Chapter Text
Even the sunrise could not provide warmth in the midst of the four corners that radiate the unforgiving cold of bathroom tiles. The sunlight trespasses through the small ventilation window wedged in the upper half of one of the walls, battling with the artificial fluorescent light that has kept Mikha illuminated throughout the seemingly long night. Even the sun could not mask the dark bags that formed beneath her tired eyes, even the sun could not embrace her beneath the thick layer of numbed distance. She catches a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror: freshly-dyed damp red hair sticking to her neck, her favorite white shirt stained with a mosaic of red splatters, pale lips, and the remnants of a night without sleep evident in the exhaustion on her features. Truth be told, she isn’t quite sure if she recognizes the girl standing in front of the mirror. Whether it’s the red-headed reflection or the jet-black ghost she has left behind the night prior— she does not recognize herself on most days.
Perhaps it was fitting. These days, most of the things in Mikha’s life are only mere echoes of what they once were. Her childhood home is now a barren wasteland, stripped of anything that would whisper a sense of familial familiarity. The walls were naked of its past picture frames, the shelves rid of her father’s collectibles; even the house has stopped breathing. It was a slow, painful, death. Their home gradually warped into a shell of its former self. It was a minimalist transition at first, placing most of their life into boxes— some were given away, some were sold, others her parents had taken with them— then their furniture had began to disappear as well, whatever was not disposed was left in their original positions with nothing but a thin white sheet draped over them. As if covering them would erase the reality that they will be forced to stay. As if the dust will not sit on the dip of the couch, mimicking the memories of the family that once spent their Sunday nights huddling in the living room. The house had taken its final breath last Wednesday, when Mikha’s parents vowed to never step foot on those hardwood floors for as long as they live. (They asked her one final time if she was sure with her decision, Mikha simply nodded and wished them well. Her mother told her to call often, her father stayed silent.) There was no one in that house but her, there was no one left to blame.
No one was left to blame but her.
Friday mornings were never this lonely, but there was a malevolent desperation clung around Mikha’s ankles as she dragged her feet out of the bathroom. What greets her is the lingering heaviness of an empty kitchen, the spaciousness almost made her claustrophobic. The silence was full enough to send waves of ringing into Mikha’s ears. She hated it. Mikha reaches for her phone that was resting quietly on the large dinner table, next to the two duffel bags and a backpack that contained what was left of her life.
She presses play.
These dirt roads are empty,
the ones we paved ourselves
Your mama calls me sometimes
to see if I’m doing well
Breakfast consisted of one-half of a Kopiko Blanca Twin Pack (she drank the other half yesterday) and a Marlboro Red. She does not bother with real food knowing that this will be her last meal before her departure. Her fingers tremble the moment she rolls the cigarette between them. Maybe it’s the coffee, or maybe it’s something else entirely. Nonetheless, she places it in front of her lips, the lighter raised and ready to set her thoughts ablaze.
Perhaps it was the delirium brought by hunger or the insanity-inducing nicotine, but for some reason, Mikha decided it would be a good idea to call her mother.
And I lie to her
And say that I’m doing fine
When really I’d kill myself
To hold you one more time
The phone rings.
Her mother’s voice bleeds through the line, “Mikha?”
Mikha holds her breath.
“Mikha, gabi na rito. May kailangan ka ba?”
Like her hands, Mikha’s voice trembles, “Lilipat na po ako sa apartment today, Ma.”
She hears her mother take a deep breath. Mikha ends the call.
And it hurts to miss you
But it’s worse to know
That I’m the reason
You won’t come home
The smoke in her lungs rises from her throat and clouds the room with one last puff before she kills the blistering spark. Mikha changes into a new set of clothes— white shirt (without the red stains this time), black hoodie, khaki cargo pants— and decides it’s time for reckless abandon. It’s not running away, Mikha convinces herself. Her parents had essentially done the same thing, approximately 8430 miles from the mouth of the volcano while Mikha was simply taking a few steps back from the flames. The world will be where she is not. Though the heat from beneath the grumbling ground leaks onto the surface even as Mikha stands on the curb with her back turned from her childhood home. What will be the rest of her life now hangs in her hands and sits on her back as she lifts three heavy bags waiting for her ride.
Two hours later, emancipation greets Mikha as she rolls down the window of an old ‘95 Hatchback. España remains the same bustling boulevard that it has always been. Every square meter was occupied either by a vehicle, a building, or another component in the sea of people attempting to wave their way past the crowded streets. There is something familiar about the unstoppable chaos of Manila. The out of place trees, the overabundance of dormitories and coffee shops, the collision of different-colored school uniforms walking past each other without sparing a single glance— it was all so foreign to Mikha and yet she could not help but feel a sense of déjà vu once her gaze lands on the large campus that she knows she will soon learn like the back of her hand. Maybe, just maybe, there was something familiar waiting for her there.
“Lim, ang usok! God, close the window nga.” Jaz complains from the driver’s seat.
Being an uncooperative passenger, Mikha refuses, reaching for something in her front pocket before grumbling, “Pa-yosi lang.”
“Tangina mo ba? Not in my car, Lim! Tsaka malapit na tayo. Sa Dapitan ‘yung apartment mo, right?”
Mikha sighs in defeat, rolling the window back up before leaning back in her seat.
“Oo, Dapitan.”
Wedged between the tight streets along Dapitan is a five-storey building that although sounding tall, looks incredibly small in comparison to the nearby high-rise condominiums that scatter around the area. It was painted a pale orange, some areas of the wall already shedding with the paint peeling off. Its front consisted of a humble hole-in-the-wall sari-sari store with a sign that read Lucky Store in big bold letters.
They’re parked on the side of the road. Jaz has her bleached-blonde hair secured into a bun to beat off the scorching heat, and Mikha couldn’t help but feel a pang of melancholia as she watches her friend lift her bags from the backseat. Right now, she’s all Mikha has. She would never say it out loud, but she would spend several lifetimes in a state of eternal gratitude towards the girl who tolerated all of Mikha’s bullshit in high school. Just less than a year ago, Jaz was still covering for Mikha’s habit of cutting classes under the guise of unexpected absences and forged excuse letters. In exchange, Mikha would do a good portion of Jaz’s homework. Jaz graduated with honors and never questioned the other girl’s whereabouts, Mikha graduated itching for an escape beyond skipping her morning classes and an appreciation for the girl who once sat next to her in homeroom. Mikha likes having Jaz as a friend. She never asks questions (part of Mikha wonders if it’s just because the girl could not care any less, but it doesn’t matter), but that lack of curiosity just makes it all the more easier for Mikha to get along with her. The admirable thing about Jaz is that she will show up, no questions asked and no explanation needed. So when Mikha had texted her on Thursday evening asking if the blonde could drive her to Manila the next afternoon, she did exactly as Mikha requested. Everything might have faded into echoes of the past but Jaz has not, at least, not yet. She is still here, standing in front of Mikha. And she is real.
“Hey, Jaz,” Mikha calls out, her voice void of the usual venom she spits.
“Oh?”
She takes the bags from Jaz’s grip, a small but sincere smile on her lips, “Thank you sa paghatid.”
Jaz takes a step closer into Mikha’s space, catching her off guard by throwing her arms around the girl’s shoulders, engulfing her into an embrace.
“Anytime, Lim.”
Mikha finds it hard to search for a response. Instead, she waits for the hug to be over. Watch as the only person she has left in her life walks back into her old beat-up car, then Jaz rolls down the window.
“Last call, Lim. May chance ka pa sumama sa’kin sa Taft.”
She laughs, “Sus, you just want kasama sa Sherwood.”
“You know me too well.”
Jaz simply grins in response. Mikha watches her face fall for a split second, like she was deep in passing thought. Mikha prays while she waits for the next words to come out.
“Call me if you need anything, okay? And visit sometimes. Don’t be a stranger.”
Mikha sighs in relief, “Will do.”
She watches her drive away before turning around to face the building. Despite the heat wavering down from the hanging sun, the ground no longer feels like it weighs down Mikha’s ankles. Each step she took felt enormously light, a sense of liberation dancing around her step. When Mikha reaches the sari-sari store, she peeks inside to see a girl around her age sitting down while scrolling on her phone.
“Excuse me,” Mikha clears her throat.
Without tearing her eyes away from the bright screen, the girl deadpans, “Walang yelo.”
The response catches her off guard, but she chooses to ignore it. Mikha was tired.
“Ate, dito po ba si Eva Ricalde?” The name makes the girl finally look up from her phone, “I’m Mikha, ako ‘yung lilipat—”
“Ah, ikaw ‘yung bagong tenant ni Tita Lola!” The girl stands up, “Teka, tawagin ko lang siya.”
Mikha watches as the girl disappears behind a door at the back of the store. With not even a minute passing, she exits through a different door— the one situated at the side of the store, directly leading to the inside of the building— with a short elderly woman trailing closely behind her. It doesn’t take long to connect the dots that this is the nice lady that’s been in Mikha’s Facebook Messenger inbox.
“Mikhaela?”
“Mikha nalang po, miss—”
“Nako, ‘wag na!” The old lady interjects, “Tita Lola nalang, Mikha.”
She nods.
Tita Lola turns to the girl, “Maloi, diyan ka muna sa tindahan. Dalhin ko lang si Mikha sa apartment niya.”
The girl, Maloi, smiles as a sign of agreement before retreating back inside. Meanwhile, Tita Lola leads Mikha to the other far-end of the building. The sari-sari store was in-between two entrances, the door which Tita Lola just came out of, and then a small gate that Mikha had observed to lead directly to a flight of stairs. Her observation, as most will have it, turns out to be correct as they climb up the stairwell. They stop at the second floor, where a short hallway with two doors greet them. Each door is labeled 201 and 202 respectively, Mikha is led to the first one.
“Nga pala, iha. Dumating na gamit mo nung isang araw, alam mo naman ‘no?” Tita Lola mentions, inserting the key into the door’s lock.
“Opo, ‘yung bed frame and appliances po. Pinauna na po nila Mama.”
The door opens to a modest studio apartment. True to Mikha’s statement, her appliances are already settled before her. In the corner beside the window lies her bed frame with a mattress already sitting on top, just beside the front door is a counter that stops where her refrigerator stands, and in the middle of the bareness is a circular dining table where Mikha guesses will fit three people at most. Though, it’s not like she’ll have any guests anyway.
The sound of keys hitting the wooden table pulls her away from her observant stare.
“Kung may kailangan ka, ‘wag ka mahiya puntahan ako sa baba. Pwede mo rin naman kausapin apo ko, si Maloi. ‘Yung ibang tenants dito, mababait silang lahat! Pare-pareho nga kayong taga-UST. Second year sa advertising ‘yung si Maloi. Ikaw ba, Hija?”
Truth be told, Mikha barely registered anything she was saying. She feels slightly guilty about it, but above anything else, she was tired. She places her bags on the foot of her bed, turning back to the elderly woman with a polite smile, “PolSci po. First year.”
Perhaps it was the short responses, the straightforward tone, or the bags under Mikha’s eyes; nevertheless, it seemed that Tita Lola finally got the hint. The older woman retreated to the doorway, a warm grin sent to Mikha’s way as her hands linger on the doorknob.
“Welcome ka rito, Mikha. Katok ka lang sa baba kapag may kailangan ka,” She reassures, the sunlight dimming around the apartment’s four walls when Tita Lola shuts the door as she exits.
Mikha releases the breath she didn’t realize that she was holding (like an inherited lump in her throat, has it always been there? Even as she exhales, the air still expands inside her lungs). She shrugs off her jacket before falling into the firm surface of her bare mattress. There is no premonition, no dreams, no warnings prior to the exhaustion taking over. Her eyes are heavy. Mikha falls asleep.
Engulfed in a devouring darkness, Mikha awakens to the moon barely seeping through the apartment’s lone window. It takes a few moments for her sight to adjust to the pitch black. Her eyes darted over to the wall, and maybe it was the state of being in-between slumber and alertness, but Mikha swears that the walls began to bleed into the ceiling. Everything had faded into a shadow of itself, stretching far and wide as the walls slowly inched closer and closer and closer. There is a haunting, albeit familiar, tune playing—no, ringing—in her ears. A creeping crescendo of piano keys ramming into her like a bad headache. As the walls approached, the ringing grew louder. A mishap of broken strings untangled from her ribcage, Mikha feels her lungs fill up with the tightness of running water. Was she drowning? She couldn’t breathe. The wall was pressed up against her chest. The ceiling weighing down the crown of her head. The bed had disappeared. The floor had turned into the volcanic flames she thought she had left. Sitting surrounded by the fire of her own doing: outside, she was burning; inside, she was drowning.
The music stops.
Mikha wakes up covered in sweat. The world is still dark but her bed still exists and the walls remain at a safe distance. The floors are made of wood. She confirms this when she swings her feet over to sit on the edge of the mattress. Her fists close on the side. She can’t feel her hands. No matter how she moves them, or how she drags them along the rough fibers, it is almost as if the ridges are non-existent. Mikha’s entire body felt like static, dry lips parted to race for the oxygen she had seemed to lose.
Jesus Christ, she needed a smoke.
Dapitan is still busy even at nine in the evening. There was a split-second panic that washed over Mikha’s already-present uneasiness at the thought of the sari-sari store being closed. Her legs lead her rushing down the stairs and swinging the gate open to see a figure reaching for the store’s roll-up doors.
“Maloi, wait!”
However, when the figure turns to Mikha’s direction, she quickly realizes that it wasn’t the girl she met earlier. This girl was taller, missing the dismissive but bright eyes that greeted her when she first walked in. This one had a gaze that held sharpness that rivaled Mikha’s. If looks could kill, Mikha supposes she’d already be dead with a thousand stab wounds inflicted in her chest.
The girl replies, her tone straightforward, “Wala si Maloi. Sino ka?”
“Mikha,” she replies, her voice hoarse and throat dry, “I’m the—”
“Ah, ‘yung bagong lipat,” The girl cuts her off, “Umalis si Maloi. Ano kailangan mo?”
“Isang pack lang sana ng Marlboro Red, tapos…” Mikha trails off, licking her lips only to feel how cracked they had gotten from the dryness.
“May mineral water kayo?”
“Mineral water, puta. Arte.” she hears the girl mumble, though loud enough that Mikha could still hear, “Wala, pero ice tubig meron.”
“Okay, ayun na lang.”
Mikha pays for her dinner, “Thank you…”
“Colet.”
“Colet,” she repeats, nodding, “Sorry sa bother.”
There are exactly ten steps from the bottom of the staircase to the building’s second floor. Within those ten steps, Mikha begins to weigh the advantages of returning immediately to her room. Alone in a tiny compartment surrounded by nothing but the four thin walls that remove her from the rest of the world. As much as the latter half sounded promising, she feels as if she would not bear the closeness of the small space. Too hot. Too small. Too empty. She finds herself passing the second floor, continuing upstairs towards the unknown. Eventually she reaches the end: a fifth floor with no rooms, only a door leading to the rooftop.
A dancing breeze embraces her the moment she steps onto the open space. Mikha walks over to the edge, leaning on the concrete as she places her wired earphones into her ears.
Ang pag-ibig ay tahimik
Hindi kailangan ng nambubuyong lakas
Her hands were too busy rummaging through her pockets for a lighter to complain about the prolonged numbness. The lighter, Mikha’s prized possession, was thin, small, identical to the ones you’d find suspended by a worn-out piece of string at your local sari-sari store. Colored with a demanding red, hues slowly fading around the edges. It was an old one that she’s carried around for almost two years now, safely tucked away somewhere in her back pockets. Well, at least on most days that’s where she’d find it. There was no way that she would have forgotten it.
Tulala ka sa kawalan
Kinakabahan
A bit more searching, Mikha thought to herself. She tries to recall the events from the morning earlier, as if retracing her steps would eventually lead her to the missing lighter. She half-expects it to be hidden in the details, forgotten in the background of her memories. She will find it suspended in time, the small glistening thing buried underneath the large weight of the universe.
May nagawa ba ‘kong kasalanan
Kung bakit ka nagkaganiyan
A reward from the gods, Mikha finds her lighter in one of her side pockets. True to theory, it was concealed beneath her phone. She pulls out the newly-bought pack of cigarettes, placing it on the parapet in front of her. She takes a stick, lighting it in front of her lips.
At nagkapatlang
Tahimik na ang buong mundo
For a moment, there was a warped version of peace when the smoke traveled to Mikha’s lungs. There was nothing but this, the faint glow of the moon shining down on the orange burning of her cigarette. The numbness in her limbs begin to subside as the nicotine takes over. In the midst of the black night and the white cigarette, an unexpected gentle breeze reaches her skin as the only door in the entire area opens.
‘Di ko namalayan biglang ikaw lang at ako
“Aiah?” Mikha calls, dumbfounded.
‘Di mo kailangang
The girl in front of her smiles. It’s hazy and reckless, but Mikha could never deny the warmth that radiated from Aiah Arceta’s inviting grin.
Baguhin ang iyong anyo
“Mikha Lim, you changed your hair.”
Ghosts are remnants of the past. That’s why Mikha dyed her hair, that’s why she moved out of her childhood home, that’s why she had left behind anything that could remind her of the persistent horrors of the life she tries so hard to forget. It was an exorcism of sorts. A banishing of her old self and the demons that plagued her mind. It was not entirely successful. Mikha failed to take into account the obvious: a ghost haunts. The past lingers. Not only does it trail closely behind the runaway, but it sticks to her clothes like the smoke from her cigarettes. Now, a ghost stands in front of her in the way that Aiah sways mindlessly by the doorframe. Mikha notices her crooked stance, the way her hands grip tightly on the frame, the way her eyes blink a little too slowly, and the subtle slur in the way she greets her.
Earphones and phone left on the parapet, Mikha approaches the older girl with caution, “Are you drunk, Aiah?”
Aiah laughs shortly, “A bit, yeah.”
Mikha couldn’t help but laugh along at the girl’s behavior. It wasn’t often that one would see this side of Aiah; but then again, Mikha hasn’t seen the older girl in over a year. There is the possibility that things have changed since then.
“You’re making ikot.” she points out.
Mikha takes that as the cue to take a chair from the stack of monoblock chairs stored in the far corner of the rooftop. She places it near her original position, ushering the older girl to sit down.
“Sit down here, oh.” Aiah urges, which Mikha always obliges. She grabs another chair and sits beside the older girl. Silence fills the rooftop as they linger beneath the moonlight.
Mikha bites down on her tongue, unsure of what to say. How would she even start? It has been 480 days since she last saw her, and 320 days since they last spoke. Not that Mikha was counting. She would be lying to herself if she said that she hasn’t been anticipating this moment, the inevitable reunion with the one and only. A mountain of thoughts pile on top of her head, a rush of questions rising up her throat. Perhaps her composure had gone along with the smoke in the air, a year of confusion forgotten like the cigarette dangling from her fingertips.
“I—”
“Sa—”
Both of them cut off their own words with a small chuckle, Mikha gestures for the other girl to resume talking, “You first.”
“Sabi ni Maloi na you moved in. Well, what she said was that there was a new tenant. Nakakatakot daw, mukhang masungit,” Mikha’s face visibly contorts at the statement, to which Aiah laughs at before continuing, “She said your name was Mikha. Then I thought, Mikha? Mukhang masungit? Maybe that’s my Mikha Lim. I hope it is.”
Mikha isn’t the one who’s drunk, but she feels like throwing up.
Aiah only smiles, “And it is.”
Without thinking, the words fly from Mikha’s lips, “I thought you had forgotten about me.”
Pause.
“I could never forget you, Kapitana.”
“Ditto, Ace.”
Silence follows Mikha’s response. The utterance of their old nicknames almost felt foreign on her tongue. She looks outward onto the Manila skyline. In front of them are a mix and match of buildings varying in size, roofs of different colors, and lights that are as loud as the streets beneath them. It was far from the quiet corner of Quezon City that Mikha had emerged from. QC is as loud as Manila, but Mikha had somehow found a corner that was hidden from the rest of the world. Just as she always wishes to be. By the playful strings of fate, Aiah somehow always finds Mikha in the midst of all the hiding.
“Ang layo pa rin ng tingin mo,” Aiah speaks up.
Mikha turns to see the older girl already looking at her, and she thinks she hasn’t seen Aiah’s smile falter ever since she walked in.
The girl adds, “I missed you.”
Mikha smiles, it’s genuine. Worried, confused, longing, and genuine, “Yeah. Me too.”
“Grabe ba naman ‘yan, Mikha. You’re still the same,” Aiah teases.
Mikha tilts her head in confusion, “Huh?”
“Say you missed me.”
“I already did.”
“Ulitin mo. Say it properly. You’re always biting your tongue, Mikha Lim.”
Mikha shakes her head in amusement, “You’re insufferable.”
“Say it,” Aiah persists, leaning closer and entering Mikha’s space.
“Namiss mo lang talaga ako, e.”
Closer, “Say it.”
“Kulit mo namang lasing, Ace.”
Closer, “Say it.”
Mikha’s breath hitches at the distance, or the lack thereof. Aiah’s face was mere inches away. Her doe eyes flickered up at Mikha’s features, gaze containing a mixture of mischief and wonder, she was enjoying this—clearly. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, the kind that made her dimples evident.
Mikha had already lost.
“Oo na. I missed you, Aiah.”
Aiah’s grin curls wide in victory, leaning back in her seat as Mikha watches her revel in satisfaction. She refuses to let the moment linger, quickly opting to switch the topic, “I didn’t know na dito ka nakatira, by the way. Just in case you think I’m a stalker or something.”
“I don’t think you are,” Aiah laughs, “But I appreciate the assurance.”
As fate would have it, Mikha is thrown into a situation that is far beyond her expectations. In all honesty, she really had no clue that the vacant apartment she found on one of those Facebook dorm hunting groups would be in the same building that Aiah lived in. She knew that the older girl was studying at UST, yes; and she knew that she was residing in a dorm somewhere near campus—but that was about all the information she had. That was all the information Aiah had given before they had withered away almost a year ago. The questions surrounding that incident settle at the back of her throat, but as Aiah said, Mikha always had a habit of biting her tongue.
Instead, she listens as the older girl interrogates her about her sudden appearance in Dapitan. Mikha answers truthfully—with reservations. She explains that the university was the only school left that would even consider her after she had firmly rejected all of their offers months ago; she had about a week to do everything, from calling the coach, to processing her scholarship, to enrolling, to finding a place to stay.
“Does that mean I’ll get to watch you play again?”
“Dunno,” Mikha shrugs, “Baka bench lang muna ako.”
“Bench? ‘Yung Kapitana ko?” Aiah protests, her lips jutting into a pout.
Mikha considers rationalizing it for the older girl, but she knows that Aiah was too far gone to ever accept an explanation. Her gaze flickers over to the girl’s expression, amused at how expressive Aiah has always been. If her words won’t tell you how she feels, then her face will. Mikha’s eyes start where Aiah’s lips were, pouting in shallow offense as she spoke where her usual crisp and clear voice held a subtle slur in the aftermath; then up to her cheeks that was painted a faint shade of red, a tell-tale sign of Aiah’s intoxication; then it was her eyes. Dilated pupils in doe-curiosity looking straight at Mikha that she feels closer to the verge of melting. Mikha has trouble maintaining eye contact, afraid that if she looks back she will find something in the other girl’s eyes that she does not intend on discovering; though, she cannot simply look away at the same time.
“You’re really drunk, aren’t you?” she quips.
Aiah shakes her head, “Sabi ko just a little lang!”
“Your pupils are like… really big right now.”
She huffs, “It’s just like that talaga whenever I see you.”
Mikha’s breath hitches—along with a wave of panic pulsing through her veins. She remembers the cigarette burning between her fingers, she turns her head away to let the smoke burn at the back of her throat. Her hands itch for something, a prolonged distraction perhaps or a change of course. The night feels young with the moonlight still in full bloom, but Mikha already feels the lingering familiarity creep up on her. Mikha panics not because of Aiah’s words, her fear stems from something far worse. If this was two years ago, Mikha would’ve laughed in response—her first instinct was to laugh in response—then she would fall into a sense of comfort, melting in playful banter. Her walls would lower enough that Aiah would enter, now she trespasses. Ghosts do have their way of floating through walls.
Her hands reach for the phone resting at an arm’s length away. 1:02 a.m. flashes on the bright screen.
“Late na pala,” Mikha coughs out.
Aiah is quiet for a moment, Mikha watches her lips curl into a frown. Her eyebrows slowly furrowed as if she was remembering something at that very moment.
“May org meeting kami ni Maloi tomorrow.”
“Oh,” Mikha stands up, prompting the girl beside her to do the same, “You should rest na, Aiah. Alin apartment mo? I’ll walk you.”
Shaking her head, Aiah answers, “No, diyan lang ako sa fourth floor.”
She watches as Aiah makes her way to the stairway, stopping just as she reaches the doorframe, “Mikha,”
Her voice is clear enough that it makes Mikha’s skin shiver, “Hm?”
“I’m sorry about Mere.” Aiah breathes out before disappearing down the stairs.
Mikha’s heart drops. She stays at the rooftop for another cigarette.