Page 48 of Signal No. Us

Inside, they played a slideshow of scanned photos before the film started: old posters, opening night crowds, Allan’s lolo on a ladder, Allan’s dad with paint-streaked cheeks; and, new, and Allan’s favorite, a handful of the kids’ storm drawings, both from San Andres and from his Manila workshop, side by side. Water. Houses. Dogs. Small figures, laughing anyway.

The little gasps when someone recognized a younger version of themselves in the old photos. The soft, delighted murmurs. The low hum when the kids’ drawings came up on screen, familiar rooftops and unfamiliar streets carrying the exact same weather.

Then the lights dimmed further, the ancient DVD player fed its disc, and the studio logo flashed, grainy and a little too bright.

“Diyos ko, Claudine!” a tita exclaimed from off in the dark.

“Rico, ay,” another sighed. “Kabataan ko ’to.”

Allan felt someone slide into the seat beside him: Robby, smelling faintly of paint and bar soap, knee brushing his in the shared row.

“Crime scene, this,” Allan whispered, staring at the opening bus-stop scene.

Robby huffed a laugh. “Emotional evidence, Exhibit A.”

Around them, people settled, titas clutching their bags like popcorn tubs, teens pretending they weren’t into an old movie, Jake near the back with his arms crossed and his eyes suspiciously bright.

In the shadowed row, Allan became hyper-aware of every shared inch of space. In high school, those inches had been dangerous, a wrong look, a wrong sound, and someone could rip a secret open like paper. Now, nobody cared how close he and Robby sat.

Robby leaned over, his breath ghosting Allan’s ear. “Remember, at the library?” he murmured. “We treated every footstep outside like a police raid.”

“You almost broke my thumb hitting pause,” Allan whispered back. “That was trauma.”

“Worth it,” Robby said quietly.

Onscreen, the famous makeover scene started: the swelling music, the confession that had launched a thousand old Multiply blog posts back in the day. In the back of Allan’s mind, the library afternoon flickered again: the plastic chair digging into his spine, his own pulse louder than the dialogue, and how he’d wanted to turn his head and check Robby’s face but never dared.

This time, he turned.

Robby was already looking at him. No flinching. No pretending to be interested in anything else. Just that same open, unguarded expression, older now, finally not running.

“Full circle,” Allan whispered.

“Better circle,” Robby said, voice unsteady in a way he clearly wasn’t bothering to hide anymore. “We’re not the only ones in this room holding our breath.”

Allan glanced around. Titas fanning themselves. A kid mouthing along to lines he probably shouldn’t know yet. Cora near the aisle, hands folded, jaw set in that particular way that meant she was pretending very hard not to feel anything.

A teenager a few seats down twisted around, spotted their joined hands on the shared armrest, and stage-whispered to her friend, “Kuya, they’re holding hands.”

Her friend shrugged, unfazed. “So what. They look better together than Claudine and Rico anyway.”

No one laughed at them. No one looked away. The girl giggled once and turned back to the screen, and that, that specific, ordinary lack of drama, hit Allan harder than any grand declaration could have.

“You picked this movie on purpose,” Allan whispered.

“Jake picked it,” Robby said. “But I didn’t stop him either.”

“You’re sappy.”

“You watched this with me twice in the library,” Robby countered. “You’re a co-conspirator.”

“Fine,” Allan muttered. “We’re both sappy.”

He curled his fingers up, twining them properly with Robby’s, not under a table, not behind a shelf, right there in the armrest light, in a room his father had once painted heroes in.

When the credits rolled, a few people clapped. Someone whistled. A tita announced, “This is still better than the new ones,” and everyone laughed.

Robby didn’t let go of Allan’s hand until the very last note of the theme song faded.