Page 4 of Signal No. Us

She set the bowl on the table. “Have you eaten?” she asked, in the same tone she used to ask if he’d finished his lab report.

“I’m still full, Ma,” he lied. His stomach growled on cue, loud enough that Tita Gemma laughed.

She scanned him head to toe, checking for disease, disrespect, and poor life choices. After a heartbeat, she gave a single, clipped nod. “Fine.”

He waited for we missed you so much, or look how fat you got, or even why only now.

Instead, she turned to rearrange the puto.

“Ma,” he tried again, more carefully, “Tita said you had a stroke?”

The room did that Filipino teleserye thing where everyone pretended to keep moving but stopped breathing.

“Mini stroke,” she said, still not looking at him. “The doctor said just rest. This”—she gestured around at the porridge army—“is resting.”

Resting, apparently, looked like catering for a small parish.

His entire meticulously rehearsed teleserye collapsed. No frail mother. No trembling hand. No anak, thank you for coming home.

Just Cora. Functional. Mildly irritated. Refusing, as always, to be the main character in his movie.

“Go to your room,” she said, eyes on the tablecloth. “Rest. You’re tired.”

“Okay, po,” he echoed. His body agreed before his pride could argue.

He dragged his duffel down the hallway. The paint had peeled more. The family photos had multiplied. Above the console table, his lolo laughed forever from a bamboo scaffold, one hand steadying a giant painted Nora Aunor.

Beside it, a newer frame: his dad, who’d died back when Allan was still in high school, younger in the photo than Allan was now, holding a palette, streaks of red and blue on his cheek. Behind him, a hand-painted title, half-finished: ORO, PLATA, MATA.

Allan stopped. He didn’t remember that particular photo being framed before.

His room smelled like dust and teenage rebellion. Christina Aguilera and the Backstreet Boys still lined the walls, their posters curling at the edges. The periodic table above his desk looked like a relic from a museum about failed futures.

In one corner, a rolled-up tarpaulin leaned against the wall, the last science fair banner he’d made with Microsoft Word and far too much enthusiasm.

He dropped his bag and collapsed onto the bed. The mattress complained but held.

Manila flashed behind his eyelids: endless meetings, polite gaslighting, you’re such a rockstar when they meant we own you. His resignation email still sitting in some HR inbox. His lolo’s and dad’s paint-streaked fingers. His mom calling a stroke “mini,” like a pop quiz, not a warning.

His chest ached in a way that felt familiar and odd, so he closed his eyes.

Sleep hit him like a slap he’d been asking for.

He woke up to the Backstreet Boys.

Specifically, the unmistakable, deeply committed strains of Quit Playing Games (With My Heart), muffled through the wall, accompanied by someone enthusiastically kicking a shower door in rhythm.

His head throbbed. His mouth tasted like dust and mild depression.

He groped for his phone. Dead. Of course.

Light glowed from under the bathroom door, pulsing with steam. The singing got louder. Off-key, but so committed it almost looped back around to impressive.

Then came the falsetto—a long, wavering note that seemed to physically require both hands cupped around an invisible microphone, followed by a beat of reverent silence, the universal pause every shower performer takes before the big finish, like the bathroom tiles owed him a standing ovation. Whoever this was, they weren’t just singing. They were headlining.

For a hopeful second, Allan thought, Kuya Ver?

He padded to the door and knocked. “Kuya, I really need to pee.”