The night smells of rain and half-cooked noodles. I say the universe must have a sense of humor, that maybe we’re all just atoms pretending to be people, trying to finish deadlines before dawn. My roommate laughs, says that if there is a god, he must live inside a cup of instant noodles, crowned in steam, merciful in just three minutes. It’s absurd, but the existence of the Church of Flying Spaghetti Monster keeps it within the realm of possibility.

We sit cross-legged on the dorm floor, the room dimly lit by a cheap bulb that hums like it’s thinking too. Conversations spill and spread: about love being comparable to the Ship of Theseus, about whether we are free or just following scripts written by hormones and habits. He quotes Kierkegaard, mispronounces his name, and I do not correct him. It’s too late for certainty, too early for truth.

The walls hold our words like secrets. I can almost hear them breathing. In the corner, his socks become a metaphor for the human condition: forgotten, mismatched, yet enduring. We laugh until the laughter feels like a prayer, the kind Camus might have made if he had friends and sweeter coffee.

Outside, the city hums—indifferent but alive, a philosophy of its own kind. Inside, we argue about nothing and everything, about whether stars are proof of meaning or of its absence. He says that maybe both can be true. I nod, half-asleep, eyes reflecting light like twin galaxies.

We never find answers. The noodles go cold. The world remains unsolved. But when the lights finally die and silence folds over us like a blanket, I realize that maybe that’s enough: to wonder together, to be small together, to make the night feel infinite in a room that barely fits two.

- Josias Je Rellora

(Illustration by Kamyl Gelyzah Celi/FEU Advocate)