___

Author’s Notes:

Kwek-kwek — quail eggs coated in orange batter, deep-fried and sold as street food.

Baon — allowance or packed lunch for school.

Lugaw — Filipino rice porridge, often served cheap and hot.

Barkada — close group of friends.

Utang — debt or money owed.

(Sometimes, love doesn’t ask what you want. It tells you what you must give up.)

Flora didn’t knock. She never did when the news was bad.

The room Nox rented was barely large enough for two people to stand without bumping elbows. One side was taken up by a thin mattress, the other by a desk littered with notebooks and half-dried pens. The fan in the corner whined weakly, blowing heat from one wall to another. Flora stood in the doorway, arms crossed, her uniform stained with oil and the smell of fried fish still clinging to her hair.

“You can’t stay here, Nox,” she said. Her tone was firm, but her eyes were tired. “Ormoc’s bleeding us dry.”

Nox looked up from the small paper bag of graduation tokens he’d been sorting. “Flora, I just graduated yesterday. Can’t we talk about this next week?”

She stepped closer, her voice sharpening. “Next week? You think rent waits for next week?”

He sighed and sat back. “I’ll find work. There’s a printing shop near the plaza—”

“₱200 a day, no benefits, no meals,” she cut in. “That’s not even enough for rice.”

Her words fell like stones. She wasn’t angry; she was desperate.

Flora sat on the edge of his mattress, pulling out a folded sheet of paper from her apron. “Look,” she said, flattening it. “This is our utang with Auntie Liza. Three months overdue. And this—” She pulled another crumpled receipt from her pocket. “Eighteen thousand pesos. That’s how much the apartment in Cebu costs for six months, shared rent. I already paid the deposit.”

Nox blinked. “You… what?”

“I paid it,” she repeated. “I’ve been saving from the diner. I got you a spot in a college there—Southern Luzon Technological Institute. Not the best, but better than nothing.”

He stared at the paper like it might vanish. “You should’ve talked to me first.”

“I’m talking to you now.”

He stood, pacing the narrow room. “You think I can just leave everything? My friends, Shyn—”

Flora’s voice softened. “I’m not asking. I’m telling you. You’re going.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because you’re my brother,” she said, rising to meet his gaze. “Because I didn’t work double shifts and eat lugaw for dinner every night just to watch you rot here. You want to stay for love? Fine. But love doesn’t fill an empty stomach, Nox.”

He wanted to shout, to tell her she was wrong, that love mattered more—but the words wouldn’t come. His throat felt tight, as if the heat in the room had settled inside him.

He turned away, staring out the small window that framed a sliver of Ormoc—the cracked roads, the leaning electric posts, the faint outline of the mountains.

“I can make it here,” he whispered. “I don’t need saving.”

Flora sighed, walking up beside him. “You don’t need saving. You need a chance. There’s a difference.”

The silence that followed was long and heavy. The only sound was the electric hum of the fan and the distant bark of dogs outside.

Finally, Flora placed the papers on his desk. “We leave tomorrow at dawn. I’ll handle the fare.” She paused at the door. “And Nox—don’t make me the villain for wanting you to live better.”

When she left, the room felt emptier than before.

He tried calling Shyn that night, his fingers trembling as he held his old phone. The line crackled before her voice came through, soft and familiar.

“Nox?”

“Hey,” he said. “Can we meet?”

There was a pause. “It’s late. Is everything okay?”

“I’m leaving.”

A sharp inhale. “Leaving? Where?”

“Cebu.”

Another silence—this one longer, colder. “When?”

“Tomorrow.”

She didn’t speak for a while. He could almost hear her breathing, trying to find the right words. When she finally spoke, her voice broke a little. “You knew, didn’t you? Since this morning.”

“No. Flora just told me.”

“Then say no,” she said. “Tell her you’ll stay.”

“I can’t.”

“You mean you won’t.”

He closed his eyes. “Shyn, you know what it’s like here. Flora’s right. There’s nothing left for me.”

Her tone softened, trembling. “Then what about me?”

He wanted to answer, but the truth was cruel. Love doesn’t feed anyone. Flora’s words echoed in his mind like a curse.

“I don’t want to go,” he whispered. “But if I stay, I’ll be stuck. And if I go…”

“You’ll forget me?” she asked quietly.

“Never.”

A small, sad laugh. “You will. That’s what time does.”

“I’ll come back,” he said, the promise sounding fragile even to his own ears.

“Then go,” she said after a pause, her voice steadier. “Go before I change my mind and ask you to stay.”

“Shyn—”

“Just promise me one thing.”

“What?”

“That you’ll make it worth it.”

The call ended with a faint click, and for a long time, Nox stared at his reflection in the dark screen, seeing only the blur of a boy who wanted to be a man.

Before dawn, he packed what little he had: two shirts, one pair of jeans, a cheap notebook, and the diploma that had already begun to crease at the corners. Flora waited outside, her backpack slung over her shoulder, the morning fog curling around her feet.

They didn’t talk much as they walked to the terminal. The air was thick with the smell of rain and gasoline.

When the bus started moving, Ormoc unfolded in reverse through the window—streets he’d walked a thousand times, the bakery that smelled of burnt sugar, the old bridge where he once told Shyn he’d marry her someday.

He pressed his forehead against the glass, eyes stinging. The city blurred, swallowed by distance and mist.

Flora glanced at him. “You’ll thank me someday,” she said quietly.

He didn’t answer. His throat felt too tight. He just nodded, watching the city fade into gray.

As the bus climbed the highway toward the port, Nox felt something shift inside him. Not relief. Not hope. Just a hollow acceptance—like the space left behind when something breaks.

He thought of Ormoc, of the hunger and laughter and love that had shaped him. He thought of Shyn’s voice, soft and brave even in goodbye.

And as the ferry horn sounded and the sea opened wide before them, he understood:

Leaving wasn’t escape. It was survival.

___

Author’s Notes:

Utang — debt or money owed.

Lugaw — rice porridge, often eaten cheaply or as comfort food.

(“Dreams cost more when you’re awake.”)

The noise hit Nox before the heat did.

Cebu was alive in a way Ormoc never was — horns, shouts, exhaust fumes, and the constant hum of traffic that never slept. As the bus hissed to a stop near Colon Street, he gripped the strap of his old black backpack and stepped down into the chaos.

Flora was already there, waving from the side of the road. “Nox! Dali, dali!” (Hurry, hurry!) Her voice cut through the noise, sharp and sure. She carried herself like she owned the city, though her tired eyes betrayed otherwise.

They walked through narrow alleys until they reached a three-story apartment that leaned slightly forward, as if bowing from exhaustion. The sign above the entrance read: For Rent – ₱18,000/month.

“Eighteen thousand,” Nox muttered. His stomach tightened. That was more than his family made in a month back in Ormoc.

Inside, the apartment was cramped but clean. Cha, Flora’s older sister, smiled faintly as she wiped sweat from her neck. Gen, a family friend, was sorting laundry, while little Mae sat cross-legged on the floor with a half-charged phone.

“You’ll sleep here,” Flora said, pointing to a narrow strip of floor beside Cha’s bed. She tossed him a thin foam mat.

He nodded, trying to hide his discomfort. “Okay lang, Ate.” (It’s okay, sister.)

That night, as the city noise pressed through the thin walls — jeepneys rattling, vendors shouting balot!, laughter from drunk men outside — Nox lay awake staring at the ceiling. His body ached from the trip, but his mind refused to quiet.

He turned to look at Flora sleeping across the room, her arm draped protectively over Mae. The light from a streetlamp painted her face in a tired orange glow.

She was spending nearly all her pay to keep this small world together.

All for him.

He whispered into the dark, “I won’t waste this.”

The University of the Visayas

The next morning, he found himself among crowds of students outside the University of the Visayas.

Clean uniforms, bright shoes, laughter that spoke of comfort.

Nox walked in with his one rewashed uniform and shoes he’d polished to hide the cracks.

In class, he sat in the back — always the quiet one, always calculating.

A group of boys behind him laughed over the latest iPhone update. Another group discussed their “contribution” for a project — ₱250 each for printing and materials.

When the leader turned to him and asked, “Bro, ikaw? May ambag ka?” (Bro, your share?)

Nox froze. ₱250 was half his week’s allowance.

He forced a smile. “Sige, sunod na lang.” (I’ll give it next time.)

The boy shrugged, unconcerned, and turned away. The sound of their laughter stung worse than hunger.

At lunch, Nox sat alone near the canteen gate, sipping from a bottle of water and eating two pieces of pandesal he had bought that morning. Around him, groups of friends joked over chicken meals and milk teas.

His stomach growled, but he ignored it, flipping through his notebook.

Equations, lecture notes, and in the corner — scribbled in pencil — a tiny chart of his weekly budget.

₱500 allowance.

₱10 for jeepney fare (one-way).

₱15 for photocopy.

₱25 for lugaw (porridge).

₱5 for water.

He added and erased, adjusted and re-added — as if one more calculation might make the pesos multiply.

---

The days blurred into weeks.

Nox woke before sunrise, studied under the dim bulb in the hallway, and took quick cold baths with a bucket. He skipped breakfast, sometimes lunch, saving enough to buy one lugaw at night. (Author’s note: lugaw – rice porridge, a common cheap meal in the Philippines.)

Flora would scold him when she noticed.

“Eat more, Nox. Don’t just drink coffee again.”

“Di ako gutom, Ate.” (I’m not hungry, sister.)

A lie that both of them knew wasn’t true.

Every night, his muscles trembled with exhaustion. His eyes burned from hours of reading, but he couldn’t stop. To fail would mean wasting everything his sisters worked for.

He found small escapes — the sound of the rain against the window, the dim hum of Cebu at night, the texts from Shyn.

---

At first, Shyn called every night. Her voice was the only warm thing in his day.

“Have you eaten, love?”

“Yeah,” he lied. “You?”

“I’m fine. I miss you.”

He’d smile into the darkness. “I’ll come back for you. Promise.”

But as the weeks stretched, the calls grew shorter. Then, less frequent.

Sometimes, he’d message her after class: “Still awake?”

Her reply would come hours later, a single: “Busy. Sorry, love.”

One night, he waited for her call until midnight. The screen stayed dark. When he finally saw her name appear — typing… — it disappeared after a few seconds.

The silence that followed was heavier than hunger.

---

By the third month, the routine hardened into habit.

Wake. Walk. Study. Endure.

The ₱500 stretched thinner each week, until he learned to survive on utang barkada (friends’ credit tabs) and plain rice with soy sauce. (Author’s note: utang barkada – informal debt among friends.)

He learned which karinderya (small eatery) gave free soup refills, and how to time his meals so the canteen wasn’t crowded.

He memorized bus schedules, shortcuts, even the smell of the photocopy shop near the campus gate.

And through it all, he repeated the same quiet promise each night before sleeping:

“One day, this will mean something.”

---

Late December.

Rain pounded on the roof of their apartment, the walls damp and cold.

Flora was asleep beside Mae, and the room flickered with blue light from Nox’s old phone.

He stared at the screen — at Shyn’s last message, two days old.

“Mahal kita. Pero minsan, kailangan natin magpahinga.”

(I love you. But sometimes, we need to rest.)

His thumb hovered over the reply box.

He wanted to beg, to explain, to promise again.

Instead, he typed nothing.

Outside, the rain fell harder, drowning out the city noise.

He put the phone face down, closed his eyes, and whispered the only thing he could still believe in:

“Someday, this will all make sense.”

And somewhere between the thunder and the ache of hunger,

Nox Ando finally slept — not at peace,

but still enduring.

___

Author’s Notes:

Lugaw – rice porridge, often the cheapest available meal.

Utang barkada – small informal loans among friends, common in Filipino student culture.

Karinderya – small local eatery serving home-style food.