The amps had gone silent. No more drums echoing through the night. Guitars lay still, unplugged. It was past ten, and the rules said the loud music had to stop. But nobody moved. Nobody wanted it to end.

The garage lights stayed on. The air was thick with leftover heat and laughter. Bottles clinked softly. A fan hummed in the background like white noise to a night that refused to sleep. Someone reached for their phone. Bluetooth speaker. Spotify. Search: 90s OPM Hugot.

And just like that, the second set of the evening began.

No instruments. Just voices. Just memories. Everyone sang.

The first note of Meteor Rain played and a cheer erupted. Someone stood up and did the signature hand-to-heart move. Laughter broke out, heads shook, but no one resisted. The chorus hit, and everyone joined in—word for word, choreography and all. Because if you grew up in the 90s, you had to dance when F4 played.

Then came Wala Na Bang Pag-Ibig. The energy softened. Jaya’s voice filled the space and the mood shifted. The smiles stayed, but the eyes closed. The kind of singing that comes from somewhere deep, like you were still in uniform, whispering lyrics into your armchair during idle time in high school.

Then it hit: the April Boy playlist.

Honey, My Love, So Sweet dropped like a bomb. Screams. Zero warm-up. Just full-on, straight-into-the-heart karaoke mode. Invisible caps flew through the air. People jumped, pointed to imaginary crowds, acted like the heartbreak was still fresh. It was messy. It was dramatic. It was perfect.

Next, Bakit Pa swept through the speakers. Jessa Zaragoza’s voice cut through whatever was left of anyone’s composure. An imaginary mic appeared. Someone grabbed a broom and raised it like a Grammy. The drama was peak teleserye. The joy? Completely unscripted.

Then Bakit Nga Ba Mahal Kita arrived, and the whole room sank into that familiar ache. The kind of song you don’t just sing—you feel. Loud or quiet, everyone joined in. Because everyone knew what it meant.

But the real kicker? Di Ko Kayang Tanggapin.

The garage exploded. That intro alone brought everyone to their feet. April Boy’s anthem turned the hangout into a full-blown concert. More cap-throwing. More pretend heartbreak. No one cared how they sounded. It wasn’t about being in tune—it was about being in the moment.

Because those songs? They weren’t just songs. They were time machines.

They took everyone back to lazy Sunday afternoons with the radio on. To crushes passed through notebook paper. To rewinding cassette tapes with a pencil because the player chewed up your favorite track. Every chorus pulled out a memory you didn’t even know was still there.

In that garage, with nothing but a speaker and a playlist, they were kids again.

They weren’t performers. They weren’t professionals. They were just friends—the same ones who traded baon at recess, lined up for fishballs after class, and shared heartbreaks over cheap ice cream and handwritten love notes.

That night reminded them why they fell in love with music in the first place.

Because music brings people together. And sometimes, it’s the cheesiest, most “jologs” songs that hit the hardest.

The night ended with raspy voices, aching cheeks from too much laughter, and one last cap-throw for good measure. And as the final song faded into silence, one thing stayed true:

You can take the kid out of the 90s—but you’ll never take the 90s out of the kid.