(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.