Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

They’ll tell you Limasawa is just an island.

Small, quiet, easy to miss if you’re not paying attention. But locals—the ones who’ve lived here long enough, or maybe just believe in a little more than what they see—they’ll tell you otherwise.

They say Limasawa has a way of holding on to people. Not in the frightening, ghost story kind of way, no— more like, you leave but the island keeps a part of you. A laugh you left behind in the sea breeze, a quiet wish you whispered to the waves.

Some claim the island listens. That if you arrive with a heavy heart, the salt air will lighten it.

If you come with questions, you might not leave with answers—but you’ll carry better questions with you when you go.

Who knows if any of that is true? Maybe you’ll find out for yourself.

Welcome to Limasawa.

Take your time.

The island isn’t in a hurry, and neither should you be. 

Chapter Text

There’s no singular moment Aiah Arceta breaks.

It’s all of them—stacked and spiraling, folding into each other until even breathing feels borrowed.

The flashing cameras that strip her down to pixels. The too-tight fabric of expectations pressed against her skin. The scrutiny, the judgment, the unshakable sense of eyes that follow her even in solitude.

It builds slowly—until even the most ordinary asks feel like demands.

So, when her manager hands her another schedule—another list of appearances, another interview, another night where she must smile until her face forgets how to rest—something within her gives.

And suddenly, she is walking out.

Out of the meeting. Out of the building. Out of the life she has worn like a costume for too long.

She doesn’t know what comes next, only that it must be something else. Somewhere else.

And so, she leaves, not with fanfare but with footsteps quiet enough for the world to miss.

She shouldn’t be able to disappear.

She is Aiah Arceta.

Her face is on billboards. Her name is spoken like currency, passed between strangers who dissect her life as if it were communal property.

But somehow, the world lets her go.

The airport is busy, full of people too occupied with their own destinations to notice the girl with her hoodie pulled low and her eyes trained on anywhere but here. She boards a flight with no return ticket. Then a boat, smaller than expected. Then the sea—stretching wide and slow and blue until it gives way to something that almost feels like mercy.

Limasawa.

The noise fades. What’s left is wind, salt, and silence.

The island greets her like it has been waiting.

Salt in the air. Sunlight through coconut leaves. The hush of waves that sound almost like a memory.

No cameras. No voices calling her name.

Just the tide, steady and warm, pulling her in.

She expects resistance. To be recognized, questioned, sent away.

But the island does not flinch.

The woman at the hostel hands her a key and calls her hija with a kindness that sticks to her ribs. The vendors at the market smile—not in recognition, but as if to say You are here. You are real. That’s enough.

And maybe that’s all she wants to be.

Not Aiah Arceta. Not anyone the world has made her.

Just Aiah.

For as long as the island will let her.

The next morning, she wakes to the sharp trill of her phone.

For a moment, she forgets. The bed is too stiff, the light too clean.

Then the breeze filters through the open window, carrying the scent of seawater, and it comes back—the boat, the island, the leaving.

She reaches for the phone, blindly, fingers clumsy and slow.

“Hello?”

“Aiah—where the hell are you?” Her manager’s voice is raw, tangled between panic and relief. “Do you have any idea how bad this looks? You just—disappeared. No warning, no calls, nothing! We thought—”

“I’m fine,” Aiah says, quietly.

A pause. She can hear it all behind him: shuffling papers, the click of a keyboard, the wheels of the machine already turning.

“You can’t just vanish,” he says. “What if someone saw you? What if—”

“No one did.” And if they did, they looked away. Or let her go. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

Silence. Then, a breath drawn too tight.

“Tomorrow,” he repeats.

She hesitates.

She thinks of the sand still caught between her toes. The lull of the ocean just outside the window. The way the island opened for her without question. No demands. No spotlight.

The island doesn’t beg her to stay.

But oh, how she wishes it would.

“…I promise.”

The call ends. The phone slips from her hand and lands beside her on the sheets.

Tomorrow.

But today, she is still here.

And for now, the world can wait.

Chapter Text

It starts with rain. Not the light, fleeting kind that dusts city sidewalks, but the kind that soaks through fabric and seeps into your skin, clinging to the air until the night grows thick with salt and the scent of damp earth. Aiah hadn’t planned for this—not the storm rolling in, not the missed boat, not the quiet way Limasawa has tightened around her, soft but insistent, like it isn’t ready to let her go just yet.

She should be frustrated. Should be pulling out her phone, calling her manager, drafting apologies and making arrangements to leave at first light. But instead, she walks—hood up, steps slow, letting the hush of rain swallow her whole. The streets are nearly empty. The few who remain move with a kind of practiced rhythm—hoods drawn, umbrellas angled low, their feet splashing through puddles as if they’ve done this their whole lives. Aiah doesn’t belong to this place, not really. And yet for a brief moment, her body falls into the same rhythm. She walks like someone who knows the roads. Like someone who isn’t being followed by eyes, or expectations, or time.

Then, the glow of a café spills out from the dark.

She pauses outside the window, breath catching in the cool air. The glass is lightly fogged, the inside aglow with warm yellow light and the kind of music meant for slow evenings and soft silences. She doesn’t think about it, she simply moves forward, hand on the door, the quiet chime of the bell greeting her as she steps inside.

The smell of coffee hits first, deep and familiar. The space is small, but not cramped. Wooden tables, shelves of bean jars, a chalkboard menu scribbled in looping, imperfect script. A few customers linger—faces tucked into books, or cups, or quiet conversations—but none of them look up. No second glances. No stares. It feels strange, and freeing at the same time.

Behind the counter, a woman glances over.

She looks about Aiah’s age, maybe younger, but she carries herself with a steadiness that makes her seem older. Her red hair is still damp at the ends, loosely tied back, a few strands slipping free. She wears an apron dusted with flour, the sleeves of her shirt rolled up past the elbows, and when she speaks, her voice is low and even.

“You look like you could use something warm.”

Aiah hesitates, unsure what kind of warmth she’s offering, and then nods.

“You’re our last customer,” the woman says, turning toward the espresso machine. “That means you get to taste-test something new. House rule. No complaints.”

Aiah watches her work—the measured movements, the gentle tamp of coffee grounds, the quiet hiss of milk warming as the woman wipes the counter clean between steps. There’s something grounding about it. Something real. When the drink is finally set in front of her, Aiah wraps her hands around the cup and lets the heat sink in.

She takes a sip.

It’s different. A little sweeter than she expects, with something floral that lingers at the back of her tongue. Not perfect. Not polished. But it tastes like something someone cared about.

The woman leans in, waiting. Aiah swallows. “It’s good.”

Something like amusement flickers across her face. “That’s all I get?”

Aiah exhales, the corners of her lips twitching just slightly. “It’s good,” she repeats, “and it tastes like…” She pauses, rolling the flavors on her tongue, searching for the right words. “Like a quiet evening.”

The woman tilts her head, considering. “Not bad.” She reaches for a small notepad by the register and writes something down. Aiah catches a glimpse of it before the page is turned.

Like a quiet evening.

Outside, the rain continues its steady rhythm.

Aiah hadn’t planned to stay this long. But maybe it’s the warmth of the drink, or the softness of the air, or the fact that the woman across from her doesn’t recognize her at all. Doesn’t ask anything from her. For one night, at least, she gets to be nobody. Just another girl passing through, unseen.

“I missed my boat,” she says finally.

The woman lifts an eyebrow. “Bad luck?”

Aiah exhales a laugh, though it doesn’t carry much humor. “Something like that.” She stares down into her cup, tracing small circles against the ceramic. “Everything’s been... off lately. My sleep. My timing. Even the air feels like it belongs to someone else.”

The woman says nothing, just crosses her arms and listens.

Aiah doesn’t know why she keeps talking. Maybe because she knows she’s leaving soon. Maybe because she’s tired. Maybe because here, in this quiet corner of a storm-lit café, she’s not someone people expect to hold it all together.

“Sometimes it feels like the whole world is watching me,” she says. “Like I can’t breathe without someone dissecting it. Like every choice I make belongs to someone else.”

She doesn’t look up, but she feels the woman still watching—not like an audience, but like a witness.

“And tonight,” Aiah adds, voice almost a whisper now, “I just wanted to be somewhere the world couldn’t reach me.”

The woman gives a slow nod. “Well,” she says, her voice softer now too, “you found the right place.”

Aiah looks up.

The woman gestures gently—to the café, to the window, to the stretch of island that hums just beyond it. “No one’s watching here,” she says. “No one’s asking anything from you.”

And Aiah doesn’t say anything back. But something inside her loosens. Something she’s been holding for far too long.

For tonight, at least, that’s enough.

The next day, she wakes to the sound of waves crashing louder than before.

For a moment, she forgets where she is. The sheets feel unfamiliar, the air thick with sea salt. Then it returns to her in pieces—the café, the rain, the cup she never finished. She blinks toward the window. The sky is overcast, the light outside dull and low. Everything feels heavy, like the air is holding its breath.

From downstairs, she hears the low murmur of a news broadcast, the clinking of cups, the voice of the hostel owner carrying through the open hallway.

“Storm’s closing in,” the woman says. “Boats are shut down for the week.”

Aiah sits up slowly, her heartbeat steady and strange. There’s no panic. No rush. Only a quiet certainty that she is not going anywhere.

Her phone buzzes.

She doesn’t need to check who it is.

“Before you say anything,” she says, voice still thick with sleep as she presses the phone to her ear, “I was going to leave last night.”

Her manager exhales on the other end, somewhere between relief and fury. “Aiah. You promised. Do you have any idea how many calls I’ve had to take—”

“There’s a storm,” she says, flat but calm. “No boats. Nothing I can do.”

A pause. Then: “Are you sure?”

Aiah rubs at her temple. “No, I’m lying about a tropical depression because I thought it would be a fun prank.” Her tone is dry, but beneath it is something quieter. “Yes. I’m sure.”

There’s silence on the other end. She can practically hear the calculations—the routes, the alternatives, the deadlines being mentally redrawn.

“I’ll come back when I can,” she says before he can respond. “It’s not like I have anywhere else to be.”

Another pause, then a sigh. “Fine. But this isn’t happening again.”

“I know,” she says, and for once, the words don’t feel like surrender. They feel like truth.

The call ends.

She lies back against the mattress and lets the silence fill the room. She should be anxious, checking updates, plotting exit routes. Instead, she closes her eyes and listens to the hush of waves just beyond the wall.

She doesn’t mind.

Not today. Maybe not tomorrow either.

Later that morning, the scent of garlic and frying eggs leads her down to the hostel’s diner.

It’s the same as she remembers—mismatched chairs, wood-worn tables, a chalkboard menu tilted slightly off-center. The radio plays in the background, the voice of a national broadcaster echoing over static. She drifts toward the counter, orders something simple—toast, eggs, black coffee—and when her tray is handed to her, she glances toward the window.

The hostel owner sits by the corner, nursing a cup of coffee, a folded newspaper balanced on her lap. When their eyes meet, the woman gestures gently to the seat across from her.

Aiah joins her.

“Storm’s stronger than expected,” the woman says, turning the paper so Aiah can read.

Fishermen Warned to Dock Early.
Coast Guard Suspends Boat Operations Indefinitely.

“How bad?” Aiah asks.

The woman shrugs, taking a sip of coffee. “Bad enough. But nothing the island hasn’t seen before.” She nods toward the dock in the distance. “The fishermen knew it was coming. They’re used to this—pulling in the boats early, securing the nets. Still, it’s never easy. No fishing means no fresh catch to sell, no income for a few days. Everyone will have to tighten their belts a little.”

Aiah chews her food slowly, thinking. In the city, storms were an inconvenience—traffic, canceled events, flooded streets—but life always moved on, powered by a machine too big to stop. Here, it was different. Life was woven into the tides, the weather, the sea itself. A single storm could ripple through the entire community, shifting the way people ate, worked, survived.

“Do people do anything else to prepare?” she asks.

The woman gives her a curious glance, as if surprised by the question. Then she sets down her mug. “Families stock up on dry goods. Extra rice, canned food, things that keep. Most of the small stores will be selling out by now.” She tilts her head slightly. “You’ll be fine, though. The hostel’s prepared for guests staying longer than planned.”

Aiah offers a small nod, then goes quiet again. She should be more bothered, but she isn’t.

“You don’t seem in a rush,” the woman says, gently.

Aiah looks out the window, watching the trees sway. “I guess I’m not.”

“Maybe the island wants you to stay,” the woman muses.

Aiah arches an eyebrow. “Is that a thing that happens?”

“You’d be surprised.”

Silence stretches between them. The kind that doesn’t ask to be filled.

The woman sips her coffee again. “If you’ve got the time, go see the lighthouse. Or the market before the rain picks up. You might as well.”

Aiah doesn’t answer immediately. She hadn’t planned on anything. She hadn’t even expected to be here.

But now that she is… maybe staying isn’t the worst thing.

Chapter Text

handwritten on the back of a café receipt, folded twice

I don’t know your name.

I’m not even sure you’ll come back.

But tonight, you held the cup like it was a lifeline. Not like most people do–absentminded, distracted, halfway anywhere else. You held it like it was the first warmth in a long time.

And you said the strangest thing.

Like a quiet evening.

Not sweet. Not strong.

“Like a quiet evening.”

I wrote it down because I didn’t know what else to do with how that landed. Maybe it was just a line. Or maybe you meant it.

Either way, I hope you find more evenings like that.

Wherever you’re going, whoever you are, I hope the world lets you breathe softer.

And selfishly, I hope you come back.

Chapter Text

Aiah walks.

She doesn’t have a destination in mind—not truly—but the hostel owner’s words remain with her, a soft suggestion rather than a push, enough to coax her outside, into air that still smells faintly of yesterday’s rain. There’s no real path to follow. Just the quiet pull of the island beneath her feet and the hum of a morning not in any particular hurry to begin.

The air carries a stillness she’s not used to, thick with the scent of wet leaves and salt-crusted wind. It clings to her skin, cooling the heat from her limbs as she moves past narrow alleyways where flowers bloom from cracked concrete, their petals open wide like they know something she doesn’t. The hush of waves echoes from somewhere nearby, folding into the rustle of palm fronds and the distant bark of a dog. In every corner of this place, there’s a sense that the island is simply continuing—as it always has, with or without her.

It’s the first thing she notices. Time here doesn’t bend toward urgency. There is no undercurrent of efficiency, no constant buzzing of calendars or alarms. In the city, she had moved on muscle memory, days stacking into each other like dominoes, meetings devouring hours, and her body moving even when her mind wasn’t fully present. Here, life holds its breath longer.

She slows without meaning to, her steps adjusting to the rhythm of the place. An old woman sweeps the front of a sari-sari store with a walis tingting, pausing between strokes to greet a man passing by with a plastic bag of rice. On the dock, fishermen sit cross-legged, hands moving through nets with practiced familiarity, their eyes watching the sea like it might change its mind. A child crouches on the roadside, drawing in the dirt with a stick, so lost in the quiet of it that the world might as well have paused around him.

It’s not stillness out of laziness, Aiah realizes. It’s tenderness. The island sets its own rhythm, and no one rushes to outrun it.

She finds the shoreline almost by accident. The tide has pulled back, leaving wet sand and a scatter of broken shells and wave-smoothed glass, small remnants of a world just beneath the surface. Aiah crouches, her fingertips grazing the cool earth, pressing lightly into it as if to remind herself she’s still here, still real.

She breathes in.

The scent of brine. The faint sting of salt on her tongue. The kind of silence that doesn’t ask for anything in return.

She doesn’t stay long. The lighthouse stands not far off, a weathered sentinel on a rocky slope, its white walls dulled by time but still holding their shape against the changing sky. The climb is short, just steep enough to draw breath from her chest, and when she reaches the top, she finds herself staring into something vast and endless.

The sea stretches outward in every direction, gray-blue and heaving, the storm a smudge on the horizon, too far to touch but too present to ignore. Below, the island reveals itself—roofs like patchwork, boats docked in careful rows, the slow rhythm of daily life still unfolding, as if no storm could truly threaten it.

She wraps her arms around herself and imagines what it might feel like to live this way. To wake up to sea-salted wind and quiet hands and days that do not blur together in a rush of obligation. To move through the world without being seen, or more precisely, without being observed. No lenses trained on her, no voices narrating her choices before she’s made them.

Would she be freer? Would she be happier?

The questions rise without warning, linger longer than she expects, but they do not answer themselves.

By the time she finds the market, the clouds have thickened. The light has shifted, the sky now carrying the weight of what’s to come, but the island doesn’t seem to flinch. Vendors arrange fruit and dried fish beneath awnings stitched together from tarps and string. Smoke curls from small grills, carrying with it the scent of roasted meat, ginger, and garlic.

Someone is playing a radio loudly, a ballad echoing across the tents, slightly warped but familiar.

Aiah slows her steps. She doesn’t mean to linger, but the air pulls her in. She buys a small bag of dried mangoes from a vendor with gentle eyes and hands that don’t tremble. The woman counts her change without even a flicker of recognition. No double take. No curious glance. Just a smile, handed over without fanfare.

Aiah is used to being noticed. To the sharp intake of breath, the murmur of her name passed between hands and eyes. Here, she is no one. And somehow, that feels closer to belonging than all the applause in the world.

She doesn’t turn back right away. Past the market, the tricycle terminal sits quiet, its metal roofs pinging lightly with the first hints of rain. She follows the curve of the road beyond the bend, without purpose, until a familiar building rises into view.

The café looks softer in daylight.

Last night, it had been golden light and hush and refuge. Now, beneath an overcast sky, it stands quiet and still—just a place among many, steady and unpretentious.

Aiah doesn’t remember deciding to come here. Her feet simply led her back, as if tethered by something unseen. She stands at the door, hand brushing against the handle, and lingers a moment before stepping inside.

The bell chimes, and the scent of coffee wraps around her like a returning memory. The space is dimmer in the morning, less filled but still alive. A few customers murmur over warm drinks, steam rising between them like soft punctuation marks.

And behind the counter, red hair catching a streak of window light, is her.

The woman looks up. Her brows lift, just a little, and then settle again into something warmer. Not surprise. Not recognition in the way Aiah is used to. It’s quieter. Less about who she is, and more about the fact that she came back.

“Back again?” she asks, drying her hands on a towel with an easy smile.

Aiah shrugs, stepping closer. “Guess I am.”

“Same as last night?”

She nods.

The woman moves like she did before—fluid, confident. She hums something under her breath as she works, a tune Aiah doesn’t recognize, but it settles into the quiet like it belongs there. When the drink is ready, it’s set before her without ceremony. This time, there’s no request for a review. Only a small lean across the counter, arms crossed, voice light.

“So,” she says, “are you just passing through, or is the storm keeping you here?”

Aiah glances toward the window, where the sky now hangs low and heavy. “The storm,” she says. “I was supposed to leave today.”

The woman hums, not unkindly. “Looks like you’re stuck with us, then.”

There’s a pause. Then, she extends a hand. “Since you’re here a little longer, I guess I should at least know your name.”

Aiah stills.

It’s a simple ask, but her body reacts before her mind does. She hesitates—not from suspicion, but from instinct, from years of hearing her name carry more weight than it should. A name used like a currency, or a weapon. A name that belongs to people who don’t even know her.

Still, she takes the woman’s hand.

“Aiah.”

It’s the first time in a long while she’s said it without bracing herself.

The woman nods, lets go. No questions. No flicker of familiarity. Just a name, offered and accepted.

“And you?”

The woman gestures to herself. “Mikha.”

Aiah lets the name roll through her thoughts. It suits her—solid and sure, the kind of name that doesn’t need explaining.

Mikha tilts her head toward the cup in front of her. “What do you think?”

Aiah lifts it, takes a slow sip. The taste is the same. Maybe a little warmer.

“Like a quiet evening,” she says, echoing her words from last night.

Mikha’s lips curve slightly, something unreadable flickering in her gaze. She doesn’t write it down this time—only holds the words between them for a beat longer, like she remembers.

Aiah doesn’t say more.

And Mikha doesn’t ask for an explanation.

Instead, she leans her hip against the counter and says, “You know, since you’re officially stranded, you get a free lunch. House policy.”

Aiah lifts an eyebrow, amused. “Is that real? Or did you just make that up?”

Mikha smirks. “You’ll never know.”

Aiah doesn’t argue. She’s not particularly hungry, but the thought of staying a little longer doesn’t feel like something she needs to resist.

Mikha disappears into the kitchen, and Aiah lets her eyes wander. The café, in the light, reveals more of itself. A guitar propped gently against the wall, a corkboard cluttered with notes and scribbles, a stack of books that don’t seem arranged for customers, but for someone’s own pacing. It feels lived-in. Like someone put pieces of themselves into every corner.

When Mikha returns, she’s balancing two plates with quiet confidence.

“Hope you like seafood,” she says, setting one down and sliding into the seat across from her.

Grilled fish, garlic rice, and a side of pickled mango. Simple, but not thoughtless. The kind of meal that doesn’t impress for its flair, but for the care behind it.

“On the house,” Mikha adds. “But eat before I change my mind.”

Aiah smirks. “I guess I should take advantage while I can.”

They eat with the rain whispering against the windows. Outside, the storm is coming closer, but in here, it feels suspended.

Eventually, Aiah breaks the quiet. “So... you’re not just passing through either, huh?”

Mikha shakes her head, washing down her bite with a sip of water. “Born here.”

Aiah’s eyebrows lift. “Really?”

“My parents moved us to the States when I was a kid.” Mikha says, motioning vaguely toward the town. “I lived there most of my life.”

“But you came back.”

Mikha shrugs. “I don’t know. I just felt pulled. Like the island wasn’t finished with me yet.” Her eyes sweep the café. “I wanted something of my own. And I like feeding people. Makes me feel like I’m doing something that matters, even if it’s just coffee or rice.”

Aiah listens, quietly struck by the way Mikha speaks of home—not with longing, but with quiet acceptance. Like she stopped resisting whatever brought her back.

“How long have you been here?”

“A couple years now,” Mikha says, setting down her fork. “But it feels like I never left. Like the moment I stepped off the boat, the time in between just folded away.”

She pauses, tracing the edge of her glass. “Maybe it’s the island’s magic.”

Aiah watches her. She doesn’t know if she believes in magic, not in the way stories tell it. But there is something here. Something about the way no one asks her to explain. The way the silence isn’t emptiness, but permission.

The conversation drifts again, like the tide, never rushing. And then, Mikha asks, “What about you?”

Aiah’s hand stills.

“What about me?”

“Why were you supposed to leave last night?”

She considers the easy way out; the practiced half-truths she’s told so often they taste like habit. But something in Mikha’s gaze invites honesty without pressure.

“I had to go back,” Aiah says. “Work. Life.”

Mikha doesn’t prod. She only nods.

“It’s a lot sometimes,” Aiah adds, voice quieter now. “Like I’m holding my breath for someone else’s sake.”

Mikha is still. Then she murmurs, “And now you’ve kind of disappeared.”

Aiah smiles faintly. “Yeah. I guess I have.”

Mikha doesn’t say anything more. And Aiah realizes: that’s the point.

Here, silence doesn’t need to be filled.

Chapter Text

torn from the back of a grocery list, the ink slightly smudged by steam

Aiah.

I know your name now.

It came out like a sigh from you, like it wasn’t meant to land so gently in my hands—but it did.

I’ve held a lot of names over the years. Some people wear them like armor. Some toss them out like loose change. Yours? You gave it like a pebble placed in someone’s palm—small, quiet, but something to keep.

And I have. Kept it, I mean.

Aiah. It’s been sitting with me since. I’ve said it once. Twice. Not out loud, not to you. But in my head, in the way someone traces the shape of something without trying to own it.

You came back. And I don’t know what that means, not really. But we ate together like people who had time. Like people who didn’t need to explain why the silence between bites wasn’t uncomfortable.

I don’t know what you’re running from. I won’t ask.

But for what it’s worth—I like your name.

It sounds like something that stays.

Chapter Text

The rain comes and goes in waves.

By the time afternoon settles in, the wind has found a rhythm of its own, brushing through the trees outside the hostel like it’s trying to remind them to sway. Inside, Aiah curls into the small common area, a book open in her lap, though the pages have blurred into something indistinct. It isn’t restlessness, not exactly—more like her body has gone still while her mind continues to pace quiet circles, unable to land on any one thought long enough to stay.

Despite everything—despite the storm outside, despite being stranded on an island she barely knows—there’s a strange calm curling around her edges. She isn’t used to this kind of stillness.

The front door swings open, letting in a sweep of cool air and the scent of wet stone. Aiah looks up instinctively.

A familiar figure steps through, shaking the mist from her jacket. Red hair slightly damp, a plastic crate balanced against one hip like it’s weightless.

Aiah blinks. “Mikha?”

Mikha startles slightly, her gaze flicking toward the voice. It takes a moment for her to register Aiah sitting there, but when she does, her eyebrows rise in pleasant surprise. “Huh. Didn’t think I’d run into you here.”

Aiah gestures to the crate Mikha’s carrying. “Should I be asking if you work here now?”

Mikha grins, shifting the weight against her hip. “Not officially. But my grandparents used to run this place. I help out sometimes—old habits.”

Before Aiah can ask anything else, a voice calls out from the back.

“Is that you, anak?”

The woman Aiah had assumed was the hostel owner steps into view, her hands drying on a dish towel. There’s something instantly warm about her presence—the kind of affection that’s earned over years, not days.

Mikha beams. “Hi, Yaya.”

Aiah watches as the woman—stern but kind, all quiet command—crosses the room and pulls Mikha into a firm embrace. “You should’ve called,” she chides gently. “I would’ve sent someone to pick you up instead of letting you carry all that in the rain.”

Mikha shrugs, setting the crate on the counter. “Didn’t mind. Figured I’d stop by anyway.”

Yaya huffs, but doesn’t argue. Then her gaze shifts to Aiah, eyes twinkling. “I see you’ve met our guest.”

Mikha follows her look. “Yeah. We crossed paths at the café last night.”

“Small island,” Yaya says knowingly. Then, turning to Aiah with a teasing smile, “You’ve been getting along with our Mikha, hija?”

Our Mikha.

The phrasing catches somewhere in Aiah’s chest. Not painful, not unpleasant—just unexpected. Familiarity always used to come with a price. Here, it feels like a gift.

She clears her throat. “She makes good coffee.”

Yaya laughs, clapping Mikha on the shoulder. “That she does. Even as a kid, she was always in the kitchen, burning things half the time.”

“Hey,” Mikha protests, though the grin tugging at her mouth undercuts the complaint.

Aiah watches them, something warm and slow beginning to unfurl inside her.

Mikha fits here without effort, like she’s stitched into the island’s quiet seams—too familiar to be just passing through. It’s there in the way she moves through the space, the ease with which Yaya still sees the child she once cared for.

Aiah shifts, fingers tapping softly against the book in her lap. “You staying for a while?” The words slip out before she decides if she wants to say them.

Mikha arches a brow, half-grinning. “You planning to kick me out?”

Aiah rolls her eyes. “Just curious.”

“Dunno,” Mikha says, leaning casually against the counter. “Maybe I’ll stick around.”

Their eyes meet, and for a moment, something hovers between them—unspoken and light, like the space between tides just before the waves roll in.

Then, Yaya breaks the quiet. “Since you’re here, you might as well stay for merienda.”

Mikha glances toward Aiah. “You up for that?”

There’s a pause.

Then Aiah nods, slower than usual.

Maybe she doesn’t mind staying, either.

She stands to follow them—footsteps slow but sure.

Mikha rolls up her sleeves as she steps into the small hostel kitchen, moving with the familiarity of someone who’s done it countless times.

Aiah pauses at the threshold, the smell of warm coconut and rice washing over her. She doesn’t feel unwelcome—just momentarily outside of something that already knows its rhythm.

“You just gonna stand there?” Mikha calls over her shoulder, smirking. “Or are you gonna help?”

Aiah crosses her arms. “Didn’t realize merienda came with a labor requirement.”

“It does when you’re in Yaya’s kitchen,” Mikha says, placing a knife beside a cutting board. “C’mon, it’s just suman. You’ll survive.”

Aiah sighs but joins her, eyeing the pile of banana leaves. The kitchen air is thick with coconut milk, sweet and warm, the kind of scent that settles into your hair and stays with you.

Yaya moves around them like a quiet storm, stirring and slicing with graceful efficiency. “Mikha used to be useless at this,” she says, amused.

Mikha groans. “Gee, thanks, Yaya.”

“You were impatient,” Yaya continues, unbothered. “Thought staring at the pot would make it boil faster.”

Aiah smirks. “Sounds exhausting.”

“You have no idea,” Yaya mutters, shaking her head.

Mikha starts folding banana leaves with practiced hands. Aiah tries to mimic the motion, but the leaf slips, not quite folding right. She frowns, adjusting her grip.

“Not like that,” Mikha says gently. “Here—”

She reaches out, her fingers brushing lightly against Aiah’s, steady and sure. The touch is brief—soft, unassuming—but it sends something quiet rippling through her chest.

Mikha doesn’t comment, only guides her hands until the leaf folds neatly, then leans back like nothing passed between them.

“This better be worth it,” Aiah mutters, voice a little too casual.

Yaya chuckles. “Wait till you taste it.”

The rain deepens as they work, drumming steadily on the roof above them. The silence in the kitchen stretches, filled only with the sounds of motion and the steam rising from the stove.

When the suman is ready, Mikha sets a plate in front of her, the rice still warm, the latik glistening on the side like syrup.

“Moment of truth,” she says.

Aiah takes a bite.

The rice is soft and rich, perfectly balanced between sweet and earthy. The latik adds a slow, caramelized note that settles at the back of her throat.

She swallows, placing the fork down. “…Yeah. Worth the effort.”

“Told you,” Mikha says, smug.

Yaya watches them both over her cup of tea, her expression fond and knowing. “You two are funny.”

Aiah raises an eyebrow. “Funny how?”

Yaya hums, letting the pause linger. “You remind me of people who’ve known each other longer than they actually have.”

Mikha glances at her, and Aiah feels the weight of that look settle under her skin. She shifts, eyes dropping to her plate, unsure where to rest her gaze.

“It’s probably just the island’s magic,” she mumbles.

Mikha exhales a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Probably.”

Outside, the storm rumbles on. But inside, something softer lingers.

The rain has lightened to a hush by the time Mikha rises, stretching out her arms with a quiet groan.

“Well,” she says, glancing at Yaya, “supplies are delivered, merienda’s done. Might head out before the weather changes its mind.”

“Tell your Lola I said hi,” Yaya replies. “And take food with you.”

Mikha salutes her with a grin. “Wouldn’t dare forget.”

She tugs her jacket over her shoulders and turns toward the door. Aiah watches from her seat, fingers circling the rim of her cup, expecting the moment to pass like all others.

But Mikha pauses.

She looks back, something unreadable in her expression before it eases into something open.

“Hey,” she says. “You doing anything later?”

Aiah blinks. “Later?”

Mikha nods. “There’s music at the café tonight. Nothing big, just local acoustic sets. Thought you might want to drop by. Something to do before the storm locks us in.”

Aiah considers. She could say no and disappear into solitude, let the evening pass untouched. That’s what she knows.

But Mikha’s not pushing. She’s offering. A quiet invitation across the quiet.

Aiah exhales, tapping the edge of her cup.

“…What time?”

“Seven,” Mikha replies, her lips quirking into a smile. “Come by whenever.”

She doesn’t wait for confirmation. Just lifts a hand in a wave, nods to Yaya, and steps out into the softened rain.

The door closes softly behind her, and Aiah stares for a moment longer than necessary. Her hands curl tighter around her cup. The kitchen is warm, but something quieter has settled in the air.

Then, from beside her—

“She likes you.”

Aiah startles, glancing toward Yaya, who sips her tea with a look that says she’s been waiting to say it.

“What?”

Yaya sets the cup down gently. “Mikha. She likes you.”

Aiah lets out a quiet scoff, but it falters halfway through. “She barely knows me,” she says, softer than she meant to.

“Doesn’t mean she doesn’t like you.”

Aiah doesn’t answer. Her fingers tighten around the warm ceramic.

“She’s always been like that,” Yaya says after a beat. “When she likes someone, she makes space for them. Finds ways to keep them around.”

Aiah’s fingers still.

“She doesn’t invite just anyone,” Yaya continues, almost to herself now. “She plays it cool, but Mikha’s always been sentimental. She holds onto people in her own way.”

The silence hums.

Yaya picks up her cup again, eyes kind. “You should go.”

Aiah doesn’t reply.

She turns her gaze to the rain-dotted window, the mist outside thickening again.

She doesn’t know why she said yes.

But maybe she doesn’t mind finding out.

Chapter Text

Aiah stares at the small pile of clothes on the bed, frowning. The overhead fan stirs the humid air lazily above her, rustling the cotton hem of the tank top she’s already rejected twice.

She tells herself it’s not a big deal.

It’s just a café. Dinner. Live music in a dim corner of the island where no one expects anything from her, where her name means nothing except what she introduces it as.

She presses a hand lightly to her chest, not sure why. Her palm lingers there, not in panic, not in hesitation—just a quiet stillness, like her body is trying to decide what to make of itself. Her fingers twitch at her side. Why is she acting like it matters?

She exhales, long and slow, running a hand through her hair.

She’s used to dressing for an audience. Stylists pull outfits from racks, makeup artists transform her face into moods and meanings, and she simply steps into whatever story has been built for her. But now, in this simple room with wooden floors that creak when she shifts her weight, with no direction but her own reflection, she hesitates.

Eventually, she reaches for something easy. A loose white button-down layered over a tank, soft denim shorts she forgot she packed. The outfit isn’t special, not really—it’s coastal, effortless, the kind of thing someone might wear without thinking.

She catches her reflection in the narrow mirror hanging from the dresser. Her hair has gone wavy with the humidity, framing her face in a way that feels too undone to be intentional but too intentional to be unbothered. She considers tying it back, then leaves it as it is.

She tugs at the hem of her shirt, glances one more time at the girl in the mirror.

Then turns away.

She slips into her sandals, grabs her phone, and steps into the thick warmth of early evening, pretending not to notice the way her heartbeat shifts as she walks down the road.

The café is livelier than it’s been on any other night she’s passed by.

Aiah steps inside and is immediately folded into it—the clatter of spoons against ceramic, laughter from the far table, the flickering string lights overhead casting a honeyed glow across the walls. A small makeshift stage is tucked into one corner, nothing fancy—just a stool, a mic stand, and a guitar leaning casually against an amp like it’s always belonged there.

The scent of brewed coffee lingers in the air, rich and nutty. Somewhere closer to the door, someone’s perfume clings to the breeze, sweet and citrusy. Aiah’s sandals tap quietly across the floor as she makes her way toward the counter.

Mikha is there, sleeves rolled to her elbows, hair pulled into a loose bun that’s falling apart at the sides, a drink in one hand and a towel tucked under her arm. When her eyes catch Aiah’s, her smile lifts into something smug and familiar.

“Look who actually showed up,” she teases, leaning on the counter with her chin propped on her knuckles.

Aiah raises an eyebrow, sliding onto one of the stools. “What, did you think I’d back out?”

Mikha shrugs, handing her a menu that neither of them really expects her to read. “Would’ve been a shame if you did. Colet’s playing tonight.”

“Colet?”

Mikha gestures toward the stage, where a young woman is tuning her guitar with slow precision.

Her dark brown hair is pulled into a half-bun, her brows drawn slightly together in focus. “Childhood friend,” Mikha says. “Local star. You should be honored, I have a celebrity friend.”

There’s a playful tilt to her voice, a gleam in her eye, but something inside Aiah shifts all the same. It’s small. Petty. She knows Mikha’s joking. Still, something prickles at her skin.

She traces the rim of her glass with one finger, suddenly aware of the way her sleeves cling to her arms, the faint dampness at the back of her neck, the invisible name she’s been trying not to wear all day.

Before she can think too long about it, Mikha raises her hand in greeting. “Oy, Colet! Got someone for you to meet.”

Colet looks up. Her gaze flicks to Aiah, then back to Mikha. She sets the guitar down carefully before making her way over, the crowd parting instinctively around her.

Up close, she has the kind of presence Aiah knows well—the quiet kind, the kind that doesn’t need to say much to command a room. There’s a stillness to her, not unlike the island itself.

“So,” Colet says, crossing her arms. “This is the one you’ve been entertaining lately?”

Mikha groans. “You make it sound weird.”

Colet only smirks, then turns to Aiah, offering a hand. “Colet Vergara.” Aiah takes it, her grip steady. “Aiah.”

There’s a moment—too brief to be obvious, too long to miss—where Colet holds her gaze. A flicker of something crosses her face before she lets go.

“Nice to meet you,” she says simply.

Aiah exhales, the tension in her shoulders loosening by degrees.

Mikha, oblivious to whatever passed between them, nudges Colet with her elbow. “Go warm up, rockstar.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Colet rolls her eyes but smiles, retreating to the stage.

The first chords ring out, soft and low, as the chatter in the café dims to a hush. Aiah sips her drink, the sweetness unexpected, as if someone added more syrup than usual. She doesn’t mind.

Mikha settles beside her, chin resting in her hand, eyes on the stage. “She’s good, huh?”

Aiah nods, watching. “Yeah. She is.”

The music folds around them, warm and unobtrusive, threading through the space like something meant to be heard with someone else beside you. For a while, they say nothing, letting it carry them forward.

Then—

“Alright, alright,” Colet calls between songs, her voice lazy and teasing. “I think it’s about time we drag a certain someone up here.”

Mikha’s groan is immediate. “No.” The crowd laughs.

Colet grins. “C’mon, Mikhs. It’s tradition.” “I haven’t done this in forever.”

“Exactly. And your very special guest deserves a show.” Aiah tenses, lips parting slightly.

Mikha shoots her a look that says I’m going to murder her, then pushes herself up with a sigh. “You’re the worst.”

Colet bows exaggeratedly. “And yet, here you are.”

Mikha grumbles under her breath but takes the second mic. She glances toward Colet, then the guitar. “What are we doing?”

“Old favorite?”

Mikha doesn’t reply. She just breathes in through her nose and nods. The guitar begins again—gentle, familiar.

Aiah’s chest tightens.

Come stop your crying, it’ll be alright…

The notes hit the air and she’s five years old again, curled into the crook of her father’s arm, her cheek pressed against the fabric of his shirt. The world was smaller then. Quieter. The room flickers and fades. All she can hear now is Mikha’s voice, deeper than she expected but steady, and Colet’s harmony sliding in like it was always meant to be there.

She grips her glass. She’s not crying.

She just forgot how to breathe.

Her eyes burn. She closes them, just for a second. When she opens them again, Mikha is glancing her way mid-verse, a flash of something unspoken in her gaze.

Aiah looks away.

The scent of citrus has faded. The coffee smells stronger now. The last note hangs in the air longer than expected.

No one speaks. Aiah doesn’t trust herself to. Her glass is lukewarm in her hand.

The song isn’t over, but something inside her already is.

Chapter Text

It’s raining again.

Not the heavy kind that drowns out conversation, but the soft kind—gentle and steady, like a hand smoothing over your back. The kind that fills the house with hush.

Aiah is five, maybe six. Small enough to be curled up in her father’s lap, head resting against his chest, his old gray hoodie bunched up beneath her cheek.

Outside, the world is quiet. Inside, there’s the slow tick of a wall clock, the faint hum of the refrigerator, the patter of rain on the roof. And her father’s voice—low, warm, steady—as he sings.

Come stop your crying, it’ll be alright…

She doesn’t understand the words. Not really. But it doesn’t matter. The sound of it is enough.

His hand moves gently through her hair, not quite brushing, just resting there. A kind of weight she leans into. A kind of safety.

Sometimes he hums the melody instead, when his voice gets tired. Sometimes he whispers it close to her ear, so quiet it feels like a secret.

Just take my hand, hold it tight…

She does. Because back then, the world was simple.

Back then, her father’s arms were the entire sky. His voice, the only music she ever needed.

And even now—years and years later, when the spotlight is too bright, when the cameras click too loud, when the edges of her world blur with pressure and noise—sometimes she remembers this.

Not the lyrics. Not even the melody. Just the feeling.

Like being held. Like being known. Like love, before she ever had to earn it.

Chapter Text

The café empties slowly, the night unfurling like thread pulled loose from the edge of a quiet. Guests drift out into the soft dark, their laughter dissolving into the hush of waves beyond the road, leaving only the echo of their presence behind—chairs left askew, lipstick stains on mugs, the scent of coffee and sugar still clinging to the air like a memory not yet ready to fade.

Colet is the last to leave.

She swings her guitar over her shoulder, stretching her arms with a satisfied groan before giving Mikha a lazy salute.

“Same time next week?”

Mikha smirks as she drags a damp cloth across a nearby table, not looking up. “Like you’d ever let me say no.”

Colet’s chuckle is low, knowing. But when her eyes shift toward Aiah, something in her gaze sharpens—not unkind, but unreadable, like there’s a thought she hasn’t decided whether to speak aloud. In the end, she only nods.

“See you around.”

Aiah blinks, caught off guard by the certainty in her voice. See you around. Not maybe. Not if. Like it’s already written.

She watches Colet step out into the night, her silhouette disappearing into shadow until only the golden café light remains behind her. The silence that follows feels different now—no longer an ending, but something suspended. Waiting.

The door is right there. The night is wide and open. But her feet don’t move.

She stays seated, even as the urge to leave hums at the edges of her muscles. Her fingers drift to her glass, tracing the condensation like it might answer something for her. Across the room, Mikha moves in rhythms that belong to her—stacking chairs, wiping down tables, flicking light switches, her movements loose and unhurried.

Aiah doesn’t know what she’s waiting for. But she waits anyway.

Mikha glances over her shoulder, eyebrows lifting with amused surprise. “Didn’t take you for a night owl.”

Aiah shrugs, leaning back in her seat. “Just liked the quiet, I guess.”

Mikha hums thoughtfully as she rinses her hands at the sink. “So,” she says, turning toward her with a towel in her hands, “what’d you think?”

The question is casual, but it sticks.

Aiah knows she means the music, the night, the way the crowd leaned in like they knew what was coming. But her mind hasn’t moved past one particular voice—low and steady, warm as honey in tea—and the song that cracked her open before she had time to brace for the break.

She exhales slowly. “You sing well.”

Mikha chuckles, flicking water from her fingers. “You sound surprised.”

“You didn’t tell me you sang.”

“You didn’t ask.”

Aiah huffs, shaking her head, but there’s a smile tugging at her lips, reluctant but real. “It was a good song.”

Mikha leans against the counter, crossing her arms as she props a hip against the sink. “An old favorite.”

There’s a pause, quiet but weighted. “…Why that one?”

Mikha shrugs, but her eyes flick to the floor, lingering. “Dunno. Just... reminds me of home.”

The word sinks deep. Home.

Aiah’s grip tightens faintly on her glass.

She could tell Mikha that it reminds her of home too—but not in a way that’s gentle. It’s the kind of memory that bruises on impact, wrapped in the sound of her father’s voice, in the way lullabies used to settle over her like safety. But that voice is long gone. That home doesn’t exist anymore.

So she only nods.

Mikha watches her for a second longer than needed. She doesn’t press. She never does.

She simply moves closer, leaning beside her, the space between them growing smaller—not in a rush, not deliberate, just inevitable.

The hush folds between them. And neither of them moves.

The walk back to the hostel is quiet.

Rain has long passed, but its scent lingers in the air like a held breath, curling through the trees and settling into the soil. The streetlights cast long shadows across the road, puddles winking beneath them. The palm fronds rustle overhead, and the breeze carries the last traces of warmth from the café, tucked now behind them.

Mikha’s hands are in her pockets. Her steps are slow, unhurried. She doesn’t fill the silence with words.

And for once, Aiah doesn’t mind.

She’s used to people keeping pace beside her with too much precision— security guards, managers, stylists, always with somewhere to be and something to rehearse. She’s used to presence as pressure.

But this?

This is walking. No script. No destination. Just the brush of sandals on pavement and the rhythm of a companion who isn’t asking her to be anything more than what she already is.

It feels dangerously easy.

Mikha glances sideways. “Didn’t think you’d stay ‘til closing.”

Aiah shrugs. “Didn’t feel like going back yet.”

Mikha nods like it makes all the sense in the world. “Hope we didn’t bore you.”

“You didn’t,” Aiah says softly, watching her breath cloud in the cooling air. “Your friend is good.”

“She’ll love hearing that,” Mikha says, lips quirking. “Lives for validation.”

Aiah smiles faintly, nudging a pebble with the side of her sandal.

Silence eases back between them. It settles like a thread between their steps—easy, companionable, necessary. Then— “What if I’m actually someone else?”

Mikha turns her head. “What?”

Aiah meets her gaze, steady this time. There’s a question beneath the question, something unnamed pressing at the edges of her voice. “What if I’m not who you think I am?”

She doesn’t know what she wants Mikha to see in her—but whatever it is, it’s starting to feel dangerous.

Mikha tilts her head, thoughtful. “Well,” she says slowly, “that depends. Are you secretly a spy? A runaway princess? An heiress escaping an arranged marriage?”

Aiah smirks. “Maybe all three.”

“That’d explain a lot.”

The moment stretches, light and teasing, but Aiah feels it turn under her ribs, softer now. “What if… my life isn’t as simple as it seems?”

Mikha doesn’t blink, doesn’t laugh. She watches her for a breath, then shrugs.

“Then I’d hope it’s at least a life that makes you happy.”

The words are gentle, almost offhand. But they land like a stone dropped into water—small, quiet, and echoing far longer than expected.

Aiah doesn’t know what to say. So she lets them sit in her chest like something true.

She looks ahead. “And what if it’s not?”

This time, Mikha doesn’t hesitate.

“Then I hope you find a way to change that.”

The hush between them hums with meaning.

Aiah doesn’t respond.

But she doesn’t pull away.

They round the final bend, the lights of the hostel blinking into view through the thickening mist.

Then—

Thunder rolls overhead like an answer.

The first crack splits the sky in two just as their feet touch the steps, and a breath later, the rain comes—fast and hard, swallowing the road behind them in a sheet of sound. The wind howls through the palms, shaking the fronds like tambourines, rattling windows, seeping through every seam in the old wood.

The door swings open before they can react.

Yaya stands in the entryway, arms crossed, gaze cutting through the storm like a lighthouse beam. She doesn’t look surprised. Only tired in the way people get when they’ve already predicted something.

“Well?” she says. “Don’t just stand there like fools—get inside before you drown.”

Mikha laughs under her breath, lifting her arms in surrender. “I was just about to leave.”

Yaya snorts. “Not anymore, you’re not.”

Mikha turns to Aiah with a resigned smile. “Guess I’m staying, then.”

Aiah shrugs, water dripping from her sleeves. “Yeah, seems like it.”

They step inside, the door shutting out the storm with a thud. The warmth of the hostel wraps around them like an exhale—walls close, familiar, steady. The scent of tea drifts from the kitchen, and the storm beyond becomes a backdrop to the hush within.

Yaya watches them for a moment longer, lips twitching like she’s already written the rest of the evening in her mind. “Storm’s only going to get worse. You’ll stay in the spare room, just next to our guest here.”

Mikha grins, dragging her hands through damp hair. “See, this is why I love you.”

“Flattery won’t get you out of mopping tomorrow.”

Aiah says nothing. But something in her settles.

Mikha doesn’t just live here. She belongs to this place, threaded into its walls and windows, into the way Yaya moves around her, into the smell of banana leaves and old books and laughter lingering in the corners. Some people live beside the world. Mikha lives inside it.

Yaya disappears into the kitchen and reemerges with a stack of towels, pausing just long enough to clock the way Aiah and Mikha are still standing too close. Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t say a word—yet.

She hands them their towels. “Dry off before you ruin my floors.”

Mikha takes hers and shakes out her sleeves, glancing sideways at Aiah with a crooked grin.

“Well,” she says. “Looks like we’re neighbors for the night.”

Aiah tilts her head. “Is that a problem?”

Mikha leans in slightly, like she’s weighing her response. “Depends. Do you snore?”

Aiah rolls her eyes. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Mikha chuckles, the sound low and warm, but her gaze doesn’t wander. There’s something quieter in it now. Something that holds.

The rain drums louder. Footsteps echo faintly down the hall.

Still, neither of them moves.

Chapter Text

The kitchen is warm, the scent of tea steeping thick in the air as the storm lashes against the walls like something trying to be let in. The wind howls in rhythmic gusts, and the candle on the counter flickers under the weight of it, shadows thrown high across the wooden panels.

Aiah wraps her hands around the mug Yaya places before her, feeling the heat leech slowly into her palms, steadying her. Across the table, Mikha does the same—legs stretched out beneath the chair, posture loose, looking entirely at ease despite the fact that she hadn’t planned on being here tonight.

Yaya stirs her tea without hurry, her gaze drawn toward the trembling windows. “Stronger than they predicted,” she murmurs, voice low and even. “You two might be stuck here longer than you think.”

Mikha smiles into her cup, chin resting in her hand. “And here I thought I was just stopping by for a delivery.”

Yaya hums, the edge of her mouth curling in something quiet and knowing. “That’s how it always happens.”

Aiah tilts her head, fingers tightening around her mug. “What do you mean?”

Yaya leans back in her chair, her eyes going distant, like she’s not looking at the room anymore but through it—through wood and time, through memory and tide, toward something older than the three of them combined.

“This island,” she says softly, “it doesn’t just let anyone in.”

Mikha groans gently. “Here we go—your storytelling mood again.”

Yaya doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t smile.

“Limasawa’s always been different,” she continues, her tone neither romantic nor mystical, just certain. “It calls to people who need it. Even the ones who don’t know they’re lost. The ones looking for something they don’t have a name for yet.” She pauses to take a sip of tea. “And once it finds you… it doesn’t let go so easily.”

Aiah stills, her mug hovering near her lips.

Mikha elbows Yaya gently. “You’re going to scare her off.”
But Yaya turns her head slightly, meeting Aiah’s gaze with something weighty and patient. “She doesn’t look scared.”

Aiah swallows. The answer is there before she can catch it. “Because I’m not.”

Yaya tilts her head. “No? Then tell me—why are you here?”

It isn’t a challenge. There’s no edge to it. It simply hangs in the air, heavier than the storm pressing at the glass.

Aiah could blame the storm. The missed boat. Bad timing. She could say she didn’t mean to be here at all.

But she remembers the moment she saw the name on the departures list. How it stood out like it already belonged to her, how she circled it without knowing why. She thinks of the stillness she’s found here—the quiet she didn’t know how to want until it wrapped around her and waited.

She looks down at the surface of her tea, its warmth rising toward her face. “…Maybe I just needed to be somewhere else for a while.”

Yaya hums, nodding like that’s enough. “Then it seems the island’s decided to keep you.”
Aiah exhales. Across the table, Mikha nudges her foot lightly with her own, a lopsided grin pulling at her mouth. “Welcome to the club.”

Aiah huffs out a laugh, but the weight of Yaya’s words sits with her longer than she expects.

Outside, the wind claws along the walls.

But inside, something shifts. Something subtle. Something certain.

They finish their tea in silence. The kind that doesn’t ache or press—it simply stays. Yaya rises first, gathering the mugs with the ease of someone who has lived through many storms, and knows this one will pass too.

“You two should get some rest,” she says as she rinses the cups. “Storm’s not letting up anytime soon.”

Mikha stretches and stands, motioning toward the hallway. “C’mon, neighbor.”

Aiah rolls her eyes, but follows. She doesn’t say anything as she moves beside her, but part of her hopes the hallway takes longer than it does.

The light is low, soft shadows falling against the floorboards, and the wind outside no longer roars—it curls, pressing its fingers into the cracks like a question waiting to be asked.

Their rooms are only a few steps apart. But when they reach Aiah’s door, she slows. Turns. Finds Mikha already watching her.

The hallway stills around them, heavy with unsaid things—Yaya’s story, the echo of old songs, the way the storm quiets the rest of the world but makes everything here louder.

Aiah exhales. “Well. Good night.”

Mikha nods. “Good night.”

She doesn’t step back.

Aiah doesn’t either.

For a second—just a breath—she wonders what might happen if she didn’t open the door. If she stayed. If this quiet between them was something she was finally allowed to keep.

But the moment stretches too long.

Mikha steps back first, hands slipping into her pockets. “Sleep well,” she says, and it lands gentler than before.

Aiah nods, fingers curling around the door handle. “You too.”

She steps inside. The air feels heavier now. Like it’s holding its breath for her.

Outside, the storm murmurs on.

And in the space between them, something begins to shift.

When she wakes, rain hasn’t stopped—only softened. It spills along the windows like it’s tracing them, slow and unrelenting. The wind nudges through the trees with quieter insistence, no longer howling, but still present. Still waiting.

The world beyond the hostel is restless. But inside, time exhales.

A warmth curls through the walls—something earthy and familiar. It slips beneath Aiah’s door, stirs the edge of her blanket, coaxes her awake without urgency. She lies still for a moment, listening. No alarms. No knock. No voice telling her where she needs to be.

She rises slowly, changes into soft clothes, washes her face with water that smells faintly of eucalyptus. The quiet holds.

When she enters the small diner, the space hums with a soft kind of life. Wooden chairs scrape lightly against the floor. Mugs clink gently against saucers. Conversations hover low, unhurried. 
Guests sit in small clusters, wrapped in sweaters, hands around warm cups, waiting.

Not impatiently.

With a kind of anticipation that feels earned.

She wonders what brought them here—vacation, chance, escape—and whether they chose this quiet or stumbled into it like she did.

Her eyes find Mikha.

She’s behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, stirring something in a deep pot with practiced hands. Her hair is still a little damp, a towel tucked into the back of her waistband, her shirt oversized and soft with age—like it belonged to someone else first, someone she once loved and still carries with her in fabric and thread.

She moves like she belongs to the space. Not in possession of it, but in communion with it. Her rhythm isn’t performance—it’s habit. It’s care.

Yaya lifts her mug from the corner table and tilts her head slightly toward the empty chair beside her.

Aiah crosses the room and sinks into the seat without a word. “Good morning,” Yaya says, not looking up.

Aiah exhales. Her voice is still rough with sleep. “Is it?”

Yaya chuckles into her cup. “It is if you’re eating.” She nods toward the kitchen. “Our girl’s cooking.”

Aiah watches Mikha move, lifting a pan, plating something carefully. “She always do this?”

“Not always,” Yaya replies, eyes following the same motion. “But often enough. She likes feeding people.”

Aiah nods, watching as Mikha spoons garlic rice onto a plate, followed by dried fish, the crisp edges catching the light. There’s a quiet pride in her movements, a kind of gentleness for small rituals. She doesn’t hurry. Doesn’t dramatize. She simply works.

Mikha doesn’t just belong here—she breathes with the place. And Aiah is still learning how to.

The plates arrive with a soft clatter, the scent of garlic and salt wrapping around her like a shawl. The kind of meal that doesn’t shout for attention, but anchors you to the table. To yourself.

Yaya nudges a mug toward her without a word. The scent curls up, steadying.

Aiah wraps her hands around it, nodding toward the food. “Didn’t realize this place came with room service.”

Mikha smirks, sliding into the seat across from her. “It doesn’t. You just got lucky.”

“You do this for all your stranded guests?”

“Only the ones who look like they needed to get stranded.”

Aiah huffs a small laugh, shaking her head.

The storm brushes against the windows like a memory. Inside, it’s warm.

The diner breathes with soft noise—the clink of cutlery, the murmur of voices, the occasional scrape of a chair pushed back.

Aiah takes a bite. Salt, heat, something home-adjacent. She lets it settle on her tongue. Then into her chest.

Just this. No cameras. No roles. No rush. Something real. Something made by hands that care.

Yaya watches her from over her cup, her smile dry. “You eat like someone who hasn’t had a proper meal in months.”

Aiah swallows, eyes fixed on her plate. “Maybe I haven’t.”

Mikha tilts her head. “That bad out there in the real world?”

Aiah hesitates.

“It’s… fast.”

Mikha doesn’t answer. Just waits.

Aiah breathes out. “Like you don’t even realize how much you’re missing until you stop moving. And then it’s too late to go back.”

Yaya sets her mug down gently. “Then maybe you weren’t supposed to go back.”

The words settle between them.

Aiah doesn’t respond—just lifts her fork again, as if answering would cost more than she’s ready to spend.

And Mikha—Mikha lets her.

Chapter Text

They say the island was born from a grief so old, even the waves still carry its weight.

Long before it had a name—before it was called Limasawa, before it found itself on any map—it was a patch of earth the sea didn’t want to swallow. A stubborn little thing. Not grand. Not loud. 

But steady. And steady was enough.

The old women used to say it was shaped by a girl who waited. Every evening, she would walk to the shoreline with a lantern in hand, casting its glow across the water. They say she was waiting for someone—a fisherman lost in the storm, a sister taken by war, a lover who never kept their promise. The stories change. The waiting never does.

She waited so long that the island remembered her. Her footsteps became the shape of its paths. Her silence became the hush of the wind through the coconut trees. Her breath became the mist that settles just after dawn.

And the island, maybe out of love, maybe out of pity, began to listen.

It began to hold people the way she once did—gently, without question. It began to keep them. Especially the ones who didn’t know they needed keeping.

They arrived tired. Empty. Cracked in ways they couldn’t name. And the island didn’t fix them—not all at once.

It just gave them a place to stop running. A place to hear themselves again.

Some stayed. Some left different. But all of them were chosen.

Because the island doesn’t call everyone.

Only the ones ready to listen.

Chapter Text

By late morning, the rain has softened into a steady rhythm, tapping against the windows like an old song—one that hums of patience, of waiting. The storm hasn’t passed, but it no longer presses against the world with urgency. Instead, the island breathes in slow, unhurried motions. Breakfast lingers. Conversations fade into murmurs. The hush of the day curls around everything.

There’s nowhere Aiah needs to be.

And yet, somehow, she finds herself here.

Not folded into solitude, not behind a door she can lock to keep the world at bay, but in the common area—close enough to hear the soft shuffling of pages, to feel the presence of another person simply existing nearby. Mikha is perched on the arm of a worn couch, barefoot, legs tucked, flipping through a paperback that’s more spine than cover, as if she’s read it too many times to count and still hasn’t tired of the words.

The others have scattered. Yaya’s in the kitchen. Guests have tucked themselves into corners of the room, reading quietly or watching the blur of gray beyond the windows as if the storm might shift if they pay it enough attention.

Aiah exhales, adjusting her seat on the wooden bench, unsure how long she’s been there. She doesn’t remember sitting down.

She doesn’t know how it keeps happening—how she keeps ending up near Mikha.

It’s not intentional. Not exactly. But Mikha is easy to be around.

She doesn’t demand anything from Aiah—not performance, not answers, not even conversation. And Aiah cannot remember the last time that something in her life was easy.

“You bored yet?”

The question breaks gently through the quiet. Aiah looks up to find Mikha watching her over the edge of her book, eyes dancing with mischief.

Aiah scoffs, slow and soft. “Why? You planning to entertain me?”

“Depends,” Mikha says, snapping her book shut. “How desperate are you?”

Aiah doesn’t answer. She only rolls her eyes—though the corner of her mouth gives her away.

Mikha stretches her arms above her head, letting out a quiet sigh. “We could head to the kitchen. I think Yaya’s making something.”

Aiah raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t we just eat?”

Mikha shrugs, lazy and unapologetic. “Island rule—there’s always room for merienda.”

Aiah lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh. She tells herself it’s boredom, that she has nowhere better to be.

But even she doesn’t buy it.

So she stands, drawn by something neither of them name.

The kitchen is warm when they step inside, steeped in the scent of simmering broth and garlic kissed by oil. The windows fog gently with steam, softening the light, making the whole room feel like a memory in progress.

Aiah leans against the counter, arms folded, watching. Mikha moves without hesitation—reaching for ingredients, flipping the pan, folding a dish towel over her shoulder like she was born in this space. Her movements have rhythm, the kind that doesn’t come from habit, but from knowing.

It’s not that she fits here.

It’s that the kitchen breathes better when she’s in it.

“You’re hovering,” Mikha says, not looking up.

“I’m observing,” Aiah replies, feigning seriousness.

“You’re stalling.”

“I never said I’d help.”

Mikha grins. “No, but you also didn’t leave.” She nudges a bowl of cloves toward her. “So you might as well do something useful.”

Aiah eyes it suspiciously. “What am I supposed to do with that?”

Mikha’s eyebrows lift. “You’ve never peeled garlic before?”

Aiah’s silence answers for her.

Mikha laughs softly, not cruel, just amused. She presses the flat of the knife to a clove and, with a practiced movement, cracks it. The skin peels away like paper.

She slides one over. “Your turn.”

Aiah copies her, pressing tentatively. Too light—nothing happens. Mikha watches, entertained.

“You won’t break it. Press harder.”

Aiah glares, tries again, and crushes it beyond recognition.

“Okay, maybe not that hard,” Mikha winces.

“See? This is why I don’t cook.”

Mikha chuckles, gently reclaiming another clove. “You’re thinking too much.”

Then—without warning—she steps closer, wrapping her fingers over Aiah’s, guiding her hand with gentle pressure. Her touch is warm. Assured. Barely there.

Aiah stills, pulse skipping.

Mikha’s voice drops as she speaks, low and unhurried. “Like this.”

The broth simmers. Oil pops softly in the pan. Somewhere beyond the windows, the wind stirs the trees, restless and whispering.

Aiah doesn’t move.

And Mikha doesn’t pull away right away either.

Instead, for a beat, they stay like that—caught in something unspoken, something fragile and unfolding. Then Mikha steps back like nothing happened. “Try again.”

This time, the skin peels away clean. Mikha smiles. “Not bad.”

Aiah feigns a shrug, dropping the garlic into the bowl. “Told you I could do it.”

“Sure you did.”

They keep going, the task becoming something else. Conversation flickers in and out. Silence settles comfortably between beats. And somewhere between the garlic and the broth, Aiah forgets that she was supposed to keep her distance.

By the time they finish eating, the light outside has shifted—muted gold giving way to a dense, brooding gray. The rain hasn’t stopped, but it has changed its tune, murmuring now like it’s remembering something.

Then, without warning, the power cuts out. A beat of silence follows, heavy and whole.

No fan. No fridge. No hum of light.

Yaya lights a candle without a word. The flame catches, flickering across the walls and bending their shadows into dancing shapes.

Mikha sinks onto the couch beside Aiah, completely unfazed. “Welcome to island life,” she says, holding up her phone. “Power cuts are basically tradition.”

Aiah watches the glow on Mikha’s face, the casual curve of her grin. “You’re too comfortable with this,” she mutters.

“It’s always like this during storms. Could be back in an hour, or maybe not until morning. You just roll with it.”

Aiah nods, settling into the cushions as the world outside narrows to candlelight and the soft rustle of wind against shutters.

Mikha lifts her phone again. “Good thing I downloaded some movies.”

Aiah arches an eyebrow. “That’s your survival tactic?”

“That and avoiding chores when Yaya’s bored.” She nudges Aiah’s arm. “Wanna watch?”

The couch is too close. The moment feels small but charged. Still, Aiah nods. “Sure.”

Mikha scrolls, then taps play. “This one’s a classic.”

The screen lights up.

The opening notes play.

And Aiah freezes.

Tarzan.

She doesn’t have to hear the lyrics. She already knows.

Don’t listen to them, ‘cause what do they know? We need each other, to have, to hold...

The sound wraps around her like an old blanket—the kind her father would pull over her legs at night, just after humming the same melody under his breath. It aches in her ribs, soft and sudden.

She draws in a sharp breath, holding it.

Mikha doesn’t notice. Not at first.

But when she glances over, she catches something in Aiah’s face—tight shoulders, trembling fingers, eyes that don’t quite focus on the screen.

“You okay?”

Aiah swallows. “Yeah.”

But she’s not watching the movie. She’s watching Mikha.

The light flickers across her face, painting her in soft gold. Mikha sings along under her breath, low and familiar, oblivious to how the moment splits open for Aiah.

Or maybe—maybe she knows.

Aiah pulls her knees closer and leans back.

She doesn’t know what this moment is, exactly. But she knows she wants to stay inside it.

The rain moves in slow waves now, threading through cracks in the shutters, singing softly against the roof like a lullaby meant for no one.

Time folds in.

And eventually, without even realizing it, Aiah sleeps.

Mikha notices only when Aiah shifts beside her, head tilting gently until it rests against her shoulder. It’s a light touch—feathered, almost uncertain— but it’s enough to still her.

She’s had guests fall asleep in this hostel before. Some even on this couch. But none of them ever made the silence feel this full.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe too loud.

Aiah’s hair brushes her collarbone. Her breath is soft against Mikha’s sleeve. The movie flickers quietly in front of them, now just background to the weight of the moment.

Yaya passes by once with a candle in hand. She pauses mid-step, eyes catching the scene. But she doesn’t say anything. Just smiles—just barely— and slips away again.

Aiah stirs.

Her fingers twitch, her breath hiccups. Then she stills again.

And Mikha stays.

At some point, Aiah blinks awake, the room still wrapped in dim candlelight. It takes her a moment to remember where she is—whose shoulder she’s resting on, what warmth anchors her.

Her chest tightens. She starts to pull away. But Mikha doesn’t move.

Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t flinch.

So Aiah doesn’t pull away. Not fully.

She adjusts, fingers curling lightly against Mikha’s sleeve, her head nestling a little closer—just enough to stay.

Just enough to mean something.

The storm hums outside, unseen but constant. The movie fades to black.

And Aiah—Aiah doesn’t mind at all.

Chapter Text

written on the back of a smudged inventory list once taped to a fridge

You always look like you’re about to leave.

Even when you’re still. Even when you’re asleep.

Like part of you is already somewhere else.

And I don’t blame you.

I know what it’s like to run before something asks you to stay.

But I’ve been watching—quietly.

The way your shoulders ease when you think no one’s looking.

The way your voice softens when you ask about the food.

The way you fall into the quiet like you’ve been needing it for years.

The island doesn’t always hold people. Sometimes it just gives them somewhere to rest.

Still— if you do choose to stay a little longer...

Would that be too bad?

Chapter Text

A soft knock stirs Aiah from the last remnants of sleep.

She blinks up at the ceiling, the pale morning light slipping past the curtains in muted streaks. The storm has quieted overnight—its rage now reduced to a whisper, the wind no longer clawing at the world, the rain softened into a gentle rhythm against the roof, like a song remembered from childhood.

Another knock, gentle, unhurried. Aiah shifts beneath the covers. “Yeah?”

The door creaks open, just wide enough for Mikha’s face to appear—eyes bright, cheeks still flushed from morning air, carrying that irrepressible spark untouched by the retreating storm.

“Morning, sleeping beauty.”

Aiah groans, pressing a hand to her face. “It’s too early for that much energy.”

Mikha grins. “It’s not early. You’re just slow.”

Aiah shoots her a glare half-buried in the pillow, but there’s no real bite in it. Only that strange, easy warmth that’s settled between them lately— something quiet, something real, something that doesn’t ask for permission. “What do you want?”

Mikha leans against the doorframe like she’s done it a hundred times, casual and rooted. “The weather’s better.”

Aiah turns her head toward the window. She hadn’t noticed it right away— the shift in the air, the way the sky has begun to loosen at the seams, clouds thinning into silver mist. The wind holds less bite. The world, though still damp, no longer feels braced for impact.

There’s a pause, the kind that stretches just enough to matter.

Then Mikha tilts her head. “Come have breakfast with me at the beach.”

Aiah blinks. “At the beach?”

“Storm’s circling back later,” Mikha says, “but we’ve got a window. Might as well take it.”

Aiah rubs her temples, dragging herself upright. “Don’t you have a café to open?”

Mikha’s smile doesn’t falter. “That can wait.”

The answer lands softer than it should. Not flippant. Not for show. And something about the way she says it—like the moment matters more—sits heavy in Aiah’s chest before she can rationalize why.

Her body answers before her mind catches up. “…Give me ten minutes.”

Mikha smirks. “Five.”

Aiah groans, already reaching for the nearest clean shirt. “Ten. Final offer.”

Mikha laughs as she disappears down the hall. “If you’re not out in ten, I’m dragging you as you are.”

Even after the door clicks shut, Aiah feels the echo of her smile lingering. She doesn’t know why she said yes so easily.

But maybe—just maybe—she doesn’t mind finding out.

The sand is still damp, cool beneath her soles as Aiah trails behind Mikha through the thinning mist. Salt clings to the air. The ocean stretches wide before them—calmer now, though not yet still—its surface shifting with the breath of something ancient and undecided.

And then— She stops.

Just beyond the reach of the tide, beneath the crooked arc of a lone coconut tree, a woven mat is laid across the sand. On it: two mugs, a thermos releasing gentle curls of steam, and enough food for three people at least— fried rice, golden chorizo, crisp strips of dried fish, slices of mango and watermelon glowing bright against the silver morning.

Mikha is already settling down, pouring hot chocolate into the mismatched mugs like she does this every day. “Took you long enough,” she murmurs without looking up.

Aiah stands for a beat longer, something tugging in her chest. Not from the view. Not from the weather.

From her.

She walks over, lowering herself onto the mat with a cautious breath. “Did you invite the whole island, or…?”

“I didn’t know what you liked,” Mikha says, passing her a mug, “so I made everything.”

The warmth seeps through Aiah’s fingers, grounding. She lifts the cup to her lips. It’s rich and thick, the kind of chocolate made without shortcuts.

She smiles before she means to. “You realize this could feed a small family, right?”

“Better too much than not enough.”

Mikha says it without bravado. Just fact. As if care, for her, has always come this way—abundant and quiet.

Aiah watches her move. Watches how easily she belongs in this morning. Not performing, not working, not filling space with noise. Just being.

She takes another sip. The sweetness settles low in her chest. She can’t remember the last time someone fed her without an audience.

“Do you do this for all your guests?” she asks, gesturing at the feast between them.

Mikha tilts her head. “Depends.”

“On?”

“Whether I like their company.”

Aiah stills, her breath caught somewhere between the heat of the mug and the hush of the waves.

Mikha doesn’t look away. Doesn’t rush the moment. Just holds her gaze, quiet and certain.

And just like that, the air around them feels warmer.

She doesn’t realize how full she’s gotten until she leans back on her palms, stomach pleasantly heavy, the last traces of hot chocolate lingering on her tongue.

“I can’t believe I actually finished all that.”

Mikha grins, spearing a piece of mango. “Told you—always room for more.”

Aiah shakes her head, but her smile lingers.

Then, without thinking: “Not everyone would agree.” The words fall out, unguarded. Familiar. Too familiar.

Mikha’s brow lifts. “What do you mean?”

Aiah goes quiet, brushing crumbs from her plate.

She could change the subject. Could laugh. Could move on.

But she doesn’t.

“People watch what I eat,” she says. “Comment on it. Sometimes it’s a joke. Sometimes it isn’t.”

Mikha doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t try to make it easy. “That sounds exhausting.”

Aiah’s laugh is small, brittle. “Yeah.”

The silence after is steady—not empty, but held. Like it’s waiting with her, not against her.

“You ever wonder,” Mikha murmurs, “why people think they get to have a say in someone else’s life?”

“All the time.”

“And?”

“I stopped fighting it.”

She says it simply, but it tastes bitter. Mikha doesn’t argue. Doesn’t advise. “Doesn’t mean it has to be that way.”

And there it is again—that quiet certainty, the way Mikha speaks like the world could be gentler if you just stopped giving it permission to be cruel.

“You don’t care what people think of you?”

“I care about the ones I choose to care about.”

“And everyone else?”

Mikha shrugs. “They don’t get to decide what my life is worth.”

Aiah looks at her.

And for a moment, she aches to believe the same thing.

She reaches for the last piece of mango and eats it without hesitation.

Later, as the tide curls closer to their toes, Mikha rises and stretches. The clouds overhead still hang low, but the wind has calmed, the morning unfolding in slow silver.

“I have an idea.”

Aiah narrows her eyes. “That sounds like a threat.”

Mikha smirks. “The water’s warm after a storm. Come on.”

“You’re joking.”

“Nope.”

“I’m not jumping into the ocean for no reason.”

Mikha tips her head, playful but steady. “Do you trust me?”

The question lands too fast.

And it does something strange to her heartbeat. “…Not when you ask like that.”

Mikha doesn’t wait. In two steps, she’s at Aiah’s side, fingers finding her waist with startling ease.

Aiah startles. Her hands fly to Mikha’s shoulders. “Mikha—”

But Mikha lifts her like it’s nothing.

The warmth of her palms, the solidity of her hold—none of it feels accidental.

Aiah’s breath stumbles. “You’re insane—”

“You’ll thank me.”

They reach the edge of the water, the sea rushing up to greet them like a dare. The first splash hits her calves, warm and bracing, but it’s too late to retreat.

Mikha steps forward again, deeper, deeper, until the waves cradle them both.

Aiah gasps—not from contact, but from everything else. The water surrounds them. Presses against her like memory. Mikha eases her down gently. Lets her find footing.

Aiah’s fingers linger on her arms longer than necessary. “You okay?” Mikha asks, voice lower now.

“I think so.”

The sea shifts around them in soft pulls. Mikha’s hands don’t fully let go. Just rest lightly. Like she’s holding her here, just in case.

“I used to do this all the time as a kid,” Mikha murmurs, voice carried by the hush of the water.

Aiah glances at her. “What, drag people into the ocean against their will?”

Mikha grins. “Only the ones who needed it.”

Aiah huffs a quiet laugh, but the amusement fades when she catches the look in Mikha’s eyes—something softer, something far away.

“Whenever a storm passed, we’d come out here,” Mikha says, her voice quieter now, threaded with nostalgia. “Me, my cousins, my grandparents. My Lola said the ocean warmed itself after being angry. To apologize.”

Aiah watches her, watches the way her expression shifts—open, unguarded, wistful.

Mikha doesn’t try to hide the longing in her words. She doesn’t have to.

Not here.

“We kept the tradition for a while,” Mikha continues. “But then we moved to the States, and… yeah.” She shrugs, smiling like it’s nothing, but Aiah hears it—the ache of something lost, something distant but never really gone. “Kind of missed it, I guess.”

Aiah doesn’t speak right away, letting the moment settle between them, letting the ocean carry the silence.

Then—

“How was childhood like to you, Aiah?” Aiah blinks, caught off guard.

Mikha doesn’t press, doesn’t dig—just asks it like it’s easy, like she isn’t expecting anything heavy.

“I bet it was fun, huh?”

Aiah exhales, rolling the thought over in her mind. Was it?

Her childhood.

She hasn’t let herself think about it in a long time—not in a way that wasn’t tangled in everything that came after.

But now, standing here, weightless in the water, she lets herself reach back. “It was,” she murmurs. “I was a daddy’s girl, you know?”

Mikha tilts her head, listening.

Aiah lets her gaze drift over the ocean, as if the past could be found somewhere in the tide.

“He used to pick me up from school, and we’d go to the park,” she says, the memory surfacing easier than she expected. “He’d buy me ice cream, even when my mom said no because it was too close to dinner. And we’d just… sit. Talk about whatever.”

Mikha hums softly. “Sounds nice.”

Aiah smiles, small, distant. “It was.”

Simple.

Before the cameras. Before the expectations. Before she had to be someone to everyone all the time.

Back when she was just his daughter. No more, no less.

She exhales, shaking her head. “I don’t think I’ve thought about that in a long time.”

Mikha watches her, something unreadable in her gaze. Then, quietly—

“Maybe the island wanted you to remember.” Aiah stills.

She turns to Mikha, searching her expression, but Mikha doesn’t elaborate.

She just smiles, lets the waves fill the silence for her. And for some reason, Aiah doesn’t push for more. She just lets the moment stay.

Chapter Text

The ice cream is melting faster than she can keep up.

It drips onto her wrist, slides down her fingers, leaves little sticky trails she tries to catch with her tongue, giggling when she misses. Her legs dangle from the park bench, kicking at the warm air. The sun is hidden today, tucked behind low gray clouds, but the rain hasn’t come yet. The wind smells like wet pavement waiting.

Her father doesn’t seem to mind the weather.

He sits beside her, one arm draped across the back of the bench, the other holding his own cone—pistachio, the green kind Aiah used to think looked weird, until she tried it and realized it tasted like something soft and sleepy. Like afternoons that never had to end.

“Pa,” she says, lips sticky, “why don’t you ever get mad when it rains on weekends?”

He blinks at her, then chuckles like the question caught him off guard. “Why would I be mad?”

“Because we can’t go to the park when it rains. Or play catch. Or—” she licks around the edge of her cone, frowning at the drip about to escape. “Or do fun stuff.”

He watches her for a moment. Then he nods, slow and thoughtful, like he’s considering something important.

“Well,” he says, “you know what I figured out?”

Aiah perks up, because her dad’s figured out a lot of things in her six-year-old opinion.

“I figured out that the rain doesn’t care if I’m mad,” he says. “It still falls. Still soaks the grass. Still messes up your plans.”

Aiah pouts. “That’s mean.”

“It is,” he agrees with a grin. “But if you stop waiting for the sun, sometimes you find better things in the middle of the rain.”

She squints at him. “Like what?”

He leans in, tapping her cone lightly. “Like discovering pistachio. Or… quiet parks. Or little girls who learn to dance with their tongue out.”

Aiah giggles, trying to catch another drip.

“Sometimes,” he says, voice softer now, “life doesn’t wait for perfect weather. Sometimes you have to make your own kind of warm.”

She doesn’t understand it, not really.

But years later—when the world grows too loud, when people ask too much, when the sky inside her ribs feels permanently overcast—she still remembers that moment.

The pistachio. The clouds.

And her father, smiling in the almost-rain.

Telling her she didn’t have to wait for the sun to be okay.

Chapter Text

The ocean clings to them as they walk back to shore—salt caught in their hair, the damp weight of seawater soaking into their clothes, sand collecting between their toes like the last trace of something unspoken. The breeze has returned, soft now, brushing against their skin without insistence, like the island has decided—for now—to breathe with them.

They walk slowly, each step quiet against the wet sand. The moment they shared in the water hovers close, not yet faded, the hush of the waves behind them echoing in the spaces they don’t yet know how to fill.

Aiah lifts her hand, wringing the saltwater from her hair, the strands sticking to her skin. She reaches for the empty thermos, slinging it over her shoulder. “You know, you didn’t have to carry me.”

Mikha smirks, shaking the sand from the woven mat with one practiced motion. “You would’ve stalled for another ten minutes if I hadn’t.”

Aiah throws her a half-hearted glare, but it dissolves quickly. She doesn’t argue. Because maybe—just maybe—Mikha is right.

They gather what remains of the morning, the quiet of their limbs saying what their mouths don’t. Neither of them rushes. As if to move too quickly would undo the softness they’ve stumbled into.

Above them, the sky is still heavy, its gray unfurling like a page that hasn’t yet decided what to say. The clouds hang low, unsure of their purpose, the air thick with a rain that chooses not to fall.

By the time they reach the hostel gates, Aiah slows. The strap of the thermos bag presses into her shoulder, grounding her in a reality that feels thinner than it should.

“I should probably shower,” she murmurs, more to herself than to Mikha.

Mikha nods, adjusting the basket in her hands. “And I should probably open the café before people start thinking I’ve abandoned them.”

Aiah smirks, her voice barely lifting. “You mean you haven’t?”

Mikha grins, but she doesn’t step away.

Not yet.

She lingers, her hand tightening momentarily around the basket’s handle as if it’s the only thing keeping her rooted.

Then, quieter now, “I should change, too. At home.”

Aiah’s spine straightens, just slightly. Something in her pulls taut—like a thread snagging where it used to run smooth. It’s a simple sentence. Nothing loaded in the tone. But still, it lands with weight.

Mikha is leaving.

She should feel full from the morning. She should be content with the warmth of food, of laughter, of salt on her skin and the brush of Mikha’s hands. But instead, an ache curls beneath her ribs, settling in the hollowness Mikha hasn’t even left behind yet.

“See you around, neighbor,” Mikha says with a soft smile.

Aiah nods, even as her fingers tighten reflexively around the strap of the bag. “…Yeah.”

Mikha takes a step back, then another. And then she turns.

Aiah watches her disappear down the bend, her silhouette swallowed by the still-hushed trees. The silence that follows is deeper than the walk that brought them here.

She remains by the gate longer than she needs to. Long enough for the shape of Mikha to fade. Long enough for her pulse to slow. Then, finally, she turns.

The hostel feels quieter than it should.

Aiah settles by the open window in the common area, the worn cushion familiar beneath her, the wood of the frame cool beneath her palm. Outside, the sea stretches far and wide, wrapped in haze. The wind has gentled into a whisper, threading through the leaves like the island is keeping secrets.

The air still carries the hush of something unspoken. Mikha is gone.

She knew she would go—of course she would. But that doesn’t stop the space beside her from feeling empty in a way that startles her.

She traces the rim of her mug, circling the edge with her finger, not quite willing to admit how long she’s been listening for the sound of a returning step.

“You two are getting close, huh?” The voice startles her.

She turns, blinking.

Yaya leans against the counter, drying her hands with an old dish towel. Her tone is casual, but her eyes—sharp, knowing—say more than her words.

Aiah blinks, startled by the bluntness. “What?”

Yaya shrugs, setting the towel aside with practiced ease. “Mikha. You and her.”

Aiah frowns. “We’re just—”

“I’m not saying anything,” Yaya cuts in, raising her hands in mock surrender. “Just… noticing.”

Aiah shifts, the corner of her mouth tugging downward. “Noticing what?”

“The way she looks at you.”

The line lands soft. But it ripples.

Aiah stills, pulse fluttering against the base of her throat.

Yaya’s voice carries no judgment. No teasing. She says it as one might remark on how the tide has shifted or how the trees know the rain before it arrives.

But to Aiah, it’s not small.

Because she hadn’t truly thought about it. Not like that.

Not until now.

A flash of memory: Mikha’s gaze as she passed her a mug of hot chocolate on the shore. The steady way she looked at her in the water. The laughter, yes—but beneath that, the stillness. The weightlessness. The way Mikha saw her.

Aiah drops her gaze, her fingers curling slightly at the edge of her sleeve. “She looks at everyone like that.”

Yaya hums—low, noncommittal. A sound that says everything and nothing. A breath passes. Then two.

Aiah doesn’t meet her eyes again. She glances back out the window instead.

The horizon has blurred into the sea. The clouds press low, thick and unmoving. But even in their stillness, it feels like the sky is listening.

Something has begun.

And she doesn’t quite know how to name it. She’s been looked at before.

She’s memorized those stares—the weight of devotion from strangers who know only her smile from a screen. The cold calculation of co-stars who memorize her cues better than her face. The sharp curiosity of men in rooms where power pools quietly in corners, where silence is never just silence.

She’s known how to shape herself for all of them. Where to stand. What to show. How to glow without burning.

But Mikha—

Mikha doesn’t watch her like she’s performing. Mikha looks at her like she’s already real.

There is no script in Mikha’s eyes. No hunger for anything more than what’s already there.

And that, more than anything, is what unsettles her.

Because for the first time, someone is looking at her without reaching.

And for the first time, Aiah doesn’t want to disappear under the weight of it.

She leans her forehead against the windowpane, letting the cool glass ground her. The clouds hang still above the sea. The light is soft. Everything is waiting.

The air is thick with the promise of rain.

But for once, it isn’t the weather she’s waiting on.

Chapter Text

The sun has finally returned.

For the first time in days, the sky stretches wide and blue above the island, clouds peeling back like the tide, their edges gilded with light. The warmth spills slowly across rooftops and banana leaves, and the scent of rain still lingers in the air—not as warning now, but memory. The streets are drying. Life unfurls again in slow, quiet motion.

Aiah walks without destination, letting her steps wander the rhythm of the morning.

The town moves like it remembers how to breathe again—shop doors left open to invite the breeze, laughter ricocheting off tin roofs, children racing barefoot across still-damp pavement. Smoke curls up from grills nestled behind sari-sari stores, the scent of garlic rice and fish broth threading through the breeze. It is nothing like the world she comes from.

No one stares. No names follow her through the air like questions waiting for answers.

Here, she is not anyone in particular.

She exhales, shoulder rising slightly with the motion, adjusting the strap of the tote bag slung over her side.

And then—she sees her.

Mikha stands at a vegetable stall beneath a weathered tarp, sleeves rolled to her elbows, a woven basket nestled in the crook of her arm. She isn’t just shopping. She’s speaking—with the vendors, the children weaving between crates, the elders perched on plastic stools. She’s listening in that way Aiah has begun to associate with her, the way that doesn’t ask for attention but somehow draws it anyway. Present. Rooted. Like she belongs to the moment, and the moment knows it.

The vendor, a woman with bright eyes and hands dyed by years of turmeric and salt, gestures toward her crates and talks of delays, of boats too waterlogged to go out after the storm. Mikha nods, asks a question, tosses a line that earns a real laugh—full, belly-deep. But when the woman hands over a bundle of greens, Mikha lingers.

She asks about her daughter’s cough. If they’ve got enough to last the week. Things she doesn’t have to ask about. Worries that aren’t hers to carry. And still, she does.

Not because she’s trying to impress anyone.

Just because she’s the kind of person who remembers.

Aiah’s grip tightens around her bag strap.

It’s such a small thing.

But small things hold weight. Sometimes more than anyone notices—until they do.

She knew Mikha was different. But standing here now, tucked into the quiet edges of the market, watching how the town leans toward her like she’s always been here, Aiah feels it sink deeper. 
This isn’t just where Mikha lives.

It’s where she fits.

Aiah glances down at her palms—smooth, careful hands that have touched microphones and silk, but not much else. Not like this.

She doesn’t belong here.

But maybe—just maybe—she could.

She doesn’t mean to linger.

But she does.

She stays by the corner of the vegetable stall, half-hidden, half-hoping she won’t be noticed—fingertips brushing absently against the strap of her tote, caught between the instinct to leave and the quiet tug of something she doesn’t quite have words for.

Then—

Mikha turns.

Their eyes meet.

And for a split second, Aiah considers pretending she hadn’t seen her, considers slipping into the next aisle, melting back into the crowd.

Too late.

Mikha’s mouth curves, not surprised, not smug—just soft and sure, like the morning sun peeking out from behind parting clouds. She starts toward her, basket swinging easily by her side.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Mikha calls, voice casual, amused.

Aiah clears her throat, trying to summon something light. “Just picking up a few things.”

Mikha’s gaze flicks to her empty hands.

“Uh-huh. What’d you get?”

Aiah hesitates. Mikha hums knowingly. A quiet dare.

“Maybe I was about to pick something up,” Aiah mutters, deadpan.

Mikha’s grin deepens, but she doesn’t press. Instead, she tilts her head toward the market’s winding path. “Come with me.”

Aiah blinks. “What?”

“I’ve still got stuff to buy. You might as well be useful.”

Before Aiah can offer a half-baked protest, Mikha’s fingers are already brushing her wrist, tugging gently. Her touch is firm but unhurried. Like she knew Aiah would follow.

And somehow, she does.

The market pulses around them—narrow lanes winding between baskets of leafy greens and pyramids of fruit, fish glistening on chipped ice, clouds of steam rising from portable grills. Voices roll over each other like waves, the island speaking in laughter, in barter, in small rituals repeated every morning.

Mikha moves through it like she’s always known the rhythm. She greets everyone by name, tips her head to elders, makes toddlers laugh with silly faces and absurd questions. She carries a crate of eggs without being asked, helps a woman untangle the straps of her bayong bag, hands a child a spare piece of candy from her pocket.

Aiah watches her from just a step behind.

Normally, she hates this kind of crowd—too many eyes, too many chances to be seen. But here, wrapped in Mikha’s easy wake, she doesn’t feel scrutinized.
She feels invisible in the safest way.

Until—

“Oh, my God—wait. Are you—?”

The question hits sharp.

Aiah freezes, breath locking in her chest. The woman squints, head tilted, eyes narrowing—not cruelly, but with that intent. The kind that wants to place her. Name her. Fold her into something she isn’t ready to give.

She braces herself.

Then—

“She’s with me, Tita,” Mikha says smoothly, smiling like nothing is amiss. She nudges Aiah’s elbow like they’ve done this a hundred times. “Just visiting.”

The woman blinks. Recognition falters. The script changes.

“Ah! A visitor! Welcome, hija.”

Aiah exhales, shoulders relaxing fraction by fraction.

Mikha doesn’t look at her. Doesn’t check in. Just slips her a small pack of tomatoes without fanfare, already moving to the next stall.

And maybe that’s the moment Aiah realizes.

The island doesn’t just let her be.

Mikha does, too.

They reach the stalls near the plaza, where the scent of coconut and melted cheese hangs thick in the sun.

“This is the best bibingka on the island,” Mikha announces with mock solemnity, already handing over coins. “Non-negotiable.”

Aiah raises a brow. “That confident?”

“You’ll see.”

They sit on a wooden bench shaded by the eaves of a closed pharmacy. The bibingka is still warm in their hands, wrapped in banana leaves, soft steam curling upward. The hot chocolate is too thick to be called a drink—it’s more like something to be held, to be cradled. To keep close.

Aiah takes a bite.

And everything stills.

The salt of the cheese, the creaminess of coconut, the gentle weight of rice—it’s the kind of food that doesn’t ask for praise. It just settles into your bones and stays.

Mikha watches her, smug.

Aiah rolls her eyes. “Fine. It’s good.”

Mikha breaks off a piece of her own, triumphant.

The market moves around them in waves of color and chatter, but Aiah feels like she’s been folded into the quiet core of it—somewhere still. Somewhere soft.

She wraps her fingers around the mug, letting the heat seep into her palms.

She should feel too visible, too out of place.

But she doesn’t.

Not here.

Not beside her.

Mikha nudges her knee gently, a touch that says I’m here without needing to say anything at all.

“See?” she murmurs, tone playful but not unserious. “Told you this was better than pretending you had errands.”

Aiah doesn’t argue.

Instead, she lets the moment stretch.

Lets the sugar melt on her tongue.

And quietly, she reaches for another bite.

Chapter Text

“I’m not doing this.”

Aiah stands rooted at the entrance of the café, arms crossed like armor, feet planted as if the island itself might try to drag her forward.

In front of her, Mikha is already unlocking the door, barely glancing back. “Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

The lock clicks open. Mikha nudges the door with her shoulder and disappears inside. “Too late. You’re already here.”

Aiah groans, scrubbing a hand down her face. “You tricked me.”

“You say tricked.” Mikha tosses her bag onto the counter, a smirk in her voice. “I say—persuaded.”

“No, you dragged me.”

“Same thing.”

Aiah mutters something unintelligible under her breath, but the tug in her chest betrays her. She tells herself she’s only here because she had nothing else planned, that curiosity pulled her in like a tide too gentle to fight—but the truth is heavier than that, even if she refuses to name it just yet.

She steps inside.

The café greets her with warmth. Not just in the literal sense—the scent of brewed coffee, of cinnamon clinging to the air, of something faintly floral rising from the diffuser tucked behind the register—but in the kind of quiet welcome that only lived-in places can offer. Light filters through the tall windows in soft golden beams, painting the tiled floors in dappled shadows. The hum of a ceiling fan spins a breeze overhead, stirring the silence.

It feels like stepping into someone’s favorite song on a vinyl—familiar, imperfect, and utterly intentional.

There’s a chalkboard menu on the wall, handwritten with playful loops and tiny doodles of hearts beside the specials. A set of mismatched ceramic mugs hangs near the sink, and one in particular catches Aiah’s eye—a navy blue one with a chip near the rim and a faint constellation pattern fading at the edges. It looks like it’s been used more times than the others.

Mikha moves easily through the space—flicking on switches, stretching, tying her apron behind her back like this is the most natural thing in the world. She belongs here in a way Aiah has never belonged anywhere.

She turns with a wicked grin. “Alright, assistant. Ready?”

“I am not your assistant,” Aiah deadpans.

Mikha squints, pretending to think. “Right, right—more like unpaid intern.”

Aiah scowls. “I hate you.”

Mikha laughs, tossing an apron in her direction. “Come on, intern. Time to work.”

Aiah catches it reflexively. Her fingers linger on the fabric, then curl around it as she steps forward. “I don’t know the first thing about running a café.”

“That’s fine.” Mikha leans on the counter, entirely too pleased. “You just have to look pretty and follow my lead.”

“Unbelievable.”

“And yet,” Mikha adds with a wink, “you’re still here.”

Aiah wants to argue—to remind her that this wasn’t her idea, that she had every intention of saying no.

She could’ve left. Could’ve walked away.

But something in her stayed—unwilling, maybe. Curious, definitely.

So she pulls the apron over her head and ties it at the back, ignoring the smirk Mikha doesn’t even try to hide.

“All right, intern,” Mikha says, sliding a tray of beans toward her. “First lesson: grind these without causing a catastrophe.”

Aiah glares at the machine. “No promises.”

But the first catastrophe arrives sooner than expected.

It starts with two iced drinks, a tray, and a false sense of confidence. Aiah walks slowly; each step measured like a tightrope act. But halfway to the table, one of the glasses wobbles—then slides—then flies.

Time slows.

She lets out a quiet curse.

But before the drink can splatter across the floor, Mikha appears out of nowhere, catching the glass mid-air like it’s all part of the act.

Aiah stares at her, stunned.

Mikha shrugs, entirely unfazed. “Reflexes.”

“You planned that.”

“Sure, intern.”

Mikha takes the tray from her hands and delivers the drinks with a flourish. Aiah stalks back behind the counter, cheeks burning, muttering something about preferring storm waves over balancing beverages.

The second catastrophe involves a very loud espresso machine.

“Mikha,” Aiah calls out, panic threading through her voice, “it’s hissing at me.”

Mikha doesn’t even look up. “What did you do?”

“I pressed a button and it got mad.”

A beat later, Mikha appears beside her, flips a switch, and the hissing stops instantly.

Aiah glares. “I seriously hate you.”

Mikha pats her on the shoulder. “You keep saying that, but here you are.”

And there she is.

Despite the chaos, the mess, the secondhand apron and the stubborn espresso machine—she stays.

Later, the lunch crowd tapers off. The clatter of cups softens, music settles into a low hum from the speakers, and the sun shifts across the floor, golden and slow. For a moment, it feels like the island is holding its breath.

Aiah leans her arms on the counter. “This is way harder than it looks.”

Mikha grins. “Told you.”

“So what now?”

Mikha glances at the espresso machine, then at Aiah. “You wanna learn?”

“Learn what?”

Mikha slides a fresh scoop of beans onto the tray. “I’m gifting you a life skill before we part ways.”

Aiah’s heart tugs. Part ways.

She should say something sarcastic—she always does—but the words slip past her.

Instead, she just nods.

“Fine. Teach me.”

And Mikha does.

She stands beside her, patient and calm, describing each step with care. Shows her how to level the grounds, how to hold the tamper like it’s an extension of her hand, how to feel for pressure without forcing it.

Aiah presses too softly at first.

“More pressure,” Mikha says gently, then steps closer to adjust her grip.

Her fingers brush against Aiah’s knuckles—barely there, featherlight—but it sends a hum down Aiah’s spine. Her breath hitches slightly—not from the motion, but from the nearness.

She tries to focus on the tamper, on the rhythm of it all.

The way Mikha speaks, low and warm, feels more like a lullaby than a lesson. She makes coffee sound like a living thing—temperamental, intuitive, shaped by hands and heart.

Together, they watch the espresso pour—dark and slow, spiraling into the ceramic mug like ink unraveling across paper.

Mikha leans in to examine it. “Not bad, intern.”

“I’m not your intern.”

“Says the girl making espresso in my café.”

Aiah huffs, but a smile tugs at her lips.

There’s a stillness here she didn’t expect. A groundedness in the motion, the scent, the quiet between steps. It’s nothing like the spotlight. Nothing like the stage.

Back then, the glare of lights made her palms sweat. Here, she holds a tamper instead.

She glances at Mikha, watching the way she moves, how she never rushes, never fumbles. Confidence without sharp edges. Precision without pressure.

“You’ve really made this place your own,” Aiah says softly.

Mikha looks at her, a pause catching between breaths.

Then a smile—small, sure.

“Yeah.”

Aiah doesn’t say more.

She doesn’t need to.

Mikha tilts her head. “You ready for latte art, or is that too advanced for my intern?”

Aiah gives her a pointed look. “Say intern one more time and I’m switching off the power.”

Mikha snorts, bumping their shoulders together. “You’re gonna love this.”

She reaches for a pitcher of milk.

And Aiah stays right where she is.

Because as absurd as this all is—apron, coffee, the slight sheen of sweat on her forehead—she doesn’t mind it.

She watches the steam rise.

Watches Mikha’s hands steady over the cup.

And when she finally picks up the blue constellation mug—the one chipped at the rim, worn in like a favorite memory—she doesn’t question it.

She just smiles.

Less because of the coffee.

More because of the person beside her.

Chapter Text

The café is empty again. The last customers have long since wandered out into the gray hush of the island, leaving behind only the memory of clinking cups and soft laughter. Now, the space hums with afterglow—warm light pooling gently overhead, the scent of roasted beans clinging to the walls like breath held in quiet satisfaction. Outside, the rain has returned, not with fury but with grace—soft, steady, like a lullaby tapped gently against the windows.

Aiah stretches with a groan, arms overhead, the motion drawing out a sigh she hadn’t meant to release. “I’m never working in a café again.”

Mikha doesn’t look up from the counter, where she’s lazily wiping down its surface. “Not even for me?”

“Especially not for you.”

Mikha smirks, folding the cloth and setting it aside with the practiced grace of someone who’s done this a thousand times. “Well, too late. You’ve already been paid.”

Aiah squints at her. “Paid?”

Mikha lifts a hand, gestures toward the kitchen. “Dinner. Generous salary, if you ask me.”

Aiah raises a brow, suspicious. “That’s illegal.”

“So was dragging you behind the counter without training,” Mikha says with a grin, already disappearing behind the swinging door.

Aiah lingers for half a beat, caught in the echo of Mikha’s laughter. Then she follows—half in protest, half in curiosity.

She doesn’t know what she expects. Maybe something thrown together in five minutes. A sandwich. A reheated meal. Something careless.

But when she steps into the kitchen, she pauses.

Mikha is standing at the stove, her apron undone, sleeves rolled past her elbows, hair pulled back loosely. There’s something tender in the way she moves—measured and unrushed. The way she peels garlic, slices ginger, stirs broth with slow strokes of a wooden spoon. The way she dips a spoon, tastes, adjusts, without needing to speak.

The room smells of warmth and memory—rice thickening in golden stock, the sharp bite of ginger softened by simmering chicken and slivered scallions.

Aiah leans against the counter, watching, her voice quieter now. “What are you making?”

Mikha doesn’t turn. “Something I grew up on. Rainy day staple.”

She ladles the finished broth into two bowls—careful, steady—then tops them with crisp garlic, shredded meat, and a generous curl of green onions. She sets one in front of Aiah with a faint smile.

“My Lola used to say Arroz Caldo was food for the soul.”

Aiah stares at the bowl, steam unfurling in slow spirals. The scent coils into her nose, grounding and tender. It pulls something loose in her—something she hasn’t let herself name in a long time.

She lifts the spoon. Tastes.

And it’s not just flavor that floods her.

It’s a hallway back home—her mother’s quiet humming, rain tapping the roof, a warmth pressed into her hands after a fever. It’s silence that isn’t lonely. It’s comfort without demand.

She swallows, the ache of recognition catching lightly at her throat.

“It reminds me of home,” she says softly, almost to herself. “Of being seven. Of my mom sneaking me extra egg slices when I was sick.”

Mikha glances at her, a flicker of something unreadable passing across her face. But she doesn’t press. She just smiles, dipping her spoon again.

Aiah watches her for a moment longer before murmuring, “Your Lola was right.”

Mikha’s eyes meet hers.

“It tastes like something I didn’t know I missed.”

Mikha nudges her foot gently under the table. “Told you I paid you well.”

Aiah rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t argue. She just eats, slowly, gratefully.

She doesn’t say it aloud, but this is the best meal she’s had in a long time.

Not because it’s fancy.

But because someone made it with care.

And because that someone was her.

When their souls are fed and their bowls are empty, Aiah offers to wash the dishes.

Mikha leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching as Aiah stubbornly scrubs at the bowls in the sink.

“You don’t have to do that,” Mikha says for the third time.

“I want to,” Aiah argues, not looking up.

Mikha shakes her head, amused. “You don’t strike me as the dishwashing type.”

Aiah scoffs. “I am perfectly capable of cleaning up after myself, you know.”

Mikha smirks. “Oh, so you do know what hard labor is.”

Aiah flicks water at her without missing a beat.

Mikha laughs, but she doesn’t retaliate. She just watches.

Watches the way Aiah stands at the sink, sleeves rolled up, brows furrowed in concentration like she’s determined to do this right. Watches the way the light catches the edges of her profile, the faint curl of damp baby hairs at her temple, the way her lips press together when she’s focused.

Watches—

And feels.

It’s strange.

How easily she’s found her way in.

How much space she’s come to take up without trying.

How Mikha now hears her voice in the quiet, like the silence itself learned to wait for it.

She doesn’t know when it started.

Maybe it started that first night—not love at first sight. Not anything as sudden or as dramatic as that. It was something quieter. Something deeper. Something she didn’t realize was settling into her until much later.

Maybe it was the way Aiah walked into her café that night, shoulders drawn tight, eyes carrying a kind of exhaustion Mikha recognized but didn’t question.

Maybe it was the way she held that cup of coffee—her coffee, the one she’d been perfecting for weeks—and called it like a quiet evening, like she had unknowingly put words to something Mikha had only ever felt.

Or maybe—

Maybe it began like all quiet things do.

A presence. A gesture. A shared bench at merienda. A poorly carried tray of drinks.

And now—this.

A girl at her sink, drying bowls with quiet insistence, as if she’s always belonged here.

As Aiah places the last dish on the drying rack, she wipes her hands on a dish towel and turns, only to find Mikha still watching her.

“What?”

Mikha shrugs, the corners of her mouth tugging upward. “Nothing.”

Aiah narrows her eyes. “You’re weird.”

Mikha only smiles.

A faint breeze slips through the slightly ajar window, and with it, the soft hush of rain resumes—less storm now, more rhythm. The world feels wrapped in something gentle.

The faucet drips once. Then stops.

A quiet click of closure.

And Mikha, still leaning there, doesn’t say what she’s thinking.

That she’s scared of how much she’s come to rely on the sound of Aiah’s footsteps behind her. That this girl who claimed not to belong anywhere now feels like part of everything.

She doesn’t say it.

She just watches as Aiah ruffles her damp sleeves, walks past her with a satisfied sigh, and sinks onto the booth in the corner like she’s earned her place.

Chapter Text

The café is quiet by the time they close for the night, its once-bustling corners now hushed under warm overhead lights and the scent of brewed coffee lingering in the wood. The rain has started again—soft this time, like the island isn’t in any rush to make noise.

Aiah wipes down the last table with slow, absent motions while Mikha double-checks the lock at the door. Their movements have fallen into rhythm, neither speaking, but neither needing to. The air between them feels settled now—not because nothing is stirring, but because everything is.

Mikha stretches her arms overhead, her joints cracking faintly. “You gonna miss your barista gig?”

Aiah scoffs, tossing the cloth over her shoulder. “Not even a little.”

“Shame,” Mikha says, grinning. “You could’ve made a decent full-time intern.”

Aiah narrows her eyes. “We are never using that word again.”

Mikha lifts both hands in mock surrender, but doesn’t argue. Instead, she nods toward the road. “Come on. I’ll walk you back.”

Aiah hesitates—not because she doesn’t want to, but because part of her does. Too much. And she’s not sure when wanting things got so hard to name. Still, she nods, and they fall into step side by side.

The road home feels different tonight.

There’s no storm this time. No wind pressing against them. Just the steady hush of rain threading between the trees and the quiet song of the tide in the distance.

The island feels like it’s holding its breath, stretching the walk longer somehow, as if to give them time to say what neither knows how to begin.

But the silence doesn’t press.

It just stays—familiar, almost kind.

By the time they reach the hostel gate, Aiah slows.

Mikha shifts her weight, hands deep in her pockets. “Guess I should—”

“Stay.”

The word lands before Aiah can stop it.

It slips out like breath she didn’t mean to hold. Like a truth that had been sitting on the edge of her teeth all night.

And for a moment, she almost wishes she could take it back—not because she doesn’t mean it, but because she does.

Because this—this wanting—is new. Or maybe not new, just long buried. She’s spent years biting back desire, shrinking instinct into silence, convincing herself that wanting anything too much was dangerous. That it was safer to be distant. Polished. Unmoved.

But here, in the hush of the road and the pull of Mikha’s presence, she lets herself choose. Just this once.

Just a little bit.

She wants her to stay.

And for the first time in a long time, she says it out loud.

Mikha tilts her head, something unreadable passing through her gaze. “You sure?”

Aiah nods, her fingers curling around the strap of her bag like it might keep her steady. “…Yeah.”

A smile ghosts over Mikha’s lips—small, quiet, knowing. “Alright.”

They step inside, slower now, neither rushing to fill the space with anything but their breath. Most of the hostel has already retreated into the quiet of sleep, and the only light left flickers from a single candle left burning on the common area table. Yaya must’ve lit it earlier. Its flame casts soft, uneven shadows across the walls, catching briefly in Mikha’s eyes as she sets down two cups on the table.

Aiah lowers herself into one of the chairs, the wood creaking gently beneath her weight. Her fingers wrap around the ceramic. It’s warm, faintly sweet—the scent of ginger and honey curling into the air, mingling with the low patter of rain.

They sit in the stillness, candlelight flickering soft between them, tea cooling in their hands. The rain has settled into a gentle, steady hush against the windows—no longer threatening, just present.

Mikha cradles her cup, thumb running idly along the rim. Her gaze flicks to Aiah, then holds.

“You look like you want to ask me something,” she says, voice quiet. Not a question. Just a noticing.

Aiah’s gaze lifts, caught. “Am I that obvious?”

Mikha smiles—not teasing, not expectant. Just warm. “You don’t have to ask anything if you’re not ready.”

Aiah’s fingers tighten slightly around her cup. She nods, barely, eyes drifting down to the steam rising in faint spirals.

Mikha watches her for another beat, then turns her gaze away again, her voice softer this time. “Some things don’t need to be said right away. Sometimes… you just know.”

The words settle like rain on quiet ground—gentle, patient, certain.

Aiah doesn’t respond.

But something in her breath evens. Something in her shoulders loosens.

And maybe, for now, that’s enough.

They linger in the silence for a while longer, until Mikha shifts, stretching her legs out beneath the table. “Come on, intern,” she murmurs, not unkindly. “Time to call it a night.”

Aiah rolls her eyes, but she stands anyway, trailing behind as they make their way down the corridor.

The hallway is dim, the air thick with the scent of rain and old wood. Their steps slow, almost reluctant, as they approach Aiah’s door. Neither of them speaks.

And then—they stop.

No one reaches for the knob.

The air between them tightens. It doesn’t close, not yet—but it pulls taut, like a string drawn slowly between two hands.

Mikha shifts slightly, her shoulder brushing against Aiah’s as she turns to face her fully. Her gaze is steady, but softer now, like something has quieted inside her.

Aiah looks up.

She doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t move.

She only feels—too much, all at once.

The quiet between them is charged, thick with things neither has said aloud. The space hums with something unspoken, something that’s been waiting since the moment Aiah asked her to stay.

Her pulse beats in her throat. In her wrists. In the air.

And maybe it’s the silence.

Or the candlelight that still flickers behind her eyes.

Or the tea she never finished.

But more than anything, maybe it’s the way Mikha is looking at her—like she already knows.

So Aiah leans forward.

And kisses her.

It isn’t planned. It isn’t even brave.

It’s instinct—raw and quiet, trembling at the edges.

Her lips meet Mikha’s, soft and unsure, like a question she doesn’t know how to ask out loud. Aiah’s breath stutters, hands curling slightly into fists at her sides, not because she’s scared, but because the weight of the moment is almost too much to hold.

For a heartbeat, nothing happens.

And then—

Mikha exhales, something breaking open in her, and she kisses her back.

Not urgently. Not all at once.

Just… completely.

Like she’s been waiting for this.

Like she’s known, long before Aiah ever caught up to it.

Aiah’s fingers find Mikha’s sleeve, curling lightly, anchoring herself in something real. Mikha shifts closer, lips moving with care, with steadiness, with the kind of gentleness that doesn’t ask for anything in return.

The kiss lingers, not just in the touch, but in the breath that follows. In the way Aiah keeps her eyes closed for a moment longer. In the way Mikha’s forehead presses briefly against hers.

And then they part, just slightly.

Still close. Still there.

Aiah’s breath is uneven, her lips tingling, her heart loud.

Mikha says nothing at first.

Then—softly, with the faintest smile—

“Didn’t think you’d beat me to it.”

Aiah lets out a breath that might be a laugh. She’s not sure.

She’s always the one to pull back first. Always the one to hold the line.

But here—now—she let herself cross it.

Mikha’s hand brushes lightly against Aiah’s temple. A brief, grounding touch.

And then, without fanfare, a kiss to her temple. Light. Steady.

Like a promise that doesn’t need to be spoken.

Mikha steps back, sliding her hands into her pockets again.

“Good night, intern,” she says gently, turning without waiting for an answer.

Aiah watches her go, eyes following her until she disappears around the corner.

The hallway is quiet again.

But the silence feels different now.

She can still feel the kiss.

Still feel the warmth of Mikha’s hand brushing hers.

Still feel the weight of everything they didn’t say—finally lifted, finally shared.

And maybe—just maybe—this is the beginning of something she doesn’t need to name to believe in.

Chapter Text

Aiah lies awake.

The room is dark, touched only by the dim sliver of moonlight stretched thin across the rain-damp windowpane. Outside, water traces soft lines against the glass—steady, hushed, unrelenting. A lullaby, maybe. But sleep doesn’t come.

She turns onto her side, then her back, eyes fixed on the faint ceiling lines she can’t quite make out. Her fingers brush over her lips—not seeking, just remembering.

The kiss.

Not just the shape of it. Not even just the feeling.

But the knowing.

The warmth. The stillness. The way Mikha didn’t pull away. The way she answered it—not urgently, not hesitantly, but with the kind of certainty Aiah hadn’t realized she’d been craving.

Like Mikha had been waiting for it.

Like maybe she had been, too.

Her palm presses against her chest, as if she can muffle the way her heart still stirs beneath it, restless and unready to return to sleep. Because that moment—those few seconds between the words they didn’t say—did something.

It loosened something.

Or maybe it unearthed it.

Because this isn’t just about a kiss. Not when it comes with a weight she’s spent years trying to silence. Not when it means something she’s only allowed herself to feel in the quiet corners of her mind, before she tucked it away again.

And now—now it’s out in the open.

It’s here. Undeniable. Alive and sharp, humming under her skin like a song that won’t quiet.

And Mikha... Mikha didn’t flinch. Didn’t question. Didn’t meet it with confusion or obligation. She didn’t ask, What does this mean?

And that’s the problem.

Because Aiah doesn’t know.

What it means.

What she wants it to mean.

What happens now.

All she knows is this—Mikha kissed her back. And the world shifted. Tilted just slightly, like a window being opened.

And she felt it.

Truly felt it.

Not fear. Not guilt. Not shame.

Just... want.

Her fingers trace up toward her temple, trying to steady the hum in her chest. Her mind won’t settle. Her body won’t rest.

The storm outside has passed.

But inside her, something is just beginning.

The next morning comes slower than it’s ever been.

The island is still. The hush after rainfall lingers, drawn like a curtain pulled half-closed. The air smells of sea and soil—damp, rich, the scent of something that’s survived.

Aiah barely slept. Her limbs feel heavy, reluctant, but her mind won’t stop. Every memory of last night rises unbidden: the warmth of Mikha’s lips, the near brush of her breath, the space that had always felt wide between them narrowing to almost nothing.

And then—nothing at all.

She dresses quietly. Breathes slowly. She doesn’t know what today is supposed to feel like.

But she knows it won’t be the same.

Mikha is already there when Aiah steps out into the common area.

Seated on the couch, legs crossed casually, a worn paperback in her hands. The morning light filters through the gauzy curtains behind her, softening the edges of everything. Mikha doesn’t look up right away, doesn’t react with anything more than calm.

But Aiah feels it.

The awareness between them. The shift. The steady weight of something settled, but still waiting.

Then Mikha looks up—and smiles.

Not tentative. Not searching.

Just… there.

Aiah’s breath catches, but she lets the moment pass without gripping it too tightly.

She walks toward the kitchen, where Yaya is already bustling about, laying out warm bread and fried rice, the scent of garlic and oil curling into the quiet.

Mikha follows.

Not trailing behind.

Just beside her.

And Aiah feels it—like the air between them has changed shape. Like Mikha’s presence doesn’t fill space so much as hold it.

She sits down, and Mikha chooses the chair next to hers—not across, not distant. Their knees nearly brush beneath the table. It’s subtle.

So subtle.

But Aiah feels it like a pulse under her skin.

Yaya chatters about the storm, about how the boats will sail again tomorrow, about how the town will return to itself soon enough. Mikha hums in agreement, her responses light, unbothered. A rhythm Aiah recognizes now.

Like nothing happened.

Like everything did.

Aiah stares into her mug, fingers curled tightly around the ceramic. The coffee’s gone tepid, untouched. But she doesn’t move. She doesn’t pull away.

And Mikha—

Mikha doesn’t push.

She just stays.

By midday, the sky clears fully.

Sunlight stretches over the island, tugging long shadows over the rooftops, painting golden lines on the rain-washed streets. The scent of fresh earth and warmed salt fills the air, like everything’s been rinsed clean and left out to dry.

The announcement comes softly—boats will remain docked until tomorrow, just to be sure. The water’s still restless. Not unsafe, but not quite inviting either.

One more day.

One last day.

The words settle like a weight in her chest.

This is what she came here waiting for, wasn’t it? The all-clear. The cue to return. To step back into the world she’s known, the roles she’s memorized, the version of herself everyone expects to see.

And yet—

Mikha nudges her knee, just a little. A casual thing. But when Aiah looks up, Mikha’s gaze is already on her.

Something quiet. Something steady.

Then, lightly—

“Come with me.”

Aiah blinks. “Where?”

Mikha tips her head toward the door. “One last tour.”

Aiah studies her.

And Mikha doesn’t look away.

She doesn’t lean forward or lace it with expectation. She just holds Aiah’s gaze like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And maybe it is.

Or maybe it’s everything.

Aiah exhales, her fingers releasing the edge of her mug. Something eases in her shoulders, even as the ache lingers.

“…Okay.”

Mikha’s grin is quiet, but sure. She stands, stretching slightly as she reaches for the door.

And Aiah follows.

They don’t name what this is.

They don’t say what it means.

But as they step into the sunlit street, side by side, their shadows brushing and separating with each step, Aiah knows—

This isn’t just a walk.

It’s something else entirely.

Something still unfolding.

Something she’s no longer afraid to follow.

Chapter Text

Mikha takes her to places Aiah hasn’t seen before—not because they weren’t there, but because they weren’t shown. Not yet.

A small, hidden cove tucked behind a winding cliffside road, where the water gleams like a secret only the island knows. The waves hush against the shore in rhythms softer than breath, the sand cool beneath their feet, untouched. A quiet garden at the town’s edge, where herbs and flowers grow in chipped clay pots and plastic pails, their scent thick in the warm air—basil, lemongrass, a hint of citrus as someone rinses their hands in the nearby basin. An old pier, long weathered, where the wood creaks under their weight, but the view opens wide—sky and sea blurring into one seamless line, a horizon held in place only by light.

Aiah follows without asking why. She doesn’t need to. These aren’t places for visitors. They’re places kept in the quiet of one’s chest, shown only when time feels like it’s running out.

They sit at the edge of the pier, feet dangling, the water far below them moving slow and deep. The sky has begun its descent into gold, everything softened into light and shadow, the air growing cooler, but not quite cold. The wind curls around them, playful and patient.

Mikha’s hands rest on the wood beside her, fingers tapping lightly—no rhythm, just presence.

Then—

“You’re leaving tomorrow, then?”

The words are light, almost careless.

But they settle in Aiah like a tide pulling back.

Her stomach tightens—not from surprise, but from the ache of hearing it said aloud. “Yeah.”

Mikha nods once, her gaze on the water. She watches the light shift on the waves as if trying to memorize how it looks when it touches everything just right.

Aiah watches her. The curve of her cheek, the tension in her jaw, the way she’s holding something steady inside.

And then, quietly— “What about you?”

Mikha tilts her head. “What about me?”

Aiah hesitates, fingers brushing splinters on the edge of the pier. It’s not the question she wants to ask. Not exactly. But it’s the shape of it. Do you want to leave? Have you ever tried?

Mikha exhales, her voice softer now. “I used to think I’d go back. The States. Family. I thought this island was just something I’d return to in passing.”

A breath.

Then— “But the longer I stayed, the harder it was to leave.”

She glances at Aiah, offering a small, wry smile. “The island keeps the people who need it.”

Aiah feels the words move through her like tidewater, slow and sinking. Not heavy—but deep. She thinks of how she arrived, restless. How she stayed, unplanned. How the quiet here didn’t feel empty. It felt like breath.

The silence stretches between them again—not aching, not tense. Just waiting.

They don’t rush the walk back. The silence between them grows thicker with each step—quiet, tender, not quite ready to end. By the time they reach the hostel, the sun has already bowed behind the hills, and the island is beginning to dim.

The night is impossibly still.

The kind of quiet that presses into the walls, into the space between heartbeats, into the air between two people who know this is the last time.

Aiah doesn’t know how they ended up like this.

Side by side, tangled in the hush of her room, sheets cool against her skin, the space between them thick with all that hasn’t been said. Mikha’s presence is steady beside her—barely moving, barely breathing—but present in that quiet, certain way she always is.

They don’t speak at first. They just look.

Like they’re trying to memorize what they’ll have to let go of.

Mikha’s gaze moves across Aiah’s face—not urgently, not even searching. Just… seeing her.

“You’re quiet,” she murmurs.

Aiah blinks, the weight in her chest pressing just a little tighter. “I guess.”

“Are you okay?”

The question is gentle, unthreatening. Like the answer doesn’t have to be perfect.

Aiah doesn’t respond right away.

Mikha shifts slightly, her voice lower now. “You don’t have to tell me. But if there’s something keeping you here…”

She lets the thought trail off, like a tide refusing to pull too far.

Aiah doesn’t answer. But something inside her leans toward that thought. Because there is something keeping her here.

And it’s right in front of her.

Mikha reaches forward, brushing a stray strand of hair behind Aiah’s ear. The touch is featherlight, but it settles like a promise—something familiar, something that still makes Aiah forget how to breathe.

She leans in—not with the uncertainty of firsts, but with the quiet recognition of something already known.

And Mikha meets her there.

The kiss is soft. Steady. Not discovery, but remembering. It carries the weight of the nights they didn’t speak of it, and the mornings they almost did. Mikha’s hand finds her jaw, grounding her, and Aiah leans into it—not just the kiss, but the stillness between them that has always felt like home.

She doesn’t know what tomorrow will ask of her.

But right now, in this moment that asks for nothing but truth—

She knows this is real.

And for tonight, that’s enough.

Sleep comes slow. The kind that lingers between dreams and parting, between lips and silence. And when dawn finally begins to press against the windows, Aiah already knows—

Morning has come to take her back.

She wakes to the warmth of Mikha curled beside her.

It’s not the light that wakes her, but the nearness—the slow rise and fall of breath, the quiet rustle of sheets, the arm draped gently over her waist. Aiah doesn’t move. Just lies there, letting herself feel it.

Mikha, asleep beside her, is stillness and gravity and something else Aiah hasn’t had in a long time.

She thinks of the lights she used to wake to—studio sets glowing before dawn, the quiet clatter of makeup brushes, the call of her name through a megaphone. She remembers the hush right before a scene begins, the weight of a script softened by instinct, the way a camera’s gaze could sometimes feel like a mirror.

She misses it.

The real parts of it.

Not the frenzy. Not the performance. But the craft. The collaboration. The people who saw her—not just the face, not just the pairing, but the work behind it all.

But now—

Now, this room is quiet. And Mikha’s scent—something warm and a little sweet—wraps around her like a memory she hasn’t lived yet.

She could stay.

It’s a thought that slips through her like the tide. Uninvited. Undeniable.

She could stay and let this be her world for a while. Learn the way the morning light touches this room, the way Mikha looks when she laughs before coffee.

She could stay and see if this becomes something more.

But her chest tightens.

Because she knows herself. Knows that she can’t abandon the parts of her that still want the stage. The creation. The connection.

She exhales slowly, reaching for the shell bracelet on the nightstand—something Mikha had tied around her wrist absentmindedly the day before, a small thing from the garden shop they passed through.

She holds it for a beat.

Then sets it gently into her bag.

The dock is quieter than Aiah expected.

No fanfare. No goodbye. Just the gentle rhythm of waves and the quiet presence of a few travelers preparing to leave.

Mikha stands beside her.

Not holding her back.

Not asking her to stay.

Just there.

Watching the water.

Aiah’s bag is slung across her shoulder, her steps not quite sure.

“I guess… this is it,” she says softly.

Mikha doesn’t flinch. Just hums. “Looks like it.”

A silence stretches between them. It isn’t sad, but it’s full.

Full of the things they didn’t say. Full of the moments they let themselves feel instead.

Aiah looks at her, really looks—at the way the sun hits the edges of her hair, the calm she wears even now.

And then Mikha says, “You know where to find us. If things ever get too heavy again.”

Aiah’s throat tightens.

She nods.

It’s not a goodbye.

Not really.

It’s an open door.

And maybe that’s what makes her heart ache most.

She takes a step toward the boat.

Her legs move before her heart is ready, each step too loud in the hush the island leaves behind.

She doesn’t look back at first.

But when she does—

Mikha is still there.

Hands in her pockets.

Watching her go.

Aiah turns again, shoulders squared, breath steady.

And this time—

She walks forward.

Into the life that waits.

But not without leaving something behind.

Because the island keeps what it’s meant to.

And maybe, just maybe, it’s keeping a piece of her too.

Chapter Text

tucked behind the cash register

There’s a kind of quiet you carry.

Not the awkward kind. Not even the shy kind.

It’s the kind that makes people feel like they shouldn’t ask too much. Like if they speak too loud, they’ll scare you off.

You smile like you’re trying not to. Like joy is something you’re not sure you’re allowed to keep.

And your eyes—they always look like they’re on the edge of asking something. Like you’re waiting for permission to want. But here, you let yourself settle. Not completely. Not all at once. But enough. You never told me who you were, and I never asked. Not because I wasn’t curious, but because I didn’t want it to matter.

You were already real to me.

You helped carry tomatoes.

You messed up my espresso machine.

You stayed for Arroz Caldo and slept through my favorite movie.

You kissed me like you’d never been kissed without expectation.

And then you left.

Not suddenly. Not dramatically.

Just… the way soft things leave.

Without sound. Without demand.

I don’t need a reason. I don’t need histories.

I just hope the stillness you found here stays with you, wherever you go.

That’s all.

Chapter Text

The city swallows her whole.

It begins the moment Aiah steps off the plane—before the door has even finished hissing open, before the wheels fully meet the ground. The air shifts. It smells like recycled perfume and jet fuel, like pressure and polish and something unnatural she’d once taught herself to breathe in like oxygen.

Inside the terminal, everything moves too fast. Too loud. Too much.

Announcements buzz overhead in clipped, hurried tones. Footsteps echo sharply against polished tile. Cameras flash like stuttering lightning as someone calls her name. She keeps her head low, sunglasses firm on the bridge of her nose, moving like muscle memory as her manager falls into step beside her.

“You’re finally back,” he exhales, already reaching for his phone. “We have so much to catch up on. Press schedules, brand deals, that taping we need to reschedule since—”

His voice folds into the noise. Aiah nods where she should, hums when it’s expected, but her mind is somewhere else entirely.

Still on the dock.

Not in body, but in breath. In the scent of salt on skin. In the steady rhythm of waves that had asked nothing of her except to listen.

She adjusts the strap of her bag, fingers brushing the side pocket where she tucked it the day before. The shell bracelet—faintly worn, threaded with soft twine, its spiral still catching light like it remembers the sea. Mikha had tied it around her wrist without ceremony, just a passing gesture during her last day on the island. Aiah hadn’t taken it out since.

Now, she reaches for it again.

Not to wear it.

Just to feel it.

She closes her fingers around the familiar shape. Holds it like something steady. Like something still hers, even in a world that keeps asking her to forget.

There are eyes on her again.

They graze over her like they always have—quiet, assessing, expecting. It used to unravel her. Now, they only skim the surface. But the bruise remains.

Still, she moves.

Through the terminal, through the car ride, through the press room hours later where another kind of light waits for her. Not the sun-dappled kind that spills through island trees—but harsh, curated brightness. Strategic.

The press wall stands like a backdrop for a story she didn’t write. Her co-star smiles at her side. Cameras click in rapid succession. Microphones inch closer. She forces a smile, teeth sharp against her own silence, but her throat feels too tight—like if she speaks too honestly, something might crack.

The questions come like darts.

“Excited for the movie?” Smile. Nod. “So excited.”

“How was your break? You disappeared for a bit!” Laugh. Deflect. “Had to recharge.”

“What’s the real score between you and Carlos?” Pause. Eyes to the publicist. Let them take the hit.

She’s done this a thousand times. She knows how to say everything and nothing at once.

But tonight—tonight, it suffocates her.

Because earlier this week, she was on a boat, wind threading through her hair. Because it hasn’t even been two sunrises since she watched Mikha kiss her goodnight. Because she hasn’t yet scrubbed the scent of coffee beans from her fingertips, or the sound of laughter from the hostel kitchen.

And here, in this room of curated sound and softened filters, the quiet she once knew feels impossibly far.

Dinner comes next. A “casual” meal, but she knows the cameras outside are already snapping photos they’ll twist into something romantic. The table is elegant, the food plated like art, but Aiah stirs her drink without sipping, fingers tight around the stem.

Carlos sits across from her. Familiar, kind. They’ve known each other since their debut, learned to maneuver spotlights and scripts like second skin. He doesn’t force conversation. He doesn’t need to.

“You’re somewhere else,” he says quietly, voice meant only for her.

She touches her spoon but only tastes ocean wind on her tongue.

She could nod. Smile. Play the part they’ve both worn so well.

But she doesn’t.

Her fingers curl beneath the table, the shell still tucked into her palm.

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” she says softly.

Carlos exhales slowly. He doesn’t look surprised. Just nods, once—like he understands.

And maybe he does.

Because they were both made for this world—but that doesn’t mean they were built to survive it.

The next day, she stands in another studio, under another spotlight.

The air smells like hairspray and fresh paint. A makeup artist powders her cheeks between takes. A reporter leans forward, recording device poised.

“Where were you before filming started?” he asks casually.

Aiah pauses.

She could lie. She could pivot. She could disappear behind the curtain of vagueness her industry thrives on.

But instead, her thumb brushes the edge of the shell hidden in her sleeve.

“I was on an island,” she says.

No name. No details. Just a truth.

The reporter tilts his head. “How was it?”

Aiah smiles. Not the one they’ve seen on red carpets. But the one that feels like sunrise through café windows. The one that feels like warm laughter and homemade tea.

“I was gifted a life skill,” she says. “I learned how to make my own coffee.”

She says it lightly.

But in her chest, it lands like truth.

And somewhere far away—beneath the hush of coconut trees, in a café that smells like cinnamon and sea air—Aiah hopes someone hears it.

And knows.

Chapter Text

Mikha doesn’t mean to stop.

She’s just passing through the hostel, dropping off supplies like always, walking the same steps she’s walked a hundred times. The late afternoon light slants through the windows, dust suspended in the golden hush.

And then she hears her name.

Not spoken, not called—just there, drifting from the small TV in the common area like a note caught in the air.

She almost doesn’t turn.

But Yaya, sitting in her usual chair with a folded shawl over her shoulders, lets out a soft tsk, followed by a click of her tongue.

“Ay,” she murmurs, shaking her head. “I knew that girl had something special about her.”

Mikha pauses, frowning.

Then she follows Yaya’s gaze—and sees her.

Not barefoot on the sand, not laughing in the kitchen, not grumbling about errands with her hair tied in a loose bun.

It takes a moment for her to recognize her. Not Aiah in cutoff shorts, not Aiah beside her in the quiet. But Aiah Arceta—framed by studio lights, dressed in something elegant and polished, eyes steady even as the crowd murmurs off-screen.

Mikha’s stomach drops, sharp and sudden, like she’s missed a step on a staircase.

The host is mid-question, voice bright and rehearsed. Something about the movie, the onscreen chemistry, the usual narratives spun to make strangers believe in stories not theirs to tell.

Aiah nods, poised. Smiles with practiced ease. Polished. Immaculate.

And then—

“Where were you before filming started?” the host asks, curious and harmless, the kind of question that slides easily into the noise.

Aiah pauses.

It’s quick—just a flicker—but Mikha sees it. A small shift in her eyes. The faint catch in her breath. Like something real is knocking from the inside.

Then Aiah says, “I was on an island.”

The words settle low and deep in Mikha’s chest.

The host leans forward, voice rising with interest. “How was it?”

Aiah’s lips curve—small, quiet. Almost private.

“I was gifted a life skill,” she says, her voice light. “I learned how to make my own coffee.”

Laughter bubbles from the audience. Easy. Dismissive. But Mikha doesn’t hear it.

Because to her, it’s not a joke.

It’s a message.

A thread stitched between worlds.

Yaya hums, nudging Mikha’s elbow without taking her eyes off the screen. “You never told me you had a celebrity under your roof.”

Mikha presses her lips together, eyes still locked on the TV. “Didn’t know.”

Yaya glances at her, knowingly. “And now that you do?”

She doesn’t answer.

Not because she doesn’t want to.

But because the truth is sitting too close to name.

Aiah is far now.

But somehow, she doesn’t feel gone.

Not yet. Not entirely.

Later, when the café is quiet and the sun has slipped behind the hills, Mikha finds herself alone by the counter, her phone in her hand.

She tells herself it’s just curiosity.

That it won’t change anything.

She opens the browser anyway, her fingers hovering over the keyboard.

Aiah Arceta.

She stares at the name for a beat.

Then presses enter.

And the world floods in.

Photos, headlines, endless scrolls of red carpets and interviews, stylists and sponsors, paparazzi shots that seem almost cruel in how much they take. Aiah in silk and sequins. Aiah under studio lights. Aiah stepping out of cars, smiling on cue, posed so perfectly that Mikha wonders how anyone ever sees the person behind it.

She clicks on one video, then another. Watches her in scenes with leading men, hears hosts speak about her with adoration. Sees her laugh. Sees her dazzle.

Sees a life so far from the one they shared it feels like fiction.

Her thumb hovers over a headline. The Real Aiah Arceta: Who is the Woman Behind the Smile?

She doesn’t click.

Instead, she sets her phone down, the screen still lit, and lets the silence pool around her again.

Mikha walks toward the chalkboard on the wall, absently wiping smudged names and outdated promos. But when she gets to the corner, her hand stills.

Aiah’s handwriting.

Extra strong today – Mikha’s fault.

She lets her fingers hover over the faint scrawl.

Doesn’t erase it.

Leaves it there like a whisper.

She’s still behind the counter when a voice breaks the quiet.

“You finally looked her up, huh?”

Mikha turns to find Colet leaning against the doorframe, one eyebrow raised, smirk already forming.

“You knew?” Mikha asks.

Colet snorts. “Of course I knew.”

“Then why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because she looked like she didn’t want to be known,” Colet replies, stepping inside. “And because you—” she pokes Mikha’s arm— “were so oblivious, it was kind of entertaining.”

Mikha groans, dragging a hand down her face. “I wasn’t oblivious.”

Colet lifts an eyebrow.

“…Okay, maybe I was. I don’t exactly keep up with celebrities.”

“She probably just wanted to be Aiah,” Colet says. “Not Aiah Arceta.”

Mikha breathes deep, something tightening in her throat.

“So,” Colet says, easing onto a stool. “Now that you know?”

She doesn’t answer right away.

What is she supposed to say?

That it changes nothing?

That it changes everything?

That the girl she kissed was already a thousand miles away before she ever left?

Colet watches her, and then—softer—says, “She still talked about you, though.”

Mikha blinks. Looks up.

“That thing she said. About coffee.”

Colet’s voice lowers, her smile gentler now. “Sounds like a you thing.”

Her voice is small, like she’s afraid saying it too loud might make it untrue.

Mikha lets her hands fall to the edge of the counter.

She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t cry.

Just stands there.

Heart steady. Breath quiet.

For the first time in days.

The island moves on.

Markets open. Radios buzz softly. The tide rolls in.

But for Mikha, something has shifted.

The grinder hums and she’s back in that night, watching Aiah press down too gently, learning to get the rhythm just right.

The bibingka stall draws her in, though she tells herself she isn’t expecting anyone.

And the shoreline feels quieter, but not empty. Like a place where something happened. Like a place that remembers.

She’s restocking behind the counter when a noise cuts through the quiet.

One ding.

Then another.

Then a flurry of sharp, chaotic chimes that make the spoon next to her vibrate against the ceramic plate.

She frowns.

Colet, standing across from her, stares at her phone on the counter.

“What the hell?” she mutters, picking it up and scrolling through a storm of notifications.

Mikha walks over. “Spam?”

“No. I think I’m… blowing up.”

“What?”

Colet flips the screen. Follower counts spiking. Streams jumping. Comments pouring in from every direction.

Mikha squints. “What did you do?”

“Nothing—wait.” Colet scrolls faster, then freezes. Her eyes widen. “Oh.”

She shows the screen.

Aiah.

An Instagram story. No filter. No flashing text.

Just a screenshot of Colet’s song.

“This one’s been on loop lately,” it reads. “Give it a listen.”

Mikha stares.

Colet’s voice is barely above a whisper. “She didn’t forget.”

Mikha nods, slowly.

No, she didn’t.

And that changes something, even if they’re not sure what yet.

Because it means the island wasn’t just a pause.

It was a place they both carried home.

Chapter Text

The press room hums with expectation.

Cameras are lined up like soldiers, flashes already poised to fire. Reporters lean forward in their chairs, eyes sharp, microphones clustered on the long table like they’re waiting to pounce.

Aiah sits in the middle—her co-star on one side, the director on the other, and the familiar edge of her management team watching from just beyond the lights. This is the moment meant to anchor everything again: the return to routine, the controlled image, the script she’s known how to follow since she was seventeen.

At first, it’s easy.

“How was the filming process?”

She smiles. Wonderful. An honor.

“What can fans expect from your character?”

Her hands folded neatly on the table. Growth, depth, a beautiful arc.

And then—

The question that always finds its way in.

“The onscreen chemistry is undeniable. But fans are wondering—are you and Carlos dating in real life?”

The room stills.

Even the air feels like it holds its breath.

Carlos shifts beside her, waiting.

Her manager leans forward slightly. Everyone else does too. This is the moment they want. The wink. The tease. The implication.

Aiah is supposed to deliver it.

She doesn’t.

Instead, she lets the silence stretch, her hands still folded, her pulse loud in her ears. Then she exhales and tilts her head slightly—not performative, not coy. Just real.

“I think people get too caught up in stories that aren’t theirs to tell.”

A low murmur ripples through the press.

Her manager stiffens in the corner of her vision.

Carlos doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t need to. He’s known her long enough to recognize when she’s stepping out of the frame.

“So you’re saying there’s no truth to the rumors?” someone presses.

Aiah smiles.

But it’s not the kind of smile the room is trained to receive. It’s smaller than that. Softer. The kind that keeps something just beneath the surface.

“I’m saying I’d like to keep some things to myself.”

And in that breath, the illusion fractures—not loudly, not dramatically. But cleanly.

Like a quiet door finally clicking shut.

The car ride back is wordless.

Her manager doesn’t speak until they’re upstairs, behind the thick walls of the agency’s meeting room.

Then—

“You should’ve followed the plan.”

Aiah unbuttons her blazer slowly, like shedding a costume. “I didn’t lie.”

“You implied.”

“I didn’t deny, either.”

The frustration spills over in her manager’s voice. “Do you understand what you just did? The internet’s already running wild. You’re trending—and not in a good way. People are saying you’re hiding something.”

Aiah hears him, but it’s distant. Faint. Like a radio playing in another room.

Her manager keeps talking, but it fades.

All Aiah hears is the sound of her own voice—finally steady.

“I’m not doing this anymore.”

Her manager stills. “What?”

“I’m done,” she says. And for the first time, the words don’t scare her. They settle over her like a tide retreating.

“I’m leaving,” she adds. “For real, this time.”

She doesn’t say where.

She doesn’t need to.

She already knows.

Somewhere far from the buzz of the city, in a café cradled by quiet, Mikha sits alone with the echo of a message she didn’t expect.

The café is closed for the night. The island outside has settled into the gentle stillness it always wears after dusk. But her mind hasn’t caught up. Not after the post. Not after the way Aiah—of all the songs in the world—chose Colet’s.

It plays on loop in her chest. A subtle, deliberate ripple.

She doesn’t do anything about it. Not yet.

She just lets the silence stretch around her like a second skin.

Lets herself feel it.

The warmth of the message. The unmistakable intent.

The fact that Aiah remembered.

That she’s still listening.

And that somehow, even with the noise of the world wrapped around her, she’d chosen something from this life—their life—to carry back with her.

Mikha presses her lips together, her fingers idly brushing the faint chalk lines of a note Aiah once scribbled on the wall menu—still faintly visible, still there.

Then—

A sharp nudge to her ribs.

She scowls without turning. “Colet.”

“Still here,” Colet says sweetly.

Mikha groans. “I was having a moment.”

“You always are.” Colet swings around the counter, perching on the stool across from her with exaggerated ease. “You’re telling me Aiah Arceta, reigning queen of every billboard on EDSA, just casually reposted a link to my song, and you don’t think that’s a love letter?”

Mikha shoots her a look. “It’s not a love letter.”

“Oh, right, right.” Colet shrugs dramatically. “She just gifted me overnight virality because she’s a generous fan of small-time indie artists.”

Mikha rolls her eyes. But she doesn’t respond.

Because the truth is, it was for a reason.

And it meant something.

And Colet, sharp as ever, picks up on the shift.

She softens.

“You miss her,” she says.

Mikha tilts her head to the ceiling. “Yeah.”

The word leaves her easily. No resistance.

Colet nods slowly. “You know… I’ve written a lot of love songs. Always thought I understood them.”

Mikha glances at her. “And now?”

Colet smiles. A little sad. A little knowing. “Now I think I was wrong.”

Mikha frowns.

“I thought it was all about big gestures. The grand, heart-shattering kind of longing.” Colet taps her phone. “But maybe it’s this. A link. A lyric. A late-night echo that says, ‘I haven’t forgotten you.’”

Mikha doesn’t say anything.

She just lets the sound of Colet’s voice fade as the silence deepens.

And maybe that’s what love looks like now.

Not a firework.

But a match lit gently in the dark.

Later, when Colet bids her goodbye, Mikha tells herself she won’t play it.

She really does.

But it’s late. The café is asleep. And something in the stillness presses in—warm, familiar.

Her thumb hovers over her screen. Waiting. Wanting.

Then—

A tap.

The song begins.

A quiet inhale. The first thread of a guitar. A voice that once belonged to an unfinished demo whispered across the room years ago.

I wanna be an itch you can’t scratch. I don’t need to know where you’re at…

The melody seeps into her ribs, curling tight.

Back then, it was just a song.

Now, it feels like something else entirely.

Like some kind of magnet, you’re a mystic force…

She presses the phone a little closer.

Because this isn’t just about Colet.

This is about the way Aiah looked at her that night. About the way she spoke of the island like it was something she wanted to keep safe.

The air buzzes whenever you’re near... Are you the one, or are you just a mirror?

Mikha shuts her eyes.

And she’s back there.

In the common area, in the kitchen, on the shoreline.

Anywhere Aiah was.

Anywhere Aiah still is.

Each time I push the thoughts away, you keep pulling me in... again and again and again…

It’s not just a song.

It’s a confession—threaded into melody. A memory made into chorus.

Mikha exhales. Her fingers tighten around the phone.

She doesn’t know what this means.

Not exactly.

But the last note lingers in the café air like a name she isn’t ready to stop hearing.

So she lets it play.

Lets it hold the silence.

Lets it stay.

Just like Aiah did.

And for tonight, that’s enough.

Chapter Text

—a whisper sent out into the dark, not expecting an echo, but hoping for one anyway.

Mikha stares at her phone, the glow of the screen casting her face in pale light, soft and flickering beneath the café’s low amber bulbs. The cursor blinks in the empty message box—steady, patient, expectant.

Her thumb hovers above the keyboard, unmoving. The grinder hums faintly in the background, but it might as well be silence. She doesn’t know why she’s doing this. Doesn’t even know if Aiah will ever see it.

Still, she types.

I’m not sure if you’ll see this.

She pauses. Blinks. Backspaces.

Then types it again.

It feels too open, too exposed, like standing in the middle of the road at midnight waiting for headlights. But maybe that’s exactly why she needs to send it.

Her chest rises slowly, settles.

She continues.

But I saw the interview. And the song post.

The next words come slower. Quieter.

You didn’t have to do that.

A breath. A beat.

But I think you wanted to.

She doesn’t revise it. Doesn’t rephrase. She sends it as it is—raw, fragile, a thread released into the dark.

It may never be read.

But she sends it anyway.

And somehow, that feels like enough.

Somewhere, miles away, the message waits. Unread. Unanswered. But no longer unsent.

Aiah doesn’t know why she checks her phone.

She’s on set, tucked into a corner of the staging area while makeup dabs at her co-star’s cheekbones. Her script lies on her lap, already memorized, lines etched into her like reflex. 
Around her, the world spins—bright, loud, relentless.

But something tugs.

A whisper beneath the noise. A thread she can’t name.

She draws in a breath and unlocks her phone.

Notifications pile like always—emails, alerts, tagged photos, half a dozen mentions of the press junket still making the rounds. She almost sets it aside.

But her finger swipes—out of habit, or hope—into her message requests.

The list is endless, a blur of names she doesn’t recognize. Until—

She sees it.

Mikha Lim.

The dressing room fades. The noise dims. All she sees is the message, and the name that still feels like home.

Her breath catches.

She clicks it open.

I’m not sure if you’ll see this.

Already, her heart stirs.

But I saw the interview. And the song post.

The weight of those words presses into her ribs, gentle but unrelenting.

You didn’t have to do that. But I think you wanted to.

She presses the phone to her lap, eyes unfocused. The murmur of the set turns fuzzy in her ears, the background a low static.

Because Mikha is right.

She did want to.

Aiah doesn’t respond immediately.

She holds the message like something delicate in her palm, as if it might vanish if she touches it too fast. Around her, stylists sweep powder across skin, assistants adjust lighting, voices overlap in clipped rehearsal chatter.

But none of it registers.

She’s far from the set now. Far from the noise. Back in the space Mikha carved in her chest and never quite left.

She types.

I tried to find you.

She stops. Reads it. Doesn’t erase it.

Her fingers move again.

After I left, I searched. But you’re impossible to find—no public accounts, no tags, no trace. I wanted to reach out, but I didn’t know how.

A moment. A breath. Then—

So maybe I did want you to see the song post. Maybe I needed you to know that… I haven’t forgotten anything either.

She doesn’t let herself hover too long.

The message goes out with a quiet click.

And for the first time in days, her shoulders ease.

Back inside the small island café, the clatter of dishes doesn’t match the quiet in Mikha’s chest.

She’s wiping tables, her apron smudged with cinnamon and coffee grounds, the morning rush fading into a lull. The smell of brewed beans lingers in the air, rich and familiar.

Her phone vibrates in her pocket.

She almost ignores it.

Then sees the name.

Aiah.

Her breath hitches.

She unlocks the screen.

I tried to find you.

She keeps reading, eyes skimming the message once, then again, each word slotting into her chest like something long-missing.

A smile tugs at her mouth.

She taps out a reply.

Not having a public account is part of my charm, actually.

A pause. Then—

Exclusive access only.

The message sends, and for a second, she lets herself smirk.

But the next one doesn’t come as quickly.

She stares at the keyboard, her thumb tapping the edge of her phone. Her heart pounds—not with fear, but with the ache of saying something real.

Then she types.

But for what it’s worth—

She swallows.

There’s not a day that you don’t cross my mind.

She sends it before she can look away.

Because this is hers. This is true.

And she wants Aiah to know.

The stylist is still brushing foundation along her cheekbone, murmuring something about lighting. Aiah barely hears her.

Her phone vibrates in her lap.

She glances down.

Not having a public account is part of my charm, actually.

Her laugh is quiet, caught in the corners of her throat. She shakes her head.

Exclusive access only.

She can almost hear Mikha’s voice, wry and warm.

But then—another message.

But for what it’s worth—

Aiah’s thumb freezes over the screen.

There’s not a day that you don’t cross my mind.

The words land like something sacred.

She rereads them. Lets them settle. Lets them stay.

And this time, she doesn’t smile.

She doesn’t cry.

She just sits there, heart steady, breath slow—for the first time in days.

Because Mikha hadn’t expected anything—Aiah knows that. But somehow, reading her words, it feels like the beginning of something.

Chapter Text

Aiah doesn’t reply.

Not because she doesn’t want to. But because there are no words for the feeling that settles beneath her ribs every time she reads that line.

There’s not a day that you don’t cross my mind.

It doesn’t shout. It doesn’t ache. It simply lingers—soft and persistent, like the hum of something unfinished. Like a room she keeps walking back into without meaning to.

She carries it through the day. Through fitting rooms and half-marked scripts, through call sheets and curtain cues. But it’s in the in-betweens that she feels it most—those small, unclaimed pockets of quiet the world rushes past without noticing.

Between meetings— between takes— between everything expected of her.

That’s where Mikha takes shape.

In memory, in trace, in the steady way her presence once filled the corners of a quiet room. In the steam rising from a bowl of Arroz Caldo she hadn’t even asked for. In the low clatter of dishes after dinner. In the moment Aiah had turned around and caught her watching—eyes steady, unreadable, full of a softness that didn’t ask for anything back.

Not surprise. Not amusement. Just… seeing.

Like Mikha had been waiting for Aiah to slow down enough to be known.

No declarations. No promises.

But Aiah remembers.

And maybe that’s why something inside her has loosened. Like a thread pulled too tight finally letting go. Like the restlessness she’s lived with for so long has found the shape of its answer.

So maybe it’s no surprise when someone says, as she steps onto the press stage—

“You’re glowing today, Aiah.”

She blinks, and the words land differently now. Not like flattery, but like someone noticing something she hadn’t meant to show. A smile ghosts across her lips, instinct folding her into the practiced ease of it. “Am I?”

Laughter, easy and warm, ripples through the room.

Another voice adds, “You look different lately. Happier.”

Carlos nudges her with a grin. “Maybe it’s me.”

The room laughs again, and Aiah laughs with them. She answers questions about the film, about the creative process, about her character’s arc—familiar lines in a well-rehearsed script.

But then—

A question with no cue card.

“What’s been making you happy lately, Aiah?”

The noise blurs. The laughter fades.

And all she can think about is the girl she had found between storms and headlines. The one she had kissed in the hush of midnight and let hold her without fear. The one who had taught her how to wait—for the kettle to boil, for the rain to pass, for the silence to speak in the spaces words couldn’t reach.

She feels her breath gather before she draws it in.

And for a moment, she hesitates—not out of uncertainty, but out of care.

Because what she wants to say isn’t for them.

Still, she says it.

Gently. Like setting something soft in the open and trusting it won’t be crushed.

“The quiet moments in between.”

That’s all.

No murmur of reaction. No follow-up. Just a pause, and then the rhythm picks back up again.

But she doesn’t need them to understand.

Because somewhere far from here, in a café that still smells of coffee and rain, in a place where the silence means more than the noise—

The one person who’s meant to hear it will.

And she’ll know it wasn’t just about quiet.

It was about her.

Always her.

And maybe that’s why, even without trying to, Mikha is listening.

She doesn’t really mean to watch the interview—not fully, not with intention. The TV above the café counter hums faintly, its signal grainy, voices barely audible beneath the soft clatter of plates and the low thrum of the espresso machine. It plays more for habit than interest—just another backdrop to another ordinary day.

She moves through the familiar rhythm: wiping down tables, resetting menus, counting spoons. Her mind is already half on the inventory list when it happens.

“What’s been making you happy lately, Aiah?”

The question floats through the static like a note held just long enough to turn heads. And Aiah’s voice follows—clear, quiet, certain: “The quiet moments in between.”

Mikha stills. The rag in her hand goes slack, and the soft ring of the café door opening behind her barely registers.

For one suspended second, the world folds inward.

Not sharply.

Just enough for everything else to fall away.

She knows.

Not thinks. Not guesses.

Knows.

She remembers the hush of that night—the soft clink of silverware, the quiet weight of two bowls passed between them, the steam rising like breath made visible. Aiah had eaten slowly, not from hunger, but with the quiet gentleness of someone relearning what it means to be full again.

And later, at the sink—sleeves pushed up, hands lost in soap and water, humming like she belonged there—she hadn’t noticed Mikha watching. Mikha had leaned against the counter, not to interrupt, but to witness. As if even the silence had asked her to remember this.

Because sometimes, it wasn’t the big declarations.

Sometimes, it was the rhythm of breath shared between bites. The hush between laughter. The way Aiah looked at her in those in-between spaces—like she didn’t need to say anything to be understood.

And now Aiah had said it out loud. Not for the room. Not for the cameras. But for her.

The quiet moments in between.

Not just a memory. Not just a line dropped in a sea of interview banter. A message only she was meant to hear. A homecoming, folded into the space between syllables.

Mikha presses a hand to her chest, grounding herself against the swell of something not painful, but full—full of recognition, of softness, of something that feels like being seen.

Because Aiah may be far away, with miles of city and stardom between them, but here—in this café where time slows and everything smells of coffee and rain—she finds a way to return.

Not all at once.

But in pieces.

In phrases.

In silences shaped like love.

And Mikha, in this ordinary moment made holy, doesn’t smile.

Doesn’t cry.

She just stands there, breath even, heart quiet.

Because this, too, is a kind of arrival.

Back in the city, Stacey slides into the booth across from Aiah in a flurry of perfume, oversized sunglasses, and a sigh that could flatten skyscrapers.

Stacey—her best friend, her compass, the one who knew her before the world did, before cameras and consequences. Back when they were all bright eyes and shaky voices, skipping school to chase dreams they didn’t yet have the words for. Back when they used to linger at the edges of audition rooms, holding hands when they were nervous, pretending it was just for fun—until one day, it wasn’t pretend anymore. Until one day, they were the names on call sheets and tour posters.

“God, I hate press days.”

Aiah raises a brow, amused. “And yet you thrive on them.”

Stacey pushes her glasses up to her hair, revealing sharp, almond eyes rimmed in eyeliner. “I perform through them, babe. There’s a difference.”

She flags down a server before continuing, “Espresso. No sugar. No drama.”

Aiah chuckles, settling into her seat.

“You’re glowing, by the way,” Stacey says without looking up from the menu.

Aiah’s fingers still against the cup in her hands. “You’re the second person to say that this week.”

“Because it’s true.” Stacey lifts her gaze, studying her carefully. “You look… lighter. Did something happen? Or someone?”

Aiah hesitates for a beat too long.

Stacey doesn’t miss it.

“Oh my god.” She leans in, voice dropping. “Is it him? Did something finally happen?”

Aiah blinks. “Who?”

“Your leading man, obviously. You two have been toeing that line for years. And I saw your interviews, babe—you’ve been smiling way too much lately.”

Aiah presses her lips together, eyes dropping to her coffee. “It’s not like that.”

Stacey raises an eyebrow. “Then what is it?”

Aiah stirs her drink slowly. “It’s just… a new perspective. A little clarity, I guess.”

Stacey doesn’t look convinced.

“‘The quiet moments in between,’” she repeats, quoting the interview with a playful lilt. “Very poetic. Very not you.”

“Maybe I’m changing.”

Stacey tilts her head, examining her face. Then—

“I don’t get it,” she says finally. “But I know you. And I know that look.”

Aiah offers a skeptical smile. “What look?”

Stacey leans back. “Like you’re holding onto something no one else knows about.”

Aiah doesn’t answer.

Because Stacey is right.

Even if she doesn’t understand it—she sees it.

Aiah doesn’t think much of Stacey’s words at first.

They move on. Talk about music. Scripts. Projects. The rituals that keep them tethered to the lives they’ve chosen. The kind of catch-up that reminds you who you used to be and what it took to get here.

But later that night—when the noise of the day recedes and only the hush of traffic drifts through her apartment window—the words come back.

You’re holding onto something no one else knows about.

She presses the screen to her chest, eyes on the ceiling.

Because she is.

She’s been carrying Mikha in the way she orders coffee now—waiting longer for it to brew fresh, learning to love the taste of something imperfect but real.

She carries her in the way she watches the rain, remembers the scent of lemongrass steeped in warm air, the feel of a quiet café tucked far away from noise.

She carries her in the pauses between questions. In the words she doesn’t say. In the ones she lets slip, just loud enough for one person in the world to hear.

She hasn’t just been thinking about Mikha.

She’s been living with her.

Like the island is still stitched into her bones.

Like Mikha is still here, somewhere in the quiet between spotlights and silence.

Aiah breathes in.

The city doesn’t stop.

But for a moment, she lets herself feel the stillness.

Because this means something.

Something real.

Something she isn’t ready to let go of.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

Chapter Text

Mikha doesn’t expect much when she sends the message. She keeps it simple, but the words linger longer than she intends before leaving her screen:

Hey. I’ll be in Manila soon to pick up my siblings from the airport. They’re visiting from the States. Not sure what your schedule’s like, but if there’s time to meet… I’d like that. No pressure. Just thought I’d let you know.

She stares at the text for a second longer. Rewrites. Deletes. Rewrites again. Then finally sends it.

She watches the message disappear, a blink on the screen, and wonders if she’s just shifted something that can’t be undone. Then she flips her phone face-down on the counter, the soft thud louder than expected in the quiet café.

She isn’t expecting anything.

But her phone buzzes almost immediately.

Mikha flips it over.

Aiah.

When are you arriving?

Her breath catches, then stumbles.

Day after tomorrow. Just a short trip, she types, fingers suddenly unsure.

The three dots appear. A pause.

Let me know when you land. I’ll see you.

She reads it once. Then again.

And something inside her stills—not entirely calm, not yet peace, but a kind of soft gravity. A relief she hadn’t realized she was waiting for.

Because Aiah doesn’t owe her anything. And still—she’s making space.

And across the distance, Aiah keeps that space open. Quietly. Constantly. Even when she tells herself she isn’t thinking about it

Not really.

She moves through her schedule as usual—fitting rooms, set walkthroughs, makeup chairs. She laughs when she’s supposed to, nails the photo angles, remembers her lines. But in the in-betweens, her thoughts drift.

She checks her phone too often. Glances out windows as if Mikha might suddenly be there, weaving through traffic, feet already on the same pavement.

She wonders what it’ll feel like—seeing her in this city.

Because Mikha belongs to stillness. To shoreline silences and hands warmed by ceramic mugs. Not to this—the flashing lights, the pace of people with somewhere else to be.

What happens when the world around them doesn’t stop to catch its breath?

She presses her hand over her chest, feeling the pressure of her own anticipation. She doesn’t know.

But she’s already waiting.

And that says enough.

Mikha tries not to overthink it. She lets her days fill with errands—packing for herself, managing her siblings’ lists, fielding last-minute “Can you bring back…” requests from relatives.

But once the plane takes off, it becomes real.

She presses her cheek to the cold window, watching the clouds shift, the skyline below crawling into view. She doesn’t feel ready. But she’s going. Stepping forward. Choosing this.

And that has to mean something.

The airport is a blur of motion—families reunited, taxis honking, luggage wheels trailing across tile. Aiah waits near the exit, cap low, sunglasses angled just enough to blend in. She could’ve sent a driver. But she came.

Because Mikha’s the one she’s waiting for.

Her fingers tighten around the strap of her bag. And then—red hair in the crowd. Her heart lurches.

All the noise blurs—the flight announcements, the rumble of suitcases, the clamor of arriving voices—and there’s only the shape of her.

Mikha steps forward. Their eyes meet. Something falls quiet.

“You’re actually here,” Aiah breathes.

“I’m here,” Mikha says, her voice a little shaky at the edges, but sure.

They don’t say more. They don’t need to.

“Hungry?” Aiah asks.

“Always.”

They step out into city lights waking up, stretching wide before them.

The restaurant Aiah chooses isn’t extravagant. It’s tucked behind a bakery on a narrow street lit with low lamps, far from billboards and camera flashes. Inside, the lights are dim, the walls lined with books, the scent of garlic and rosemary thick in the air.

Mikha slides into the booth, eyes scanning. “Fancy.”

Aiah laughs. “Hardly.”

“I expected street food. A late-night tapsihan. A fishball cart.”

“I can still take you.”

“No,” Mikha says, smiling faintly. “This feels like a secret.”

Something about the way she says it roots deep.

Because it is.

Whatever this is—whatever they’re rebuilding—it belongs here. In the hush of candlelight. In the space that doesn’t ask for explanation.

The server comes and goes. Their orders are made. Cutlery clinks, glasses sweat gently against linen.

From the next table over, a voice rises—too loud to ignore, too sharp to be accidental.

“She’s glowing lately, isn’t she?”

Another one responds, light and pointed. “I told you. She disappeared and came back looking like someone’s kept her in silk and sunlight.”

A small laugh follows. “Right? That ‘I was on an island’ line from her interview? Please. Sounds like politician’s-mistress energy to me.”

Aiah doesn’t turn.

Doesn’t flinch.

But something in her goes still.

Mikha feels it before she fully sees it—the way the air shifts, the way the pause stretches between them like a thread pulled taut.

“Private island, probably,” the voice adds. “That glow? That’s funded. I knew she was too good to be true.”

Mikha’s hand stills over her glass. Her fingers curl slightly at the edge—tight, reflexive.

It’s not the gossip itself. It’s the ease of it. The way people speak about Aiah like she’s a headline. Like she isn’t real. Like she isn’t sitting barely two tables away.

She doesn’t look at her directly. Not yet.

But in the candlelight, she catches it—the quiet withdrawal. The slow retreat of Aiah’s hand from where it had been resting near hers.

Not startled.

Just tired.

Practiced.

Mikha reaches forward. Not with urgency, but with care. Her fingers brush against Aiah’s knuckles—steady, grounding.

“They don’t get to write your story,” she says. Her voice is low. Certain.

Aiah lets out a breath. Half-exhale, half-laugh. There’s no humor in it—but there’s truth.

“Welcome to my life.”

Mikha meets her gaze. No flinching this time.

“Then I guess I better get used to flipping the page.”

A pause. A breath.

And in the hush that follows, something steadies again—this quiet, bruised thing between them, no longer unraveling. Just holding. Aiah shifts slightly, eyes lowering to her untouched plate. Her fingers, slow at first, nudge her fork into motion.

Mikha follows, mirroring the movement, letting the act of eating become something steadying. Something ordinary.

A small clink of silver against ceramic.

Then, softly—

“So…” Aiah says, her tone lighter, carefully casual. “The food’s getting cold.”

Mikha exhales—something close to a laugh, something that sounds like relief. “We really can’t have a normal meal, can we?”

Aiah looks up, the corners of her mouth tugging upward. Not a full smile, but something like it. “Normal’s overrated anyway.”

And they eat.

Not because the tension’s gone, not because the air is cleared, but because the night hasn’t ended. Because they’re still here. Choosing to stay.

Forks scraping gently. A sip of water. A shared glance across the table that doesn’t need explanation.

And just like that, the quiet feels like theirs again.

The drive back is hushed, the city outside blurring past in ribbons of light. The playlist is low, soft enough to disappear into thought. Neither of them speaks for a while.

Mikha leans her head against the window, fingers tracing small arcs on her knee. Aiah glances at her from the driver’s seat—just once, just long enough to feel the weight of everything still unsaid between them.

Then, quietly, Mikha asks, “You really tried to look for me?”

Aiah’s hands tighten slightly on the wheel. “Yeah,” she says. No hesitation. Just truth.

Mikha turns, her profile lit in fragments by the passing streetlights. “Why?”

Aiah exhales, steady but low. “Because the silence after I left felt wrong. I kept searching—online, through friends, anything. But there was nothing. And when your message came in, it was like—” She pauses, her voice quieter now. “Like finally breathing again.”

Mikha doesn’t say anything for a moment. But when Aiah risks a glance, her expression is open. Raw.

“I didn’t want to let it go so easily,” Aiah adds.

Mikha offers a small nod. “Me neither.”

They fall back into silence, but it’s a different kind now—thicker, fuller, ready to hold more.

Aiah signals a turn. “So… why’d you message me?”

Mikha gives a soft, near-silent laugh. “I told you. I was in the city.”

“That’s all?”

“No,” she admits. “It’s because I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I don’t know what that means yet. But it’s true.”

A pause.

“I wanted to see you.”

Aiah swallows. “You know this… isn’t easy, right?”

“I know,” Mikha says. “The scrutiny. The stories.”

Aiah glances at her. “And you’re okay with that?”

“I don’t know,” Mikha says honestly. “I don’t know how to live in your world—but I’ve already stepped into it. And I don’t want to step back.”

The car slows as Aiah pulls into a quieter street, the engine softening beneath them. She puts it in park and turns to face her fully.

She doesn’t offer promises. Doesn’t dress it up.

Just says: “Let’s do this.”

She doesn’t say despite everything.

She doesn’t say even though it might break us.

Because Mikha already knows.

She knew from the start, from the first time she realized Aiah wasn’t just a passing moment, wasn’t just a girl who walked into her café one rainy night.

Mikha watches her for a long moment, her expression unreadable.

Then, softly—

“Are you sure?”

Aiah exhales, something solid settling in her chest.

“No,” she admits. “But I want to try.”

Mikha tilts her head. “Even if it gets hard?”

Aiah nods. “Even then.”

Mikha watches her a second longer, as if searching for doubt, hesitation.

She doesn’t find any.

And maybe that’s what makes her smile—small, but real, something like relief tugging at the corners of her lips.

“Okay,” Mikha murmurs, the word sitting heavy between them.

Aiah lets it settle.

Lets it mean something.

Because this isn’t easy.

This isn’t simple.

But it’s theirs.

And right now, that’s enough. 

Chapter Text

“You sure about this?” Mikha asks, eyebrow arched as she follows Aiah inside.

Aiah gives her a look, already setting the bag by the couch. “You literally don’t have anywhere else to go.”

Mikha hums, glancing around.

The apartment is Aiah in a way nothing else has been—minimal but lived-in, sleek but soft around the edges. It’s the kind of space carved by someone who has spent most of her life in motion, yet still made room for the small comforts of home. The city skyline glows through tall windows, and the air carries a faint trace of something warm—coffee and vanilla, maybe.

Mikha toes off her sneakers by the door, eyes drifting toward a shelf lined with old scripts and a half-burned candle. This space feels less like a backdrop and more like something Aiah has slowly, stubbornly claimed.

She smirks. “So you’re saying you want me here?”

Aiah crosses her arms, exasperated but soft. “I’m saying you should stay here until your siblings arrive.”

“Right. Temporary housing. Got it.”

Aiah exhales a half-laugh, shaking her head as she disappears down the hall with a muttered promise of fresh towels. Mikha remains by the couch for a moment longer, taking it all in. The soft lamplight. The hush between words. The almost-scandalous quiet of belonging in someone else’s world.

By the time Aiah returns, Mikha is curled up on the couch, wearing an oversized hoodie she probably grabbed from her bag.

“Tea,” Aiah announces, setting the mug on the coffee table.

Mikha lifts hers skeptically. “You sure this isn’t just hot water?”

“I can make tea.”

Mikha takes a sip. Raises an eyebrow.

Aiah relents. “Okay. Yaya taught me.”

Mikha chuckles, setting her mug down beside the other. “Fair enough.”

They sit in companionable silence for a while, the kind only made possible by old feelings and the quiet courage of second chances. The soft clink of ceramic. The hum of the city beyond the windows. The occasional glance exchanged across the couch cushions like secrets.

Then Mikha speaks, her voice quieter now. “What’s it really like?”

Aiah turns to her, puzzled. “What?”

“Being you,” Mikha clarifies, tilting her head. “Being Aiah Arceta to everyone.”

Aiah exhales slowly, placing her mug down with a soft click. She leans back against the couch, staring at the ceiling, fingers drawing invisible lines across the fabric of her sweatpants.

“You ever feel like you’re two different people?”

Mikha considers. “Not really. I’ve changed. But I don’t think I’ve ever had to be someone else.”

Aiah nods like she expected that. “I have.”

She doesn’t say it with bitterness. Just truth.

“The version of me that people love—that’s not me. Not all of it. It’s a character. A name in lights. A version of myself built out of edits and angles and good lighting. And sometimes…” She pauses, swallowing thickly.

“Sometimes I don’t even know which one is real anymore.”

Mikha doesn’t interrupt. Just reaches forward, resting her hand lightly over Aiah’s.

Mikha’s hand tightens just slightly, her thumb brushing over Aiah’s knuckles. “You’re real to me,” she says, voice soft but sure, like she’s naming something sacred.

Aiah’s breath slips out, slow and trembling. Something in her begins to ease.

Because Mikha isn’t looking at her like the rest of the world does.

She just sees her.

And maybe, for tonight, that’s enough.

The conversation doesn’t fade—it settles, like steam curling in warm air, present even in silence.

Later, with the scent of soap still clinging faintly to their skin and their hair damp from the shower, Aiah lies back against the pillows, fingers skimming the edge of the blanket pooled around them. The bedroom is quiet but not silent—the city hums just beyond the glass, softened by distance. Inside, everything feels slower. Dimmer. More theirs.

She doesn’t look at Mikha at first. Just listens to the sound of their breathing, feels the ache settling beneath her ribs—the want that isn’t urgent, but constant. The longing to be near, to be known, to be held without needing to explain why.

Mikha is beside her, close enough that their knees touch beneath the blanket, their breaths syncing in a quiet rhythm that feels familiar.

“Mikha…” Aiah murmurs.

“Yeah?”

“I…” The words falter, thick in her throat. Too bright, too bare.

She tries again, softer this time. “I think I just… want you close.”

Mikha shifts, and then again, her body moving in—warmth slipping closer until they’re tucked into each other, not clinging, just choosing. The blanket rustles softly with the movement, the mattress dipping just enough to bring them even closer.

Aiah stays where she is, tension flickering briefly beneath her skin, but she doesn’t pull away. She leans in instead, until her forehead rests near Mikha’s temple. Mikha’s hand finds its way to Aiah’s waist, palm steady and light. And Aiah lets herself feel it—the steadiness, the quiet presence, the way the world hushes around this nearness.

And in that pocket of quiet, they hold each other.

Like they’ve wanted to.

Like they’ve been waiting.

Aiah’s breath slows against the curve of Mikha’s collarbone, her fingers trailing faint lines over the seam of Mikha’s sleeve. Outside, the traffic continues—horns, engines, voices—but none of it quite reaches them here.

Time passes like steam rising from a cup—visible, delicate, real.

Then Aiah shifts slightly, and her breath hitches just enough to signal the thought forming.

Outside, a car hums past.

Inside, the moment stretches—long and careful—before Mikha speaks.

“You ever thought about how this is going to work?”

Aiah hums, the sound low against Mikha’s shoulder. Her fingers trace gentle circles now, small patterns stitched into fabric and skin. “We just… do it, right?”

Mikha exhales—part laugh, part sigh. “We’ve been careful for so long. Always sidestepping it, naming everything else but this.”

She tilts her forehead until it touches Aiah’s, their breaths mingling in the still air.

“You think we can just let it happen?”

Aiah’s chest tightens. There are no perfect answers—just the one that feels true.

“I don’t think there’s a ‘just’ about it,” she whispers. “This is us. And maybe we don’t have it all figured out… but I don’t want to let it go either.”

Mikha nods, slow and quiet. “Yeah. But what happens when it gets hard?”

Aiah shifts again, just enough to bring Mikha closer. Her arm wraps gently around her, protective and sure. “We fight through it,” she murmurs. “We choose each other. Even when it’s hard.”

Mikha’s hand slides to the back of Aiah’s neck, her thumb brushing over her skin, grounding. “And when people look at us?”

Aiah’s gaze drifts toward the window. The lights of the city flicker faintly on the ceiling, and for a moment, she just watches them dance.

“We’ll figure it out,” she says, her voice threaded with something steady. “Together.”

Mikha leans in, presses a kiss to Aiah’s forehead—tender, quiet, full of weight.

The silence that follows isn’t empty. It’s full. Full of everything they don’t need to say out loud.

Outside, a car honks once in the distance.

Inside, their fingers stay laced beneath the blanket, holding on—not with urgency, but with intention. As if this moment, fragile and stubborn, is theirs to keep.

Chapter Text

Aiah wakes to an empty space beside her.

At first, it’s quiet—too quiet. She blinks, disoriented, her body reaching instinctively for Mikha, only to find the side of the bed cold, untouched.

Panic flares—quick, sharp, curling cold in her chest.

For a moment, she just lies there, frozen, the room tilting slightly as her thoughts spiral. Maybe Mikha changed her mind. Maybe it was too fast. Maybe—

A soft sound from the kitchen breaks through the rising dread.

She sits up too quickly, the sheets slipping down as her bare feet meet the cool floor, each step slow, deliberate—like waking into someone else’s morning. She follows the scent of warmth, of something familiar.

And there—

Mikha stands by the stove, flipping eggs, her hair pulled back loosely, looking like she belongs. Like she’s always been here.

Aiah watches, the relief almost too much. Mikha turns, already sensing her there.

Their eyes meet—just for a second.

And Mikha sees it. The brief panic still lodged in Aiah’s gaze, the doubt she hadn’t meant to wear.

She doesn’t ask. She steps forward and wraps her arms around her.

No words.

Just a steady, quiet embrace.

Aiah’s shoulders ease into it, into the silence Mikha offers like a second skin. Her breath finds rhythm again against Mikha’s shoulder, her fingers curling into the fabric of her shirt. She lets herself believe it—this nearness, this staying.

They stay like that for a while—wrapped in hush, in warmth, in something too tentative to name. But eventually, the day nudges forward. The sun lifts higher. The real world—loud, waiting—presses at the edges.

And maybe that’s why, hours later, they try.

Try, once, to go out.

Not for anything extravagant. No red carpet. No press event. Just a late lunch in a quiet café Aiah used to frequent before everything got too loud. Tucked behind an old bookstore in Quezon City, the place wears its charm in mismatched art and chipped mugs. The waitstaff don’t glance long unless they know your name.

Aiah picks a table by the window, angled just enough away from the door. She wears her usual disguise—cap, mask, dark glasses—but the tension clings to her shoulders like a second skin.

Mikha notices. Of course she does. But she says nothing, just slides into the seat across from her like she’s weight to an otherwise floating thing.

Outside, the world barrels past. Horns wail. Jeepneys rattle by. A motorcycle cuts too close to the curb. But inside, a fan turns overhead, and somehow, the noise doesn’t follow them in.

Mikha’s eyes scan the chalkboard menu. Her finger traces a faint ring left by a mug. “They serve tsokolate batirol here?” she asks softly, like remembering a memory that doesn’t belong to her.

Aiah nods. “You want one?”

Mikha hums, her gaze drifting toward the window, where a breeze slips in, heavy with sun and pavement.

Aiah watches her for a moment longer. The city nudges at the edges of her vision, but Mikha remains untouched. Or maybe she simply chooses not to bend. There’s something about the way she inhabits space—not with noise, not with insistence, but with stillness. Like she carries the island in her bones. Like the world remembers how to quiet itself around her. In the way her breath slows the noise, in the way time forgets to hurry when she’s near.

Even here.

Especially here.

Aiah hadn’t realized how much she needed that until now.

They return to the apartment with coffee still lingering in their clothes, the echo of quiet steps still in their bones.

Later, as they settle in again, the evening spills soft across the walls, the city lights casting a slow shimmer through the windows. Aiah leans into the couch, legs tucked beneath her, watching Mikha move through the kitchen with the same ease she carried in the café.

It’s a rhythm Aiah is still learning. Not performative. Not showy. Just there. A hum against the static.

Mikha stirs something on the stove. The faint scent of garlic and soy drifts through the room. She glances over her shoulder, catching Aiah’s eyes.

“Need help?” Aiah offers, rising slightly.

Mikha smiles—a smile that folds itself gently into the room, needing no answer. “You’re perfect just where you are.”

Aiah hesitates, then eases back down, her hands finding the edge of the pillow in her lap, tracing it absently.

For a while, there’s just the sound of cooking, the light scrape of wood on metal, the low whistle of steam. Aiah watches her, the light from the stove reflecting off Mikha’s cheek.

Then, after a few moments, Mikha speaks, her voice lower, quieter.

“It’s strange,” she says, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “How easy this feels.”

Aiah looks up. “What do you mean?”

Mikha shifts, plating the food. “Just… us. Here. Like this.”

She turns, meets Aiah’s gaze.

“I thought it’d be harder. Being in your world. But right now…” She shrugs, voice soft. “Right now it just feels like ours.”

Aiah doesn’t answer right away. The words settle between them—unexpected, but steady. Like finding a rhythm you didn’t know you already knew.

When dinner is ready, Mikha places the plates on the table and settles beside her. The food is familiar, like something made without needing to impress—only to comfort. They eat quietly, the weight of the day unraveling in the glow of the room.

After, Aiah leans back, her body sinking into the cushions. Mikha mirrors the motion, their arms brushing, their knees touching.

The earlier conversation doesn’t disappear, but it lingers gently—like warmth that stays long after the fire has quieted.

This—quiet, carved carefully between them—is enough.

Chapter Text

Morning comes slower this time.

Aiah wakes up to the steady hum of the city outside, the faint warmth of the sun filtering through the curtains.

For a few seconds, she stays still, wrapped in the soft haze of last night—of whispered truths, of warmth pressed against warmth, of choosing each other.

But then—

Her phone vibrates.

It’s nothing at first. A soft buzz against the bedside table, too easy to ignore.

Then another. And another.

Aiah groans, rolling over, reaching for it blindly. She blinks against the screen, her vision adjusting as the words start to take shape.

Missed Calls – Manager

Missed Calls – PR Team

New Message – Manager

New Message – Carlos

Her stomach twists.

It’s not damning. Not yet.

But panic doesn’t wait for proof—it only needs a crack. And this, this feels like the start of something breaking.

Before she can even process it, another call flashes on the screen.

This time, she answers.

“Aiah.” Her manager’s voice is tight, urgent. “Where are you?”

Aiah swallows, sitting up slightly. “I—”

“You missed the meeting this morning. Press is running with new rumors, and we need to get ahead of them.”

She rubs a hand over her face. “What rumors?”

A pause. Then—

“People are talking, Aiah. They’re wondering why you’ve been glowing lately. Why you disappeared for a while. If it has something to do with—”

Aiah exhales sharply. “With him, you mean?”

Her manager hesitates. “It’s more than that this time. There are new photos circulating. We don’t know who, but they think you might be seeing someone.”

Aiah’s pulse stutters.

Her fingers tighten around the blanket. “There are photos?”

Her manager sighs. “Nothing concrete. Just speculation. But we need to be careful, Aiah. If there’s something we need to control, you have to tell me.”

Aiah glances toward the doorway.

Mikha is in the kitchen again, unaware of the conversation happening in the next room, completely untouched by the chaos creeping in.

Aiah swallows, her throat dry.

“I have to go,” she mutters, ending the call before she can hear another word.

She exhales, pressing the phone against her forehead.

So this is it.

This is what it will be like.

Not because anything has happened. But because she knows how quickly the tide can turn.

She’s seen the rumors turn into fire, the speculation sharpen into scrutiny. And this time, she’s not afraid for herself.

This time, she’s afraid because she finally has something she can’t afford to lose.

And Aiah—Aiah isn’t sure she’s ready to risk everything she’s just begun to believe in.

She carries it with her—the weight, the inevitability.

She moves through the day like normal—or at least, she tries to. She eats the breakfast Mikha made, she listens to her talk about the café, about her siblings arriving soon. She nods at the right times, smiles when she should.

But inside—

Inside, it festers.

Because she knows how this goes.

She’s watched it happen before—whispers turning into headlines, love hollowed out by the noise.

But it never mattered like this.

And maybe no one’s pointing fingers yet, maybe no one knows Mikha’s name.

But they will. And Aiah doesn’t know if she’s strong enough to watch the world turn on the girl with steady hands and steadier gaze.

And she can’t let that happen to Mikha.

She won’t.

Not now. Not ever.

She keeps it inside—locks it away, tucks it beneath her ribs, where no one will think to look.

But Mikha—

Mikha sees everything.

“You’re quiet,” Mikha says, drying the last of the dishes, watching Aiah from across the counter. “More than usual.”

Aiah blinks, pulled from her thoughts. “What?”

Mikha tilts her head. “Something’s wrong.” It’s not a question.

Aiah swallows, looks away. “Just tired.”

Mikha doesn’t call her out on the lie, doesn’t push.

Instead, she sets the towel down and moves closer, leaning against the counter beside Aiah. “You’re always tired,” she murmurs, voice softer now, more careful. “But this is different.”

Aiah exhales, her grip tightening around her glass.

She doesn’t know how to say it—how to explain that this small, precious thing between them is already at risk, already caught beneath the eyes of people who don’t know how to look gently.

That she doesn’t know how to keep Mikha safe.

So she says nothing.

And Mikha, perceptive as always, doesn’t push.

She just—

She just reaches out, fingers brushing lightly over Aiah’s. A silent reassurance, a quiet reminder that she’s here.

And Aiah—

Aiah holds onto that.

Holds onto her.

Because if there’s one thing she can’t let the world take from her—

It’s Mikha.

And Mikha doesn’t ask again.

She doesn’t press, doesn’t demand answers that Aiah isn’t ready to give.

But she doesn’t leave her alone in it, either.

Instead, she moves carefully—pulling Aiah into the present, grounding her in the way she knows how.

She nudges Aiah’s foot under the table at lunch, playful, familiar.

She lets their fingers brush when she hands Aiah her mug, lingering just a second too long.

She hums while she tidies up the apartment, not loud, not intrusive—just there, a constant, a presence Aiah can lean into without asking.

But Aiah—Aiah is still somewhere else.

Still holding something tight in her chest, still carrying the weight of something unspoken.

And Mikha—Mikha hates seeing her like this.

So she does the only thing she can.

That night, as Aiah sits on the couch, curled into herself, lost in thought, Mikha wordlessly takes her hand.

Aiah blinks, startled by the warmth. “Mikha—”

But Mikha is already tugging her up, already leading her to the small space in front of the window, where the city lights flicker like stars.

Mikha doesn’t say anything.

She just takes Aiah’s arms, gently places them around her own shoulders, and then—

She holds her.

Aiah exhales sharply, as if something inside her is cracking open, as if she’s been waiting for this without even knowing it.

Mikha presses a hand against the small of Aiah’s back, warm, steady.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” Mikha murmurs against Aiah’s hair. “But you don’t have to carry it alone.”

Aiah squeezes her eyes shut, tightening her grip around Mikha.

For a long time, they just stand there, wrapped in the quiet, wrapped in each other.

And maybe—

Maybe that’s all Aiah needs right now.

She stays in Mikha’s arms, forehead resting against her shoulder, breathing in the quiet, breathing in her.

And maybe that’s why it finally slips out.

Maybe that’s why she finally says it.

“They know,” Aiah murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper.

Mikha stills, but only for a second. “Who?”

“The press. The public. They don’t know know, but they’re guessing.” Aiah exhales shakily. “They think I’m seeing someone. There are… photos. Rumors. It’s only a matter of time before they start digging.”

Mikha is silent for a beat. Not tense, not worried—just listening.

Then—

“…Okay.”

Aiah pulls back slightly, searching Mikha’s face. “Okay?”

Mikha shrugs, her expression open, unreadable. “Yeah.”

Aiah blinks. “Mikha, this isn’t just—” She swallows, trying to find the right words. “This isn’t something people will let go. If they find out about you—if they make the connection—”

Mikha tilts her head. “What?”

Aiah exhales sharply. “They’ll come after you. People will talk. They’ll pick you apart, twist everything. They’ll turn this into something ugly, something it’s not.” Her voice is strained, tight with something close to desperation. “And I can’t let that happen to you.”

Mikha studies her for a long moment.

Then—

She huffs out a soft laugh.

Aiah stares at her, incredulous. “Mikha—”

“Sorry, sorry,” Mikha says, shaking her head. “I know this is serious. I get that it’s a big deal. But Aiah…” She steps closer, eyes steady, voice calm.

“You’re acting like the whole world has the power to take me away from you.”

Aiah swallows. “Don’t they?”

Mikha exhales, reaching for her hand. “No, Aiah.” Her grip is firm, grounding. “No amount of scandals, or rumors, or headlines could make me walk away from you.” She squeezes gently. “Not now. Not ever.”

Aiah stares at her, something inside her loosening, shifting—like the first breath after holding it too long.

Mikha says it like it’s simple. Like it’s fact.

And maybe to her, it is.

Aiah doesn’t know how to respond to that.

So instead, she lets out a shaky breath, closes her eyes, and holds on.

She doesn’t let go.

Not yet.

Not when Mikha’s words are still settling into her bones, still stitching themselves into the cracks inside her.

No amount of scandals, or rumors, or headlines could make me walk away from you.

Mikha says it like it’s obvious, like it’s not even a question.

And Aiah doesn’t know if it’s the way Mikha holds her, firm and steady, or the way her voice never wavers when she says it.

But she believes her.

She believes that Mikha is here, that she won’t just disappear when the weight of the world comes crashing down.

But still—

Still, Aiah knows—love, when exposed to her world, rarely survives unscathed.

She knows what happens when people start looking.

And if there’s one thing she can’t let happen—

It’s letting them get to Mikha.

She exhales, pressing her forehead against Mikha’s shoulder again. “I just don’t want to lose this.”

Mikha shifts slightly, just enough to hold her closer, as if she knows Aiah isn’t just talking about the moment.

“You won’t,” Mikha murmurs, like it’s that simple.

Aiah squeezes her eyes shut, willing herself to believe it.

To hold onto it.

Even as the weight of reality lingers in the back of her mind.

Even as she knows she’ll still have to do everything in her power to keep Mikha safe.

Because love, real love, it doesn’t get to exist untouched.

But for now, in this moment, in Mikha’s arms, Aiah lets herself believe it can.

Even just for a little while.

Chapter Text

The night stretches slow.

Neither of them says it out loud, but they both feel it—the weight of tomorrow, the inevitable pull of separate lives, the quiet knowing that come morning, Mikha won’t be here.

But for now, she is.

And Aiah isn’t ready to let go just yet.

They lie in bed, facing each other, the city lights filtering through the curtains, casting soft shadows across their skin. Between them, Mikha’s hand rests open, palm up—an unspoken invitation. Aiah reaches for it, her fingers skimming the worn lines, tracing them slowly before curling into the spaces between.

“You leave tomorrow,” she whispers.

Mikha hums. “Yeah.”

The silence that follows doesn’t weigh them down—it wraps around them gently, careful and close. Aiah watches the way the dim light settles in Mikha’s eyes, the way her lips part, like she’s about to speak but chooses instead to stay in the moment.

And Aiah leans in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her lips—slow, unhurried, as if trying to memorize the warmth, the shape, the steadiness of it.

Mikha exhales into her, her fingers tightening around Aiah’s as she kisses her back just as softly, just as fully.

When they part, Mikha doesn’t move away. Instead, she leans forward, her forehead resting against Aiah’s, their breath meeting in the quiet between them.

“It’s not goodbye, you know,” she murmurs.

Aiah closes her eyes. “I know.”

And she does. But knowing doesn’t make it easier.

So she presses in closer, folds herself into the warmth of Mikha’s arms, lets herself be held for a while longer. Because when morning comes, Mikha will go.

And Aiah will be left holding the space she leaves behind.

The night doesn’t end so much as unravel. Slowly. Carefully. Like the two of them are learning how to let go without breaking anything.

They don’t say anything else. They don’t need to. The silence between them has already turned into something shaped like a promise.

When the sky begins to lighten, they part—not fully, just enough for the world to start turning again.

By the time the boat docks at Limasawa, the sky is washed in golden afternoon light, and the island air meets Mikha like an old friend she’s relearning how to greet.

She exhales as she steps off the boat, the familiar warmth of Limasawa settling back into her skin. The wind carries salt and memory, the sky stretching wide above them, so achingly blue it feels like it could swallow her whole.

Her siblings chatter at her side—loud, playful, already dreaming up the next few days. But Mikha’s body feels half a beat behind.

As she greets vendors along the dock, takes in the slow rhythm of home, something inside her lingers. The motion is familiar, but her mind drifts.

Aiah is still with her.

In the way she reaches for her phone, then pauses.

In the way her feet hesitate before leaving the boat, like she’s waiting for someone to call her back.

In the way her gaze holds just a moment too long on the horizon, thinking: I wish she could see this now.

She exhales, soft and quick. You’re getting ridiculous, Mikha.

The boat crew calls out goodbyes, and she waves back, shepherding her siblings toward the café, the sun warming the back of her neck.

It’s strange, slipping back into this version of herself—the one who wakes with the sunrise and knows the curve of every streetlight shadow. The one who never had to think about rumors or headlines or how much of herself belonged to someone else’s world.

She stirs her drink slowly, the scent of grilled fish and warm rice thick in the air as her siblings rattle on around her. Plates scrape, forks clink, voices rise and fall in their usual rhythm—but something in her chest feels slightly out of step.

Then her phone vibrates.

Aiah: Back in Limasawa already?

Her heart stumbles a little.

Before she can even register the flutter, another message lights up the screen.

Aiah: How are your siblings? Settling in okay?

Mikha bites the inside of her cheek, willing herself not to smile too much.

“Who’s that?” her sister teases, peeking toward her phone.

Mikha angles the screen away, rolling her eyes. “None of your business.”

“It’s the business part that makes it my business,” her sister smirks.

Mikha shakes her head, typing a reply with a thumb that feels a little clumsy now.

Mikha: Yeah, back just a few hours ago. My siblings are loud, but they’re happy. How’s the city?

She presses send, bracing herself for the quiet ache of waiting.

But it’s Aiah.

And somehow, just seeing her name is enough to steady her again.

Aiah: The city is still loud. Too fast. I already miss the slow mornings there.

Mikha lifts her glass to her lips, typing back with a smirk tugging at her mouth.

Mikha: So you’re saying you miss me?

A beat passes.

Aiah: I said I miss the slow mornings.

Mikha: Yeah, and who gave you those?

The typing bubble blinks. Then—

Aiah: Go back to your siblings.

Mikha: Go back to being famous.

A pause.

Then finally:

Aiah: I’ll text you later.

Mikha breathes out, thumb resting over the screen for a moment longer before she locks it. Her fingers still hum with the memory of those words.

She leans back into her chair, and the world feels just a little more bearable again.

By afternoon, the café is humming with life.

Mikha moves between tables in a rhythm that feels ingrained—greeting customers, wiping counters, laughing with old friends. The scent of fresh pastries mingles with coffee and sea air, the bell over the door chiming as people drift in and out like the tide.

Her siblings are, predictably, useless.

Her brother leans against the counter, mouth full of Piyaya, while her sister scrolls on her phone, barely pretending to clean.

Mikha narrows her eyes. “If you two are going to loiter, at least pretend to be useful.”

“Moral support,” her sister offers, not looking up.

“Quality control,” her brother adds, waving half a pastry in his hand.

Mikha sighs and throws a dish towel in their direction. “Get out of my café.”

They laugh but stay put. And honestly, she doesn’t mind.

Being busy is good.

The clatter of plates, the soft roar of the espresso machine—it keeps her tethered. But in the quiet slips between orders, in the moments when her hands are idle and her thoughts aren’t—

She thinks of Aiah.

Not in a way that aches.

In a way that lingers, like morning light through slatted blinds.

She wonders if Aiah’s eaten. If she’s drowning in meetings. If her hand still hesitates over her phone like Mikha’s does now.

And she wonders, not for the first time, if she’s being thought of too.

The bell above the door jingles again. Mikha blinks back into the present and returns to the life she knows, even if lately it feels a little incomplete without someone in it.
She doesn’t mean to tune in.

She’s in the back of the café, organizing stock, when her sister’s voice cuts through the low hum of the kitchen.

“Ate,” she says, half-grinning. “Guess who’s live on air right now?”

Mikha already knows.

She tries for casual. “The President?”

“Close. Your friend from the airport.”

Before Mikha can respond, her sister tilts the screen toward her.

And there—

Aiah.

The sight alone knocks the breath from her lungs. She looks calm, comfortable, answering questions with that casual grace that’s so distinctly hers.

Mikha’s hand stills on the shelf.

“…been listening to anything new lately?” the host asks, chipper.

Aiah pauses, then smiles. “Hmm. Not new, but I’ve been revisiting an old favorite.”

Mikha straightens slightly.

“I don’t know if people know this,” Aiah says, “but Magnets by Colet Vergara? That song never gets old for me.”

Mikha’s heart stumbles, caught between disbelief and something impossibly soft.

Her sister blinks. “Isn’t Colet—”

“Shh.”

“Your comfort food lately?”

Aiah barely hesitates. “Bibingka paired with hot chocolate.”

Mikha swallows. She knows exactly what that means.

The rest of the interview fades. Favorite childhood movie, go-to comfort show—but Mikha can’t hear them anymore.

Then the host leans in. “We have to talk about the latest buzz. People are saying you might be dating someone. Anything you want to share?”

Mikha stops breathing.

Aiah doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t confirm it either.

She just—

Smiles.

Not the polished kind she gives the cameras.

But the soft one.

The one that feels like a secret.

“I think,” she says quietly, “my heart is happy.”

Mikha’s sister gapes. “Wait—did she just—”

But Mikha’s already gone quiet. Something deep in her settles, like the tide reaching shore.

No one else would know.

But Mikha does.

And that’s enough.

She moves through the rest of the afternoon with something warm settled in her chest. Her hands are light, her laughter easy. She chats with customers, jokes with the vendors, hums under her breath while wiping the counter for the third time.

The grin won’t leave her face.

Her sister, perched at the register, narrows her eyes.

“You’re in a good mood,” she says slowly.

Mikha lifts an eyebrow. “Am I not usually?”

“You are,” her sister allows. “But this? This is suspicious.”

“Maybe I just love my job.”

“You love coffee,” her sister deadpans. “The job part is negotiable.”

Mikha doesn’t bother hiding her grin.

Her sister’s eyes narrow further, the way they do when she’s figured something out.

“So…” she says, dragging the word out. “Any reason you’re acting like you just won the lottery?”

“Nope.”

“That wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain friend being on TV this morning, would it?”

Mikha almost drops the cup in her hand.

Her sister gasps, pointing. “Aha!”

“Get out of my café.”

“I live here.”

“Go be someone else’s problem.”

“You’re blushing.”

Mikha glares. “I hate you.”

Her sister just laughs, smug as anything, and strolls off with the satisfaction of someone who’s won.

And maybe Mikha is obvious.

Maybe she’s carrying Aiah’s words like a quiet, steady kind of joy.

And maybe she doesn’t even mind.

Because if there’s one thing she knows for certain—

It’s that she’ll carry Aiah for as long as she’ll let her.

Chapter Text

Aiah wakes up to chaos.

Not the end-of-the-world kind, not the scandal kind, but the headlines everywhere, fans speculating, social media buzzing kind.

She should have expected it.

But somehow, seeing her own name plastered across news sites, Twitter trends, and entertainment segments still feels like a whiplash.

Aiah Arceta Confirms Romance?!
Who Is Making Aiah’s Heart Happy?
Aiah’s Mysterious Smile: New Love or Just Clever PR?

Aiah groans, slumping back against her pillow.

The worst part?

Her phone is blowing up.

The second worst part?

She knows exactly who is about to make this ten times worse.

And right on cue—

Stacey [47 Missed Calls]
New Message – Stacey: ANSWER ME YOU SECRETIVE BRAT.

Aiah sighs, rubbing her face before finally calling back.

The second Stacey picks up, she screeches.

“WHAT WAS THAT, AIAH?!”

Aiah winces, holding the phone away from her ear. “Good morning to you too.”

“Don’t good morning me! WHAT WAS THAT INTERVIEW?!” Stacey’s voice is at peak investigative journalist mode. “My heart is happy? You knew that would send the world into a spiral and you still said it?!”

Aiah sighs. “It just… slipped out.”

“Ohhh, it slipped out?” Stacey deadpans. “So you’re saying that your heart is actually happy?”

Aiah clenches her jaw, suddenly regretting every life decision that led her to this moment.

“YOU’RE NOT ANSWERING, THAT MEANS IT’S TRUE,” Stacey screeches.

“Staks—”

“I knew something was up! You’ve been weird! Glowy! Suspiciously unbothered by your usual existential dread!”

Aiah exhales, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I’m hanging up.”

“DON’T YOU DARE.”

Aiah dares.

She tosses her phone onto the bed, staring at the ceiling, trying very hard not to let the weight of it sink in.

But the truth is, it’s out there now.

The world is watching.

And Aiah—Aiah has to decide what that really means.

She should have known Stacey wouldn’t let it go.

She realizes her mistake the second her doorbell rings—frantic, urgent, like the person outside has zero intentions of leaving.

She contemplates hiding.

But then—

“AIAH, OPEN THIS DAMN DOOR OR I’M BREAKING IT DOWN WITH MY STILETTOS.”

Aiah groans, dragging herself off the couch. “Jesus.”

She swings the door open, already bracing for it—

But she is not prepared for Stacey storming in, sunglasses perched dramatically on her nose, a Venti coffee in one hand and a mission in her soul.

“I knew you’d ignore me,” Stacey announces, slipping off her heels like she owns the place. “So I came to physically drag the truth out of you.”

Aiah sighs, shutting the door behind her. “You need help.”

“What I need is an answer.” Stacey flops onto the couch, crossing her legs. “So. Spill.”

“There’s nothing to spill,” Aiah lies, strolling toward the kitchen to buy herself time.

Stacey narrows her eyes, scanning the room like a detective.

And then—

She sees it.

Aiah realizes exactly one second too late.

The hoodie.

The one that is very much not hers. The one draped lazily over the chair, betraying her in real time.

Stacey’s eyes widen.

She slowly, deliberately gets up, walking over, picking it up like it’s evidence in a crime scene.

Then—

She gasps.

Theatrically. Dramatically. Like she’s discovered the biggest scandal of the century.

“AIAH.”

Aiah groans. “It’s just a hoodie.”

Stacey clutches her pearls (read: dramatically places a hand on her chest). “Just a hoodie?! This is a man’s hoodie—”

Aiah winces.

“Or a very gay woman’s hoodie,” Stacey corrects, eyes sharpening, nose catching scent of Mikha’s sweet perfume.

Aiah presses her lips together. “Staks.”

Stacey gasps again. “It’s a woman, isn’t it?”

Aiah sighs, rubbing her face. “Stacey—”

“Oh my god,” Stacey breathes, clutching the hoodie like it holds the secrets of the universe. “Who is she?”

“Staks.”

“How dare you keep this from me.”

Aiah drags a hand down her face. “Oh my god—”

“I THOUGHT WE WERE BEST FRIENDS.”

“We are—”

“I’m about to un-best-friend you if you don’t start talking.”

Aiah groans, defeated. “Fine.”

Stacey perks up immediately.

Aiah exhales, sinking into the chair. “I went to Limasawa.”

Stacey squints. “Where the hell is that?” she asks, momentarily distracted. “Okay, continue.”

“And… I met someone.”

Silence.

Then—

“Is this the part where you tell me you finally went full sapphic?”

Aiah rolls her eyes. “You’re so annoying.”

Stacey grins. “Not denying it, though.”

Aiah sighs. “Her name’s Mikha.”

Stacey doesn’t even look shocked.

Instead, she leans forward, smug.

“And how long were you going to keep this from me?”

Aiah hates her.
(But also? Maybe loves her just a little.)

Aiah doesn’t realize how much she’s needed this until she starts talking.

Until the words start slipping out, softly at first, hesitant, like she’s afraid they’ll break if she holds them too tightly.

But Stacey just listens.

And maybe that’s why she keeps going.

“She didn’t know who I was,” Aiah says, voice quieter now, like she’s holding something delicate in her hands. “Not at first.”

Stacey watches her carefully, no longer teasing, no longer poking—just there, just listening.

“She wasn’t—” Aiah exhales, searching for the words. “She wasn’t trying to impress me. She wasn’t expecting me to be anyone.” She lets out a soft, almost disbelieving chuckle. “She just… saw me. Without knowing anything about me.”

Stacey doesn’t speak, just waits.

And Aiah—Aiah realizes she wants to talk about Mikha.

Wants to say her name out loud. Wants someone else to hold this with her.

“She’s like—” Aiah pauses, staring at her hands. “She was like a breath of fresh air. Like—like the first sunlight after a storm.”

Stacey tilts her head. “That’s dramatic.”

Aiah huffs, but there’s no heat behind it. “Shut up.”

Stacey smirks. “Continue.”

Aiah bites her lip, something tender tugging at her chest. “She felt warm.”

Stacey raises an eyebrow. “Like, emotionally?”

Aiah shakes her head. “Like the sea after a storm.”

Stacey blinks. “What—”

Aiah realizes too late.

Her stomach flips—because only Mikha would understand that.

Only Mikha knows that.

Stacey squints at her, pointing. “Okay, that’s weirdly specific.”

Aiah looks away, but she knows her face gives her away.

Stacey gasps. “Oh my God.”

Aiah groans. “Staks—”

“You’re down bad.”

Aiah buries her face in her hands. “Jesus Christ.”

“You are so gone for this girl.”

Aiah exhales sharply. “You don’t even know her.”

“I don’t have to!” Stacey gestures wildly. “I know you! And this? This thing you’re doing?” She leans in, smug. “This talking about her like she hung the moon and stars thing? This soft eyes, distant staring thing?” She grins. “Oh yeah. You love her.”

Aiah’s breath catches. She doesn’t answer. But the silence between them is loud.

And Stacey—Stacey just smiles.

Because she already knows.

Aiah glares at Stacey. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

Stacey smirks, lounging back into the couch like she owns the place. “Oh, immensely.”

Aiah sighs, rubbing her temples. “I should’ve kept my mouth shut.”

“But you didn’t.” Stacey leans forward, eyes sparkling with amusement. “Because deep down, you wanted to talk about her. You wanted someone else to know.”

Aiah presses her lips together, hating how right Stacey is.

Stacey grins. “So let me get this straight—”

Aiah snorts. “Ironically, you won’t.”

Stacey cackles but continues. “You’re a literal movie star.”

Aiah sighs. “Here we go—”

“And she’s an ordinary café owner on some tiny island—”

Aiah narrows her eyes. “Mikha is not ordinary.”

Stacey gasps, clutching her chest. “Oh my god.”

Aiah rolls her eyes. “I walked right into that one, didn’t I?”

“Yes.” Stacey grins. “Anyway, your whole situation is literally Notting Hill—except gayer and possibly with more emotional repression.”

Before Aiah can respond, Stacey dramatically clasps her hands to her chest, sways slightly, and belts out—with full conviction—

“But when you hold me near, you drown out the crowd…”

Aiah stares. “Are you seriously singing Ronan Keating right now?”

Stacey beams. “It was either that or quoting Julia Roberts. Count yourself lucky.”

Aiah throws a pillow at her.

Stacey dodges with flair. “I’m just saying! Small-town girl meets Philippines’ top actress? Aiah, the romance is romancing.”

Aiah groans, slumping back into her seat. “I hate you.”

For a moment, the teasing lingers—light, easy, like the weight of the world hasn’t started creeping in yet.

But then—

Stacey’s smile fades, just slightly.

Her voice softens. “So… what are you going to do?”

Aiah stills.

Stacey shifts, leaning her elbows on her knees. “You know as well as I do that our industry isn’t—” She exhales. “It’s not kind to people like us. Not yet.”

Aiah knows.

Of course, she knows.

She’s seen it firsthand—the whispers, the scandals, the careers lost over something as simple as loving the ‘wrong’ person.

And Mikha—Mikha doesn’t deserve to be dragged into that.

“I don’t know,” Aiah admits, her voice quieter now. “I really don’t.”

Stacey watches her for a moment. “Does she?”

Aiah hesitates.

“She knows it won’t be easy,” Aiah says carefully. “But I don’t think she—” She exhales. “I don’t think she really understands what it means.”

Stacey nods, thoughtful. “And are you willing to carry it? For the both of you?”

Aiah swallows.

That’s the real question, isn’t it?

Because it’s one thing to want this, to love someone.

It’s another to fight for it.

She doesn’t have an answer yet.

And maybe that’s what scares her most.

Chapter Text

The apartment is quiet.

Too quiet.

Aiah sits at the kitchen counter, fingers wrapped around a mug she hasn’t taken a sip from in the last twenty minutes. She’s not just drifting this time. She’s thinking in the deep, unsettling, I-have-to-face-this kind of way—the kind that won’t let her look away.

Because Stacey is right.

Because this isn’t just about what she wants.

This is about what’s possible.

She weighs her options.

One: She could leave.

She could walk away from the industry, from the lights, from the scripts and the expectations. She has enough. Enough savings, enough success, enough reason to just… stop.

She could move to Limasawa, wake up to slow mornings, spend her days making coffee, let the world forget her.

She could have Mikha, and only Mikha.

Two: She could keep this quiet.

She could keep Mikha in the shadows of her life, let their love exist in the in-between. No grand declarations, no public acknowledgments. Just stolen moments, secret flights, the constant fear of being seen.

She could have both—her career and Mikha—if she’s willing to live in a world where Mikha is only half hers.

Neither option feels right.

And that’s when she realizes—

She doesn’t know what to do.

Her throat tightens, her mind racing, until—

Her phone is in her hand before she even registers dialing.

The line rings twice.

Then—

“Aiah?”

Her mother’s voice is soft, warm in the way only mothers can be.

Aiah exhales, forcing her voice steady. “Hi, Ma. Just… checking in.”

A pause.

Then, knowingly—

“What’s wrong?”

Aiah closes her eyes.

She should have known better.

She hesitates—only for a moment—before whispering, “I think I’m in love.”

Her mother is silent.

Aiah swallows. “With a girl.”

Still, silence.

And then—

“Oh, my love,” her mother says, and somehow, just those three words threaten to undo her.

Aiah exhales shakily. “I just… I don’t know what to do. My world—it’s not kind, Ma. It’s not fair. I want to keep her safe from it. From me.”

Her mother hums softly, thoughtful. “You’ve always had such a big heart, anak.”

Aiah bites the inside of her cheek.

“But tell me something,” her mother continues. “Does she make you happy?”

Aiah doesn’t even have to think.

“Yes.”

Her mother hums again. “And does keeping her a secret make you happy?”

Aiah stills.

Because the answer is no.

Her mother sighs. “Then, anak, the question isn’t if you can love her in secret. It’s if you’re willing to love her out loud.”

Aiah’s breath catches.

Her mother doesn’t say anything else, just lets her sit with it.

And Aiah does.

Because maybe, for the first time, she knows the real question she needs to answer.

She doesn’t make a decision right away.

But she starts to wonder.

She starts to test the weight of it—what it would feel like to love Mikha in the light, instead of keeping her tucked away in the quiet spaces between schedules, between cities, between stolen moments.

It starts small.

A slip of a song recommendation on social media—one of the ones Mikha always hums absentmindedly in the kitchen.

A comment in an interview about how she’s been craving Arroz Caldo lately.

A shift in her posts—subtle, quiet, but there. The way she starts taking pictures of moments instead of just herself. The way she captures a sunset and wonders if Mikha is watching the same one.

The way she lets herself miss her out loud, in ways that only Mikha might understand.

And maybe she’s hoping Mikha does.

That she sees it, that she knows.

But still, there’s hesitation.

Because testing the idea is one thing.

Actually living it is another.

And Aiah still doesn’t know if she’s ready for the whole world to know.

But maybe she’s ready for Mikha to.

And Mikha— Mikha isn’t looking for signs.

But she sees them anyway.

A song recommendation—one she’s hummed a hundred times in the café, now casually dropped into Aiah’s social media like it means nothing.

A passing comment in an interview—Arroz Caldo—too specific, too theirs, too much like a memory wrapped in warm laughter and the scent of storm passing.

A photo.

Not of Aiah, not even of anyone—just a shot of the sea at dusk, pinks and oranges bleeding into deepening blue.

It’s just a sunset.

But Mikha knows this one.

Knows this angle, this coastline, this particular way the light folds against the water.

It’s Limasawa.

It’s home.

And maybe it’s a coincidence.

Maybe Aiah is just posting. Just existing.

But Mikha feels it.

Like an echo. Like a hand reaching across the distance, pressing soft against her chest.

Like a secret she isn’t supposed to know.

And she doesn’t know what to do with that.

So she just sits with it.

Lets it settle in the spaces between customers, in the quiet hum of the café, in the way her fingers linger over her phone, hesitating.

Because if Aiah is saying something, she isn’t saying it fully.

Not yet.

And Mikha, in her quiet way, simply holds the space—like she always does—without asking for more than Aiah can give.

Aiah doesn’t know how to start.

She’s rehearsed it in her head, played out every possible version of this conversation—some messy, some quiet, some ending in an argument, some ending in something worse.

But when Mikha’s name lights up on her screen, and she finally presses call, all she can manage is—

“…Did you see?”

Mikha hums on the other end, soft and knowing. “Yeah.”

Aiah exhales, pressing a hand against her forehead. “Okay.”

A beat of silence.

Then—

“Was I supposed to?” Mikha asks gently.

Aiah lets out a breathy laugh, a little self-conscious. “I don’t know.”

Mikha doesn’t rush her. Just waits.

And maybe that’s why Aiah finally says it.

“I’ve been… thinking.”

Mikha hums again, like she already knows where this is going. “Yeah?”

Aiah bites her lip. “About us.”

On the other end, she hears the faint clink of a spoon against ceramic—Mikha making coffee, probably, like she always does when she’s thinking.

Then—

“And what have you been thinking?”

Aiah swallows. “That maybe I don’t want to keep you a secret forever.”

It’s not a declaration.

Not yet.

But it’s something.

Mikha exhales softly. “Aiah.”

Aiah braces herself—because she doesn’t know what she’s expecting, but she knows Mikha will always tell her the truth.

And Mikha—

Mikha just says it, plain and steady.

“You don’t have to do anything drastic.”

Aiah’s breath catches.

Mikha’s voice is patient, gentle in the way only she knows how to be. “You don’t owe me some grand gesture. You don’t have to prove anything. I know what we have, and it’s ours. Whether in silence or out loud.”

Aiah closes her eyes, feeling something settle inside her

“I’m not asking you to choose,” Mikha continues. “Not between me and your career, not between what we have and what the world expects from you.” She exhales, voice warm, steady. “But I need you to know that whatever happens, whatever you decide—”

A pause. A beat of quiet that feels like breath before sunrise.

Then, softer—

“I’ll be here. A coffee in hand, waiting for you.”

Aiah bites the inside of her cheek, blinking against the sudden sting behind her eyes.

Because of course Mikha would say that.

Of course, Mikha would be this person.

She lets out a wobbly breath, pressing a hand to her chest. “You know,” she murmurs, “you’re really making it hard not to love you.”

Mikha laughs softly. “I think that ship sailed a while ago.”

Aiah smiles.

And maybe she’s one step closer to deciding.

Because she starts to notice it in the following days.

The way she doesn’t hesitate before texting Mikha now, doesn’t second-guess the smile that pulls at her lips when she sees her name light up on her screen.

The way she catches herself mentioning the island in interviews—not just in passing, but deliberately, letting her words linger like a quiet secret, waiting for Mikha to hear.

The way she stops hiding how much she loves slow mornings now, how she lets herself crave the quiet instead of flinching from it.

The way she lets herself think about a future where she isn’t constantly watching her back.

It’s small.

Subtle.

But it’s happening.

And then—

The pull of reality comes crashing back.

She doesn’t expect it—doesn’t see it coming until she’s sitting in a meeting with her manager, watching the careful way he fold his hands on the table, his voice too calm.

“Aiah,” he say, smiling like he’s about to deliver news instead of drop a bomb. “We need to talk about your image.”

Aiah already knows where this is going.

She’s been in the industry too long not to.

Still, she plays along. “What about it?”

Her manager exhales, clicking his pen against the table. “The rumors about your dating life are getting out of hand.”

Aiah’s jaw tightens.

“And?”

“We need to clean up the narrative,” he continue, flipping through his notes. “Your love team is at its peak right now. The chemistry between you and—” he mentions Carlos’ name, and Aiah barely hears it over the dull roar in her ears, “—is what’s driving the projects, the endorsements, the money.”

Aiah grips her seat. “So what are you saying?”

Her manager leans forward, voice careful. “I’m saying it’s time we make it official.”

Aiah feels cold.

“You want me to lie?”

Her manager sighs, like this is nothing, like this is just part of the game. “Think of it as… giving the fans what they already believe.”

Aiah swallows.

“You can see how this would help, right?” he continue. “It’ll stabilize your image. It’ll keep the projects coming. It’ll keep you safe.”

Safe.

Aiah almost laughs.

Because what about Mikha?

What about the girl who wakes up before the sun to brew coffee, who hums songs into her mornings, who told Aiah she wasn’t asking her to choose—but who Aiah wants to choose anyway?

What about the truth?

She forces herself to breathe.

Because she hasn’t decided yet.

But maybe the choice is already being made for her.

Chapter Text

Mikha is wiping down tables when her phone vibrates.

She glances at the screen, expecting a message—maybe from Colet, maybe from her siblings—but instead, it’s Aiah.

Aiah: Are you still at the café?

Mikha frowns, wiping her hands on a towel before typing back.

Mikha: Yeah. About to close up.

A few seconds later—

Aiah: Can I call?

Mikha pauses.

Because Aiah never asks to call.

She just does.

Mikha leans against the counter, pressing dial without another thought.

The line clicks almost immediately.

For a moment, there’s silence.

Then—

“…Hey,” Aiah says, and Mikha instantly knows.

Knows this isn’t just a casual call. Knows something is wrong.

Mikha sets the towel down, her fingers curling tighter around the counter’s edge. “What happened?”

Aiah exhales. Her voice catches. “They want me to fake a relationship.”

Mikha stills. Hearing it out loud does something to her chest.

“They think it’ll help stabilize my image,” Aiah continues, her voice low. “That it’ll fix the rumors, keep the fans invested, keep the projects rolling. They want me to pretend I’m with my onscreen partner.”

Mikha doesn’t react right away.

She doesn’t follow every detail of Aiah’s world—not the headlines, not the love teams, not the carefully constructed illusions.

But she understands enough.

She’s seen what it does to Aiah—the way it chips at her, demands pieces of her she never agreed to give.

Still—

Aiah sighs on the other end. “Mikha.”

“Yeah?” Mikha says, her hand still braced against the counter.

“I don’t—” Aiah’s voice catches again. “I don’t know what to do.”

Mikha closes her eyes, lets the words settle.

She wants to answer right away, to give Aiah something steady to hold onto.

But she waits.

Because this isn’t just about them.

This is about Aiah’s world.

About what it demands from her.

So Mikha stays quiet, weighing it in her head, feeling the gravity of what Aiah is really asking.

And Aiah—

Aiah, for once, lets the silence exist.

The silence stretches.

Not heavy, not suffocating—just there, filling the spaces between Aiah’s words, between Mikha’s thoughts.

She could tell Aiah this isn’t fair. That it hurts. That she understands. That the idea of being something hidden—something erased—makes her stomach twist.

But instead, she breathes, once—deep enough to find her own center—and asks, softly, carefully—

“What do you want, Aiah?”

Aiah exhales, shaky, like she’s been waiting for that question.

Like she’s needed to hear it.

And when she answers, her voice is quieter, but certain in a way that makes Mikha’s chest tighten.

“I don’t want to lie.”

Mikha closes her eyes.

Aiah continues, her words slow, deliberate. “Even before they called for the meeting, I knew. I knew I couldn’t do it. I knew I couldn’t fake something that doesn’t exist.”

“I knew I couldn’t shrink myself to fit into a box they built for someone else.” She inhales, the breath catching in her chest. “And I knew I didn’t want to pretend to love someone… when I’m already so in love with you.”

On the other end of the line, Mikha goes still.

Her breath hitches—not from doubt, not from fear—but from the way Aiah says it so plainly, like it’s obvious. Like it doesn’t upend something quiet and tender inside her. Like it hasn’t just rearranged her entire world with a single line.

Aiah exhales again, softer this time, like a weight has finally lifted. “I guess I just… needed to know it mattered to you too.”

Mikha’s fingers tighten around the phone.

Because Aiah has already chosen.

Maybe she just needed to know if Mikha would still be there—waiting, steady, holding this love the way she always has.

And Mikha is.

She’s here.

She always will be.

Mikha exhales on the other end, voice steady, warm. “I’m proud of you.”

Aiah stills.

Mikha continues, her tone quiet but firm, like she’s known this all along. “For not letting them decide this for you. For not letting them turn you into something you’re not.”

Aiah is breathing easier.

Not because things are fixed. Not because the battle is over.

But because she’s finally said it.

And Mikha is still here.

Still holding the line, still listening, still hers.

Mikha’s voice softens. “I know this won’t be easy. I know they’re going to push, and they’re going to pressure you, and it’s going to feel like you’re carrying all of it alone.”

A pause.

Then—

“But you’re not alone, Aiah.”

Aiah exhales, something tight in her chest unspooling.

Because for so long, she’s felt like she’s had to hold this alone—this fear, this love, this impossible choice.

But Mikha—

Mikha is always steady. Always certain.

And Aiah—

Aiah believes her.

She lets the silence settle between them, warm and understanding.

Then, finally, Mikha speaks again—soft, but unyielding.

“So… what happens now?”

And there it is.

The question neither of them has an answer to.

Aiah swallows.

Because the choice is made, but the fight isn’t over.

And Aiah, hand still curled around the phone, has never been more sure she’s ready to take it on.

Chapter Text

The apartment is silent.

Not empty, not hollow—just waiting. Like breath held between storms.

Aiah stands in front of the mirror, watching herself.

It’s a simple thing, staring at her own reflection.

She’s done it a thousand times—before auditions, before a heavy scene, before stepping onto red carpets where her every move would be dissected, every look analyzed.

But this time, she isn’t searching for perfection.

She isn’t thinking about how her face will look under studio lights, or how the press will capture the curve of her smile.

She isn’t molding herself into what people expect her to be.

She’s just… Aiah. Breathing. Deciding.

Aiah, standing at the edge of something that could either be freedom or disaster.

She exhales, presses a palm against the cool glass.

“I won’t lie,” she whispers, as if saying it out loud makes it real.

The words settle into the quiet, firm and steady.

“I won’t hide her.”

There’s fear, of course. There will always be fear.

But there’s also certainty.

A certainty that didn’t exist before, that wouldn’t have been possible without Mikha.

Because Mikha, in all her quiet understanding, never asked to be chosen.

But Aiah is choosing her anyway.

Not because she has to.

But because she wants to.

She straightens, taking in the woman in the mirror.

She doesn’t look different.

But she feels different.

Stronger. Sure.

And maybe that’s enough for now.

Aiah doesn’t stall.

She doesn’t wait for fear to catch up to her—not this time.

She’s spent too long doing that.

So when she steps into the meeting with her management, back straight, chin high, it’s different this time.

They’re expecting her to fall in line.

To say yes without question, to let them mold her into whatever version of herself they think will sell best.

But Aiah has already decided.

“We’re moving forward with the official relationship announcement,” one of the executives says, flipping through documents like this is just another strategy, another piece of business. “It’ll be subtle—exclusive photos of you and Carlos at a private dinner, casual enough to feel organic, but polished enough to confirm what the fans already suspect.”

Aiah’s fingers curl against her lap.

“Of course,” the exec continues, “you’ll have to be seen together more. Posting similar locations on social media, mentioning each other in interviews—”

“No.”

The room stills.

She meets their eyes. “I won’t do it.”

A quiet beat. Then—

Her manager exhales, the patience of someone who thinks they can still convince her. “Aiah, we understand this isn’t easy—”

“No,” she repeats, sharper now. “You don’t understand.”

She sits forward, her voice calm but unshakable. “You don’t understand what it’s like to constantly be told who you should be, who you should love, what version of yourself will be palatable enough to sell to an audience. You don’t understand what it feels like to want something—someone—and to know that the entire world will tell you it’s wrong.”

She exhales. “But I do.”

A pause.

Then—

“I won’t lie. I won’t be something I’m not just because it’s easier for you.”

The execs exchange glances.

Her manager sighs. “Aiah, this will come with consequences—”

“I know,” she says, steady.

And she does.

She knows what she’s risking.

Knows that things might get harder before they get better.

But she also knows she’s tired of running from herself.

She lifts her chin. “But I also know that if I agree to this, I won’t recognize myself anymore.”

A beat of silence.

And then—

“Then I guess we have a problem.”

Aiah smiles, small but resolute.

“No,” she declares, standing.

“I think I just found the solution.”

Aiah doesn’t wait.

The second she steps out of the meeting, she pulls out her phone, scrolling past the messages she’s already ignoring—from her manager, from PR, from executives who are probably scrambling to do damage control.

She presses call.

Mikha picks up on the second ring.

Aiah doesn’t even say hello.

“I did it.”

There’s a pause—just long enough for Mikha to process, before she exhales softly, like she knew this was coming.

Aiah doesn’t stop. “I told them I wouldn’t lie. I told them I wouldn’t do it, that I wouldn’t pretend.” She laughs—unrestrained, unfiltered, like something huge has just been lifted off her chest. “Mikha, I said it.”

Mikha doesn’t say anything right away.

But Aiah hears the small smile in her voice when she finally speaks.

“I’m proud of you.”

Aiah’s throat tightens.

She’s heard those words before. But this time, they settle in a way they never have—because this isn’t just about making a choice.

It’s about owning it.

She bites her lip. “I don’t know what happens next.”

Mikha hums. “Then we figure it out together.”

And for a moment, it feels like enough. Like choosing each other might be the hardest part—and they’ve already done it.

They sit in silence for a moment—warm, steady—until another notification buzzes on her phone.

She pulls it away from her ear, frowning.

Her breath catches.

The words on the screen feel like a punch to the gut.

BREAKING NEWS: AIAH ARCETA & CARLOS TEJANO PRIVATE DATE NIGHT - EXCLUSIVE PHOTOS

Her pulse quickens, grip white-knuckled around the phone as the words blur in her vision.

She opens the article, and there it is—photos she never agreed to, pictures from an event she attended weeks ago, moments twisted to fit a story she explicitly refused to be part of.

Her management didn’t just ignore her decision.

They went against her completely.

She clicks on social media.

It’s everywhere.

Trending.

Speculated.

Spreading like wildfire.

She doesn’t even realize she’s holding her breath until Mikha’s voice pulls her back.

“Aiah?”

She swallows.

“They did it anyway.”

Mikha is quiet for a moment.

Then, softer—

“I know.”

Aiah blinks. “…You saw?”

A pause.

Then—

“Yes.”

Aiah doesn’t know what to say.

Because of course Mikha saw it.

And even though Mikha knows it isn’t real, even though she understands how this industry works—

It still hurts, doesn’t it?

Still stings to see Aiah with someone else, even if it’s all a lie.

Aiah’s chest tightens.

She doesn’t hesitate this time.

“I’ll fix this,” she says, firm.

But Mikha doesn’t let her carry it alone.

She doesn’t ask for reassurance. Doesn’t demand proof. She just anchors her—quiet, steady, certain.

“You won’t have to do it alone,” Mikha says, voice soft but unwavering. “I’m here.”

And Aiah—

Aiah has never heard those words said so certainly.

Chapter Text

Aiah doesn’t speak.

Not at first.

She just stares at the screen—at headlines twisted into fiction, at photos contorted into something she never agreed to.

Her hands are steady.

Her breath is even.

But deep in her chest—

Something burns.

Not shock. Not fear. Just rage—quiet, controlled, but searing all the same.

Because this isn’t just about the fake story.

This is about all of it.

About how her entire life has been shaped by people who think they own her. About how they’ve written and rewritten her narrative a hundred times over, never asking if it was true.

About how they expect her to nod along, to accept it, to be grateful for the lie they’ve built around her.

And for the first time—

She wants to burn it all down.

Her fingers tighten around the phone.

She dials the one person she knows will have her back.

The line rings twice.

Then—

“Oh, finally,” Stacey groans on the other end. “Took you long enough to call me. Did you think I wasn’t going to see the absolute bullshit they just pulled?”

Aiah closes her eyes, something tensioned in her chest loosening just slightly.

Stacey exhales sharply. “Tell me you’re not actually going along with this.”

Aiah’s voice is quiet. Steady.

“I’m going to fight.”

A slow, wicked grin curls in Stacey’s voice. “Now that’s what I like to hear.”

Back in the café the silence swallows Mikha.

She doesn’t look at her phone.

Not after she saw the first headline.

Not after she forced herself to breathe past the sudden weight in her chest.

Not after she reminded herself—over and over—that she already knew how this industry worked, that Aiah warned her, that none of this should surprise her.

And yet—

It still stings.

She hates that it does.

She knows it’s fake. She knows Aiah didn’t agree to it.

But even if the blade isn’t real, it still cuts.

She’s in the middle of scrubbing down the café counter—harder than necessary—when the bell above the door chimes.

Mikha doesn’t look up. “We’re closed.”

A familiar voice follows. “Yeah, I know.”

Mikha sighs. “Colet.”

Colet hums, stepping inside anyway. “I figured you’d be doing the whole pretending-I’m-fine thing, so here I am. To force you to not do that.”

Mikha presses her lips together.

She doesn’t argue.

Because Colet is right.

And they both know it.

Colet leans against the counter, watching her closely. “So… have you talked to her?”

Mikha exhales, placing the rag down. “Yeah.”

“And?”

“And she told them no.”

Colet’s brows lift slightly. “She refused?”

Mikha nods. “She called me after the meeting—said she wouldn’t do it, that she wouldn’t lie.” She swallows. “She chose me, Colet.”

Colet studies her. “But?”

Mikha swallows.

“But they did it anyway.”

Colet exhales sharply. “Damn.”

Mikha nods, staring down at the counter.

Then—

Softly—

“It’s stupid.”

Colet tilts her head. “What is?”

Mikha lets out a frustrated breath. “That it still hurts.” She shakes her head, fingers tightening. “I know it’s fake. I know she didn’t agree to it. I know she’s fighting back. But seeing those pictures, seeing how easily they can erase me from her life—” She exhales sharply. “It still hurts.”

Colet nods, understanding without judgment.

Then, she reaches across the counter and nudges Mikha’s arm.

“Hey.”

Mikha finally looks up.

Colet smirks. “You’re allowed to feel things, you know.”

Mikha lets out a small, tired laugh. “Am I?”

Colet grins. “Yeah. It’s kind of a thing people in love do.”

Mikha rolls her eyes, but there’s no bite to it.

And maybe that’s all she needs right now.

Someone who knows.

Someone who understands.

And when Colet leaves, she doesn’t move.

She stays in the café, staring at the countertop, at the rag she set down hours ago, at the space where Aiah once sat, smiling at her over a cup of coffee she called a quiet evening.

The headlines don’t go away.

She doesn’t check her phone, but she knows they’re still there—knows Aiah’s name is still being dragged through speculation, knows people are believing a story that isn’t hers to tell.

And maybe that’s what hurts the most.

Not the pictures. Not the staged romance.

But the fact that, in the eyes of the world, she doesn’t exist.

They don’t know her name, or the way Aiah once stood behind a counter, sleeves pushed up, learning to steam milk with quiet concentration.

They don’t know the lullabies she still hums, or the quiet mornings she made hers.

They don’t know the girl she loves. But Mikha does.

And for a moment—just a moment—Mikha lets herself wonder if they ever will.

She exhales, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes.

She’s not going to spiral.

Not now.

Not when Aiah is fighting.

Because that’s the truth, isn’t it?

Aiah is fighting.

And Mikha shouldn’t be sulking over a PR stunt when Aiah is out there, holding the line, standing her ground, refusing to let herself be erased.

She forces herself to breathe.

And then—

Her phone vibrates.

She hesitates—just for a moment—before picking it up.

A notification.

A new post.

From Aiah.

Mikha’s breath catches.

It’s not a statement. Not a press release.

Just a photo.

A familiar one.

The sea, pink and gold, the sun dipping just below the horizon.

Limasawa.

No caption. No explanation.

Just a single moment—one that only Mikha will recognize.

Mikha exhales. For a moment, she sees it again—sunlight spilling gold on seawater, the hush before the tide returns.

And just like that, she’s grounded again.

Because Aiah isn’t hiding.

Not really.

She’s loving her in the only way she can right now.

And somewhere else, across coffee and quiet, Aiah is trying to name that love out loud.

She sits across from Stacey, her fingers curled around a coffee cup that’s long since gone cold.

The silence, on the other hand, hasn’t.

She hasn’t said much since she arrived—just let herself be pulled into Stacey’s apartment, let herself sit on the couch, let herself breathe in the quiet before the inevitable conversation.

Now, Stacey is watching her carefully, one brow raised, fingers tapping lightly against her knee.

“So,” she finally says, “are we going to sit here in contemplative silence, or are we actually going to talk about the absolute chaos your management just pulled?”

Aiah exhales, pressing a hand against her forehead.

“I don’t even know where to start.”

Stacey tilts her head. “Start with what you want.”

Aiah pauses.

Because that’s what Mikha asked her, too.

And the answer is still the same.

“I don’t want to be part of a lie.”

Stacey nods, unsurprised. “Good. That means we go on the offensive.”

Aiah exhales, eyes drifting to the photo still open on her phone.

Limasawa. A moment no one could twist.

“Okay,” Stacey says slowly. “Then we don’t play their game.”

Aiah blinks. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Stacey leans forward, “we don’t try to prove anything to them. We don’t argue, we don’t explain, we don’t try to fight their narrative with a counter-narrative. We just—” she gestures vaguely, “—exist.”

Aiah frowns. “That doesn’t sound like a strategy.”

“It is a strategy,” Stacey corrects. “Because your management wants you to react. They want you to go into PR mode, to scramble for control so they can tighten their grip. If you don’t give them that—if you just live your truth without asking for permission—what can they do?”

Aiah swallows. “They can drop me.”

Stacey holds her gaze. “Do you really think they will?”

Aiah hesitates.

Because… no.

She’s still one of the biggest names in the industry.

She’s still bringing in projects, still the face of brands that are too lucrative to lose.

Her value—to them—is still too high.

“They need you,” Stacey says, as if reading her thoughts. “And if they don’t own you, they fear you. So you don’t fight for a seat at their table. You make your own.”

Aiah exhales, her heart pounding.

Because this—this is the first time she’s considered that maybe she doesn’t have to fight for scraps.

Maybe she can just… be.

Aiah glances down at her phone, at the familiar coastline on her screen.

The tide has already turned. All that’s left is to move with it.

She looks up at Stacey.

“Let’s do this.”

Chapter Text

The shift is subtle—not enough to make headlines or feed the media’s hunger for spectacle.

But it’s there.

It’s in the way Aiah walks onto set without the carefully practiced smiles, without the need to be on all the time. It’s in the way she lets herself breathe, lets herself laugh without calculating how it will sound in a soundbite.

It’s in the way she speaks in interviews—not carefully, not defensively, but just honestly.

Not every answer is planned.

Not every moment is controlled.

And for the first time, she doesn’t feel like she has to ask if she’s allowed to exist as she is.

And then—

There’s Mikha.

She doesn’t say her name—she doesn’t need to.

But her presence lingers in ways no one else would recognize—except maybe Mikha herself.

A photo on her Instagram story:

A familiar ceramic cup, filled with coffee, the words Like a quiet evening etched onto the surface.

A caption under a behind-the-scenes photo, where she’s smiling—the kind of smile that isn’t for the cameras, but for someone else entirely: I like slow mornings. I think I finally understand why.

A song recommendation on Twitter, one that she knows only Mikha would catch: You’ll Be In My Heart – Phil Collins

It’s small.

Quiet.

A love that does not need to be loud to be true. A love that lives quietly, but without question.

And maybe that’s how she’s choosing to love Mikha right now.

Not with declarations.

Not with grand gestures.

But with the simple, quiet truth:

She is here.

And she chooses her.

Every day.

She leans into that certainty, lets it settle in her chest like warmth after the cold.

The quiet hum of night wraps around her.

And then—her phone vibrates.

Aiah doesn’t pick up at first.

She sees the name—her manager’s—flashing on the screen, the vibration humming against the nightstand.

She lets it ring.

Then ring again.

Then, a text.

Aiah, we need to talk. Urgent.

She exhales sharply, staring at the words.

She already knows what this is about.

She picks up on the third call—not because she wants to, but because she already knows what’s waiting.

Her manager doesn’t bother with greetings.

“We need to meet. Tomorrow.”

Aiah leans against the headboard, keeping her voice neutral. “Why?”

A pause.

Then—

“Aiah, you know why.”

She presses her lips together.

She can hear the tension in her manager’s voice.

She can feel the desperation creeping in, the careful way he measures his words, trying to maintain control.

She lets him speak.

“There are concerns about the way you’ve been handling the press lately,” he says, too polite to be genuine. “Your presence online, the way you’re engaging with interviews, your overall public image—it’s shifting, and we just want to make sure you’re making the right decisions.”

Aiah exhales slowly. “The right decisions.”

Her manager lowers his voice, each word carefully measured. “You’ve been more—visible in ways that we didn’t plan for.”

Visible.

Not reckless. Not damaging.

Just—visible.

As herself.

Aiah smiles—small, sharp, because she knows what this is now.

They’re panicking.

She says nothing, letting the silence stretch until her manager sighs.

“Aiah,” he continues, measured. “We’ve worked hard to build you into who you are now. We only want what’s best for you.”

She finally speaks, voice steady. “And what if this is what’s best for me?”

Silence.

Then—

“Tomorrow,” her manager says again, voice clipped. “We’ll talk more then.”

The line clicks off.

Aiah leans back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling.

They’re pushing back.

Because they know.

They know she’s slipping out of their grasp, know she’s no longer the Aiah they could shape into something marketable.

They know she’s making a choice that isn’t theirs to make.

And the funny thing is she isn’t even afraid.

Not anymore.

The next day, Aiah arrives at the office exactly on time.

Not a minute early.

Not a minute late.

She walks through the familiar hallways, past framed posters of the projects she’s carried on her back for years. Her face is everywhere. On walls, on screens, in glossy magazine covers displayed in glass cases like trophies.

She used to think that meant something.

That it meant she was wanted.

That she belonged here.

Now, she isn’t so sure.

The conference room is full when she enters.

Her manager. The PR team. A few executives.

They all look up as she steps in, eyes scanning her like she’s an investment they need to fix.

Aiah takes a seat.

“Let’s cut to it,” she says, calm, steady. “What do you need from me?”

Her manager exhales. “Aiah, we’re here because we’re concerned.”

Concerned.

Aiah tilts her head. “About?”

The PR rep leans forward. “Your behavior lately.”

She raises a brow. “And what behavior is that?”

They exchange glances, like they don’t expect her to push back.

Then—

“You’ve been making… unplanned choices,” one of the executives says carefully. “The way you present yourself, the way you engage with media—it’s not aligning with the image we’ve built for you.”

Aiah leans back. “You mean, I’m not playing the role you want me to play?”

Her manager clears his throat. “Aiah—”

“No, let’s be honest about it,” she cuts in, her voice still even. “You want me to be someone else.”

A tense beat passes. Then PR leans forward to speak.

“We’re asking you to be careful,” they say. “You know how the industry works. Fans love the idea of you and Carlos. That’s what secures funding. That’s what keeps the contracts alive.”

Aiah already knows where this is going.

She waits.

“The staged photos were meant to control the narrative, to give you an easier path forward,” they continue. “We need you to lean into it more.”

There it is.

Aiah exhales.

“I already told you,” she says quietly. “I’m not lying to the public.”

One of the executives sighs, like she’s being difficult. “Aiah, this is bigger than you.”

Aiah meets their gaze, unwavering. “And what about me?”

Silence.

Then, her manager shifts tactics.

“You don’t have to confirm anything,” he offers. “Just don’t deny it either. Play into the ambiguity. Give the public something to hold onto.”

Aiah clenches her jaw.

Because she knows what they’re really asking.

Don’t deny the lie. Don’t fight the script. Just let them costume her into someone more convenient.

She takes a slow breath.

And then—

Soft, but firm—

“No.”

Her manager sighs sharply. “Aiah—

“I said no. And I won’t say it again.”

A pause.

The air shifts.

And Aiah knows—she can feel it—this is the moment.

The one where they realize they don’t own her anymore.

She pushes her chair back, standing.

“I appreciate everything this industry has given me,” she says. “I know what I owe to the people who support me. But I also know who I am.”

She looks around the room, gaze sharp.

“And I won’t let you take that away from me.”

Then—

Without waiting for a response—

She walks out.

She doesn’t run.

Doesn’t hesitate.

Because she’s not the one losing something today.

The door closes behind her—and with it, everything they thought they still owned.

Chapter Text

The boat rocks gently beneath her feet, the salt air thick in her lungs.

Limasawa is ahead, just past the endless stretch of blue, the outline of the cliffs and palm trees forming against the horizon.

Aiah grips the edge of the railing, fingers curled tight.

She doesn’t remember booking the ticket, doesn’t remember packing. She only remembers walking out—leaving a world that doesn’t feel like hers anymore, following the only instinct that has ever made sense.

She doesn’t know if Mikha will be at the docks.

She doesn’t know if she’ll be at the café, at home, somewhere along the shore where the wind sings against the waves.

But she knows she’s here.

And that’s all that matters.

The boat slows, the wooden hull scraping against the pier.

Feet hitting the dock with a quiet certainty. Like the island never stopped calling her back.

And then—

She looks up.

And there she is.

Mikha.

Standing at the end of the pier, hands crossed over her chest, red hair catching the wind.

Like she’s been waiting.

Like she knew.

Aiah’s breath catches.

Because it’s so easy, isn’t it?

To find her way back to the only person she’s ever wanted to run to.

Mikha doesn’t move.

Doesn’t rush to meet her.

She just waits, steady and patient, like she always does.

And Aiah finally lets herself go.

She drops her bag, feet carrying her forward, fast and sure, until she reaches Mikha, until she crashes into her, until Mikha’s arms are around her, pulling her close.

Mikha exhales, voice quiet against her hair.

“You’re here.”

Aiah nods, eyes squeezing shut.

“I’m here.”

And she’s exactly where she’s supposed to be.

Later, when the sun hangs low and the world has quieted—

The café is silent.

Not empty—just waiting.

The early afternoon light filters through the windows, painting the tiled floors in soft gold, casting long shadows against the walls.

Aiah is still eating, her movements slower now, like she’s trying to savor every bite.

Mikha doesn’t rush her.

She just watches—elbow propped on the table, fingers idly tracing the rim of her mug, the warmth of her coffee still seeping through her skin.

It should be strange, shouldn’t it?

How easy this is.

How, even after everything, even with all the chaos waiting beyond the island’s shores, they can still find their way back to this.

To each other.

Aiah exhales, setting her spoon down. She leans back against the booth, gaze flicking up to meet Mikha’s.

And just like that—

Mikha knows. Knows that Aiah is here, fully—not just in body, but in choice. That she wants to be here.

She doesn’t ask how long she’s staying this time.

She never has.

But her eyes search Aiah’s, quietly, like she’s asking anyway.

Aiah doesn’t look away.

Her answer isn’t instant.

Because it’s not a simple thing—this being here.

It’s not just about the island.

It’s about everything it means to choose it.

About choosing Mikha.

Then—

A small breath.

A quiet, certain smile.

“I don’t know what happens next,” Aiah says. “But I know I want to be here.”

Mikha’s smile softens, something deeper settling between them.

“Okay,” she says.

Aiah huffs a soft laugh. “That’s it?”

Mikha shrugs. “That’s enough.”

Aiah stares at her for a moment, something unreadable in her gaze—something that pulls, something that settles deep.

Then, quieter—

“I think I like that about you.”

Mikha smirks. “That I don’t ask too many questions?”

Aiah shakes her head. “That you just take what I can give.”

Mikha doesn’t answer right away.

But she reaches across the table, fingers brushing Aiah’s wrist, just for a second, just enough to say what she doesn’t need to put into words.

And Aiah doesn’t pull away.

She just lets it be.

Mikha doesn’t move.

Neither does Aiah.

The café feels suspended, caught in a moment that stretches softly between them, the early afternoon light shifting, turning warmer, softer—like the universe itself is telling them stay here, just a little longer.

Aiah traces the rim of her cup with absent fingers, the ghost of a thought flickering across her face. Mikha watches, waiting, knowing that eventually Aiah will say something.

And she does.

Not a confession.

Not an explanation.

Just—

“This is nice.”

Mikha lifts a brow. “Me forcing you to eat?”

Aiah laughs, soft, barely there. “That. And… this.” She gestures vaguely, like she’s not sure how to define it. “Just… not having to be anyone for a while.”

Mikha hums. “You know this place never asks you to be anyone you’re not, right?”

Aiah looks up, eyes flickering with something unreadable.

Then—

A slow, small smile.

“I know.”

Mikha nods. “Good.”

A beat.

Then, Aiah shifts, resting her chin against her hand, studying Mikha.

“What?” Mikha asks, amused.

Aiah tilts her head. “Nothing. Just…” Her eyes flicker across Mikha’s face, like she’s memorizing her. Then, she says—so quiet Mikha almost doesn’t catch it—

“You feel like home,” she says—sure, unblinking, like she’s only just realizing it herself.

Mikha stills.

She wasn’t expecting that.

Aiah doesn’t look away.

Doesn’t take it back.

Doesn’t explain it away.

She just lets it sit there, between them, real and unshaken.

And Mikha swallows, the warmth in her chest spreading, blooming, settling.

She doesn’t need to say it. Her silence already carries it.

Because when she reaches across the table again—this time, fully, fingertips brushing Aiah’s knuckles—Aiah doesn’t pull away.

And maybe that says enough.

But then—

Aiah’s phone buzzes against the table.

Once.

Then again.

Then—

A third time.

She knows before she even looks.

Knows it’s not her mom, not Stacey, not someone she wants to hear from.

She exhales, tilting the screen toward her.

And there it is.

Manager
Manager
Manager

Three missed calls. A new message waiting.

Her stomach knots.

She doesn’t want to open it.

But she does.

Because she has to.

Aiah. Where are you? You can’t just disappear like this.

You know what’s at stake. We need to talk. Call me back.

Aiah stares at the words, fingers tightening around the phone.

And just like that—

The moment is gone.

She can feel it slipping away, the warmth of the café turning colder, the weight of her world pressing back down on her chest.

She swallows.

Mikha’s voice is quiet. “Aiah.”

She looks up.

Mikha doesn’t ask.

Doesn’t push.

She just holds Aiah’s gaze, steady, grounding, here.

Aiah exhales. “It’s them.”

Mikha nods, as if she already knew.

Aiah looks back at the screen.

She knows she can’t ignore it forever.

She still has a contract.

Still has a career that—despite everything—she loves.

But…

She looks around the café.

At the quiet of it.

At Mikha, sitting across from her, patient, waiting.

At the feeling in her chest that tells her this is where she’s supposed to be.

She puts the phone face down.

Takes a slow breath.

And finally—

Soft, but certain—

“I’m not ready to go back yet.”

Outside, the breeze shifts. The island moves on, unaware—and yet, for a moment longer, the stillness inside holds.

And for the first time, she’s not afraid of what that means.

They stay like that when the café door swings open with a chime, breaking the stillness. Laughter spills in, loud and easy—voices overlapping, footsteps dragging sand across the tiled floors.

Mikha barely has time to turn before—

“Ate!”

Her sister’s voice rings out, bright and familiar, followed by her brother’s groan.

“We were at the beach forever and you didn’t even bother to show up.”

Colet hums from behind them, grinning as she tosses her bag onto a nearby chair. “Mikha, your neglect is truly unacceptable.”

Mikha huffs a laugh, shaking her head. “I didn’t realize I was summoned.”

Then—

She feels it.

The shift.

The moment they see her.

They see her—seated across from Mikha, close enough their hands nearly touched before the door swung open.

And more than that—

The moment they see Aiah.

Still looking at Mikha like she’s the only thing anchoring her to this world.

Colet stills.

Mikha’s siblings exchange glances.

And then—

“Oh,” her sister breathes, something knowing curling at the edges of her voice. “Oh.”

Mikha sighs, already bracing for the incoming onslaught.

Her brother nudges Colet. “You knew, didn’t you?”

Colet smirks. “Of course I knew.”

Her sister’s eyes flick between them, gleaming. “It’s nice to see you again.”

Mikha groans. “I beg you to be normal about this.”

“Define normal.”

Aiah, to her credit, just watches the whole exchange with something close to amusement, though there’s a softness in her gaze that wasn’t there before.

Then—

Gently, casually—

She turns to Mikha’s sister and smiles.

“Hi again,” she says, voice steady, certain.

Mikha’s sister beams, waving her hand without hesitation.

“Hello, Ate Aiah.”

And maybe this isn’t just about recognizing Aiah Arceta, the superstar.

Maybe it’s about recognizing the way she and Mikha look at each other.

The way Aiah hasn’t left.

The way Mikha hasn’t asked her to.

The way they both seem to fit here, together.

And maybe that says enough.

Mikha’s sister is the first to start.

She doesn’t wait, doesn’t even ease into it—just leans forward on the table, chin propped in her hands, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“So,” she says, drawing out the word like it holds secrets, “how long have you two been like this?”

Mikha groans. “You’ve been here for less than five minutes.”

Her brother smirks. “More than enough time to see what’s going on.”

Mikha rubs a hand down her face. “I hate all of you.”

Aiah—surprisingly—laughs.

And that’s when Mikha knows.

She knows Aiah isn’t uncomfortable.

She knows Aiah isn’t bracing herself for this moment to turn into something ugly, something hostile.

Because this? This is family—the kind that teases, stays, and always makes room for one more.

Aiah shakes her head, playful. “I don’t think we have an answer to that question.”

Colet hums from her spot at the counter, arms crossed. “I don’t know, Aiah, I think you should answer. The people deserve to know.”

Mikha throws a dish towel at her. “You are the people.”

Colet catches it with ease, unfazed. Then—her smirk softens, something more genuine peeking through as she turns to Aiah.

“Speaking of the people,” she says, “I never got to thank you.”

Aiah blinks. “For what?”

Colet huffs a laugh. “For posting my song.”

Mikha watches as recognition dawns in Aiah’s expression.

Colet leans against the counter, shrugging lightly. “I don’t think you realize how much that changed things for me. The streams exploded. I got booked for gigs I never thought I’d land. People actually listen now.”

Aiah swallows. “Colet, I—”

“No, really,” Colet interrupts, serious now. “You chose to do it. And it mattered. That’s not nothing.”

Aiah hesitates, as if she doesn’t know how to take the gratitude, as if she isn’t used to people thanking her for something real—not for a performance, not for a role, but for something she chose to do on her own.

So Mikha reaches across the table again, fingers brushing against Aiah’s wrist.

Aiah looks at her.

And then, after a beat—

She smiles.

“I just thought more people should hear you,” she says, simple, honest. “That’s all.”

Colet grins. “Well, they definitely hear me now.”

Mikha’s sister claps her hands together, eager to shift the attention back to her original mission.

“Alright, back to my question—”

Mikha groans again. “Please find another hobby.”

Her brother shrugs, amused. “Sorry. This one’s too fun to quit.”

Aiah laughs again—softer this time, like it lands somewhere deeper, steadier in her chest. And Mikha just watches, something warm curling in her ribs. Because Aiah doesn’t just belong to her. She belongs here, with all of them.

And maybe she’s starting to believe it too.

The thought settles, certain and bright. And before she can second-guess it, Mikha stretches her arms overhead and says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world—

“We’re closing the café for the rest of the day.”

Her siblings blink at her.

Colet raises a brow. “Uh. Are you allowed to do that?”

Mikha smirks. “Who’s gonna stop me? Me?”

Aiah watches from the booth, amusement curling at the edges of her lips. “So what’s the plan?”

Mikha grins.

“An adventure,” she declares. “You’re all coming with me. No complaints.”

Her sister groans, dramatic. “God, we don’t get a say?”

“Nope.”

Colet hums, intrigued. “Where are we going?”

“There’s a falls a little way off the main road,” Mikha says. “Secluded, fresh water, perfect for swimming. And we can bring food.”

Her brother eyes her. “You just want a picnic.”

Mikha shrugs. “And?”

Aiah shakes her head, laughing softly. “Alright,” she says, standing. “Let’s go.”

And she doesn’t hesitate before reaching for Mikha’s hand.

Mikha stiffens for just a fraction of a second.

Not because she doesn’t want it.

But because Aiah hasn’t done this before.

Not casually. Not confidently. Not in a way that says I’m here and I’m not hiding anymore.

But now—

Now, Aiah laces their fingers together, walks close beside her like she’s meant to be here, and Mikha feels the warmth settle deep in her chest.

She squeezes Aiah’s hand once.

Aiah squeezes back.

And they walk out into the afternoon sun, like it doesn’t matter who sees.

The road winds quiet and green, the chatter between them light, unhurried. The island stretches around them—familiar, steady, like it’s opening just for this.

By the time they reach the trailhead, the trees have thickened, the world narrowing to birdsong and breeze. And when they finally step through the last curtain of leaves—

The falls is exactly what Mikha promised.

Clear water cascading down the rocks, pooling into a cool, crisp basin below. Tall trees surround the area, their branches swaying gently in the breeze, the light breaking through the canopy in golden streaks.

It’s beautiful.

It’s theirs.

They spread out mats, unpack the food—bibingka, leftover grilled fish, cold watermelon, bottles of soda clinking together.

Mikha watches as Aiah moves, her steps lighter than earlier, the tension in her shoulders slowly fading.

And when Aiah catches her looking, she just smiles.

Not the kind meant for cameras.

Not the kind meant for hiding.

Just for Mikha.

Just here.

Chapter Text

The afternoon hums around them, soft and golden. Laughter drifts from the water—Mikha’s sister shrieking as her brother splashes her, Colet floating on her back, arms spread wide like she belongs to the sky just as much as to the waves below.

The laughter ripples on. But here, beneath the trees, the quiet is different.

Mikha watches from the shade, legs stretched out on the mat, hands leaned back.

Beside her, Aiah is quiet—not like before, when silence felt sharp and restless. This one settles. This one belongs.

Aiah exhales, long and slow, like she’s releasing something she hadn’t even realized she was carrying.

Mikha glances at her just as Aiah leans in, lets her head rest against Mikha’s shoulder, lets herself fold into the space Mikha has always left open for her.

Mikha stills. Not because she doesn’t want it. But because this is new.

This is Aiah choosing. Choosing to be here, to rest here, to trust that Mikha will hold her steady.

Mikha doesn’t speak. Doesn’t ruin it with words that aren’t needed. She just shifts, just enough to lean into Aiah too.

And then—

Soft. Steady. Certain—

Mikha reaches forward, intertwining their fingers and let it rest against her lap.

Aiah hums, something light and content.

Mikha watches as her siblings chase each other through the water, as Colet tips her head back, laughing at the sky. She watches the way the world moves slowly here, the way the sun sinks lower, the way the air seems to hold them in place, suspended—as if the island itself is asking them to stay just a bit longer.

And maybe neither of them will let this moment end.

Not yet. Not ever.

The sun has shifted lower when Aiah’s phone buzzes on the mat.

She almost doesn’t check it. She’s been ignoring calls—management, PR, the people who always need something from her.

But when she glances down and sees the name flashing across the screen—

Mama

Something folds quietly in her chest.

She hesitates only for a second before answering.

“Hi, Ma.”

“Aiah.”

Her mother’s voice is soft—but the kind of softness that carries weight, that says I know you.

She doesn’t ask where Aiah is—she already knows.

Aiah exhales. “You heard about everything, huh?”

A small hum. “I did.”

Aiah waits for the reprimand. The reminder of responsibility, of contracts, of everything she’s walked away from.

But it doesn’t come.

Instead, her mother asks, gently—

“How are you?”

Aiah blinks.

Because no one in her world has asked that lately. Not What’s your next move? Not How do we fix this?

Just—How are you?

She swallows. “I… I don’t know.”

Her mother hums again. “You sound lighter.”

Aiah glances up.

Mikha is still beside her, close, their hands still loosely linked between them. Mikha’s head is tilted up to the trees, eyes half-lidded, content.

And Aiah knows her mother is right.

“I think I am,” she admits, quiet.

Her mother exhales, something knowing in her voice. “Your father would have loved to hear that.”

Aiah stills.

And just like that—

She’s eight years old again, curled against her father’s side, his voice humming through her, into the very bones of her existence.

“Don’t listen to them, ‘cause what do they know?”

Her breath catches.

Her mother doesn’t sing the line. She just says it—soft, steady, like she already knew what Aiah was remembering.

Then—

“He would have been proud of you, anak.”

Aiah clenches her jaw, something thick rising in her throat. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Ma.”

Her mother chuckles, low and fond. “None of us do, anak.”

A beat.

Then, quieter—

“But I think you’re doing just fine.”

Aiah exhales, closing her eyes for a moment, letting the words settle.

Then, opening them again—

Mikha is watching her now, brows knitted, silent, but there.

Aiah shifts the phone, voice softer now. “Thanks, Ma.”

Her mother hums again, warm. “Anytime, anak.”

And maybe Aiah doesn’t feel so lost anymore.

Later, when the sky darkens and the sea quiets, they find themselves on the balcony—where the wind feels older, the air more honest.

The lights inside are dim, casting a golden glow against the wooden walls, but out here—under the open sky—everything feels closer. The stars. The sound of waves in the distance. The weight of words unsaid.

Aiah stands by the railing, arms folded, gaze distant.

Mikha leans beside her, silent, their shoulders almost—but not quite—touching.

They’ve been here for a while. Not talking. Not needing to. Just existing.

But then—

Aiah exhales, long and slow, like she’s making a decision.

Because this—this—is something she doesn’t usually share.

But Mikha isn’t just anyone, is she?

So she says, soft but sure—

“My mom called earlier.”

Mikha turns her head slightly. “Yeah?”

Aiah nods, fingers gripping the railing just a little tighter.

“She reminded me of something my dad used to say. Or—sing, actually.” A small breath. “It was from a song he always used to sing to me when I was little. The one I told you about. The one you also sang in the café that night.”

Mikha doesn’t press. Just waits.

Aiah tilts her head up, eyes fluttering shut, the words settling in her chest before she speaks them into the night.

“Don’t listen to them, ‘cause what do they know?”

The wind carries her voice—quiet but unshaken.

Mikha is still.

And when Aiah finally looks at her, she finds Mikha watching her with something soft in her gaze. Something that sees her. Really sees her.

Aiah huffs a quiet, almost self-conscious laugh. “It sounds… simple, doesn’t it?”

Mikha shakes her head. “No.”

Aiah tilts her head. “No?”

Mikha offers her a small smile, warm and certain.

“It sounds like something worth holding onto.”

Aiah breathes out. Something settles inside her.

She doesn’t realize she’s moved closer until their arms are brushing—until Mikha tilts her head to rest lightly against hers.

And maybe this is what it means to be held.

Not with arms.

But with presence.

The night wraps around them, quiet and steady. The waves murmur in the distance. The trees rustle softly. The island breathes.

And then—

So does Aiah.

“I think I’m quitting.”

The words slip out like an exhale, like something she’s been holding too long.

Mikha stiffens—just a little.

Then she tilts her head, like she wants to be sure she heard it right.

Aiah stays where she is. Doesn’t pull away.

Just lets the truth settle in the open air.

Mikha’s voice is quiet. Careful. “Quitting?”

Aiah hums. “The industry. My job. Everything.”

Mikha doesn’t respond immediately.

She waits.

Because she knows this isn’t something Aiah says lightly.

And Aiah lets the silence hold her a little longer.

“I just… I don’t want to go back,” she admits, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t want to be that version of myself anymore. I don’t want to fight just to be me.”

She takes a slow breath.

“And I want to stay.”

The weight of it hangs between them.

A confession.

A choice.

Her voice doesn’t tremble—because she means it.

And Mikha’s fingers tighten slightly between them, grounding herself in this moment. Trying to remember that this is real.

Then, gently—

“Aiah.”

Aiah finally lifts her head.

And Mikha sees it.

The certainty. The quiet ache. The want.

Aiah swallows. “I mean it.”

And maybe Mikha already knew. But that doesn’t make it easy.

Because Aiah is Aiah Arceta.

She has a world she built. A name people know. A life carved out in lights and headlines.

And yet—

Here she is.

On her balcony.

Asking for something simpler.

For this.

For them.

Mikha swallows.

“Say it again,” she whispers—not because she doubts it, but because she wants to hear it one more time, like a vow.

Aiah breathes out.

“I want to stay.”

She repeats it—this time with her hand brushing Mikha’s, like an anchor.

And Mikha feels it.

Not just in her ears.

But in her bones.

And, maybe, that’s enough to begin again.

Chapter Text

Mikha doesn’t question it. Not because it’s small—it’s huge. But because she sees it.

In the certainty of Aiah’s steady gaze. In the way her voice didn’t waver when she said it.

“I want to stay.”

Mikha feels the weight of it settle—Aiah leaving behind everything for this, for them, for her.

And it isn’t the kind of heavy that suffocates. It overwhelms—and roots itself so deep it begins to feel like home.

The kind that says, this is love.

And maybe that’s why Mikha leans in.

It isn’t rushed. Isn’t desperate.

It’s slow. Deliberate.

Like pulling something into place.

Like accepting something she’s been carrying in her chest for so long.

Aiah doesn’t startle. Doesn’t pull away.

She meets Mikha halfway, like she was always meant to.

The first brush of their lips is soft. A pause. A moment where Mikha’s fingers tighten slightly on Aiah’s wrist, like she’s anchoring herself.

And then—

Aiah exhales, barely a breath between them, before leaning in fully.

And Mikha—

Mikha lets herself feel it.

The depth of it. The way Aiah gives— and gives— and gives.

Like this isn’t just a kiss.

Like this is her way of saying, I meant it.

Mikha doesn’t know how long they stay like that—lips moving slowly, like they have all the time in the world.

But when they finally pull apart, their foreheads resting together, their breaths mingling in the space between—

Mikha knows.

Knows that Aiah’s never given herself to anything this freely before.

Knows that this isn’t just something temporary.

Knows that love—real love—feels exactly like this.

Aiah opens her eyes, gaze searching. “Mikha?”

Mikha exhales, her thumb brushing over Aiah’s knuckles, grounding herself.

Then—

Soft. Steady. Certain.

“I’ve always been here.”

And that’s all Aiah ever needed to hear.

The night carries them quietly forward.

The first thing Aiah notices when she wakes up is the warmth.

Not the sun—it’s barely risen yet, a soft glow seeping through the curtains.

Not the air—it’s cool, crisp, carrying the faint scent of salt and earth.

No.

The warmth is Mikha.

Still close. Still here.

Aiah blinks, slowly coming back into herself, finding Mikha already watching her, elbow propped on the pillow, head resting against her hand.

She doesn’t say anything at first.

Just looks at Aiah like she’s tracing every detail into memory.

Aiah exhales, voice still thick with sleep. “You’re staring.”

Mikha grins, unbothered. “You’re beautiful.”

Aiah groans, burying her face in the pillow. “God.”

Mikha laughs, soft and full, tugging gently at Aiah’s wrist until she peeks up again.

And then—

With a smirk—

“So, what’s the plan for our jobless life?”

Aiah squints at her. “Our?”

Mikha nods solemnly. “Yeah. You’re not working anymore, which means I’m going to work twice as hard for the both of us.” A beat. Then, dramatically, “My back is already aching from the weight of it all.”

Aiah gapes at her. “You’re ridiculous.”

Mikha just shrugs. “Gotta support my retired superstar girlfriend somehow.”

Then—quieter, sincere—

“But I don’t mind carrying some of the weight. If it means you get to breathe.”

Aiah turns onto her back, blinking up at the ceiling. The laugh is still there, caught in her throat—but now it feels more like a breath of relief than amusement.

“You’re too good to me,” she murmurs.

Mikha just watches her.

Watches as Aiah lets herself feel light.

Because she knows the weight of this decision hasn’t fully settled yet. She knows the world will try to pull Aiah back, that there are still loose ends to tie, still things Aiah has to face.

But for now—

For now, Mikha just wants her to breathe.

Aiah turns her head, eyes softer now. “You know I haven’t fully figured this out yet, right?”

Mikha hums. “I know.”

Aiah watches her, searching. “And you’re still okay with that?”

Mikha doesn’t look away.

She reaches forward, gently brushing a stray hair from Aiah’s face.

“And I’m staying.”

Something Aiah can hold on to.

The weight doesn’t crash in. It lingers in the in-between.

When the house is quiet, and the past tries to knock.

When Mikha steps out to open the café, and Aiah is left alone with her thoughts.

When she glances at her phone, at the messages waiting, the ones she has yet to open.

When she realizes that leaving isn’t just about walking away.

It’s about untangling herself from something that has wrapped around her entire life.

So—she does what she needs to do.

She makes the call.

Her attorney picks up on the second ring.

“Miss Arceta,” his voice is brisk, professional, but not unfriendly. “I was starting to think you were avoiding me.”

Aiah exhales, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Not avoiding. Just… figuring things out.”

A pause.

Then—

“Do I need to be concerned?”

She swallows. “No. But I need your help.”

And maybe saying that out loud is the first step to making this real.

But legal clarity isn’t what grounds her—it’s who she needs next.

The next person she calls is Stacey.

Because if there’s anyone who will keep her grounded, who will tell her the truth whether she wants to hear it or not—

It’s her.

It barely rings twice before Stacey picks up.

“Oh my God, Aiah.”

Aiah sighs, already bracing herself. “Staks—”

“I let you breathe for a few days. I held back from grilling you the moment you soft-launched your mystery girlfriend.” A sharp inhale. “But now? Now you call me like you’re about to drop something huge on me—”

Aiah winces. “I—”

“Wait.” Stacey’s voice shifts, sharper now. “It is huge, isn’t it?”

Aiah hesitates.

And in that pause—

“Oh my God.” Stacey’s voice is flat with realization. “You’re leaving.”

Aiah closes her eyes. “I think I am.”

A beat of silence. Then—

“Holy shit.”

Aiah lets out a dry laugh. “That’s all you have to say?”

“No, my God, Aiah.” Stacey groans, exasperated. “That’s—huge. Are you sure? Have you thought this through? Do you know what this means?”

“I know, Staks.” Aiah rubs a hand over her face. “That’s why I’m calling you.”

Another beat.

Then—

Something softer, something gentler in Stacey’s voice.

“Are you happy?”

Aiah stills.

And when she answers, her voice is quiet, but certain.

“Yes.”

Stacey exhales, like she’s processing, like she’s already strategizing in her head.

“Okay,” she says finally. “Tell me everything.”

And Aiah does.

Stacey listens.

It’s not often that she doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t throw in a joke or a dramatic gasp.

But this time—

She just lets Aiah talk.

About how it started, how Limasawa became something more than just an escape.

About Mikha—about the pull of her, the way she grounds Aiah without even trying.

About how, for the first time in years, Aiah feels like she’s breathing without needing permission.

When Aiah finally stops, a beat of silence settles between them.

Then—

A sigh.

“You’re so in love with her.”

Aiah groans. “Stacey.”

“No, seriously. You’re—oh my God, Aiah.” A dramatic exhale. “You basically Notting-Hill’d your way into retirement.”

Aiah snorts, rubbing a hand down her face. “Oh, shut up.”

“No, you shut up,” Stacey counters. “This is some slow-burn, high-stakes, small-island-sapphic movie kind of thing.”

Aiah exhales, rolling onto her back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. “I hate you.”

“You love me.”

A beat.

Then, softer—

“You are sure about this, right?”

Aiah lets the weight of it settle.

She could second-guess. She could list every reason why this is terrifying, why it’s reckless, why the world will push back.

But she doesn’t.

Because at the core of it all, there is only one truth.

“Yes,” she says. “I am.”

Stacey exhales, but this time, it’s lighter. “Then that’s all that matters.”

Another beat.

Then—

“So. What’s the plan?”

Aiah huffs. “That’s what I’m figuring out.”

“Well, lucky for you, I love chaos,” Stacey says cheerfully. “Let’s burn this place down—metaphorically, of course.”

Aiah laughs, something easing in her chest. “Of course.”

They talk for a while longer—about logistics, contracts, the mess that will come, but also about the possibilities.

And when Aiah finally hangs up, she sits with the quiet, lets herself feel the weight of what she’s done.

Because this is real now. Not just a thought. Not just a dream whispered against a lover’s lips.

She’s choosing this.

And for once, the unknown feels like fresh air.

Chapter Text

Aiah sits with her laptop open, notes scribbled in the margins of a notebook she’s barely touched since her last script reading.

Across the screen, her attorney leans back in his chair, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“Let me get this straight,” he says slowly. “You want out.”

Aiah nods. “Yes.”

“You want out now.”

Another nod.

A sigh. “Aiah.”

She doesn’t flinch.

She knew it wouldn’t be easy. But dragging it out? That might be worse.

“I know,” she says. “But I need to know how.”

A beat.

Then, her attorney leans forward, resting his elbows on his desk.

“Your contract still has another two years,” he reminds her. “And that’s without factoring in your endorsements and partnerships. Walking away without a plan? That’s a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

Aiah swallows. “So what are my options?”

A sigh. “Well, there are a few ways we could approach this.” He flips through his notes. “One: Buy yourself out.”

Aiah exhales, already knowing where this is going.

“That would mean settling all active contracts—paying off penalties, severance clauses, damages from unfulfilled projects…” He glances at her. “It’s possible, but it won’t be cheap.”

Aiah nods. “What else?”

“Two: A transition.” He laces his fingers together. “You start taking fewer projects, phase out your involvement in upcoming productions, gradually detach from the industry until your contracts naturally expire.”

Aiah frowns. “That could take years.”

“Yes,” he says pointedly. “But it minimizes damage control and lets you step away cleanly.”

Aiah presses her lips together.

She doesn’t want this to take years.

She doesn’t want to drag it out, trapped in something she’s already decided to leave.

Her attorney sighs again, watching her carefully.

“There’s one last option.”

Aiah lifts her gaze. “What is it?”

He hesitates. Then—

“A public scandal.”

Aiah stills.

Her heart beats a little too loud in the quiet.

Her attorney holds her gaze. “It’s not the best route, but if the right controversy is stirred up, your agency could be forced to drop you to save their own image. No breach of contract, no lawsuit.”

Aiah swallows.

Because she knows what that means.

She’s seen it happen—actors “stepping away” when it was never really their choice.

And in her case…

If she really wanted an easy exit, all she’d have to do is let herself be caught.

Let herself be painted as the cautionary tale—the star who threw away her brand for a girl with calloused hands and a soft voice.

Let the industry drag her name through the dirt. Twist her love into a liability.

The thought settles low—bitter, invasive. Familiar.

Because she knows—knows Mikha would never ask that of her.

Would never want to become the reason Aiah was branded reckless. Dangerous. Disposable.

And Aiah—

Aiah isn’t sure if she’s ready to let the world tear them apart like that.

A long silence stretches between her and her attorney.

Then—

“What do you want, Aiah?” he asks, voice softer this time.

Aiah exhales.

And when she speaks, it’s quiet.

“I just want to be free.”

Her attorney watches her for a long moment.

Then, finally, he nods.

“Then let’s figure out how to do this right.”

And yet, when the call ends, Aiah doesn’t move. Doesn’t close her laptop. Doesn’t breathe like she’s won something.

Because freedom, even when chosen, still comes with weight.

She doesn’t tell Mikha right away.

Not because she doesn’t want to.

But because she needs to hold it first.

To sit with it, to feel its edges, to let it press into her before she says it out loud.

She spends the afternoon in a haze—thoughts looping over themselves, hands restless, picking at invisible threads.

When Mikha texts her—Café’s busy today. What about you?—Aiah stares at the message for too long before replying, Just figuring some things out.

Mikha doesn’t press.

She never does.

Instead, she just sends, Okay. Come by later?

And Aiah—

Aiah wants to.

So when the sky is ink-dark, when the island hums with the quiet of everything settling, she finds herself at the café’s back door, where the world is smaller, where it is just them.

Mikha lets her in without a word. The soft clink of the bell above the door is the only sound between them.

Doesn’t ask, doesn’t prod.

Just gently pulls Aiah into the dim-lit space and hands her a cup of something warm, something familiar.

Aiah holds the cup close. The warmth seeps into her palms, but it doesn’t reach her chest. Not yet.

And maybe that’s why, when she finally speaks, her voice comes out low—

“I talked to my attorney today.”

Mikha stills, cup halfway to her lips.

Aiah watches her take it in, the words clicking into place.

Then, carefully, Mikha sets her drink down.

“What did they say?”

Aiah wraps her fingers around her own cup, staring down at the swirling liquid, at the steam curling up, up, up.

“He said I have options.”

Her voice falters. Like she’s still trying to convince herself it’s real.

Mikha nods, watching her, waiting.

“One of them is… a transition. Slowly pulling out of the industry, taking fewer projects, letting things phase out naturally.”

Mikha hums. “That makes sense.”

Aiah swallows. “Another is to buy myself out.”

Mikha’s brows lift slightly. “And?”

Aiah exhales. “It won’t be easy—or cheap.”

Mikha doesn’t look surprised. “But it’s possible?”

A pause.

Then, Aiah nods. “It is.”

She should stop there.

She could stop there.

But the last option—the one that claws at her—sits heavy in her chest, pressing against her ribs, demanding to be let out.

So she whispers—

“There’s one more… they said I could stir up a scandal.”

Mikha freezes.

She doesn’t look—because she already knows what Mikha will say.

Because she knows—knows that Mikha would never let her.

Never want her to do that.

She stares at the way her fingers tremble around her cup. “If the right controversy is stirred up, my agency could be forced to drop me.”

The air thickens. She can feel it press down.

She braces for disappointment. For that flicker of distance she wouldn’t be able to bear.

Aiah finally meets Mikha’s eyes. But when she does, it’s not what she expects.

No anger.

Just hurt.

Not at Aiah.

At the world that would make this a real option.

Mikha exhales, voice firm but soft.

“Aiah.”

She never says her name like that.

Like it’s something she wants to catch before it shatters.

Aiah clenches her jaw.

“I don’t want to.”

Mikha reaches across the table, fingertips brushing over Aiah’s wrist, gentle but sure.

“Then we won’t,” Mikha says, her thumb brushing over Aiah’s wrist like punctuation.

Aiah exhales, shaking, but nods.

She’s never been so sure about anything before.

And somehow, in a world of contracts and clauses and costs—this feels like the only decision that was ever hers. 

Chapter Text

The next morning, Aiah dials a number she hasn’t called in a long time.

It barely rings twice before a familiar voice answers.

“Aiah?”

She exhales, something in her chest loosening at the warmth in the tone. “Hey, Tatay Lito.”

A chuckle. Steady, familiar. “What’s gotten into you and you remembered to call?”

Aiah laughs softly, shaking her head. “I wanted to talk to you.”

A pause.

Then—

“You okay, anak?”

And something settles deep inside her.

Because Tatay Lito has always been like this.

Caring. Unrushed. The one person in the industry who never treated her like a product to be sold, a name to be capitalized on.

Just Aiah.

Just a girl who loved to perform.

She swallows. “I think I’m quitting.”

Silence.

Then—

A slow exhale. “I see.”

Aiah stares at her hands, absently picking at a loose thread on her sweater. “You’re not surprised?”

Tatay Lito hums, thoughtful. “I’ve known you since you were twelve, Aiah. I was there when you fell in love with this industry. And I was there when you started to lose yourself in it.”

Aiah swallows hard.

Because she remembers.

She remembers being that bright-eyed kid at her first audition, all raw talent and wide-eyed wonder. The rush of performing. The love before it all turned into something else.

Before the industry started clawing at her.

Before every word she spoke had to be calculated. Before every move had to be carefully choreographed for the public.

Before she became a brand instead of a person.

Tatay Lito’s voice is soft. “Why now, anak?”

Aiah exhales. “Because I don’t want to wake up one day and realize I’ve become someone I don’t even recognize.”

The words feel final.

Like something she’s always known but never said out loud.

Tatay Lito hums again, as if weighing his next words carefully.

“You still love it, don’t you?”

Aiah stills. The question hits something soft inside her—something she’s kept quiet for too long.

“What?”

“The craft,” he says simply. “Not the fame. Not the expectations. But this. The art of it.”

Aiah stares down at her hands.

Because she does.

She always has.

But somewhere along the way, it stopped being about that.

And maybe that’s what hurts the most.

She clears her throat. “I don’t know what to do, ‘Tay.”

Another pause.

Then, his voice, steady as ever—

“Then let’s figure it out.”

Something unwinds in her chest—not all at once, but enough.

Aiah lets out a slow breath.

Because for the first time in a long time—

She doesn’t feel lost.

But even with clarity, the question still lingers.

She has a contract. A career. A world that demands her presence even as she is preparing to step away.

And so she asks, hesitates, but asks anyway—

“How do I leave without losing myself in the process?”

There’s a long silence on the other end.

Then—

“You don’t.”

Aiah frowns. “I don’t—?”

Tatay Lito’s voice remains calm. “Aiah, you don’t leave yourself behind. That’s what you’ve been afraid of, isn’t it? That quitting means giving up a part of yourself. That stepping away means losing what you love.”

Aiah doesn’t answer.

Because it’s true. It’s always been true.

She has spent years giving everything to this industry—her time, her energy, her identity. If she walks away now, what does she have left?

Tatay Lito sighs, as if reading her thoughts. “You love acting. You love the craft. But the way the industry has shaped you—that’s what’s breaking you, isn’t it?”

Aiah closes her eyes, exhaling shakily. “Yeah.”

“Then the answer isn’t leaving everything behind,” he says simply. “It’s choosing what you want to take with you.”

Aiah’s fingers tighten around the phone.

“What if I don’t know what that is?” she whispers.

Tatay Lito chuckles softly. “You do. You’ve just been so afraid of failing—of disappointing people—that you haven’t let yourself see it.”

Aiah presses her lips together, staring out at the ocean beyond her window.

She thinks of Mikha.

Of the café. Of the storm. Of the taste of saltwater on her lips, of the way her heart felt unburdened for the first time in years.

She thinks of Limasawa, of the way the island let her breathe.

She thinks of the girl she used to be—the one who sang in her father’s car, who performed in school plays, who wanted nothing more than to create, to feel something real. Maybe that girl never left—she just got quiet for a while.

She does know.

Tatay Lito hums, as if sensing her realization. “The industry will always try to own you, Aiah. But it’s up to you to decide what you want to keep. No one else.”

Aiah swallows. “I’m tired of feeling trapped.”

“You don’t have to be,” Tatay Lito says gently. “You can leave. But you can also take what you love with you. Whether that’s acting in smaller projects, writing your own stories, taking endorsements that really align with who you are—you get to decide. You get to be free in the way that makes sense for you.”

Aiah exhales.

And suddenly—

She sees it.

A path forward.

It’s not a complete plan. It’s not a fully mapped-out future.

But it’s hers.

And that’s enough.

A quiet smile tugs at her lips. “Thank you, ‘Tay.”

Tatay Lito chuckles. “You don’t need to thank me, anak. Just promise me one thing.”

Aiah tilts her head. “What?”

“Whatever you choose, make sure it’s yours.”

Aiah closes her eyes, breathing in the salty air, letting the words settle into something certain.

She doesn’t know exactly what comes next.

But maybe that’s the beauty of it all.

The uncertainty. The confusion. And still knowing who you are, what you want, who you want.

She looks out the window once more, as if the sea can hear her.

Then—

Aiah dials the number with steady hands.

Her finger hovers over the call button. Then, with a breath—she presses down.

She isn’t shaking.

Not like she thought she would be.

The conversation with Tatay Lito still lingers in her chest, grounding her.

You don’t have to leave everything behind. You get to decide what you take with you.

She’s had this same conversation a thousand times in her head. Rehearsed every possible outcome, braced herself for the backlash.

But now—it’s real.

The line clicks.

“Aiah.”

Her manager’s voice is sharp. Clipped.

Like he already know.

Aiah exhales, her grip tightening around the phone. “I’m leaving.”

Silence.

Then—

A slow inhale. Controlled. Calculating.

“Aiah,” her manager says, voice forcibly calm, “you’re under contract.”

“I know.”

“We have commitments, endorsements, film deals—”

“I know.” Aiah presses her fingers against her temple. “And I’m not leaving tomorrow. I’m willing to transition out properly, step away from projects gradually.”

A sharp laugh. “You think it’s that simple?”

Nothing with them ever was.

“You’re one of the biggest names we have,” her manager continues. “Do you understand what you’re walking away from? Do you really understand what this will do to your career? Your image? You—”

“I know.”

She’s thought about this. Lived with this decision in her chest for weeks now.

And she’s not changing her mind.

“I won’t break my contracts,” she says. “I won’t walk out on projects I already signed on for. But I’m not renewing anything. I want out when my terms are up.”

Her manager exhales sharply. “We’ll have to discuss this.”

Aiah lifts her chin. “Fine.”

A long pause.

Then—

“You’re making a mistake, Aiah.”

Aiah almost laughs.

Because maybe, once upon a time, she would have believed that.

But now she just says, voice firm, steady—

“Then I’ll own it. But it’ll be mine to make.”

And this time, she doesn’t wait for permission.

And she hangs up.

She doesn’t move right away.

Just sits there, phone still in her hand, the silence stretching around her.

Not empty. Not uncertain.

Just still.

Like something heavy has finally been set down.

Then it starts subtly.

Stepping away from endorsements is the easiest way out.

She stops signing new deals.

Lets her existing contracts quietly run their course.

And when the press notices—because they always do—the headlines begin.

Why is Aiah Arceta pulling away from brand deals?
Aiah’s management silent on the actress’s recent decisions—what’s next for the superstar?

The industry murmurs. Speculates. Spreads theories like wildfire.

Her team pushes back—meetings, counteroffers, attempts to lure her into one more project, one more deal, one more year of being the Aiah they built.

But Aiah keeps moving forward.

Because this?

This is just the beginning—quiet, certain, and finally hers.

And maybe that’s what freedom sounds like, after all. 

Chapter Text

The world notices when Aiah starts stepping back. Not in a headline-breaking scandal, but in small, deliberate choices.

She turns down interviews.

Stops attending industry events.

Lets endorsement deals expire without renewal.

The press speculates. Headlines shift—from curiosity to concern, to outright panic.

Why is Aiah Arceta pulling back?
Is Aiah Arceta leaving showbiz?
Arceta’s management scrambles to maintain her star power—what’s next for the actress?

Her management tries to control the narrative, but Aiah doesn’t play into it.

She keeps moving forward—because this is her choice, and for the first time in a long time, no one else gets to make it for her.

It’s not loud, this defiance.

But it’s hers.

A quiet reclaiming, the kind that doesn’t need applause—only the courage to keep showing up for herself.

Then, between the chaos, there’s Mikha.

Somehow, even with their lives spinning in different directions—

They still find their way to each other.

It’s in the small moments.

A text from Mikha in the middle of Aiah’s never-ending meetings:

Mikha: Hope you’re not planning world domination with that frown you always make when you’re deep in thought.

Aiah: No promises.

Mikha: At least let me be your first lady.

Aiah laughs, shaking her head.

She rereads the exchange once more, thumb hovering above the screen.

It’s ridiculous, how one line from Mikha can loosen something knotted in her chest.

Sometimes, it’s more than texts.

It’s a call when the day is too long.

When Aiah collapses into bed, exhaustion thick in her bones, and hears Mikha’s voice on the other end.

“Hey, superstar.”

Aiah smiles, even though she knows Mikha can’t see it. “I’m trying not to be one anymore.”

Mikha hums. “Then what do I call you?”

Aiah thinks about it.

Then—

“Just Aiah.”

A pause.

Then, soft, fond—

“Hi, Aiah.”

Aiah presses the phone tighter against her ear, suddenly wishing they weren’t cities apart.

No cameras. No scripts. Just this. Just them.

And in that space, she feels more known than a hundred interviews ever let her be.

Somehow, that makes her fall even harder.

The next day, Aiah is curled up on the couch, half-distracted while Stacey rants about something, when her phone vibrates—Mikha’s name lighting up on FaceTime.

She answers without thinking. “Hey—”

“HEY, HOLD ON.”

Stacey throws herself into the frame, eyes wide with realization.

Mikha blinks. “Oh.”

A beat.

Then—

“Oh my God,” Stacey gasps, grabbing Aiah’s arm. “You’re real.”

Aiah groans. “Staks—”

“No, shut up.” Stacey gapes at Mikha. “I knew you existed, but you’re actually real. Holy shit.”

Mikha, baffled but amused, raises a hand in greeting. “Hi?”

“Oh my God, she’s polite,” Stacey mutters. “Aiah, you’re so gone for her.”

Aiah buries her face in a pillow.

Mikha laughs, voice warm, easy.

And maybe that’s what makes Aiah breathe a little easier.

It’s strange, she thinks—how falling can feel so much like landing.

Like coming home not to a place, but to a person who meets you right where you are.

The days pass quietly—filled with calls, visits, and the slow, steady build of something real.

Because somehow, in the middle of stepping away from one life, she’s finding a new one.

And it feels like it’s hers.

The decision isn’t rash this time. It’s deliberate. Chosen. She books the flight to Cebu and rides the ferry to Leyte, and then a smaller boat.

The moment Aiah steps off, she exhales. Like she’s been holding her breath this whole time.

The first time she came here, she was unraveling. This time, she’s becoming.

Limasawa stretches before her—golden in the afternoon sun, the air thick with salt and something familiar. Something like belonging.

This time, it isn’t escape. It’s return.

And that changes everything.

It’s almost laughable how predictable it is.

The second Aiah walks up the shore, Mikha is already there, arms crossed, a knowing smile on her lips.

“You’re getting predictable, Aiah.”

Aiah rolls her eyes, but she can’t stop the grin tugging at her lips—like her heart already knew it would find its way back to this.

“And yet, you’re still here waiting for me.”

Mikha tilts her head. “Maybe I just like being right.”

Aiah hums. “Or maybe you just like me.”

Mikha doesn’t even blink. Just takes a step closer, close enough that Aiah can smell the faint traces of coffee on her.

“I do,” Mikha says simply. “And you know that.”

Aiah hates how her breath catches. How easily Mikha unravels her, even after all this time.

She exhales, pressing her forehead to Mikha’s shoulder.

“I missed you,” she admits, voice smaller than she intended, muffled against Mikha’s shoulder.

Mikha wraps her arms around her. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “I missed you, too.”

And if home was ever a person, it is Mikha.

And maybe, for the first time, she’s ready to stay.

Not just in a place.

But in a love she no longer feels the need to earn.

Chapter Text

The apartment is a mess.

Half-filled boxes. Clothes in unsteady piles—one for charity. One for keeping. One for just-in-case.

Aiah stares at it all, overwhelmed for a second.

It’s not just stuff—it’s memory. Versions of the girl she used to be.

Pieces of her life.

Pieces of the girl she was when she first moved in here.

The actress. The brand. The carefully curated Aiah Arceta.

And now—

Now, she’s choosing what stays and what gets left behind.

Just a few months left—before the contracts end, before this apartment, this life, becomes a past tense.

It should scare her.

But it doesn’t.

Not when she’s the one making the choice.

Then—

“Okay, explain this.”

Aiah turns just in time to see Mikha holding up an obnoxiously sequined jacket, expression deeply concerned.

Aiah snorts. “It was for a shoot.”

Mikha raises an eyebrow. “Do you plan on ever wearing it again?”

“No.”

Mikha tosses it straight into the donation pile.

Aiah laughs, shaking her head. “You’re ruthless.”

“I’m efficient,” Mikha corrects, already moving on to the next item.

Aiah watches her—how she moves around the apartment like she belongs here, how easily she slots herself into Aiah’s life.

How it’s never felt like Mikha was intruding—but like sunlight slipping through familiar curtains.

Mikha suddenly pauses, pulling something from the pile.

A worn-out hoodie.

Not just any hoodie—

The one Aiah stole from Mikha the first time she was here.

The one that gave them away to Stacey.

It still smells faintly like sea salt and cinnamon.

Like that stormy week when nothing made sense, and yet somehow, Mikha did.

Mikha smirks, holding it up. “So this made the cut?”

Aiah grabs it from her before she can say anything else. “Obviously.”

Mikha hums, stepping closer. “You keeping it because it’s comfortable? Or because it smells like me?”

Aiah rolls her eyes. “I washed it, Mikha.”

Mikha leans in, smirk widening. “So you admit it smelled like me?”

Aiah shoves her playfully. “Oh, shut up.”

Mikha laughs, the sound easy, warm.

It wraps around Aiah like home.

And she realizes—this is the easiest decision she has ever made.

Not because it’s simple. But because it’s right.

But some decisions aren’t made in quiet.

Some need to be spoken out loud.

So Aiah doesn’t tell Mikha right away.

She only says, “Let’s have dinner at my mom’s place.”

Mikha, perceptive as always, just tilts her head, but doesn’t question it.

She just shows up—steady, sure, like always.

The house smells like fabric conditioner and old stories clinging to the curtains.

Aiah hasn’t sat at this table in months, but somehow, everything still fits.

And then there’s Mikha—

Mikha is polite.

She greets Aiah’s mom with a respectful nod, calls her Tita, thanks her for the food.

She offers to help clear the table, listens when Aiah’s mom tells old stories about Aiah’s childhood, laughs at all the right moments.

And Aiah’s mom—

She watches.

Watches the way Mikha is careful with Aiah. The way she makes sure Aiah’s glass is never empty, the way her gaze lingers just a second longer when Aiah speaks.

Watches the way Aiah leans toward Mikha, relaxes around her in a way she doesn’t around anyone else.

Then—

Her mom smiles.

A small thing. But it carries the weight of years.

And Aiah knows.

She knows.

Her mother sees it.

Understands it.

Doesn’t need to ask.

Because she’s always known Aiah better than anyone else.

So after dinner, when it’s just them—

Aiah finally says it.

“Ma, I’m moving to Limasawa.”

A pause.

Then—

Her mom just nods.

Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I figured.”

Aiah blinks. “You did?”

Her mom smiles softly, nodding toward the kitchen where Mikha is still helping clean up.

“You were always going to go where your heart feels at home, anak. I just didn’t know where that would be. Until now.”

Her mom adds, voice gentler now, almost like a memory brushing against them both:

“Your Papa would’ve loved her, you know.”

Aiah’s breath hitches.

Not because it’s unexpected.

But because it’s the kind of knowing that lives in silence, in long-held glances and unsaid blessings.

“I think he would’ve seen it right away,” her mom continues. “The way you soften around her. The way she looks at you like you’re something to be tended to, not managed.”

And maybe that’s what breaks Aiah open just a little.

Not the approval.

But the way it sounds like her father is still here.

Still watching.

Still loving her through the people he left behind.

Aiah wipes at her cheek, pretending it’s just the light.

She doesn’t say anything.

She doesn’t need to.

Because in this quiet, her father’s love feels close enough to hold.

She doesn’t have everything packed yet.

But the important things—the things worth keeping—she’s already carrying with her.

Chapter Text

The wind off the sea is softer this time.

There’s no rush in Aiah’s steps as she disembarks. No nerves. No ache in her chest trying to name what this is.

It’s not return. It’s not escape.

It’s arrival.

She sets her feet on the sand like she’s meant to stay.

Mikha doesn’t say Welcome back.

Because that’s not what this is.

Instead, she meets Aiah at the dock, hands in her pockets, that same knowing smile tugging at her lips.

“You made it,” Mikha says simply.

Aiah exhales, dropping her bag to the sand.

And then—

She steps forward and presses her forehead to Mikha’s, her fingers curling around the fabric of Mikha’s shirt.

“I did,” she whispers.

And she means it—in the way that settles deep in her chest, quiet and certain.

And God.

The way Mikha’s hands settle on her waist, the way she exhales like she’s been holding her breath this whole time—

This feels like home.

But while Aiah is finding home again, the world is just starting to notice she’s gone.

The headlines hit like waves on the shore.

Aiah Arceta Leaves Showbiz—Where Is She Now?
Former Superstar Disappears—Sources Say She’s Settling Down
Aiah Arceta’s Shocking Career Move—A New Life or Just Another Break?

The public speculates.

Fans mourn her exit.

Some call it brave. Others call it reckless.

But Aiah?

Aiah doesn’t care.

Because for the first time in years—she’s living on her own terms.

And she’s exactly where she’s supposed to be.

Later, when the night is quiet, Aiah and Mikha sit on the balcony bench, the same spot where they had so many conversations—some hesitant, some restless, and some like this.

Soft. Steady. Home.

Mikha hands Aiah a cup of tea, and Aiah hums, fingers wrapping around the warmth.

“Did you ever think we’d end up here?” Aiah asks, gaze flickering toward Mikha.

Mikha exhales, leaning back against the wall, eyes drifting to the expanse of the sea before them. “No,” she admits. “But maybe I hoped.”

Aiah turns to her fully, studying her. “You did?”

Mikha tilts her head, a small smile forming. “I think I started hoping the moment you asked me to stay that night.”

The memory hangs between them—humid night, trembling breath, the weight of something beginning.

Aiah lets out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “I didn’t even know why I did that.”

Mikha shrugs. “You know now.”

Aiah does.

She knows exactly why.

Because even back then, before she could name it, before she could accept it—

Mikha was already settling into her heart.

She exhales, looking at Mikha fully, as if she’s memorizing her all over again.

“We’ve been through a lot.”

Mikha chuckles, rubbing a hand over her knee. “That’s one way to put it.”

They sit in comfortable silence, the weight of everything they’ve been through lingering between them—not heavy, not suffocating, just there.

A reminder of how they fought for this.

For each other.

For this life.

Mikha turns to her, eyes soft but certain. “Would you do it all over again?”

Aiah doesn’t even hesitate.

“Yes.”

Even the hard parts. Especially the hard parts. Because they led her here.

And the way Mikha smiles—

Like she already knew the answer—

Makes Aiah fall in love with her all over again.

They fall asleep with the sound of the sea between them, quiet and sure. The kind of silence that doesn’t ask for anything—just stays.

The next morning, the island stirs around them—and so does something else. A step forward neither of them had spoken aloud yet.

Mikha says she’s taking her somewhere.

She doesn’t make a big deal out of it.

Casually, over breakfast: “We should visit my grandparents later.”

Aiah nearly chokes on her coffee.

Mikha grins, rubbing her back. “I figured it’s time.”

Aiah wipes her mouth, narrowing her eyes. “And you’re only telling me now?”

Mikha shrugs. “Would you have slept if I told you last night?”

Aiah glares. “That’s not the point.”

Mikha laughs, stealing a bite from Aiah’s plate like she does this every day—and maybe that’s the craziest part of all.

This is their life now.

Later that afternoon, the road curves gently inland, away from the sound of waves and toward something quieter—something old, familiar.

Mikha’s grandparents live in a house just slightly inland, tucked away from the busier parts of the island.

It smells like old wood and fresh air, the kind of house that’s lived in, that’s seen lifetimes.

Mikha pushes open the gate, leading Aiah toward the porch where two elderly figures are already waiting.

Aiah straightens. Nervous.

Mikha squeezes her hand once before letting go.

“Lola, Lolo,” Mikha calls out, grinning. “I brought someone special.”

Aiah wants to say something, wants to introduce herself, but Mikha’s grandmother just smiles, eyes kind, knowing.

“We know who she is, apo,” she says simply, before turning to Aiah. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

One of the chairs on the porch is already dusted off. A third mug of salabat sits on the low table, steam curling in the breeze.

Her grandmother gestures to it with a smile, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I thought you might like ginger tea.”

Aiah sits. The mug warms her palms. She’s not sure what to say, but the quiet fills in the gaps.

Mikha’s grandfather leans forward. “She talks about you, you know. Even before she admitted it to herself.”

Aiah meets his gaze—and for a brief moment, braces for the questions, the scrutiny, the polite distance she’s used to.

But there’s none of that.

Just warmth. Like she’s being looked at for the first time as herself, and not the name people used to chase through headlines.

She glances at Mikha.

The way she laughs softly when her Lola makes a joke. The way she instinctively reaches out to steady her Lolo’s cane. The way she doesn’t rush the conversation, doesn’t try to fill the silence, but simply lets things be.

And suddenly, Aiah sees it.

Not just in the gestures—but in the gentleness.

The patience. The grace. The way Mikha has always made space for others, even when the world didn’t.

It’s in her hands, her voice, the quiet strength that feels so deeply inherited.

And Aiah realizes—this isn’t just where Mikha came from.

It’s what she’s been offering Aiah all along.

The kind of love that’s steady. Tending. Rooted.

She looks down at the tea in her hands and feels something settle inside her.

Like she understands Mikha even more clearly now.

Like love, real love, leaves traces.

And Mikha carries all of it forward.

They stay awhile. Drink tea. Share stories. And when the light begins to dim, it doesn’t feel like closing—it feels like something settling in.

By the following morning, Limasawa wakes up slowly.

The sun rises softly, the waves whisper against the shore, the air smells of salt and morning coffee.

Aiah steps onto the balcony, pulling Mikha’s hoodie tighter around her.

She watches the world come alive—the fishermen pushing their boats into the tide, the small market opening, the familiar hum of an island at peace with itself.

A place that moves at its own pace.

A place that is now home.

Behind her, Mikha steps out, still drowsy, her now dark hair mussed from sleep.

She hands Aiah a cup of coffee without a word, just stands a breath away, resting her chin on Aiah’s shoulder.

Aiah exhales, warmth settling deep in her chest.

They don’t need to say anything.

They just exist, together.

Aiah knows this won’t be the last time the world will try to pull at her, try to remind her of the life she left behind.

There will be headlines. Speculation. Maybe even questions she won’t always have answers to.

But that doesn’t scare her anymore.

Because here, in this life—

She is herself.

And Mikha?

Mikha is here.

Always steady. Always home.

Mikha shifts, pressing a sleepy kiss to Aiah’s temple.

“What are you thinking about?” she murmurs.

Aiah hums, tilting her head slightly. “How far we’ve come.”

Mikha smiles against her skin. “And how far we’ll go.”

Aiah closes her eyes, exhales.

She doesn’t know what the future holds.

But this—

This is enough.

Not something to prove. Not something to perform.

Just a quiet life, chosen every morning.

Just theirs. 

Chapter Text

The café is quieter in the mornings.

Another storm season has passed, and Limasawa exhales, unburdened beneath a sky that stretches wide and unbroken. The waves have gentled; their restless fury soothed to something soft—a lullaby whispered against the shore. Salt lingers in the air, mingling with the rich aroma of coffee.

Aiah leans against the counter, watching as Mikha moves behind the espresso machine. The early light catches in the loose strands of her tied-back hair, in the effortless precision of her hands as she works. Sleeves rolled up, fingers ghosting over polished steel and porcelain—she’s seen this before.

But still—she could watch it forever.

Mikha sets a cup in front of her, the ceramic warm against the cool wood of the counter. The gesture is familiar—like an old song, one she’d always remember the words to.

The steam curls between them. A pause. Then—

“You always make me this one,” Aiah says, arching an eyebrow.

Mikha’s lips curve, a quiet thing, softer than a smile. “It’s yours.”

Aiah huffs, playful, tilting her head. “I didn’t order anything yet.”

Mikha hums, her gaze flicking briefly toward the menu board.

“I meant the blend.”

Aiah follows her line of sight.

There, written in careful, sloping cursive between the usual offerings—

Like a Quiet Evening.

It shouldn’t catch her off guard—but it does.

Her breath stills.

It is a memory folded into ink, a moment plucked from another life and placed here, in permanence. Aiah remembers: the first night she came to this café, rain-slicked and world-weary, feeling more like driftwood than a person. She had sat here, in this very seat, uncertain of what to ask for—unsure if she even knew what she wanted. And Mikha—Mikha, with her knowing silence—had simply handed her a cup of coffee.

Aiah had taken a sip, let the warmth press into the cold, splintered edges of her chest, and without thinking, she had murmured, Like a quiet evening.

She hadn’t realized Mikha was listening.

And now—

Now, it is here.

A name on the menu. A name that belongs to her.

She takes a slow sip.

It tastes the same. But this time, it feels like it’s hers.

She glances up—and pauses.

There, half-buried under receipts and notes on the café’s corkboard, is a photo she didn’t realize Mikha had kept.

Her, maybe ten years old, grinning too wide beside her father, both holding up their ice cream cones like trophies.

Aiah blinks, slower this time, the warmth in her chest shifting into something deeper. Quieter.

Mikha notices. Doesn’t make a moment of it.

“Your mom sent it,” she says simply. “Said he’d like it here.”

Aiah nods.

She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to.

The picture says enough.

Outside, the wind rattles the window gently—less like a warning, more like a reminder. She’s not just passing through anymore.

Aiah looks back at Mikha—really looks.

And not for the first time, she wonders how she got this lucky.

How this girl, who once stood behind a counter offering her a kind of comfort she didn’t know how to want, is now the constant in all her quiet mornings.

And maybe that’s what love is.

Not the storm. Not the undoing.

But the hand that brews your favorite cup without asking.

The voice that calls you home without needing to raise itself.

The choice made over and over—

To have, to hold. Even on the quiet days. Especially on the quiet days.

Aiah exhales, the warmth in her chest settling like steam curling above the cup.

Across the counter, Mikha leans in slightly, voice as soft as the morning light, gaze even softer.

“Welcome home, Aiah.”

Chapter Text

Aiah expects them, of course. She knows the world won’t let her slip away quietly. She has left the stage, but the spotlight still clings to her—desperate, hungry, unwilling to let go.

The headlines are ridiculous.

Aiah Arceta’s Sudden Retirement: Secret Marriage?
Pregnant? Sources Say Aiah Arceta is Hiding a Major Life Change!
Where is Aiah Arceta Now? The Actress Vanishes Following Career Exit

Aiah groans when she first sees them. Across the counter, Mikha—ever unbothered—leans against on it, scrolling through the articles with an amused smirk.

“You sure you don’t want to confirm it?” Mikha teases, eyes glinting with mischief. “I mean, we could start a family business.”

Aiah glares at her. “Don’t encourage them.”

Mikha chuckles, entirely too relaxed. And Aiah knows why. Because they know the truth. And that is enough.

But of course, Stacey?

Stacey loves chaos.

And the universe—because it has a cruel sense of humor—hands her the perfect opportunity.

So the next morning, at the press conference for Stacey’s new album, the reporters waste no time.

They ask about the music, the inspiration, the sound—until, inevitably, someone just has to bring up Aiah.

“Stacey, you and Aiah Arceta have always been close. Can you confirm the rumors about her stepping away because she’s pregnant?”

The room stills.

Stacey blinks. Looks at the reporter. Then—slowly—smiles.

The kind of smile Aiah knows means trouble.

She leans into the mic, lacing her fingers together. “Oh, absolutely.”

Silence.

Pens freeze midair. A cameraman nearly drops his equipment.

Stacey tilts her head, voice syrupy sweet. “Aiah is pregnant. With possibilities. With peace. With a future she actually wants.” She gasps dramatically. “And maybe even… a decent sleep schedule.”

Laughter ripples through the room, but Stacey isn’t finished.

“I mean, sure, she could be hiding a secret.” She hums, tapping a finger against her chin. “Like… I don’t know, maybe a girlfriend instead of a husband? Maybe she ran away to a beautiful island to live her best life? Who’s to say, really?”

The whispers are immediate.

The reporters smell blood in the water.

“Are you saying Aiah left to be with someone?”

Stacey shrugs, a picture of innocence. “I’m just saying, if I were Aiah? I’d leave for love.”

The room erupts.

Aiah screams into a pillow.

Mikha, beside her, sips her coffee, completely unbothered. “So… soft launch over?”

Aiah groans. “I hate her.”

Mikha grins. “No, you don’t.”

Aiah lets out a defeated sigh.

Because Stacey is chaos incarnate.

And honestly?

Aiah should have seen this coming.

The press conference was already a mess.

Stacey had done what she did best—set a fire and walked away, leaving the world scrambling to put it out.

But did she stop there?

Absolutely not.

The interview clips went viral before Aiah could even blink.

Aiah Arceta Pregnant?!
Stacey Drops Bombshell About Aiah’s Love Life—Island Romance Confirmed?
Stacey Sevilleja, Minister of Chaos, Possibly Outs Best Friend on Live TV

Aiah nearly dies when she sees the headlines.

The internet is losing its mind.

And Stacey?

Stacey is having the time of her life.

One hour later, Aiah’s phone call from hell arrives.

“What the hell did you just do?”

Stacey cackles on the other end of the line. “Babe, I just gave you the softest launch of all time.”

“That was NOT a soft launch!” Aiah screeches. “That was a nuclear detonation!”

“Oh, come on, did you see their faces? It was beautiful.”

“Staku—”

“I did you a favor,” Stacey interrupts. “Now, instead of wild speculation about pregnancy, they’re obsessed with who you ran away for. You should be thanking me.”

Aiah runs a hand down her face. “You literally almost outed me on national television.”

“Almost,” Stacey agrees. “Key word. I gave them just enough to spiral. The fandom detectives are working overtime right now.”

Aiah stills. Horror pools in her stomach.

“Oh my God,” she whispers. “The fans.”

The theories were already out of control before.

Some were convinced she was secretly married. Others thought she had a baby on the way. And now, thanks to Stacey, a new theory has taken over the internet:

Aiah Arceta left the industry for love.

And they are determined to figure out who.

“I hate you,” Aiah groans.

“No, you don’t.”

“I really do.”

“No, you really don’t.”

Across the room, Mikha—who has been enjoying the entire show with a cup of coffee—finally decides to chime in. “Ask her how long before she thinks they find me.”

Aiah turns to her, horrified. “They won’t—”

Mikha raises an eyebrow.

Aiah groans. “Oh, God, they will.”

Stacey howls on the other end. “Oh, babe. It’s already happening.”

Aiah’s stomach drops.

She scrambles for her laptop, frantically opening Twitter.

And there it is.

A thread—no, multiple threads—already gaining thousands of likes and retweets.

GUYS. WHO IS AIAH ARCETA’S MYSTERY GIRLFRIEND? A DEEP-DIVE:

The first post is a simple screenshot.

Aiah’s old Instagram story.

A photo of a sunset. A coffee cup in the corner. And in the reflection of the glass window—

A blurry silhouette.

The caption?

“Best coffee I’ve ever had.”

The comments are feral.

SHE LEFT FOR A BARISTA???
Not just any barista, besties. She left for THE barista.
If I find her I just wanna talk. Just wanna know what kind of coffee has this much RIZZ.
PLS the fact that Aiah was soft launching this whole time and we didn’t notice.
Whoever she is, she better be drop-dead gorgeous because I need to know what kind of face has Aiah Arceta acting like a lovesick fool.

Aiah screams into her pillow.

Mikha?

Mikha just smirks.

“Welp,” she says, stretching her arms behind her head. “Guess the island’s about to get a lot of visitors.”

It’s been four hours since Stacey’s press conference.

Four.

And somehow—somehow—the internet is already dangerously close to finding Mikha.

Aiah refreshes Twitter, dread curling deep in her stomach.

The top post has over fifty thousand likes.

Okay, hear me out: Aiah’s mystery girlfriend has RED HAIR. A THREAD:

Aiah nearly dies.

She clicks it—because of course she does—and immediately regrets everything.

The first post is a screenshot from one of Aiah’s old interviews.

An innocent clip, filmed months ago, where she had been answering some boring question about her favorite drinks.

But now—someone has zoomed in on her expression.

Because the second she mentioned coffee, she had smiled.

Soft. Subtle.

Like she was thinking about something.

Or—someone.

And the fandom?

The fandom notices everything.

NOOO STOP IT SHE SMILED WHEN SHE SAID COFFEE IM GONNA DIE
whoever this barista is, I want them gone. I want them EVAPORATED.
oh my god oh my god what if she left for some small-town island café owner someone hold me
BET SHE HAS RED HAIR. CALLING IT NOW.

And then—the next post has Aiah’s soul leaving her body.

Because it’s no longer just theories.

Someone has posted a side-by-side photo.

On the left—Aiah’s blurry reflection from her old Instagram story.

On the right—a completely unrelated photo of a random barista, posted by a random tourist account, taken at some beachside café.

And the resemblance?

Terrifyingly close.

Aiah yelps so loudly that Mikha—who has been innocently eating dried mangoes on the couch—looks up in alarm.

“What? What happened?”

Aiah throws her phone at her. “THIS HAPPENED.”

Mikha catches it, brows furrowing as she scans the post.

And then—

A slow, lazy smirk.

“Well,” she drawls, clicking her tongue. “Guess I’m famous now.”

Aiah gapes. “You’re not taking this seriously?”

Mikha grins, completely amused. “What do you want me to do? Change my name? Go into witness protection?”

Aiah groans, burying her face in her hands. “They can’t find you. If they do, it’s—it’s over.”

Mikha hums, scrolling through the replies. “Wow, they’re really going feral over this.”

Aiah peeks between her fingers. “How bad is it?”

Mikha snorts. “One girl said she’d sell her left kidney to know if I make good coffee.”

Aiah lets out a strangled noise.

Mikha laughs.

And then—

A notification.

A new tweet has just been posted.

UPDATE: I THINK I FOUND THE CAFÉ. HOLD ON.

Aiah and Mikha freeze.

The room goes silent.

The mango piece slips from Mikha’s fingers.

Aiah snatches her phone back, clicking on the post so fast she nearly drops it.

The user has attached a Google Maps screenshot.

A tiny, unnamed café.

On a random island.

A place that looks dangerously similar.

“Oh my god,” Aiah whispers.

Mikha blinks. “Well.”

And then—

From the other side of the room—

Stacey’s unhinged laughter echoes through the speakerphone.

“Oh, this is getting good.”

Aiah groans. “Stacey, this is a disaster.”

Stacey hums. “Or is it the greatest soft launch of all time?”

Mikha, ever the agent of chaos, actually considers it. “I mean, they’re wrong about the hair—”

“Not the point,” Aiah snaps, pacing the room. “They’re too close.”

Stacey cackles. “Babe, you’ve survived worse. Just deny, deny, deny.”

Aiah whips around. “Easy for you to say! You’re not the one whose girlfriend is about to be doxxed by Twitter detectives with too much free time!”

Mikha, meanwhile, is still scrolling, completely unbothered. “Ooh, they’re debating whether I’d be a Capricorn or a Virgo.”

Aiah screams into a pillow.

She is still reeling.

Still pacing.

Still trying to figure out how to contain this disaster—

When Mikha makes a sound.

A weird, choked-off sound.

Aiah whirls around. “What?”

Mikha just stares at her screen.

Then—slowly—she turns it toward Aiah.

And Aiah—

Aiah has to sit down.

Because there, in all its viral glory, is a tweet with over a hundred thousand likes.

No but LISTEN. Imagine being so hot and unbothered that THE Aiah Arceta leaves showbiz just to live in your little island café. Imagine having that kind of charisma.

Aiah buries her face in her hands. “Oh my god.”

Mikha—who has spent the last hours being hunted by internet detectives—has the audacity to smirk.

“Well,” she says, tapping her chin. “They have a point.”

Aiah whips her head up. “NO, THEY DON’T.”

Mikha hums, scrolling. “I mean, statistically speaking, what are the odds of this happening? You, a famous actress, suddenly deciding to live in a small town? For me?”

Aiah glares. “I am literally going to suffocate you in your sleep.”

But Mikha is already reading more tweets.

“I don’t know who she is. I don’t know what she looks like. But this barista has my RESPECT.”

“Okay but imagine being some random café owner and suddenly Aiah Arceta shows up, orders a latte, and then NEVER LEAVES.”

“No thoughts just Aiah being so down bad for this woman that she left everything to live her small-town coffee shop AU.”

Aiah grabs a pillow and screams into it.

Mikha, meanwhile, is way too smug.

“Huh,” she muses, scrolling further. “Some of them are even thirsting.”

Aiah freezes.

“What.”

Mikha turns the phone around again, and Aiah’s soul leaves her body.

“No face. No name. No identity. Just ‘The Barista’ and I already want her to ruin my life.”

“She works in a café? Bet she smells like espresso and heartbreak. I’m in love.”

“I don’t care if I never see her face. The way Aiah Arceta is ACTING UP has convinced me she’s the hottest woman alive.”

Aiah lets out a deeply pained noise.

Mikha smirks. “I do smell like espresso.”

“Mikha.”

“And technically, I did ruin your life.”

“MIKHA.”

But Mikha isn’t even listening anymore.

She has fully embraced the chaos, scrolling with interest, completely unfazed that strangers on the internet are creating an entire fantasy around her existence.

Aiah collapses onto the couch, absolutely done with everything.

And then—

A soft ding.

Another notification.

Aiah doesn’t even have the strength to check, but Mikha—fully entertained—lifts her phone and reads aloud:

“We need a Netflix documentary on The Barista. Who is she? How did she pull THE Aiah Arceta? Was it the coffee? The quiet confidence? The fact that she just MINDS HER OWN DAMN BUSINESS? I NEED ANSWERS.

Mikha grins, sickeningly pleased.

“Well,” she says, far too happy about this. “At least they get my vibe.”

Aiah screams into the pillow again.

But she only gets exactly three minutes of peace.

Three minutes of thinking maybe—just maybe—things are settling.

Then, her phone explodes.

Text messages. Missed calls. Social media mentions skyrocketing.

She blinks at the notifications—

Then clicks the first one.

And freezes.

Because there, posted for her millions of followers to see, is a photo of Stacey—flowy beach dress, hair tousled by the wind, sunglasses perched lazily on her nose—

Captioned: Maid of honor for today’s intimate beach wedding.

Aiah drops her phone.

Mikha, lounging across the room, barely lifts an eyebrow. “What now?”

Aiah points at the device like it has personally attacked her. “Check. Twitter.”

Mikha—who has fully embraced the chaos at this point—casually reaches for her phone, opens the app, and—

“Oh.”

A beat.

Then—

“Oh.”

Aiah groans, burying her face in her hands. “She’s going to be the death of me.”

Mikha, grinning like the absolute menace she is, starts reading aloud.

“Did Aiah just secretly get married? On a beach? Did The Barista actually lock her down???”

“We have now entered the ‘mysterious wife arc’ and I’m not okay.”

“Stacey is the maid of honor… WHO IS THE BRIDE???”

“Somewhere in an island, The Barista is probably just making coffee, completely unaware that the internet thinks she’s now a wife.”

Mikha snorts. “They’re not wrong.”

Aiah groans louder, collapsing onto the couch. “Why does she do this?”

Mikha shrugs, zero sympathy in sight. “Because she lives for chaos?”

As if to confirm this, another text pops up on Aiah’s screen.

Staku: tell ur fans congrats!!! ❤️💍🌊

Aiah whips around. “SHE’S TEXTING ME EMOJIS.”

Mikha cackles. “Oh, this is so fun.”

Aiah throws a pillow at her.

Mikha, still laughing, dodges easily. “Hey, at least you’re trending for something wholesome this time.”

Aiah groans, because she knows—

Knows that no matter what she says, no matter how much she tries to deny this—

The internet has already decided she’s married.

She spends the rest of the day in PR disaster mode.

Fielding calls from her mother (who nearly had a heart attack).

Dealing with her old management (who, apparently, would rather she be actually married than retired).

And worst of all—trying to stop Mikha from reading every single unhinged tweet out loud.

Then—

Her phone rings.

And of course. Of course.

It’s her.

Aiah sighs so deeply it could shake the earth’s core before answering.

“What do you want?”

On the other end, Stacey giggles.

GIGGLES.

“Oh, babe,” she drawls. “You sound stressed. Marriage life not treating you well?”

Aiah groans. “You’re unbearable.”

“I’m a vision,” Stacey corrects. “And actually, I was calling to tell you something very important.”

Aiah narrows her eyes. “If it’s another emoji-laden text about my ‘mysterious island wife,’ I swear—”

“No, no, it’s better.”

A dramatic pause. Then—

“I’ve decided.”

Aiah pinches the bridge of her nose. “Stacey, what have you decided?”

“I’m visiting.”

Aiah freezes.

Stacey continues, completely unbothered.

“I mean, it’s only fair, right? You left me behind. You abandoned your fans. You disappeared into some romantic novel storyline where you ran away to an island and fell in love with a barista—”

“I did not—”

“—and honestly, I feel like it’s my duty as your best friend to check in on you. See if your barista girlfriend is treating you right. Maybe get a tan. Maybe do a little fishing.”

Aiah stares at the wall, speechless.

Stacey visiting? Here?

Where she’d have direct access to Mikha?

Where she could witness firsthand the chaos she lives to incite?

Aiah whispers in horror. “Oh my God. You’re going to make it worse.”

Stacey gasps, offended. “I would never.”

“Stacey.”

“Aiah.”

Aiah runs a hand down her face. “You are actually coming here?”

A pause.

Then—

“Babe, I already booked the flight.”

Aiah dies right there on the spot.

Mikha, who has been listening from across the room, perks up. “She’s coming?”

Aiah throws another pillow.

Mikha catches it, grinning. “Oh, I like her.”

Stacey, hearing none of this, continues in a cheerful voice:

“See you in a few days, Mrs. Barista.”

And then—she hangs up.

Aiah collapses onto the couch.

Mikha wanders over, smirking. “Sooo… when’s she arriving?”

Aiah groans into the pillow.

This is going to be a disaster.

Aiah has spent the entire morning bracing for impact.

Mikha, on the other hand, has spent the entire morning laughing at her.

“She’s not that bad,” Mikha says, casually sipping her coffee.

Aiah glares. “You don’t know her.” She leans forward, voice low and grave, like she’s warning someone about an impending natural disaster. “She thrives on chaos. She is chaos incarnate.”

Mikha just grins. “Sounds like my kind of person.”

And now—

Now, as the boat docks and passengers start disembarking onto the shore, Aiah feels the impending catastrophe before she even sees it.

Then—

A scream splits the air.

“AIAAAAAAH!”

Aiah barely has time to react before—

“Oh my God.” She smacks a hand over her face as Stacey launches herself off the boat like she’s making a grand entrance at an awards show.

Through the sand, full sprint, arms outstretched like a dramatic movie reunion scene—

Stacey is coming.

Mikha, beside her, has stopped breathing.

Aiah peeks at her and—yep. Mikha is gaping, eyes wide as Stacey barrels toward them like a chaotic force of nature.

Then, before Aiah can escape, Stacey crashes into her, hugging her so violently they nearly topple into the sand.

“You really did it, huh?” Stacey wails, clutching Aiah like she’s mourning her loss. “You actually quit showbiz for a girl. My best friend is a romance novel protagonist.”

Aiah groans. “Staks—”

“No, no, I always knew this was happening.” Stacey waves a hand, stepping back to survey her. “Ever since you started getting all soft in your interviews, I knew it. I’ve been waiting for the official ‘I’m running away to my island girlfriend’ text. But did I get one? No. I had to sit in my rich popstar tower and wait for the headlines like some common fan.”

Mikha snorts.

Stacey turns sharply toward her.

Mikha blinks. “Uh—”

Stacey squints.

A long, dramatic pause.

Then, she nods approvingly.

“Yeah, I get it now.”

Mikha coughs, glancing at Aiah. “What does that—”

“She’s hot.”

Aiah dies on the spot.

Stacey crosses her arms, completely serious. “You did leave the industry for the hot barista. Respect.”

Mikha chokes on air.

Aiah slaps her forehead. “Staku, I swear—”

“Oh, relax, superstar.” Stacey smirks. “I’m just making sure your little island girlfriend is treating you right.”

Mikha, finally recovering, smirks back. “So far, she hasn’t had any complaints.”

Stacey raises an eyebrow. “Bold statement.”

Aiah groans again.

This was a mistake.

And chaos incarnate had only just arrived.

Stacey stretches dramatically in her chair, sighing like she’s just survived a great battle, before taking a long sip of her cappuccino.

She hums in satisfaction. Then, tapping her spoon against her plate like she’s about to give a toast, she declares, “Aiah, I take back what I said. You did not leave me for an island girlfriend. You left me for five-star treatment.”

Mikha, wiping her hands on a towel behind the counter, raises an eyebrow. “You’re very easy to please.”

Stacey grins. “Food is my love language.” She takes another hearty bite of garlic rice and dried fish, practically glowing. “I suddenly understand why you left the industry. If I had this waiting for me every morning, I, too, would abandon all my worldly responsibilities.”

Aiah rolls her eyes. “Good to know my existential crisis and life-altering decisions have your stamp of approval.”

Stacey points at her with a fork. “Always.”

The café hums with a quiet comfort—the kind that only happens when there’s good food, warm coffee, and the steady presence of people who belong together.

Mikha moves through the space easily, wiping down counters, adjusting chairs, making sure everything is just right.

And Aiah—without thinking—steps forward.

“You’re sweating,” she murmurs, dabbing a napkin lightly against Mikha’s forehead.

Mikha stills.

Aiah doesn’t even realize what she’s doing at first.

She just knows that Mikha has been moving around all morning, and it’s hot, and—

And it’s second nature now.

This reaching.

This tending.

This taking care.

Mikha’s breath catches.

Because Aiah isn’t thinking about it.

But Mikha is.

Click.

They don’t hear it.

Not at first.

Stacey, barely sparing them a glance, snaps a photo of her coffee—a perfectly captured shot of her cappuccino, the latte art flawless.

The blurry background?

Aiah.

Standing too close.

Wiping Mikha’s sweat with the kind of tenderness that belongs in a K-drama confession scene.

A few hours later… Stacey is gone, off to who-knows-where.

The café is peaceful. The afternoon lull has settled in.

And then—

Aiah’s phone buzzes.

Then again.

And again.

Mikha, frowning as she wipes down a glass, tilts her head. “Did something happen?”

Aiah pales.

Because there it is.

Stacey’s Instagram story.

A beautifully framed cappuccino, the foam-art still pristine.

But in the background?

Aiah. Gently wiping Mikha’s sweat.

And the caption?

“Barista girlfriend supremacy.”

Mikha chokes on air.

Aiah lets out a silent scream.

And the internet?

The internet absolutely loses it.

The moment Stacey’s Instagram story hits the timeline, the fandom implodes.

Tweets. Reposts. Screaming in the replies.

The Aiah Arceta Discourse has officially re-entered the chat.

‘HOLD ON. HOLD. ON. STACEY JUST POSTED THIS AND—???’
‘MA’AM. WHAT DO YOU MEAN BARISTA GIRLFRIEND SUPREMACY??????’
‘HELLO. HI. THE BLURRY BACKGROUND. IS. AIAH. WIPING. SOMEONE’S. SWEAT. WE NEED AN EMERGENCY MEETING.’
‘YOU’RE TELLING ME AIAH ARCETA QUIT SHOWBIZ TO GENTLY DAB HER GIRLFRIEND’S SWEAT IN A CAFÉ???’

And then—because this is the internet—things escalate.

The detectives get to work immediately.

‘ENHANCE. ENHANCE. WHOSE FOREHEAD IS THAT.’
‘Guys. What if this is the Red-Haired Barista from the last internet manhunt??’
‘Wait. WAIT. Did she dye her hair a darker color now???’

Somehow, within an hour, there are:

Side-by-side photos of the mystery barista.
A comparison chart.
A full timeline aligning Aiah’s exit with Barista Girlfriend sightings.

The theories range from logical to completely unhinged.

Then comes the fanart. The edits. The delusions.

Within two hours, Barista Girlfriend Supremacy is trending nationwide.

Aiah, staring at her phone, slowly turns to Mikha.

“…The internet thinks we’re married.”

Mikha, who had just been trying to make an honest iced Americano, pauses. “What.”

Aiah shoves her phone into Mikha’s hands. “LOOK.”

Mikha scrolls, eyes widening. “Oh my God.”

Fan edits. Screaming tweets. A very compelling thread titled ‘Why Aiah Arceta’s Soft Launch is the Greatest Love Story of Our Time.’

Mikha sputters. “Why are they writing poetry about me serving you coffee?”

Aiah throws a dish towel over her face. “I don’t know, but I need Stacey to STOP.”

And then, because the universe is cruel—the café door swings open.

Stacey strolls in like a queen surveying her empire, sunglasses perched on her nose, completely unbothered by the chaos she just unleashed.

“Hello, lovebirds,” she greets.

Aiah launches a sugar packet at her.

“YOU RUINED MY LIFE.”

Stacey dodges with ease. “Correction: I made it better.”

Mikha, still processing the internet-wide meltdown, exhales. “I am one Instagram story away from having people camp outside the café, aren’t I?”

Stacey grins, completely unapologetic.

“Oh, sweetheart.” She pats Mikha’s shoulder.

“You’re already a legend.”

The café is quiet after closing. The last customers have long since wandered out, leaving only the soft hum of the evening tide and the faint glow of the hanging lights.

Aiah sits at one of the back tables, face buried in her arms. She has not recovered.

Stacey sits across from her, sipping her coffee with a thoroughly unbothered expression. “Okay, but listen. If you think about it, this is kind of beautiful.”

Aiah lifts her head just enough to glare at her. “You are dead to me.”

Stacey grins. “You say that now, but wait until I officiate your wedding.”

Aiah drops her forehead back onto the table.

Stacey reaches over, patting her head like one would a very exhausted cat. “Aw, my poor little fallen superstar. Is the big, bad internet making you feel things?”

Aiah groans, muffled. “I hate you.”

Stacey sips her coffee, unbothered. “Again, you say that now—”

A long silence.

Aiah exhales, finally sitting up, arms crossed as she stares down at the untouched drink in front of her. “…It’s not just that they’re making theories about me.”

Stacey sets her cup down. “I know.”

Aiah clenches her jaw. “It’s that they’re right.”

Stacey stays quiet. She lets her sit with that.

Because Aiah wouldn’t be this worked up if it weren’t true.

If it weren’t real.

If it weren’t everything she’s been trying so hard to hold quietly in her hands.

Aiah sighs, rubbing a hand down her face. “I just—” She hesitates, voice tight. “I hate that I still have to think about all of this. That I still have to be careful.”

Stacey watches her for a moment. Then, quietly—

“But do you?”

Aiah looks up.

Stacey leans forward, resting her arms on the table. “Aiah, you’re out.” She gestures vaguely. “No more contracts. No more image management. No more PR-approved fake dating.” She tilts her head. “So who are you still hiding from?”

Aiah doesn’t answer immediately.

Because she doesn’t know.

Because somewhere along the way, hiding stopped being a requirement and just became a habit.

She swallows, glancing toward the counter where Mikha is cleaning up—completely oblivious to the conversation unraveling in the table.

Mikha, who doesn’t ask for much. Who has never pushed. Who just lets Aiah be.

And yet—

Aiah exhales. “It’s just not that simple.”

Stacey nods, as if she understands. Because she does.

“Yeah,” she says softly. “But it could be.”

Aiah looks away.

And then—a shift.

Stacey nudges her knee under the table. “Hey.”

Aiah glances back at her.

Stacey’s expression is different now—less teasing, more sure.

“I’m happy for you, you know?” she says. “And I’m proud of you.”

Aiah’s throat tightens.

Stacey smirks again, just slightly. “And I swear to God, if you don’t let yourself be happy with that ridiculously hot barista girlfriend of yours, I will personally drag you out of the closet with a microphone and a live audience.”

Aiah chokes on her own breath. “Staku—”

But Stacey just lifts her cup, grinning into her coffee.

“Just saying,” she singsongs.

Aiah shakes her head, but she’s smiling now—small, barely there, but real.

And Stacey lets that be enough.

The next day, chaos settles—just barely. And by the time morning comes, the island feels quieter again, sunlight stretching lazy across the sand as if nothing had ever been broken open the day before.

Mikha drags them to the beach. The morning air is crisp with salt and sunlight, the waves rolling in lazy, endless rhythms as the four of them settle around the frankly ridiculous breakfast spread Mikha has prepared.

Colet had shown up with nothing but a water bottle and a skeptical glance, muttering something about surviving “another famous person storm.”

She didn’t say much when Mikha explained who Stacey was—just raised a brow and asked, “The popstar? The chaotic one?”

Now, sitting cross-legged on the sand, she eyes the newcomer like she’s still trying to reconcile the headlines with the woman currently sipping coconut juice like she owns the beach.

Then her gaze drifts to the sheer amount of food—plates stacked with fried rice, eggs cooked just right, golden chorizo glistening beside crisp strips of dried fish, mango and watermelon sliced with ridiculous precision.

“…Are we expecting more people?” she deadpans.

Mikha smirks, pouring coffee into a mismatched mug. “Nope.”

Colet raises an eyebrow. “So you just naturally cook for the whole town?”

Aiah hides her laugh behind her cup.

Mikha shrugs. “Island rule—there’s always room for more.”

Stacey, absolutely unbothered, takes a large bite of bibingka, nodding in approval. “You should open another café.”

Mikha snorts. “So I can work even more?”

“No, so I can eat like this more often.”

Aiah shakes her head, watching as Stacey reaches for her phone, already typing something.

It should have been a warning sign.

But Aiah, foolishly, did not question it.

And the Internet does, in fact, lose its mind.

Because hours later, when Aiah is back home, still recovering from Stacey’s overwhelming presence, she checks her phone—

And sees it.

A photo.

Posted by Stacey herself.

Caption: Barista girlfriend can cook. Stacey approved!

The problem?

The photo isn’t just of the food.

Because sitting on the edge of the picnic mat, looking unfairly beautiful in the soft morning light, is Mikha.

Mikha, mid-laugh, dark hair a mess from the sea breeze, radiating effortless, infuriating charm.

Mikha, who was never supposed to be revealed to the public.

Aiah drops her phone.

Colet, now half-sprawled on the couch with her phone, lets out a low whistle. “Ohhh. They’re spiraling.” She tilts her head at Stacey’s post, raising an eyebrow. “You really don’t care what kind of wildfire you start, do you?”

Stacey shrugs, sipping iced coffee. “Only if the flames are fabulous.”

Colet hums. Doesn’t say much else. But her gaze lingers a little longer on Stacey than necessary—curious, skeptical, not quite convinced.

Across the room, Aiah buries her face in her hands with a groan. “Stacey.”

Stacey, lying on their couch, thoroughly unbothered, takes a sip of her iced coffee. “Whoops.”

Aiah glares. “I’m going to kill you.”

Stacey shrugs. “Not my fault your girlfriend is distractingly hot.”

Mikha, stepping out of the kitchen with another cup of coffee, pauses. “I’m… what now?”

Colet flips her phone around, showing her the screen. “You’re famous.”

Mikha squints at the trending hashtag.

“…Oh,” she says.

Aiah wants to scream.

The internet, meanwhile, is having a full-scale meltdown.

The memes are immediate.

The edits start within minutes.

The simping? Uncontrollable.

Aiah, sitting stiffly on the couch, does not know how to process this.

Stacey, still scrolling, snorts. “Oh, wow. They’re calling Mikha ‘The Barista Supreme.’”

Aiah groans. Mikha looks amused.

And Colet—Colet just grins, nudging Mikha’s arm.

“Well,” she muses, sipping her drink. “You always were main character material.”

The timeline is in shambles.

The world had barely recovered from the Stacey-induced chaos of the past few weeks, but this—this—

This was a full-blown catastrophe.

Because somehow, in the span of a few hours, the entire internet has gone from:

“WHERE IS AIAH ARCETA?”

To

“WHO IS THIS BEAUTIFUL, UNFAIRLY ATTRACTIVE WOMAN???”

To

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN AIAH ARCETA LEFT FAME TO BE WITH HER???”

And Aiah is watching it happen in real-time.

She is physically watching her phone screen as her entire life becomes public discourse.

Again.

And it is entirely Stacey’s fault.

Because the Internet now has receipts.

Within minutes, people have dug deep.

The red-haired barista from months ago? The one from that one blurry café photo?

‘GUYS, IT WAS HER ALL ALONG.’

The random background girl in Aiah’s soft-launch sunsets?

‘ARE YOU KIDDING ME??? IT’S BEEN HER THIS WHOLE TIME???’

Aiah clutches her forehead. “Oh my God.”

Mikha, scrolling through Stacey’s post, raises an eyebrow. “They’re making fancams of me?”

Colet bursts out laughing.

Aiah whips her head up. “What.”

Mikha turns the phone around.

On screen, an edited montage plays (mostly from cropped photos, backgrounds from Aiah’s soft-launch posts)—Mikha laughing, cooking, looking devastatingly good in the beach photo Stacey posted.

Set to a dramatic ballad.

And in the captions:
“HOW DID WE MISS HER???”
“NO WONDER AIAH DISAPPEARED, LOOK AT HER GIRLFRIEND.”
“SHE LEFT THE INDUSTRY TO LIVE THE MAIN CHARACTER LIFE IN AN ISLAND, I CAN’T BREATHE.”

Aiah actually groans.

Stacey, delighted, leans in. “Ohhh, they’re deep in their feelings.”

Mikha hums, scrolling. “Some of these are very…” She pauses, amused. “Detailed.”

Aiah snatches the phone.

And regrets it immediately.

Because there it is—

A thread.

“AIAH ARCETA’S MYSTERIOUS ISLAND LOVE STORY: A CHAOTIC INVESTIGATION.”

Aiah wants to evaporate.

Stacey, cackling, throws an arm around her. “This is the best thing to ever happen.”

Aiah buries her face in a pillow. “This is my villain origin story.”

Then she scrolls lower.

And that’s when the tone shifts.

Because not everyone is amused.

Beneath the screaming tweets and fan edits, something colder begins to surface.

“so this is how it ends? after everything? after all those years?”
“she left the industry for this?? okay.”
“no hate, but this feels like a downgrade. she was meant for more.”

The words hit harder than she expects.

She puts her phone down. Breath shaky. Hands still.

Mikha notices.

Because she always does

Without a word, Mikha walks over and kneels beside her, hand resting on her shoulder.

“You okay?” she asks gently.

Aiah doesn’t answer right away.

“They’re saying things,” she murmurs. “About you. About us.”

Mikha doesn’t flinch. She simply laces their fingers together, thumb brushing softly along Aiah’s knuckle.

“They don’t know you,” Aiah adds, quieter now. “Yet they’ve already decided what your worth is.”

Mikha meets her eyes.

“That’s not new,” she says, voice soft but steady. “People will always want a version of you that serves them.”

A pause.

“But I don’t need them to know me, Aiah. Just you.”

Aiah swallows, trying to keep her composure. “And what if it gets worse? What if they come for you? What if they make you doubt this?”

Mikha lifts their joined hands and presses a kiss to Aiah’s knuckles.

“I won’t,” she says. “I already chose this. Chose you.”

Aiah closes her eyes.

And Mikha, who has never asked to be protected, only reaches for her again.

“You don’t have to shield me from the whole world,” she whispers. “Just let me stand beside you in it.”

The noise doesn’t disappear. The world outside doesn’t soften.

But Aiah breathes easier.

Because Mikha is still here.

And that’s enough.

Later, the living room hums with a quiet sort of stillness, the aftermath of Stacey’s Internet Apocalypse still lingering in the air.

Aiah has disappeared, likely pacing in their room, trying (and failing) to process the absolute disaster Stacey has just unleashed.

Colet?

Colet has wisely retreated, muttering something about “not wanting to be collateral damage,” leaving just Stacey and Mikha alone in the living room, the lingering scent of espresso curling between them.

Stacey sighs dramatically, slumping into the couch, stirring her now-warm coffee like she’s contemplating the weight of her sins.

“So, uh,” she starts, glancing sideways at Mikha, “I may have… kinda, sorta, accidentally hard-launched you.”

Mikha hums, crossing her arms as she settles into the armchair across from her. “Yeah, no kidding.”

Stacey groans, dragging her hands down her face. “I swear it wasn’t on purpose! I was just trying to take a photo of the food, and then—”

She makes an explosive gesture with her hands.

“Boom. Internet meltdown.”

Mikha smirks. “Right. Just an innocent food pic.”

“I mean it!” Stacey insists, shaking her head. “I wasn’t trying to out you two or anything. I just—”

She hesitates, fingers tapping absently against her knee.

And then, quieter—

“I’ve seen Aiah hold back for so long, Mikha.”

Mikha stills.

Stacey exhales, sitting up straighter. “Even before she left showbiz. She wanted to love you out loud. I know she did.”

Mikha’s smirk softens into something more thoughtful.

Stacey rubs at the back of her neck. “I know it’s not my place, and I’m sorry if I overstepped. I just—”

She lets out a breathless chuckle, shaking her head.

“I think, in my own chaotic, unhinged way, I just wanted to help.”

Mikha blinks, surprised by the shift in Stacey’s tone. But she doesn’t look away.

Instead, she lets the words settle. Then—

She shrugs. “I’m not bothered by it.”

Stacey blinks. “You’re not?”

Mikha smiles, easy and sure. “Nope.”

Stacey squints at her. “Even with the entire internet thirsting over you?”

Mikha snorts, shaking her head. “That part’s weird, not gonna lie.” She tilts her head, considering. “But hey, if I get a few admirers out of this, I won’t complain.”

Stacey lets out a cackle. “Oh my God, I love you.”

Mikha smirks. “Good, ‘cause I’m in your life permanently now.”

Stacey clutches her chest in mock emotion. “Aiah’s taste? Impeccable.”

Then, softening slightly, she adds, “But for real, are you okay with all this?”

Mikha exhales, eyes following the slow spin of the spoon in her hand.

“As long as she’s safe—still breathing easy, still smiling like that—then I’m okay. That’s more than enough.”

Stacey studies her, watching the way Mikha says it so easily—so sure, so certain.

And then she grins. “Damn. You’re really in love with her, huh?”

Mikha rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t even try to hide the warmth in her expression.

“Obviously.”

Stacey wipes an imaginary tear. “I love this for you both. I do.”

Mikha chuckles. “Great. Now, are you gonna help me with damage control, or do I have to survive the internet’s meltdown alone?”

Stacey leans back, grinning like a menace.

“Oh, absolutely not. I’m thriving in this chaos.”

Mikha groans. “Why did I expect anything else?”

And just like that, they both dissolve into laughter, the weight of everything feeling just a little lighter as the night deepens.

The next day comes softer, lighter in a way only island mornings can be when the outside world feels like it’s finally letting them breathe.

Aiah exhales, taking in the wake of the storm that was Stacey. They’d just sent her off at the docks after lunch—her album promo tour now beginning.

Aiah misses her, if she’s being honest.

But the quiet isn’t bad either.

She remembers Stacey’s parting words, coupled with a hug so tight it felt like she was going to war, not back to stardom.

“You know you don’t owe them anything, right? But maybe…” Stacey had pulled back, smiling. “Let them see what love looks like when it’s not for show.”

It had settled deep within Aiah.

This kind of support that doesn’t need to be begged for. The kind of acceptance she gives Mikha that doesn’t need proving her worth.

She is chaos incarnate—but she is also Stacey.

Ride-or-die Stacey.

Burn-the-damn-place-down Stacey.

Her Stacey.

And just like that, the storm had passed—but its warmth lingered.

Now the sun is beginning to set again, painting the sky in soft hues of pink and gold. The waves lap gently against the shore. Mikha stands by the water, sleeves rolled up, sea breeze tugging at her hair. She’s barefoot, sand clinging to her ankles, her gaze lost somewhere on the horizon.

Aiah watches her.

She has spent so long trying to keep this part of her life tucked away, safe from the eyes of the world. But what is there to keep hidden anymore?

This—Mikha, the island, the life she has chosen.

It doesn’t have to be quiet to be hers anymore.

It doesn’t have to hide to stay safe.

It’s not something to be hidden—it’s something to be loved out loud.

And Stacey was right—she wants to show the world how happy she is with Mikha.

She pulls out her phone. Scrolls through her gallery.

There are so many moments—so many snapshots of Mikha that Aiah has kept for herself. Some candid, some intentional. All of them precious.

She stops at one.

It’s simple. Mikha, bathed in golden light, standing by the café’s entrance, a soft smile playing on her lips. She isn’t looking at the camera. She’s looking at Aiah.

She hesitates.

Because she knows what posting this means.

Knows what it might invite—the attention, the speculation, the scrutiny.

For a moment, the weight of it presses against her chest again.

But then—

She remembers Mikha’s hand in hers. The quiet certainty in her voice.

Just let me stand beside you in it.

Aiah exhales. Her thumb hovers over the screen.

And slowly, she lets the fear go.

She types.

A breath of fresh air.
The first sunlight after the storm.
Warm, like the sea after the rain.
The love of my life.

Her fingers hover over the screen—just for a second.

Then she presses post.

Twitter, Instagram, TikTok—everywhere explodes.

Aiah watches the chaos unfold, biting her lip to keep from laughing.

Her notifications explode.

The comments are just as feral.

Aiah laughs, but then she feels arms slip around her waist.

Mikha, leaning in, chin resting on her shoulder.

“What’s happening?” she asks, voice amused, eyes flicking toward Aiah’s phone.

Aiah tilts her head toward her. “I, um. Posted you.”

Mikha raises an eyebrow. “Posted me?”

Aiah turns the phone, showing her the screen.

Mikha reads.

Her lips part slightly.

A pause.

Then—

A slow, knowing smile.

“You called me warm,” Mikha murmurs.

Aiah groans. “Oh my god, don’t start.”

Mikha chuckles, pressing a kiss to her temple. “No, no, I love it. You’re basically a poet in love.”

Aiah buries her face in her hands. “Please stop.”

Mikha grins, tightening her arms around Aiah. “I think you should post more of me.”

Aiah sighs, exasperated. “I hate you.”

Mikha hums, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek. “No, you don’t.”

Aiah exhales. She really doesn’t.

And as the world celebrates, as love wins, as the ocean hums behind them—

Aiah leans back into Mikha’s arms, grounding herself in the warmth of everything she once feared she couldn’t have.

Not just quiet. Not just safety. But joy.

The kind she doesn’t have to hide.

The kind she doesn’t have to explain.

The kind she can finally share.

And for the first time, as the tide rolls in and the sky holds steady—

She lets herself be held by something just as constant. 

Chapter Text

It’s been two days since Aiah’s poetic and very sapphic hard launch.

The internet is still recovering.

The discourse hasn’t even settled, the fan edits haven’t slowed, and the sheer feral energy of her fandom is still at an all-time high—

And then Stacey happens.

Because of course, she does.

It’s simple, really.

A photo.

Four people sitting on a woven mat at the beach, a ridiculous breakfast spread in front of them, the early morning sun casting everything in soft golden light.

Aiah, cross-legged, mid-laugh, eyes locked on Mikha.

Mikha, beside her, reaching for a piece of mango, looking effortlessly cool.

Stacey, grinning like she owns the world.

And beside her—Colet, holding a water bottle, looking like she just woke up and still managed to be effortlessly attractive.

The caption?

Ate all their food, overstayed my welcome, and caused multiple internet meltdowns. 10/10, would do it again. Special thanks to my hosts for keeping me alive & tolerating me. 💕

The fandom barely has time to breathe before someone notices.

WAIT. HOLD ON. WHO. IS. THAT. NEXT TO STACEY.
I WAS ABOUT TO ASK THE SAME THING. WHO IS SHE??? WHY IS EVERYONE IN THAT ISLAND SO UNFAIRLY ATTRACTIVE???
NO BECAUSE WHO IS THE WOMAN WITH THE WATER BOTTLE AND WHY DOES SHE LOOK LIKE SHE BELONGS ON A MAGAZINE COVER.

Within minutes, the internet detectives are on the case.

They zoom in on the coffee cup.

They compare moles.

They analyze old posts.

They go feral.

Then, it happens.

Someone remembers.

WAIT. WAIT. IS THAT COLET VERGARA??? THE SAME COLET VERGARA WHOSE SONG AIAH RANDOMLY POSTED AT 2AM YEARS AGO???

The thread is born.

GUYS. YOU’RE NOT READY FOR THIS: A THREAD
YEARS AGO, AIAH ARCETA POSTED MAGNETS AT 2AM. A song by a then-small indie artist, Colet Vergara. WE DIDN’T QUESTION IT.
But GUESS WHAT. Colet Vergara isn’t just some random musician.
SHE HAS OLD PHOTOS WITH THE BARISTA SUPREME.
SHE GREW UP IN THE SAME TOWN AS AIAH’S GIRLFRIEND.
SHE AND AIAH’S GIRLFRIEND HAVE BEEN FRIENDS SINCE FOREVER.
THE TIMELINE LINES UP.
WE WERE SO BLIND. THE LOVE LETTER WAS RIGHT IN FRONT OF US.

And then, the screaming begins.

NO BECAUSE AIAH REALLY DROPPED A LOVE LETTER AT 2AM AND WE JUST MOVED ON LIKE IT WAS NOTHING.
Colet Vergara, unknowingly part of the slowest slow burn in history. I LOVE THIS STORY.
WHY IS EVERYONE IN THIS ISLAND SO DAMN HOT.
AIAH REALLY LISTENED TO HER GIRLFRIEND’S CHILDHOOD BEST FRIEND SING ABOUT YEARNING AT 2AM.
Aiah really said “I’d rather die than be friends” through Colet’s song I’M DYING.
AIAH LEFT FOR LOVE. THE BARISTA SUPREME MADE THE COFFEE. COLET MADE THE SOUNDTRACK. STACEY MADE THE CHAOS.

And just like that—

Colet’s entire discography gets unearthed.

Somewhere on the island, Colet’s phone won’t stop vibrating.

She’s still half-asleep, groggy, and completely unaware of the internet losing its mind over her existence.

Then she sees Stacey’s post.

Then she sees her own face trending.

Then she sees lyrics from her own song being dissected.

Colet chokes on air.

“WHAT—”

She grabs her phone, types a message at hyperspeed.

Colet: STACEY WHAT DID YOU DO.

Sevilleja, Chaos Incarnate: good morning 🌞

Colet: I AM TRENDING.

Sevilleja, Chaos Incarnate: ur welcome 😘

Colet lets out a guttural noise that can only be described as existential despair.

Another text pops up.

Mikha: Just saw twitter lol good luck

Colet hurls her pillow across the room.

Then, sighing deeply, she mutters:

“Why am I friends with you people?”

Later, at the café, Colet is mid-bite into a perfectly crisp danggit when she gets the email.

She almost chokes.

Because of course. Of course this is happening now.

She wipes her fingers hastily on a napkin, staring at her phone screen like it’s personally offended her.

Subject: Exciting Opportunities – Let’s Work Together!

The sender? A talent management company. A big one.

Colet groans. Loudly.

From across the table, Mikha and Aiah look up from their food.

“Uh-oh,” Mikha deadpans. “That’s a ‘Colet is in trouble’ face.”

Aiah, already bracing for more internet chaos, sighs. “What happened?”

Colet waves her phone dramatically. “The industry has come for me.”

Aiah blinks. “Like… metaphorically?”

Colet glares. “No. Like ‘we saw your song trending and would love to discuss career opportunities’ kind of way.”

Mikha bursts out laughing. “Oh, no.”

Colet drops her head onto the table. “This is literally my worst nightmare.”

Aiah, ever the rational one, takes a sip of her coffee. “You knew this was coming.”

“Yeah, but I thought I had at least a few months before they hunted me down.”

“You trended nationwide, like, twice in a week,” Mikha reminds her, smirking. “The industry smells fresh blood.”

Colet groans louder. “I just wanna make my little songs in peace! I don’t want to be some industry darling.”

Mikha shrugs. “You don’t have to be.”

Aiah nods, thoughtful. “You could hear them out, see what they’re offering.”

Colet narrows her eyes. “That’s how they get you.”

Aiah sighs. “Colet—”

“One second I’m ‘just listening to the offer,’ and the next thing I know, I’m in a glittery outfit, being forced to do choreography on national TV.”

Mikha, thoroughly enjoying this, leans back. “Would pay good money to see that.”

Colet throws a piece of bread at her.

Mikha dodges, laughing.

Colet stares at the email.

The words are so polished. So enticing.

They talk about her “unique artistry,” how she has “so much potential in the industry,” how her music is “raw, refreshing, and in demand.”

She could have a real career.

If she wanted it.

If she was willing to step into that world.

Her fingers hover over the reply button.

Then—

She locks her phone.

Leans back in her chair.

And sighs.

She knows what she loves. She knows what she wants.

And it was never about fame.

Her music? It’s hers. Always has been.

Colet exhales, rubbing a hand down her face. “Guess I have to reject them, huh.”

Mikha doesn’t even glance up. “Oh, absolutely. Internet’s not letting you go now.”

Colet snorts. “Thanks for the support.”

Mikha smirks. “Anytime, superstar.”

Colet hates being serious.

She thrives in chaos, humor, and deflection. Anything to keep things light, easy, unbothered.

But as she stares at her unanswered email again, the reality of it settles deeper into her chest.

This is big. Too big.

And if there’s anyone who knows how dangerous this world can be—

It’s Aiah.

So she finds her outside, sitting on a bench, watching the waves roll in with quiet contemplation.

Colet hesitates. Then—without preamble—

“How did you know when to leave?”

Aiah turns, eyebrows raising slightly. “What?”

Colet plops down beside her, phone in hand, screen still glowing with the email. “When you quit. How did you know it was the right decision?”

Aiah studies her for a long moment. “You’re considering the offer.”

Colet exhales sharply. “Yeah.”

She passes Aiah the phone.

Aiah skims the email, then hands it back.

Colet taps her fingers against her knee, restless. “I just… I love music, Aiah.”

Aiah nods. “I know.”

“And part of me thinks… maybe I’m an idiot for not taking this seriously. For not trying. What if—” She exhales, rubbing the back of her neck. “What if this is a one-time thing? What if I’ll never get another shot?”

Aiah tilts her head. “Do you want another shot?”

Colet falters.

That’s the problem.

She doesn’t know.

She thinks about the life she has now. Playing gigs at the café, writing songs when inspiration strikes, creating music that belongs entirely to her.

And then she thinks about what this could mean. Management. Contracts. Expectations. Losing control of something that’s always been hers.

She swallows. “I don’t think I’d survive it.”

Aiah exhales, looking back out at the sea. “Then you already have your answer.”

Colet lets out a humorless laugh. “It’s not that simple.”

Aiah hums. “It never is.”

A beat of silence stretches between them. The waves continue their steady rhythm, as if the universe itself is unbothered by Colet’s existential crisis.

Then—softly—Aiah speaks again.

“I knew it was time to leave when I looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize myself anymore.”

Colet glances at her, surprised by the quiet honesty.

Aiah keeps her gaze on the horizon, voice steady. “I loved my craft. I still do. But the industry… it wasn’t about that anymore. It became about control. About keeping up with a version of myself that wasn’t mine to define.”

She exhales, shaking her head. “I was exhausted, Colet. I was living a life everyone else had chosen for me. And I stayed for years because I thought—maybe I owed it to them. To my fans, to my management, to everyone who had invested in me. But then I realized… I owed myself more.”

Colet grips her phone tighter.

Aiah turns to her then, voice quieter. “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”

Colet’s throat tightens.

Aiah holds her gaze. “If this isn’t what you want, you don’t have to take it. You’re still an artist—even without permission. Even without an audience.”

Colet looks away, eyes fixed on the horizon. “Sometimes I wonder if that’s enough.”

Aiah answers, steady and quiet, “If it feels like yours, it is.”

Colet exhales, her shoulders slumping slightly. “I just… don’t want to regret it.”

Aiah offers a small smile. “Then make a decision you can live with.”

A beat of silence.

Then—Colet sighs dramatically, flopping back onto the wooden wall. “Ugh, why do you have to be so wise and emotionally stable?”

Aiah snorts. “You’re talking to someone who screamed into a pillow for an hour when Stacey hard-launched my girlfriend.”

Colet laughs, and just like that, the weight in her chest feels a little lighter.

She stares at her phone again, scrolling down to the ‘Reply’ button.

She knows what she has to do.

But for now—

She pockets the phone, leaning back against the railing. “I’ll deal with it tomorrow.”

Aiah huffs a laugh, shaking her head. “Classic.”

And for the first time since the email arrived, Colet feels at peace.

By the time the sun dips low and the lamps are glowing, the world outside slows—but the online frenzy hasn’t. Inside the café, though, life continues with quiet purpose. Another acoustic night. Another attempt at normal.

The café is fuller than usual.

It started as another one of their casual acoustic nights, a tradition that had always been intimate—locals, regulars, a few tourists who happened to stumble in. But now?

Now, it’s different.

Because the internet has found them.

Not fully—not enough to disrupt the café’s peace—but enough that people are watching. Recording. Streaming the night’s performances with quiet excitement.

And Colet?

Colet, in true Colet Vergara fashion, is blissfully unaware.

She sits on her usual stool, guitar resting against her thigh, fingers idly tuning the strings. The café hums with soft conversation, the air thick with the scent of coffee and sea salt, the warm glow of hanging lights giving everything a golden hue.

And in the corner—right where Colet expects them to be—Aiah and Mikha are side by side.

Aiah, tucked beside Mikha on the stool, her fingers wrapped around a steaming cup of tea. Mikha stands beside her, snaking an arm absentmindedly around Aiah’s waist, keeping her close, their presence anchored to each other.

Colet strums a few notes. Then—grinning, tapping the microphone—

“This one’s for my best friends,” she says.

A few chuckles. Some murmurs of recognition.

Then—the opening chords of ‘Magnets.’

A hush settles over the café, soft and tender.

Aiah’s head lifts. Mikha stills.

The song has history. They all know it.

Aiah had posted it in a fleeting moment of yearning—an unspoken love letter, a quiet confession, a song recommendation dropped at 2AM that, in retrospect, was anything but subtle.

Colet’s voice is warm, effortless, wrapping around the room like a lullaby:

I wanna be an itch you can’t scratch, I don’t need to know where you’re at...

Aiah swallows.

Mikha exhales, her hold tightening briefly around Aiah.

Because of course Colet sings it.

And when Colet reaches the chorus—her voice lilting, teasing, but knowing—her gaze lands on them.

On Aiah, still tucked against Mikha.

On Mikha, who hasn’t moved, whose expression softens just slightly, like she remembers exactly when this song’s meaning first shifted.

Like some kind of magnet, you’re a mystic force...
I try to explain away through planets, of course...
But it’s no use, there’s no rhyme or reason...
Each time I push the thoughts away, y ou’re pulling me in, again and again and again...

A few people in the café whisper.

A few catch the way Aiah’s eyes flicker, the way Mikha’s lips twitch like she’s biting back a smile.

The moment is obvious and not obvious all at once.

Colet, strumming through the next verse, watches them with the casual air of someone who has known them far too long.

She doesn’t say anything.

She doesn’t have to.

Because the entire island knows.

Because the internet already knows.

Because Aiah isn’t loving Mikha in secret anymore.

Because Mikha isn’t hiding that she would follow wherever Aiah goes.

And when the song comes to a close, when Colet strums the last note and lets the final lyric linger—

I don’t wanna be your friend...
I couldn’t care less if this ends, in the end...

—Aiah buries her face in her hands.

And Mikha laughs.

Soft. Warm. Like she’s remembering the feeling when she heard the quiet confession.

Colet grins. Sits back. Takes a sip of her drink like she hasn’t just reminded the entire café why Aiah Arceta abandoned her old life for a certain small-town barista.

And somewhere online, where the live recordings are already spreading like wildfire—

The internet figures it out, too.

And of course, of course, it explodes again.

But the night settles around Aiah and Mikha, quiet and warm.

The chaos of the day—the acoustic night, Colet unknowingly setting the internet ablaze, Stacey fanning the flames just because she could—feels like a distant hum now.

In here, in the soft glow of their home, there is only this.

Aiah exhales, melting further into Mikha’s embrace. They’re curled up on the couch, legs tangled, the scent of saltwater still lingering in their hair from the long evening at the café. Mikha’s arms are loose around her curled up frame, her fingertips tracing slow, absent-minded patterns against Aiah’s thigh.

For a while, neither of them speaks. They just breathe. Just exist in the kind of comfort that once felt impossible.

Then—Aiah huffs a quiet laugh.

Mikha hums against her temple. “What?”

Aiah shakes her head, amusement laced with disbelief. “It’s just funny, don’t you think? How this all started with me not wanting the public to know. I didn’t want them to tear you apart, dissect you, make you into something you’re not.”

Mikha shifts slightly, pulling back just enough to meet Aiah’s gaze. There’s something teasing in her eyes. “And now?”

Aiah groans, burying her face into Mikha’s neck. “Now it’s out of my hands. It’s us against the detectives of the internet, and somehow, we’ve dragged an entire friend group into this mess.”

Mikha chuckles, brushing a hand through Aiah’s hair. “We didn’t drag them. They threw themselves in. Especially Stacey.”

Aiah pulls back just enough to arch an eyebrow. “Okay, fair. But still. Stacey? Chaos incarnate. Colet? Somehow now a key player in the unraveling of my love story. I don’t even know how Colet got involved, but here we are.”

Mikha smirks. “You realize our friends are the worst at subtlety, right?”

Our friends. Aiah lets it settle in her chest for a few beats. Another one of the things that she shares with Mikha now, their lives tangled in ways she didn’t expect.

She sighs. “I know.”

She lets out another breath, curling her fingers against the fabric of Mikha’s shirt. “But none of this changes anything, right?” Her voice dips, a quiet vulnerability woven into the question. “Even with all of this… we’re still us?”

She needs to know that the stillness they found—the quiet kind of love—hasn’t been drowned out by the noise.

Mikha’s expression softens.

She doesn’t answer right away—not with words, at least. Instead, she lifts a hand, tucking a stray strand of hair behind Aiah’s ear, her fingertips lingering for just a second longer than necessary.

Then, softly—

“We’re still us.”

Aiah swallows.

Mikha tilts her head. “We’re still us. The ones who found each other in silence. The ones who never needed a spotlight to know what this is.” Her voice is steady, grounding. “In stolen glances, in shared coffee, in me dragging you around until you let yourself be happy.”

Aiah lets out a breathless laugh, shaking her head. “Oh my god, you did force me to be your intern.”

Mikha grins. “And look where it got me.”

Aiah rolls her eyes, but she leans in anyway, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to Mikha’s jaw. “Fine. You win.”

Mikha hums. “I always do.”

Aiah laughs, pulling her closer, tucking herself into the warmth of the only place that’s ever felt like home.

Because the world may be watching.

But here, in their little corner of the universe—

It’s just them.

Somewhere in the city, Stacey Sevilleja is minding her own business.

For once.

She’s in a radio interview, running on three hours of sleep, nursing a coffee that was 70% sugar, and answering the same five questions she had heard on every press cycle since her album dropped.

And then—

“I have to ask,” the host says, eyes twinkling with mischief. “What do you think about Jhoanna Robles?”

Stacey, mid-sip, nearly choke to death.

The coffee burn down her throat, her entire body seizing as she barely managed to swallow it without it exiting through her nose.

The host grins, clearly enjoying this. “I mean, she’s been talking about you a lot lately.”

Stacey coughs violently. “I—I’m sorry, what?”

The host beams. “Oh, you haven’t seen? She’s been dropping hints all over social media. Favorite song? Yours. Favorite album? Yours. Favorite singer? You. It’s a full-blown courtship, Stacey.”

Stacey sits there, absolutely floored.

Jhoanna Robles.

The woman she had spent years hating (but not really) with a passion. The woman who’s annoyingly beautiful, who had the voice of a damn angel, and who had once—once—almost kiss her.

And now she is flirting? In public?

“Wait, wait, wait,” Stacey puts a hand up, like she is physically trying to stop this madness from spiraling further. “You’re telling me Jhoanna Robles—my Jhoanna Robles—”

“Oh?” The host smirked.

“—NOT MY JHOANNA ROBLES—”

“Interesting slip.”

“—IS DOING THIS ON PURPOSE?”

The host pulls up a tweet—a verified, dangerously flirtatious tweet—from Jhoanna herself.

Stacey nearly blacks out.

And then—it gets worse.

Because the host isn’t done ruining her life.

They pull up another clip. A recent livestream.

Jhoanna, smiling in that effortlessly beautiful way of hers, reading a fan question: Dream collab?

Her answer?

“Oh, definitely Stacey Sevilleja.”

And then—like a final stab to Stacey’s already fragile soul—she sigh dramatically and said, “Maybe one day, if she says yes.”

Stacey launch herself out of her chair. “IS THIS A PROPOSAL??”

The host wheeze. “I mean, she’s waiting for your answer.”

Stacey paces the studio, running a hand down her face. This could not be happening.

Jhoanna Robles.

The bane of her existence.

The reason she lost sleep and also, fine, maybe the reason she stayed up watching certain performances on YouTube, but that was beside the point.

Jhoanna Robles is not allowed to win this.

Stacey slams her hands on the table, leaning into the mic. “You tell Jhoanna Robles—that annoyingly beautiful menace—that I DO NOT LOSE.”

The host blinks. “So… is that a yes?”

Stacey groans.

And somewhere in the deep, dark void of the internet—Jhoanna Robles is probably smirking.

Back in the quiet of the café in Limasawa, the sun setting outside, Mikha, Aiah, and Colet are gathered around Aiah’s phone, watching the absolute best thing they had ever seen unfold in real-time.

Stacey. Spiraling. Live.

The radio interview plays on-screen, Stacey in full-blown meltdown mode, pacing the studio, dragging her hands through her hair like she is experiencing a crisis of biblical proportions.

“IS THIS A PROPOSAL??” Stacey shrieks at the host.

Mikha burst out laughing, nearly dropping her cup. “Oh my god, this is so good.”

“I love this,” Colet declares, eyes twinkling as she took another sip of her coffee. “This is so good.”

Aiah, cackling into her sleeve, could barely breathe. “I—I have never seen her this unhinged. Ever.”

“She deserves this,” Mikha says, shaking her head. “For all the chaos she’s put us through? This is karma. This is divine justice.”

On-screen, Stacey slams her hands on the table, glaring at the host.

“You tell Jhoanna Robles—THAT ANNOYINGLY BEAUTIFUL MENACE—THAT I DO NOT LOSE.”

Colet lets out a wheeze. “ANNOYINGLY BEAUTIFUL MENACE. I can’t—”

Aiah, crying actual tears, rewinds the clip. “No, no, we need to hear that again.”

Mikha, grinning like a menace, drapes herself over Aiah’s shoulders, watching over her phone. “She’s panicking so hard. Like, look at her hands.

Aiah zooms in. Stacey’s fingers are white-knuckled around her coffee cup, her knee bouncing wildly under the table.

“She’s dying inside,” Colet notes, deeply pleased.

“She deserves it,” Aiah says simply.

Mikha nods. “For all the times she nearly got us doxxed? For throwing me into internet chaos? For the marriage rumors?”

“For the accidental hard launch?” Colet adds helpfully.

“Exactly.”

They clink their cups together in solidarity, reveling in Stacey’s suffering.

Then—

Aiah’s phone buzzes violently.

They glance at the screen.

Incoming Call: Staku

The three of them immediately loses it.

“Oh my god,” Aiah gasps. “SHE KNOWS.”

“She’s calling for help,” Colet grins, eyes gleaming.

Mikha casually sips her coffee. “Let her suffer.”

Aiah, fully entertained, let it ring.

On-screen, the host is still wheezing, trying to wrap up the interview, but Stacey isn’t even listening anymore—she’s staring at her phone, jaw clenched, clearly seeing them ignore her call in real-time.

Mikha smirks. “She’s so mad.”

“She should be,” Colet muses, still watching. “That’s exactly how I felt when the internet started spiraling about me.”

Aiah wince. “Okay, yeah, fair point.”

Stacey’s call ends.

Then—another buzz.

Incoming Message: Staku

YOU TRAITORS PICK UP THE PHONE. I KNOW YOU’RE WATCHING.

Aiah casually locks her screen. “Nope.”

And just like that, karma had never tasted sweeter.

Aiah sets her phone down, completely ignoring Stacey’s all-caps death threats, and takes a sip of her coffee.

Across from her, Colet leans back in her chair, legs crossed, completely unbothered. Mikha, ever the agent of chaos, scrolls through Twitter with an amused smirk, watching Stacey’s name skyrocket up the trending list.

And then—

Her phone vibrates again.

Aiah sighs, already knowing what’s coming.

She picks up her phone, puts Stacey on speaker, and sets it on the table.

Immediately, the yelling begins.

“YOU TRAITORS. YOU ABSOLUTE MENACES TO SOCIETY. PICK UP YOUR DAMN PHONES WHEN I CALL.”

Aiah props her elbow on the table, lazily chewing on her straw. “We did pick up. Hi, Staku.”

Mikha grins. “You good, bestie?”

“NO, I’M NOT GOOD.” Stacey screeches, pacing audibly on the other end of the line. “JHOANNA ROBLES IS PROPOSING TO ME IN FRONT OF THE ENTIRE DAMN COUNTRY.”

Colet hums thoughtfully. “Is it a proposal, though?”

“SHE DEDICATED HER FAVORITE LOVE SONG TO ME ON LIVE TELEVISION.”

Mikha whistles. “Romantic.”

“IT WAS A SETUP.”

Aiah snorts. “A setup for what? Marriage?”

“FOR THE INTERNET TO EAT ME ALIVE.”

Mikha, enjoying this far too much, clicks a link on Twitter. “Oh, look. #MARRYHERSTACEY is trending. People are already making wedding edits.”

“I AM GOING TO SCREAM.”

Colet cackles. “You already are.”

A loud, exasperated groan comes from the other end of the line, followed by the sound of Stacey dramatically flopping onto what is probably her couch.

“This is a nightmare,” Stacey mutters. “A waking nightmare.”

Aiah taps her fingers against her cup. “I mean... Jhoanna is hot.”

A sharp silence.

Then—

“I AM HANGING UP ON YOU.”

“Staks, be real.” Aiah smirks, crossing her legs. “You always talk about how annoying she is, but you never said she was ugly.”

Mikha, who has been waiting her entire life for this moment, leans in with a grin. “Exactly. What’s the real issue here?”

Stacey splutters. “THE ISSUE IS THAT SHE’S DOING THIS ON PURPOSE.”

Aiah smirks. “And it’s working.”

“I HATE YOU.”

“No, you don’t.”

“NO, BUT I HATE HER.”

Mikha checks Twitter again. “Hmm. Doesn’t seem like it. You’re number one trending nationwide.”

Stacey lets out a noise that sounds like her soul leaving her body.

Colet whistles. “The power of a woman in love.”

“I AM NOT IN LOVE WITH JHOANNA ROBLES.”

Aiah rests her chin on her hand. “Okay, but if she actually proposes, will you say yes?”

Silence.

Then—

A dial tone.

Stacey hangs up.

For a second, the three of them just stare at the phone.

Then, as one, they burst into laughter.

Mikha wipes a tear from her eye. “She’s spiraling so hard.”

Aiah sighs, still grinning. “Karma. It always finds its way.”

Colet raises her coffee cup like a toast. “To Jhoanna Robles.”

Mikha clinks her cup against hers. “To making Stacey absolutely lose it.”

Aiah joins in. “And to us. For getting front-row seats to the chaos.”

And just like that—Stacey’s downfall is officially their new favorite reality show.

Outside, the tide rolls in slow and steady. Another night on the island. Another memory stitched into the seams of their ridiculous, chaotic, tender lives. 

Chapter Text

The sun is barely up when Aiah stirs awake, the first traces of morning light seeping through the curtains, painting the room in soft, golden hues. The scent of coffee drifts in from the kitchen—warm, rich, familiar.

Mikha is already up.

Aiah blinks, stretches, and groans at the thought of leaving the comfort of their bed. But the promise of coffee, and more importantly, Mikha, is enough to drag her out from beneath the covers.

She pads barefoot into the kitchen, hair slightly a mess, oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder, still halfway caught in sleep. Mikha is standing by the counter, pouring coffee into two mugs, her hair pulled into a loose pony tail, still wearing the tank top and pajama shorts she fell asleep in.

Aiah leans against the doorway, watching her for a second.

“How are you already functional?” she mumbles.

Mikha grins, handing her a mug. “Years of training.”

Aiah takes a sip, sighing as the warmth settles into her bones. She shuffles closer, pressing her forehead against Mikha’s shoulder, melting into her like second nature.

Mikha chuckles. “You’re such a cat in the morning.”

“Mmm,” Aiah hums. “Your fault for making me comfortable.”

Mikha kisses her temple before turning back to the stove, flipping something on the pan. Aiah watches as she moves, effortlessly at home in this space, in their space.

“What’s for breakfast?”

Mikha smirks. “Guess.”

Aiah peeks over her shoulder, and—of course. Fried rice, eggs cooked just right, golden chorizo glistening beside crisp strips of dried fish. The same breakfast Mikha made for her that morning after the storm, back when things were still uncertain, still unspoken.

Aiah grins. “You’re so sentimental.”

Mikha rolls her eyes but doesn’t deny it.

They eat together by the window, the island slowly waking outside, waves lapping gently against the shore. Aiah steals food from Mikha’s plate, Mikha lets her. It’s easy, it’s soft, it’s theirs.

After breakfast, they fall into the rhythm of the day.

Mikha leaves for the café first, setting up for the morning rush, while Aiah lingers in their little home, scrolling through emails she hasn’t answered yet.

Some are from brands, still trying to get her to collaborate despite her having stepped out of the limelight. A well-known skincare company wants her to be their ambassador. A streaming platform is inquiring about a documentary on her transition from showbiz to island life. A high-end designer is offering to send her pieces from their new summer collection, no strings attached.

And one that catches her attention—an interview with a veteran host who once looked at her with kind eyes and called her anak in the dressing room when she was sixteen.

It’s strange—how the world still wants a piece of her, even now.

She stares at the emails for a moment, fingers hovering over the keyboard. But then, from the open window, she hears the distant sound of Mikha’s laughter drifting in from the café.
Aiah exhales, closes her laptop, and follows.

She slips into the café an hour later, greeting regulars, stealing another cup of coffee straight from Mikha’s hands.

Mikha raises an eyebrow. “Did you even try to answer your emails?”

Aiah takes a slow sip, grinning. “Mmm, nope.”

The hours pass in warmth, in stolen glances, in fingertips grazing as Mikha hands her a plate, in Aiah tying Mikha’s apron for her when she’s in too much of a rush.

In-between moments.

Domestic, mundane, perfect.

By late afternoon, the café slows. Aiah sneaks behind the counter, wrapping her arms around Mikha’s waist, pressing a lazy kiss to the back of her shoulder.

“You smell like coffee,” she murmurs.

Mikha smirks. “So do you.”

Aiah hums. “Occupational hazard of loving you, I guess.”

Mikha turns in her arms, eyes softening, brushing a stray strand of hair behind Aiah’s ear.

“Not complaining, I hope?”

Aiah grins. “Never.”

And when the day finally winds down, when the last customer leaves and the café is quiet again, they walk home together, hand in hand, the night air cool against their skin.

They fall into bed, limbs tangled, Aiah tracing lazy patterns on Mikha’s back, Mikha humming some old song against her temple.

It’s ordinary.

Uncomplicated.

The kind of happiness Aiah never thought she’d have.

But here, wrapped up in Mikha, in this life they built together—

She thinks this might be everything.

The next day starts like any other day at the café—warm sunlight streaming through the open windows, the scent of coffee thick in the air, the hum of chatter blending with the distant sound of waves.

Aiah is perched on her usual stool by the counter, pretending to help while mostly stealing sips from the drink Mikha made for herself. Mikha, ever patient, simply shakes her head and lets her.

Colet strolls in, guitar slung over her shoulder, sunglasses pushed into her hair. “I just came to check in, but I’m sensing something is about to happen.”

Mikha raises an eyebrow. “You sensed it?”

Colet grins. “It’s a gift.”

Aiah rolls her eyes, but before she can retort, the door chimes. A young couple walks in—regulars, the kind who always sit in the same spot by the window, who share pastries and whisper like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

And this time—

One of them looks nervous.

Mikha catches it first—the way the guy keeps checking his pocket, the way his fingers twitch, the way his eyes flick toward his girlfriend like he’s carrying something too big to hold inside any longer.

She nudges Aiah.

Aiah follows her gaze. “Oh.”

The café quiets just slightly.

And then—

“I can’t wait any longer.”

The words come in a rush.

The guy—Leon, Aiah remembers—drops to one knee right there in the middle of the café, pulling out a small, velvet box with shaking hands. His girlfriend gasps, hands flying to her mouth, and for a second, everything else in the world ceases to exist.

“I was gonna wait for the perfect moment,” Leon says, voice trembling, “but you love this café. We always come here, and this just feels right. So—” He swallows. “Will you marry me?”

Silence.

A beat.

And then—

“Yes!”

The café erupts into cheers. Aiah claps, Mikha smirks, Colet whistles, and someone from the back yells, “ABOUT TIME, BRO!”

Mikha shakes her head, laughing, as the couple embraces.

And then—because Colet is Colet—

“Well, since this is turning into a full rom-com moment…” She swings her guitar forward, tuning it with a practiced ease.

Aiah grins. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” Colet corrects. “For the newly engaged couple, a little something.”

She plucks the first notes of Can’t Help Falling in Love, her voice smooth, warm, carrying through the café like it belongs there.

The newly engaged couple sways, lost in their own world.

Aiah leans against the counter, watching as Mikh’s fingers immediately brushed against her wrist in a dance so soft it could lull her to sleep, a small, fond smile playing on her lips.

“You know,” Aiah murmurs, voice barely above a whisper, “this place has seen a lot of love.”

Mikha hums. “Including ours?”

Aiah glances at her. “Especially ours.”

Mikha chuckles. “Good.”

Colet catches them looking at each other, and without missing a beat in her song, winks dramatically.

Aiah groans. Mikha just laughs.

And in that little café by the sea, love lingers in every corner, in every stolen glance, in every note of a song played for two hearts choosing each other—again and again.

Later that night, the café quiets down, the last customers long gone, leaving only the scent of brewed coffee and the distant sound of waves rolling onto the shore. The soft hum of the overhead fan fills the space as Aiah wipes down the counter, Mikha flipping the chairs onto tables, moving through the routine with practiced ease.

It had been a good day. A beautiful one, even. The kind of day that reminds Aiah why she loves being here.

Mikha stretches, rolling her shoulders as she exhales. “You tired?”

Aiah shakes her head, setting the cloth down. “Not really.”

Mikha watches her for a moment, something unreadable in her gaze, before she steps forward—slow, deliberate. “Good,” she murmurs. “Dance with me.”

Aiah blinks. “What?”

Mikha tilts her head toward the old speaker near the register. “One song,” she says, voice softer now, a little nostalgic. “Before we call it a night.”

Aiah hesitates—only for a second. Because Mikha is standing there, waiting, offering something quiet, something tender.

And Aiah—Aiah has never been good at saying no to her.

So she exhales, shaking her head with a small, amused smile. “Alright,” she murmurs.

Mikha’s lips twitch into something warm before she walks over, pressing a few buttons on the speaker.

Aiah lets out a breathless laugh. “Colet really got to you, huh?”

Mikha grins, stepping closer, offering her hand. “Maybe.”

Mikha’s fingers curl around hers, warm and steady, grounding.

The soft, crackling notes of Can’t Help Falling in Love hum through the speaker, slow and delicate, filling the space between them.

Wise men say only fools rush in, but I can’t help falling in love with you...

Aiah lets Mikha pull her in, her hands finding their place against Mikha’s shoulders, Mikha’s arms wrapping around her waist in a way that feels familiar.

Like they’ve always done this before.

Like they’ll do it again.

They sway, slowly, without thought, without need for rhythm.

Just the two of them, moving as if they were made to.

The warmth of Mikha’s hands seeps through the fabric of Aiah’s shirt, spreading through her skin, sinking into her bones.

Aiah exhales, letting herself rest her cheek against Mikha’s shoulder, the scent of coffee and salt and Mikha filling her lungs.

Mikha’s fingers skim over the small of her back—barely there, but enough to make Aiah’s pulse stutter.

A moment stretches.

Then another.

Mikha lets out a quiet breath, her chin brushing Aiah’s jaw, barely a touch, but it sends something shivering down Aiah’s spine.

Aiah swallows. “You’re being sentimental.”

Mikha hums, swaying a little slower, pulling Aiah just a fraction closer. “You make me sentimental.”

Aiah’s grip tightens slightly.

She wants to say something, to fill the space with words that might match the weight of this moment.

But she can’t.

Because what is there to say, really?

What words could possibly capture the way Mikha holds her?

The way their bodies fit together like they were always meant to?

The way Aiah can feel Mikha’s heartbeat, steady against her own, their breaths syncing into something soft, something unspoken?

Mikha shifts, just slightly, just enough to let her forehead rest against Aiah’s.

Aiah closes her eyes.

Feels the warmth of her. The nearness. The quiet pull of something too big for words.

Mikha’s thumb brushes small, absent circles against Aiah’s back.

“I love you,” she murmurs.

Aiah stills.

Her breath catches, heart tripping over itself, the words sinking in, warm and quiet and sure.

It’s not a grand declaration. Not a confession laced with expectation.

It’s just true.

Simple. Certain. Like it’s always been there, waiting to be said.

Aiah swallows past the tightness in her throat, her fingers curling slightly against Mikha’s shoulders.

She exhales, gently presses her forehead against Mikha’s, lets the moment settle between them.

Then, soft, just for her—

“I love you, too,” she whispers.

The song fades into silence, but neither of them moves to pull away. They’re still swaying softly in the empty café, the warmth of their bodies pressed close, the hum of the night settling around them.

The world outside is quiet, the tide rolling in gentle waves against the shore, but here—here, wrapped in Mikha’s arms, there is nowhere else Aiah wants to be.

Mikha’s breath is warm against her cheek, her hands steady on the small of Aiah’s back, fingers tracing absent patterns against the fabric of her dress. They aren’t dancing anymore—not really. Just holding each other, rocking in place, like neither of them is ready to let go.

Aiah turns her head slightly, her nose brushing against Mikha’s.

Mikha stills, her grip tightening just a little, as if she can feel the shift in the air between them.

Aiah’s lips twitch into a small smile. “You always hold me like you’re afraid I’ll disappear.”

Mikha exhales a quiet laugh, but there’s something real beneath it, something that makes Aiah’s chest ache in ways she doesn’t have the words for.

“I’m not afraid,” Mikha murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. “I just—” She stops, swallows, tilts her head like she’s searching for the right words. “I just like holding you.”

Aiah’s breath catches.

It’s simple.

Uncomplicated.

But that’s what makes it so devastatingly heartwarming.

Mikha has never been one for grand declarations. She speaks in actions, in quiet devotion, in the steady way she makes space for Aiah—never demanding, never expecting, just there.

And Aiah—Aiah has spent so much of her life performing, curating, existing under the weight of the public’s gaze.

But here, in the hush of the night, with Mikha looking at her like she’s something worth holding onto—

This is the kind of love that feels real.

Aiah lets out a slow breath, her fingers trailing up Mikha’s arms before settling against the curve of her jaw.

Mikha leans into the touch, eyes flickering to Aiah’s lips.

Then back to her eyes.

A question lingers there, unspoken but clear.

Aiah exhales, her heart steady now, sure in a way she once wasn’t.

She closes the distance between them, pressing her lips to Mikha’s in a kiss that is soft, slow—anchored not in urgency, but in something stronger, something that has been building long before this moment.

Mikha exhales against her mouth, her hands pulling Aiah closer, pressing them together like something inevitable. She kisses her back, deepening it just slightly—like she’s savoring the moment, like she has no intention of letting go.

And neither does Aiah.

Because they are home.

This is the warmth she’s spent a lifetime chasing, the quiet certainty she didn’t know she was allowed to have. Mikha’s lips taste like coffee, like the salt of the sea breeze, like something warm and safe and endless. But it’s not just a taste. It’s her.

It’s the way she loves without expectation. The way she gives without needing anything in return. The way she looks at Aiah like she has never been anything but enough.

Aiah’s fingers slide into Mikha’s hair, sighing softly against her lips, and Mikha smiles into the kiss, like she knows, like she feels it too.

The way she makes this tiny café on a quiet island feel like it holds the entire world.

The way she makes Aiah feel free.

The kiss slows, but they don’t pull away.

Not yet.

Mikha rests her forehead against Aiah’s, their breaths mingling, the space between them charged with something heavier, something deeper.

Mikha hums softly. “You taste like cinnamon.”

Aiah huffs a quiet laugh. “You taste like coffee.”

Mikha grins. “We make a good pair.”

Aiah hums, running her thumb along Mikha’s cheek. “Yeah.”

Silence settles between them again, but it’s different now—thicker, heavier, something unspoken weaving between their heartbeats.

Aiah closes her eyes for a second, lets herself sink into the feeling, lets herself settle in the fact that she was always meant to choose this.

Mikha presses the softest kiss to the corner of her lips. “Let’s go home?”

Aiah opens her eyes.

Home.

It’s not a place anymore.

It’s Mikha.

Aiah exhales, her lips curling into a quiet smile.

“Yeah,” she whispers. “Let’s go home.”

And as Mikha laces their fingers together, leading her out of the café and into the warm night—

Aiah thinks that, for the first time in her life, she doesn’t feel the need to look back.

The sun hangs low on the horizon, bleeding gold across the island, casting long shadows that sway with the rhythm of the tide. The sky is a masterpiece of soft pinks and deep oranges, painted as if the universe itself is blessing this moment. The sea hums its quiet song in the distance, a lullaby of waves that rise and fall in gentle applause.

The wedding is simple in the way only island weddings can be—where love is not a grand spectacle but something woven into the very fabric of the place. The salty breeze carries the scent of orchids and saltwater, and lanterns sway from the trees, their glow flickering like the heartbeat of the evening.

Mikha and Aiah sit among the guests, their shoulders nearly touching, watching as Leon and Trisha stand before each other, their vows trembling at the edges, thick with meaning. The air around them is heavy, charged with something tender and unspoken, something that lingers in the hush between words.

Aiah exhales softly.

Mikha notices. She always does.

She turns her head, just slightly, but Aiah isn’t looking at her. Her eyes are fixed ahead, on Leon and Trisha, on the way they look at each other—like the rest of the world has ceased to exist. Like nothing else has ever mattered.

Mikha’s fingers twitch against her lap. There’s a pull, subtle but insistent, something she doesn’t dare name. And before she can think, before she can hesitate—

Aiah’s hand finds hers.

Fingers slotting together like second nature.

Like inevitability.

Mikha doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just feels it. The warmth of Aiah’s palm, the quiet certainty in the way she holds on just a little tighter as Leon wipes a tear from Trisha’s cheek.

The island has always been full of love, Mikha realizes.

Not just in grand declarations, not just in the words spoken beneath archways of flowers, but in the quiet, steady things. In the way fishermen bring extra food to the café without being asked. In the way neighbors leave fresh fruit by each other’s doors, no note, no expectation. In the way Yaya still keeps the light on at the hostel, even when no guests are arriving.

And in this—

Aiah’s hand in hers. Held beneath the setting sun, like a promise neither of them has to say aloud.

Mikha squeezes gently.

Aiah glances at her. Their eyes meet, something shifting in the space between them, something soft and unguarded.

And then, without thinking, without warning—

Aiah leans in and presses a kiss to Mikha’s cheek.

It’s barely more than a breath, light and fleeting, but it lingers. The warmth of it, the meaning of it, settles deep in Mikha’s chest, tangling with the rhythm of the waves, the weight of the evening.

For a breath, time stretches. The moment is golden, delicate, untouchable.

And then—

Chaos arrives.

Colet, seated a few rows behind, lifts her phone to capture the scene—the sun dipping into the waves, the warm glow of lanterns flickering against the dusky sky, the wedding bathed in light. A simple, quiet snapshot.

She posts it without thinking.

An Instagram story.

No couple in focus. Just a wide shot of the beach, the sea, the sky—

And, entirely by accident, in the bottom corner of the frame—

Aiah and Mikha.

Hands intertwined.

Aiah leaning in.

Lips pressed softly against Mikha’s cheek.

Mikha, frozen in the golden light, caught in the moment, eyes closed just slightly—like she’s feeling it in every inch of her being.

Like it’s theirs.

The internet does not take it lightly.

Within minutes, the post is shared, zoomed in, dissected.

And then—just as the storm reaches its peak—

Stacey retweets the fan grabbed image from Colet’s Instagram Story.

One word.

Finally.

And the internet explodes. Again. Because what is chaos without Stacey, really?

Colet, unaware of the wildfire she’s just ignited, frowns as her phone begins vibrating nonstop.

“Oh, for f—” she mutters, staring at her screen, watching as her Twitter notifications spiral out of control.

Mikha and Aiah, meanwhile, are still lost in their moment, still holding onto each other beneath the pastel sky.

Blissfully unaware.

Chapter Text

filmed a year after Aiah’s exit from stardom

The video opens with a soft chime.

A split screen: one side showing a dimly lit studio, the other a sun-washed corner of a room, its wooden panels and open windows unmistakably island-built. Outside, a breeze lifts the curtain. Somewhere offscreen, birdsong drifts through.

On the right, Aiah Arceta leans forward slightly, framed by warm light and a bookshelf behind her.

Her hair is tucked loosely behind her ears. No makeup, no polish—only her.

The interviewer’s voice comes in from the other side—familiar, respectful, a name fans recognize from years of showbiz coverage. One who’s seen her before the headlines, and called her Aiah in a gentle voice. One who snuck her chocolates between takes when she was sixteen and too nervous to eat.

“Are we good to go?”

Aiah nods, offering a small smile. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”

The screen tightens to her side.

“People have been asking,” the interviewer begins gently. “Where have you been?”

Aiah laughs, quiet and honest. “Off the grid, apparently.”

Then—

“I’ve been home. Or trying to learn what that really means.”

She glances past the camera for a moment, as though grounding herself.

“For years, I thought success meant staying visible. Staying busy. Saying yes to everything until there was nothing left of me. The version of me who kept showing up for the world forgot what it meant to just be me.”

She pauses.

“I loved acting. I still do. But somewhere in between sets and rewrites and playing someone else, I lost sight of myself.”

A beat.

“That’s when I knew I needed to step away.”

The interviewer nods, visible only in voice. “You didn’t make a big announcement. No press release. Just… disappeared. Was that intentional?”

Aiah smiles, a little wry. “It wasn’t about making a statement. It was about making space.”

She leans back slightly, gaze soft.

“I needed to move at a pace that wasn’t dictated by ratings or premieres. I needed to know who I was outside the applause.”

The camera holds on her.

Not dramatic.

Just real.

“And now?” the interviewer asks. “What does home look like for Aiah Arceta these days?”

A laugh escapes her. “A small island no one really believes exists.”

She shrugs, playful. “There’s a café. A view of the sea. The occasional storm. And someone who brews the kind of coffee that ruins you for anything else.”

A pause, but not an uncomfortable one.

“There are still hard days. But most mornings, I wake up and remember I chose this. And I’d choose it again.”

She exhales, steady.

“And I’m happy.”

Her voice is certain when she says it.

Not performative. Not polished. Just real.

“I wanted to do this interview because I know I left without a proper goodbye. And I know I didn’t always get to thank the people who followed my work, who rooted for me—even when they didn’t really know who I was underneath the characters.”

She breathes in.

“You watched the shows. You remembered the monologues. You clipped the scenes I thought no one noticed. You made this life possible—with me, and sometimes even before I could believe in it myself.”

Her eyes flicker with something tender.

“So thank you. For all of it.”

Another breeze moves behind her.

She glances toward it, like someone just stepped into the room.

Then back to the screen.

“I’m not sure if I’ll act again. Maybe one day. But if I do, it’ll be on my own terms. Smaller stories. Maybe ones I write myself. But right now, I’m exactly where I want to be.”

A beat.

Then—

“This isn’t an ending. It’s just… a quieter chapter. One I get to write without a script. One I’m walking with love.”

She smiles.

Not for the camera.

Just because it feels right.

“And if you ever find yourself on an island with crappy signal, a sunwashed café by the shore, and someone humming while pouring coffee behind the counter… you’ll know I made it.”

A pause.

And maybe you’ll think of me—not as the girl on your screen, but as someone who finally found what she needed.

The screen holds on her for a second longer.

Then fades to black.

Only the sound of the sea remains.

Chapter Text

The first thing Aiah notices when she wakes up is the space beside her, cool and empty.

She exhales slowly, eyes fluttering open to the soft morning light bleeding through the curtains. The house is quiet—too quiet. There are no slow footsteps padding across the wooden floor, no soft clang of a spoon against ceramic, no steady hum of the coffee maker filling the air with the rich scent of something warm, something familiar.

Just stillness.

Aiah turns onto her back, her gaze tracing the ceiling, as if waiting for the weight of the day to settle over her. It always does, eventually. The life she lives now is slower, measured in the rise and fall of the tide rather than the flash of a camera or the dictates of a call sheet. And yet, even here, even in the safety of the home she has built with Mikha, she cannot fully shed the habits of before.

She is always waiting—for something to pull her back into the life she left behind.

A part of her wonders if she has truly let go, or if she is merely lingering in the quiet, waiting to see if the world will call her back.

The bed feels too big without Mikha in it. She frowns. Mikha never sleeps in, but she also doesn’t leave without a word.

Aiah pushes herself up, stretching lazily, letting her body wake in its own time. The moment her feet touch the cool floor, the silence is interrupted.

A low, distant rumble.

Faint at first, then growing louder, vibrating through the morning air.

A motorcycle.

Aiah’s eyes flick toward the window. The sound is coming from the front gate, unmistakable now, a disruption to the quiet that has settled in her bones. It stops abruptly, followed by the familiar creak of the front door.

Then footsteps.

And then—

“Good morning.”

Aiah turns as Mikha steps inside, looking like she knows she’s been caught. The sleeves of her button-down are shoved up to her elbows, her hair tousled from the wind, her lips curling into a smile that is all sheepish charm and hopeful innocence.

Aiah studies her for a moment. There is something grounding about Mikha’s presence, something that makes the edges of Aiah’s restless thoughts settle, like waves breaking softly against the shore.

But she still crosses her arms. “Where were you?”

Mikha steps closer, pressing a kiss to Aiah’s lips—unhurried, easy, as if that will erase the question entirely.

“Out,” she says simply.

Aiah narrows her eyes. “Out where?”

Mikha hums, reaching out to tap a gentle finger under Aiah’s chin, tilting her face slightly. “Getting ready for our adventure.”

Aiah raises a brow, skepticism creeping into her voice. “Adventure?”

Mikha grins, the kind of grin that is both promise and mischief, the kind that makes it impossible to say no.

“Yep,” she says. “So hurry up and change into something comfortable. We have places to be.”

Aiah exhales, studying her for a moment longer before shaking her head.

When they step outside, Aiah stops short.

Parked in front of their house is a scooter. Not just any scooter—one she recognizes.

She turns to Mikha. “That’s Colet’s.”

Mikha nods, clearly pleased with herself. “Yep. Borrowed it for the day.”

Aiah eyes it warily. “Please tell me you got helmets.”

Mikha just grins, swinging a leg over the scooter effortlessly. “I’m a really good driver. You don’t need to worry.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Mikha pats the seat behind her. “Trust me.”

Aiah hesitates, glancing between Mikha’s easy confidence and the undeniably helmet-less ride.

“Do you want me to worry?” she mutters, climbing onto the scooter anyway.

Mikha laughs, reaching back to squeeze Aiah’s knee before revving the engine. “Hold on tight.”

The island unfurls before them, a winding stretch of road threading through towering coconut trees and dense clusters of banana groves. The ocean glimmers in the distance, the horizon seamless where the sky melts into the water. Sunlight dapples the pavement, slipping through swaying fronds, casting flickering patterns on the ground as Mikha maneuvers the scooter with effortless ease.

Aiah tightens her arms around Mikha’s waist, resting her cheek lightly against her shoulder. The hum of the engine beneath them is steady, a soft contrast to the rush of wind against her skin. She watches as the world moves around them, slow and unhurried—nothing like the city she left behind.

They pass through small villages where life spills into the open. Children run barefoot along the roadsides, kicking up dust as they chase each other with wild, unrestrained laughter. Women sit outside their homes, weaving baskets or washing clothes in metal basins, their voices carrying in lilting conversation. An old man, crouched by the roadside, waves as they pass, his face creased with the kind of smile that belongs to someone who has known this island his whole life.

Mikha lifts a hand in greeting before turning onto a narrow dirt path, slowing as they approach a small roadside shop nestled between tall banana trees. The scent of something warm and sweet lingers in the air, mixing with the faint smokiness of coconut husks burning somewhere nearby. A wooden sign, hand-painted and slightly weathered, hangs by the entrance: Original Moron.

Mikha parks the scooter and hops off in one smooth motion. “Breakfast,” she announces, already tugging off her sleeves.

Aiah raises an eyebrow as she follows, stretching her legs. “And this isn’t just an excuse to stop for sweets?”

Mikha grins, nudging her playfully. “It can be both.”

Inside, the shop is small but inviting, the walls lined with shelves of homemade goods—jars of mango jam, stacks of suman wrapped tightly in banana leaves, bottles of fermented coconut vinegar. At the counter, an elderly couple brightens at the sight of Mikha, their faces creasing into warm, familiar smiles.

“Ah, Mikha!” The old woman wipes her hands on her apron before pulling Mikha into a brief hug. “It’s been a while, anak.”

Mikha laughs, rubbing the back of her neck. “I know, I know. I should visit more, Nay.”

The old man chuckles from behind the counter, wiping his hands on a rag. “Haven’t seen you in a while, Mikha. Thought you forgot about us old folks.”

Mikha grins, shaking her head. “Never, Tay. Just been busy.”

The woman beside him, eyes sharp with warmth, turns her attention to Aiah. “And who’s this lovely young woman?”

Mikha doesn’t miss a beat. “This is my girlfriend, Aiah.”

The words are effortless, unhesitating, as if they’ve always belonged to her mouth.

Aiah feels a quiet heat creep up her ears, but it isn’t embarrassment—it’s something softer, something steady. The way Mikha had said it, without any need for explanation or caution, settles deep in her chest.

The woman hums, eyes twinkling as she studies Aiah. “So beautiful.” She reaches out, giving Aiah’s arm a gentle squeeze. “Lucky girl, our Mikha.”

Aiah ducks her head slightly, a small, shy smile forming despite herself. She isn’t used to being introduced this way—with such certainty, with such rightness.

Mikha squeezes her hand, grounding her, before the woman waves them both toward the back. “Come, come. You two are just in time. The moron is still warm.”

Aiah lets Mikha pull her along, her heart swelling with something she doesn’t quite name.

She just knows she likes the way it feels.

The kitchen is simple—an open space where large wooden tables are covered in trays of half-wrapped moron, the sticky rice infused with chocolate and coconut, its rich aroma curling through the air. Several women are gathered, rolling and folding each piece into neat bundles before tucking them into banana leaves. Their hands move with practiced ease, a rhythm passed down through generations.

Aiah watches as one of them carefully ties a finished roll with a strip of thin twine, placing it onto a growing pile. Mikha, beside her, reaches for a freshly wrapped piece and hands it over.

“You used to come here a lot?” Aiah asks, rolling the still-warm delicacy between her fingers.

Mikha nods, watching as Aiah takes her first bite. “My grandparents used to bring me here every Sunday.”

Aiah hums, the taste sinking onto her tongue—soft, sweet, the deep richness of cocoa blending seamlessly with the mild saltiness of coconut milk. The texture is dense yet smooth, each bite melting in her mouth.

She swallows, licking a crumb from her lip. “It’s good.”

Mikha smirks, bumping their shoulders together. “Told you.”

The old woman, watching them with clear amusement, suddenly pushes a wooden spoon into Aiah’s hands.

“You want to try making one?”

Aiah blinks at the unexpected challenge. She glances at the sticky rice mixture, then at Mikha, who is very clearly trying to stifle a laugh.

“I—” Aiah exhales, rolling up her sleeves. “Fine. But if mine looks ugly, I’m blaming you.”

Mikha grins, stepping closer as Aiah hesitantly scoops a spoonful of the mixture.

“Don’t worry,” Mikha murmurs, leaning in just slightly, voice warm with teasing. “I’ll still eat it, even if it turns out terrible.”

Aiah shoots her a glare, but the corners of her lips twitch upward despite herself.

She presses her fingers into the sticky dough, feeling its warmth and slight resistance. It clings to her skin, heavier than she expected, and she fumbles slightly as she tries to smooth it into shape. The women around her move effortlessly, hands swift and practiced as they roll and wrap each piece with ease. In comparison, Aiah feels clumsy, her movements stiff and uncertain.

Mikha, of course, is enjoying every second of it.

“Okay, not bad,” Mikha muses, watching as Aiah attempts to press a strip of chocolate into the center. “Could use a little more confidence, though.”

Aiah huffs, narrowing her eyes at the dough in her hands. “If I knew we were doing this today, I would’ve mentally prepared.”

Mikha grins, leaning in slightly. “For rolling moron? Love, it’s not that serious.”

Aiah glares at her. “Says the person who’s not doing anything.”

Mikha chuckles, finally picking up a banana leaf and effortlessly folding it into a neat cone. “I’m supervising.”

Aiah exhales through her nose, carefully rolling the rice into shape before placing it onto the leaf. It’s… not perfect. It’s slightly lopsided, uneven at the edges, and compared to the neatly wrapped pieces stacked on the trays, it looks like it was made in a rush.

Still, she folds the banana leaf around it, fumbling slightly with the twine as she tries to tie it securely.

Mikha watches, her expression unreadable for a moment. Then, she picks up Aiah’s finished roll and turns it over in her hands with exaggerated scrutiny.

Aiah braces herself for teasing.

Instead, Mikha hums approvingly. “Not bad.”

Aiah blinks. “Seriously?”

Mikha nods, a playful glint in her eyes. “It’s got… character.”

Aiah narrows her gaze. “That sounds like a nice way of saying it looks terrible.”

Mikha laughs, bumping their shoulders together. “Hey, it’s your first time. If you really want me to be honest—” She holds up the piece again, tilting her head as if contemplating. “It’s a little sad-looking. But it’s also kind of cute.”

Aiah groans, covering her face with one hand. “I knew you were going to say something like that.”

Mikha grins. “You still did a good job.”

The old woman chuckles as she takes Aiah’s finished roll and places it onto the tray with the rest. “Not bad for a first-timer,” she agrees, patting Aiah’s shoulder. “You’ll get better with practice.”

Aiah exhales, shaking her head. “You’re assuming I’ll be doing this again, Lola.”

Mikha nudges her playfully. “Oh, you will. Next time, I’ll even make one with you.”

Aiah side-eyes her. “You mean for me?”

Mikha just smirks, handing her a warm piece of moron wrapped neatly in a fresh banana leaf. “Here. A consolation prize for all your hard work.”

Aiah sighs, but there’s no real frustration in it. She peels back the leaf and takes a bite, letting the rich, familiar sweetness settle on her tongue.

If this is the reward, maybe she doesn’t mind trying again after all.

The scent of freshly made moron lingers in the air as they step back into the front of the shop, where the old couple is already wrapping small bundles of sweets for them to take on the road.

“You two should come by more often,” the old woman says as she hands the package to Mikha. “Bring your ganda girlfriend again next time.”

Mikha grins, easily slipping an arm around Aiah’s waist. “I will, Nay.”

Aiah, still unused to being spoken about so fondly, ducks her head slightly, but the warmth in her chest stays.

The old man chuckles. “Take care on the road. And Mikha—don’t scare the poor girl with your driving.”

Mikha gasps in mock offense. “I never scare her.”

Aiah snorts. “That’s a lie.”

The old couple laughs as Mikha tugs Aiah toward the scooter, shaking their heads in amusement. As they climb onto the seat, Aiah settles behind Mikha, arms slipping naturally around her waist.

“Ready?” Mikha asks, her voice low, steady, familiar.

Aiah tightens her grip just slightly, pressing her cheek against Mikha’s shoulder once more.

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “Let’s go.”

The scooter rumbles to life beneath them, and they pull back onto the road, the island stretching out before them once again—an unbroken path, waiting to be explored.

After some time, the road bends, narrowing as they leave the last traces of the village behind. The sound of the engine hums beneath them, steady and rhythmic, as the sea stretches wider to their right. The salty air thickens, mingling with the warmth of the afternoon sun, and Aiah watches as the horizon shifts—unchanging, yet never quite the same.

Mikha slows the scooter as they near a small dirt path, overgrown with grass, leading toward the water.

“Where are we?” Aiah asks, lifting her head from Mikha’s shoulder as she glances around.

Mikha doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she kicks the stand into place and swings off the scooter with ease, stretching her arms above her head. “Come on,” she says, tilting her head toward the path.

Aiah follows, brushing strands of hair away from her face as the wind picks up. It isn’t long before the structure comes into view—a weathered church standing alone against the backdrop of the sea.

The building is old, its stone walls rough with age, darkened by time and salt air. Moss clings to the cracks, creeping along the edges where the earth meets the foundation. The wooden doors, thick and worn, bear the weight of years, yet they remain standing—unyielding, like the rest of it.

Aiah exhales, slowing her steps. “It’s beautiful.”

Mikha smiles, watching her. “Yeah. It’s been here for centuries. Survived every storm that’s hit the island.”

Aiah steps forward, trailing her fingers lightly against the stone. It’s cool beneath her touch, solid and unmoving despite the years it has endured. There is something about it—something steady, something ancient, something that feels like a quiet defiance against time itself.

Mikha leans against the entrance, her arms crossed loosely over her chest. “My Lola used to bring me here,” she says, voice softer now. “Not because she was religious, but because she believed places like this carried the memories of the people who came before us.”

Aiah looks back at her. “Do you believe that?”

Mikha’s lips curve slightly, but she doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she pushes off the doorframe and steps inside, gesturing for Aiah to follow.

The inside of the church is just as weathered as the exterior. Wooden pews line the stone floor, their edges smoothed by time and the hands of those who once knelt before them. The high ceiling is open, allowing the wind to pass through with ease, carrying with it the distant sound of waves crashing against the shore.

There are no grand stained-glass windows, no gilded chandeliers—just simple carvings of saints tucked into the alcoves, their faces softened by age, watching in quiet stillness.

Aiah tilts her head upward, letting the hush of the space settle into her bones. It feels… different from the churches in the city. There, everything had always felt too much—too bright, too heavy, too suffocating with expectation.

But here, there is only quiet.

No demands. No weight.

Just the steady breath of the ocean, and the presence of something unseen but deeply felt.

Mikha steps beside her, glancing at the altar. “You know, during the worst storms, people still come here to take shelter.”

Aiah glances at her. “Even when everything else is closed?”

Mikha nods. “Especially then.” She exhales, gaze distant. “It’s the one place people know will still be standing after the storm passes.”

Aiah swallows, fingers curling slightly at her sides. There’s something about that thought—something that settles deep inside her.

She isn’t sure what she expected when Mikha brought her here, but now, standing within these walls, feeling the quiet weight of everything they have endured, she thinks she understands.

Mikha looks at her then, studying her carefully, as if sensing the shift in her thoughts.

“I thought you’d like it,” she says simply.

Aiah meets her gaze.

“I do.”

Mikha smiles. Not her usual teasing smirk, not the grin she wears when she’s being playful—but something softer. Something sure.

She reaches for Aiah’s hand, linking their fingers together before tugging her toward the open doorway. “Come on,” she says, squeezing gently. “Let’s go see the ocean before the sun gets too low.”

Aiah follows, the sound of the waves growing louder as they step back into the light.

And behind them, the old church stands, as it always has—watching, waiting, weathering every storm.

By midday, the sun hangs heavy in the sky, casting long shadows over the sand as the tide pulls gently against the shore. The scent of seawater thickens with the aroma of fish grilling over open flames, mingling with the distant sharpness of salt-dried nets and damp wood.

Aiah isn’t sure when exactly Mikha slowed the scooter, or when the winding road gave way to an open stretch of beach, but suddenly, they are here—a quiet cove where a handful of fishermen sit gathered around a makeshift picnic, their weathered hands moving with practiced ease as they eat.

The ocean sprawls behind them, endless and bright, waves licking at the sand in an unhurried rhythm.

Aiah barely has time to take it all in before one of the older men spots them.

“Mikha!” His voice carries easily over the sound of the waves, thick with familiarity. He lifts a hand in greeting, a grin breaking across his sun-darkened face. “Come eat!”

Mikha grins, tugging Aiah forward without hesitation. “See?” she murmurs under her breath. “Free food follows me everywhere.”

Aiah huffs, amused but unconvinced. “Or maybe they just feel sorry for you.”

Mikha gasps, clutching her chest in mock offense. But before she can fire back, the fishermen are already making space for them, waving them down to sit among the scattered plates and steaming rice.

The food is simple, but in the kind of way that makes it feel more honest—grilled fish, its skin crisp and glistening with oil; fresh pusit skewered on thin sticks, the edges curled from heat; a wooden bowl of steaming white rice. But it is something else that catches Aiah’s attention.

A small, unassuming dish sits among the others—diced raw fish soaked in something pale and sharp, thin slices of red onion and slivers of chili scattered throughout.

Aiah leans closer to Mikha, lowering her voice. “What… is that?”

Mikha follows her gaze, then smirks. “Kinilaw.”

Aiah doesn’t move. “It looks suspiciously raw.”

Mikha doesn’t hesitate, picking up a piece with her fingers and popping it into her mouth. “It’s just like sashimi,” she says after swallowing. “But with more flavor.”

Aiah eyes the dish warily. She’s had sashimi before—perfectly sliced, delicately plated, paired with soy sauce and wasabi in dimly lit restaurants where quiet jazz hummed in the background. But this? This looks different. Rougher, maybe. Less about presentation and more about taste.

She hesitates.

One of the fishermen notices and lets out a deep chuckle. “First time?”

Aiah glances at Mikha, who is already watching her with barely contained amusement. She exhales, rolling her shoulders back as if preparing for battle. “Yeah.”

The man nods sagely, then gestures toward the bowl. “No better place to try it.”

Aiah glances at Mikha, who is already watching her with barely contained amusement. She exhales, rolling her shoulders back as if preparing for battle. “Yeah.”

The man nods sagely, then gestures toward the bowl. “No better place to try it.”

Aiah sighs, steeling herself before picking up a piece. The fish is firm but tender between her fingers, the vinegar soaking through. She places it on her tongue cautiously.

The sourness hits her first—sharp and bracing—followed by the heat of fresh ginger, the cool bite of onions, the slow burn of chili spreading through the back of her throat. And beneath it all, the fish itself, delicate yet bold, holding its own against the acid.

It isn’t what she expected.

It’s better.

She blinks. “Oh.”

Mikha watches, her expression smug.

Aiah takes another bite. “That’s—” She pauses, rolling the flavors over in her mouth. “That’s really good.”

Mikha bumps their shoulders together, grinning. “Told you.”

Aiah doesn’t argue.

The fishermen laugh, pleased, before returning to their meal, the conversation shifting into easy stories about tides and storms, of summers past and seasons yet to come.

Aiah listens, letting their voices blur into the background, letting the taste of the island settle on her tongue.

After lunch, they walk along the shore, where the sand is warm beneath their feet and the afternoon sun stretches their shadows long against the earth.

The ocean is quieter here, the tide curling in slow, careful waves. Aiah watches as Mikha kicks at the water absentmindedly, their joined hands swinging between them.

Then, after a moment—

“Do you miss it?” Mikha asks, her voice light but deliberate.

Aiah looks up. “The city?”

Mikha nods.

Aiah exhales, tilting her head as she considers. “Sometimes.” She nudges a stray shell with the tip of her foot, watching it tumble before settling back into the sand. “I miss the noise, the late-night food runs, the way things are always moving.”

Mikha doesn’t say anything right away, just watches the waves rolling in and out, waiting.

Aiah squeezes her hand.

“But…” she continues, her voice quieter now, “being here with you has been the best time of my life.”

Mikha stops walking.

Aiah glances at her, a little uncertain, until she sees the look in Mikha’s eyes—something steady, something deep, something like she’s trying to memorize every detail of this moment. The wind-tossed strands of Aiah’s hair, the sunlit reflection in her gaze, the way the words had left her lips like a quiet, unshaken truth.

Mikha lifts Aiah’s hand to her lips, pressing a kiss against her knuckles.

“You don’t regret it?” she asks, voice barely above the hush of the waves.

Aiah shakes her head.

“Not even once.”

Mikha’s thumb traces slow circles against Aiah’s skin, something thoughtful flickering across her expression. Then, as if deciding something, she exhales and tugs Aiah forward, leading them toward the edge of the water.

“Come on,” she says, smiling softly. “We still have more places to see.”

Aiah lets herself be pulled along, the ocean stretching wide beside them.

The city may have been built on movement, but here—here, time is measured in something else entirely.

And Aiah isn’t in a hurry to catch up.

The sun has softened by the time they reach their final stop, stretching golden light over the quiet village, casting long, dappled shadows through the trees. The air is thick with the scent of ripening fruit and earth warmed by the day, the distant call of birds threading through the silence.

The road narrows, giving way to an uneven dirt path lined with wild grass. Then, finally, the trees part to reveal a small house sitting at the edge of the land, caught between past and present.
It is unassuming, modest in size, but there is something about it—something rooted, something kept. The wood is aged by time and weather, the roof slightly faded from years beneath the island sun, but it stands as steady as ever. The trees that surround it have grown deep into the soil, their thick branches stretching over the house like they, too, have always belonged here.

There is no smoke rising from the kitchen, no voices drifting from an open window, but the house does not feel abandoned.

Just… waiting.

Mikha slows the scooter, bringing it to a stop just a few steps from the front porch. But she doesn’t move to get off immediately. Instead, she sits there for a moment, staring at the house, her fingers loose around the handlebars, her expression unreadable.

Then, finally, Mikha exhales.

“This was my childhood home,” she says.

Aiah reaches for her hand, lacing their fingers together. “No one lives here now?”

Mikha shakes her head. “No. My parents couldn’t bring themselves to sell it. We have someone come in once a week to keep the dust from settling, but…” She trails off, exhaling softly. “It’s just here.”

Aiah studies the house again, taking in the way it stands—rooted, unmoving, like something tethered to the past.

“Maybe that’s why it still feels like yours,” she murmurs.

Mikha glances at her, lips curling slightly. “Yeah. Maybe.”

She turns toward the house fully then, her voice softer when she says, “Come on. I want you to see it.”

Aiah follows as they step onto the porch, where the wood groans gently beneath their weight. The wind shifts, rustling through the trees, the familiar chime of rusted bells hanging by the door filling the silence.

It is easy to picture Mikha here as a child, running barefoot across these planks, calling out to her parents as she scrambled up the trees that still stand tall in the yard. Aiah lets herself linger on the thought, lets herself step into this piece of Mikha’s past.

Mikha moves with quiet familiarity, trailing her fingers along the doorframe. “This spot right here?” She taps the wood, where faint, uneven markings are carved into the surface. “My dad used to mark my height every year.”

Aiah tilts her head, following the faded pencil lines, each one climbing just a little higher.

“You must’ve been excited every time you grew.”

Mikha chuckles. “Oh, for sure. I was obsessed. I Kept checking even when I knew it wasn’t time yet.”

Aiah smiles, picturing it easily—the impatient tilt of a younger Mikha’s face, the way she must’ve stood on her toes, hoping to be just a little taller.

They step inside.

The house is quiet, but it is not empty. It is full—full of history, full of warmth, full of the kind of life that lingers even when no one is there to carry it forward. Aiah glances around, taking in the details—the wooden shelves lined with books worn at the edges, the cabinet filled with delicate ceramic plates that seem like they’ve been passed down through generations. The dining table is covered in a woven tablecloth that looks handmade, soft with use, but undisturbed.

Everything here has been kept, as if waiting for someone to return.

Mikha slows by the wall, where a series of old photographs are framed neatly. Aiah steps closer, peering over her shoulder.

A younger Mikha grins up at the camera, her hair shorter, her face rounder, standing between two adults who share pieces of her. A man with sharp eyes. A woman with the same soft curve of her smile.

Aiah glances at Mikha. “Do you miss them?”

Mikha doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, she exhales through her nose, staring at the photo a moment longer before tilting her head slightly.

“Yeah,” she says eventually, voice quieter now. “Sometimes.”

Aiah waits, giving her space to find her words.

Mikha shifts, crossing her arms loosely. “I mean, we still talk. My parents are still in the States, and they’re happy there. My siblings too. And I get it—I really do. I know why they stayed. But…” She pauses, then exhales, shaking her head with a small laugh. “I don’t know. I guess some parts of me just never really left this place.”

Aiah watches her, taking in the way her fingers linger over the edge of the frame, the way her expression holds something soft, something caught between past and present.

Aiah reaches for her hand again, grounding her. “I think this place never really left you either.”

Mikha glances at her, something unreadable flickering behind her gaze before it settles.

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “Maybe.”

A silence stretches between them, but it is not heavy. It is the kind of quiet that holds things together.

Then, after a moment, Mikha tugs Aiah toward the back door.

“Come on,” she says, her voice lighter now, her fingers warm around Aiah’s wrist. “There’s something I want you to see before sunset.”

Aiah lets herself be led, stepping out into the last golden light of the afternoon.

And for the first time, she feels like she is walking into a part of Mikha’s life she has yet to know.

A place that was waiting for her all along.

As they step outside, the air shifts—lighter, cooler, carrying the distant hush of waves meeting the shore. Mikha doesn’t let go of her hand, guiding her past the back door and toward a narrow dirt path that disappears into the tall grass. The scent of salt lingers, mingling with something faintly sweet, wildflowers brushing against their ankles as they walk.

Just ahead, where the land meets the sky, the edge of the world seems to drop away.

Aiah follows, curiosity threading through her chest. “Where are we going?”

Mikha doesn’t answer, just glances back at her with a knowing smile. “You’ll see.”

The wind picks up as they reach the crest of the land, and then—

Aiah stops.

The cliff stretches out before them, its jagged edges meeting the open sky, and below, the ocean sprawls endlessly, its surface shimmering beneath the dying light. But it’s the sky itself that steals her breath away.

The sun hangs low, swollen and golden, its edges blurred by the horizon. Streaks of amber and crimson spill across the clouds, igniting them from within, bleeding into deep violets and soft pinks. The water mirrors the sky’s colors, shifting like liquid fire, waves catching the last light of the day before surrendering to the encroaching dusk.

It is vast. It is endless.

And it is the most beautiful thing Aiah has ever seen.

Her breath catches in her throat. Her heart swells, pulled too tightly inside her chest, and before she can stop it, tears sting the corners of her eyes.

Mikha watches her quietly. “So?” she murmurs. “Worth the trip?”

Aiah exhales, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s… perfect.”

The words feel inadequate, too small to contain the sheer immensity of what she’s looking at. The colors shift every second, never quite the same, like a painting being remade over and over before her eyes. The sky burns, and then it softens, the horizon blurring into something quieter, something softer.

A tear slips down Aiah’s cheek before she can stop it. She huffs out a laugh, wiping at it quickly. “God. I don’t even know why I’m crying.”

Mikha chuckles, stepping closer. “Because it’s beautiful,” she says simply. “Because this is what the quiet side of the island has been hiding all along.”

Aiah glances at her, feeling something shift in her chest.

Maybe it’s the sunset, maybe it’s the air, maybe it’s just her—Mikha, standing there, bathed in the dying light of the day, watching her like she is something just as breathtaking.

Mikha reaches out, brushing a thumb over Aiah’s cheek, wiping away another stray tear. “You okay?”

Aiah nods, laughing softly. “More than okay.”

They stand together at the edge of the world, hands finding each other in the growing twilight.

Mikha lifts Aiah’s hand to her lips, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to her knuckles. “I wanted to bring you here,” she murmurs, “because every time I come, I feel like I understand something I didn’t before.”

Aiah swallows, her voice barely above the wind. “And what do you understand now?”

Mikha tilts her head, studying her with eyes that reflect the last traces of the sun.

“That I never want to watch a sunset without you again.”

Aiah’s breath stutters, warmth blooming beneath her ribs.

She smiles—small at first, then full, as she tugs Mikha closer, pressing her lips against the corner of Mikha’s. The wind hums around them, the world settling into twilight, and in this quiet, endless moment, Aiah knows—

She was always meant to find this place.

She was always meant to find Mikha.

By the time they make it back, the sky has settled into a deep indigo, the last traces of sunset fading into a blanket of stars. The ride home had been quiet, filled with the hum of the engine beneath them and the lingering warmth of shared silence. Now, as Mikha parks the scooter in front of their house, Aiah stretches, rolling her shoulders, exhaustion settling in—but it is the good kind, the kind that comes after a day well spent.

Mikha rolls up the sleeves of her button-down, loosening the top button as she exhales. “Hungry?”

Aiah huffs out a soft laugh. “After all that food today?”

Mikha smirks, unlocking the door. “So that’s a yes.”

Aiah follows her inside, the house welcoming them back with its familiar quiet. But it isn’t long before the stillness is broken—the sharp click of the stove being turned on, the soft rustle of Mikha moving through the kitchen, the rhythmic sound of a knife against the cutting board.

Aiah leans against the doorway, watching as Mikha moves easily through the space. “What are you making?”

Mikha doesn’t look up as she sprinkles salt over freshly cut chicken. “Adobong manok.”

Aiah raises a brow. “Have I had that before?”

Mikha finally glances at her, smirking. “Not my version.”

Aiah chuckles, stepping closer, watching as Mikha tosses the chicken into a pan, the sizzle filling the air almost immediately. A splash of soy sauce follows, then vinegar, garlic, bay leaves. The scent is intoxicating—deep, rich, something that smells like home.

Mikha stirs the pot lazily, glancing at Aiah. “You want to help, or are you just going to stand there looking pretty?”

Aiah crosses her arms. “I am pretty.”

Mikha grins, flicking a bit of sauce at her with the wooden spoon.

Aiah gasps. “You did not just—”

Mikha laughs, dodging as Aiah reaches for her in retaliation. “Okay, okay, I surrender! You can just watch, princess.”

Aiah huffs but stays by the counter, letting the warmth of the kitchen wrap around her. She’s getting used to this—the way the scent of home-cooked food fills the space, seeps into the walls, lingers even long after the meal is done. Living with Mikha has meant most nights are like this, where the quiet is softened by the sound of simmering pots and the steady rhythm of a knife against the cutting board. It’s familiar now, comforting in a way that feels like it’s always been hers to have.

When they finally sit down to eat, the table is simple—two plates, a steaming bowl of rice, the rich aroma of adobo thick in the air.

Aiah takes her first bite, the flavors sinking onto her tongue—savory, slightly tangy, the garlic and soy sauce blending perfectly with the tenderness of the chicken. She hums in approval. “Okay, yeah. You weren’t kidding. This is good.”

Mikha smirks, scooping a spoonful of rice. “Told you.”

Aiah nudges her foot under the table. “So, what I’m hearing is, I should ask you to cook for me more often.”

Mikha rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue.

The night stretches slow and easy between them, the kind of quiet that isn’t empty, but full—of warmth, of laughter, of the smell of good food shared between two people who have made this place their own.

Aiah exhales, leaning back in her chair. “Today was perfect.”

Mikha looks at her, something soft flickering in her eyes. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “It was.”

And as they sit there, in the heart of their home, Aiah thinks—

If every day could feel like this, she wouldn’t ask for anything more.

Later, with the dishes washed and the kitchen tucked back into its quiet, they find themselves on the balcony outside their bedroom, two cups of warm tea resting between them.

The night is still, the only sounds the distant rush of waves and the occasional chirp of crickets hidden in the trees. Above them, the half-moon hangs low, as if it has drifted closer just for tonight, silver light spilling over the wooden railing, catching the soft edges of their skin.

Aiah curls her fingers around her cup, the ceramic warm against her palms. This has become something of a routine—finishing the night like this, side by side, sharing the quiet. It hadn’t started deliberately, but at some point, it became theirs.

She glances at Mikha, who leans against the railing, her own cup cradled loosely in her hands. The moonlight sharpens her features—the line of her jaw, the curve of her nose, the way her lashes cast faint shadows against her cheek.

“You’re staring,” Mikha murmurs, not looking away from the sky.

Aiah exhales a soft laugh, taking a slow sip of her tea. “Just thinking.”

Mikha tilts her head slightly. “About?”

Aiah turns her gaze upward, watching how the moon seems impossibly close, like she could reach out and trace its craters with her fingertips.

“How different my life is now,” she says quietly. “How different I feel.”

Mikha finally looks at her, her expression unreadable. “And?”

Aiah swallows, feeling the warmth of the tea settle in her chest, feeling this—this life, this night, this moment—settle into something deeper inside her.

“I wouldn’t change a thing.”

Mikha watches Aiah for a long moment before setting her cup down on the small table beside them. Then, she shifts closer, her fingers grazing lightly over Aiah’s wrist before slipping into her hand.

Aiah lets her, lets their fingers tangle together as they settle into the quiet, the night stretching wide before them.

After a beat, Mikha tilts her head slightly, turning toward Aiah. “Hey,” she says, her voice quiet but certain.

Aiah looks at her, tilting her head in response. “Hmm?”

Mikha’s gaze lingers, something thoughtful behind it. “If you ever miss your late-night food runs in the city again… or if you just get hungry in the middle of the night…” She pauses, smirking slightly. “You can wake me up.”

Aiah raises an eyebrow, amused. “Oh? You’d actually wake up for me?”

Mikha rolls her eyes. “Of course. I’ll cook for you. Whatever you want.”

Aiah studies her, warmth unfurling in her chest. It’s such a simple offer, so Mikha—a promise wrapped in something ordinary, something easy.

She swallows, a small smile playing on her lips. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Mikha grins, lifting her cup again and gently knocking it against Aiah’s in a quiet toast.

“Deal.”

Aiah sighs, shifting so she can rest her head lightly against Mikha’s shoulder. Mikha hums in contentment, pressing a slow, absentminded kiss to Aiah’s temple.

And as the half-moon hangs low in the sky, closer than it has ever felt before, they sit there—wrapped in a quiet that isn’t empty, but full.

Chapter Text

written a week after leaving the island, tucked safely inside a journal

I went to Limasawa to disappear.

I didn’t expect to find someone who had already disappeared—and stayed.

What follows isn’t an article. It’s not a feature, not a travel essay, not even an interview—not really.

It’s a record. Of what I saw. What I was allowed to witness. And what I will never forget.

I don’t plan to publish this. I don’t even think I could.

But I’m writing it down because I want to remember what it felt like—to see love without an audience.

Some stories don’t belong to the world.

Some stories stay with you.

This is one of them.

I came to Limasawa for the quiet.

Not the curated kind, not the Instagrammable stillness of sunset yoga and tropical smoothies—just silence. Honest, unfiltered stillness. I had burned out two months ago, somewhere between a sponsorship deal gone wrong and a sleepless night editing videos that didn’t feel like mine anymore. I didn’t want to be seen. I didn’t want to perform.

So I booked a one-way ticket, left my ring light in the city, and promised myself I wouldn’t post anything unless I meant it.

Three days in, I found the café.

It wasn’t in any travel guide. No flashy signage or minimalist branding. Just a whitewashed door, soft music leaking through glass windows, and the scent of something warm—like cinnamon and sea air had decided to fall in love.

There were no customers inside when I stepped in. Only her.

She stood behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, a wisp of flour at her jawline. Her hair was tied back messily, a few strands falling loose, and her hands moved with the calm of someone who knew the rhythm of mornings by heart.

I didn’t recognize her at first.

Not until she turned, not until her eyes flickered over me, and I felt that tiny jolt—like déjà vu, but deeper. Like the past whispering, Don’t you know who she is?

And then it came. The memory.

Aiah Arceta.

Not just the actress. The it girl. The one with a voice like soft thunder, the one they used to pair in every love team promo like she was a missing half of someone else’s story. I remembered her not from a specific film or campaign, but from the way she always looked just a little lonely in photos. Beautiful. Composed. Distant, somehow, even when she smiled.

And here she was.

Humming while pouring coffee like it was the most ordinary thing in the world.

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t.

She slid the cup toward me with a nod and said, “You look like you need a quiet moment.”

I nodded, almost forgetting how to speak.

The coffee was warm and deep and unfamiliar in the best way. It tasted like Limasawa in the rain—soft, slow, slightly salted by air. Something that didn’t ask to be sweet—only steady.

I scribbled it on the back of a folded travel brochure I’d been carrying since I arrived—creased, spotted, nearly torn down the middle. Just one line, tucked beneath faded directions to the nearest beach:

Tastes like Limasawa in the rain.

I didn’t know why I wrote it down. Maybe because it felt like the first real thing in weeks.

There was no menu. No price list.

Just her.

Just the sound of wind in the trees and Norah Jones’ Don’t Know Why crackling from an old speaker.

I didn’t ask why she left, or whether she missed the lights, the sets, or the way her name used to trend whenever she so much as blinked the wrong way.

Instead, I said, “This is good.”

She tilted her head, thoughtful. “It’s my partner’s blend. She taught me.”

She.

I think I smiled. I think she did, too.

She didn’t owe me anything—not a story, not a confession—but I think she saw something in my silence. Maybe something familiar. Maybe a girl who used to belong to too many people.

“You’re not the first to find me here,” she said, leaning on the counter. “But you might be the first who didn’t take a photo.”

I blinked. “Do you want me to?”

She shook her head. “No.”

And that was the end of it.

She brought me a slice of warm bread a few minutes later. No explanation. No charge. Just kindness.

And when I left—when the sun had shifted and more customers had wandered in, none of them seeming to notice her the way I did—I glanced back.

She didn’t look up.

But I think that was the point.

She wasn’t looking to be seen.

She was simply there.

And for the first time in a long time, I understood why some people disappear from the world not to be lost, but to be found.

The quiet stayed with me, even after I stepped back into the sun.

My feet moved before reason. Like tide pulling memory.

It just happened—like most things do here. The way time folds in on itself. The way your feet forget to follow logic and start listening to the hush of wind instead. The road split, once, then again, and I didn’t bother remembering which way would take me back to the hostel. Something in me knew it didn’t matter.

The island is small, but it stretches differently when you’re quiet. The sounds get louder—branches swaying overhead, the hush of sand shifting beneath footfall, a cicada buzzing too long in the heat. I stopped keeping track of how long I’d been walking. Time moves like tidewater here. It doesn’t ask permission.

Then I saw them.

Through the trees. Half-shadowed by green and afternoon gold. I might have missed them entirely if I hadn’t stopped to adjust my camera.

They were on a bench made from driftwood. Tucked in the curve of a path just above the sea, where the cliff opens into sky. She—Aiah, though the name felt too loud here—was barefoot, legs tucked beneath her, a thin paperback folded in her lap. Her partner—I guessed, sat beside her, hair pulled into a knot, one arm slung lazily around the back of the bench, the other holding a thermos.

They weren’t talking. They didn’t need to.

There was something about the stillness between them—so steady it felt almost sacred. A kind of silence people spend years searching for.

I didn’t move. Didn’t dare.

I only watched, holding my breath like the rustle of a leaf might break it.

At some point, her partner leaned over, nudged her forehead against Aiah’s temple. It wasn’t a kiss. It wasn’t even a whisper. Just touch. Just being. A quiet language, spoken only in the space between.

Aiah smiled, and I swear—

It wasn’t the kind of smile they used to put on billboards. It reached her eyes, lingered, like sunlight through sea glass.

It was smaller. Unedited. The kind that exists only when no one is watching.

Only—someone was. Me. From behind the trees. From a distance she didn’t notice. A distance I didn’t mean to cross.

I stood there for what must have been a breath too long, because her partner turned.

Just a flick of her gaze. Just enough to see.

Our eyes met.

And she didn’t look startled. Or wary. Or unkind.

She just looked… aware. Like someone who had learned to carry attention gently.

Like she already knew this would happen.

Like she had long made peace with being found, as long as the finding came softly.

I nodded. A small thing. A silent thank you for not asking me to turn away.

She nodded back.

Then she reached for Aiah’s hand.

And I walked on, slow and reverent, as if I’d stumbled across a prayer.

It was two days after when I returned to the café. I told myself it was for the coffee.

It wasn’t.

There are other cafés on the island—more modern, with air-conditioning and beach views and carefully plated food meant for social media. But this one pulled at me like tidewater. It’s not even named. Just an old wooden door, a cracked bell above it that sings off-key when you walk in.

The first time I came here, it was nearly empty. This morning, there were three other guests, all of them soft-spoken and unhurried, as if the island had taught them something about stillness too.

She was behind the counter again. Aiah.

No makeup. No need for it. Her hair was still damp from a morning wash, a loose hoodie tucked over a sundress like she hadn’t decided who she wanted to be yet. She didn’t seem to notice me at first—just moved with quiet familiarity through the space, sleeves pushed to her elbows, hands steady.

Then her partner appeared.

Carrying a tray of mugs from the back, humming something wordless. Her presence was different—grounded, like a lighthouse watching over a sea that no longer needed to rage. She said something to Aiah that made her laugh, and I watched, shamelessly, as Aiah reached out and brushed a loose strand of hair from her partner’s face.

I was still looking when her partner turned.

She caught my gaze—not startled, not guarded. Just open, calm in the way waves know they don’t need to rush.

She walked over, wiping her hands on a cloth.

“Back again?” she asked, her voice warm but unreadable.

I nodded, a little caught. “Yeah. I guess I like the quiet.”

A pause, then a small smile. “We get a lot of people like that.”

She moved behind the counter, hands steady, the kind that belong to someone who knows how to anchor a space.

When she returned, she set the cup down gently in front of me.

“No menu,” she said. “But Aiah said you liked this.”

I wrapped my fingers around the mug, the warmth curling into my palms. “Thank you.”

She just nodded.

And that’s when I asked, “What’s your name?”

She looked surprised. Not offended. Just… surprised.

Then—softly, with no need to offer more than what was asked—

“Mikha.”

Mikha.

It landed in my chest like the missing note in a song I hadn’t realized was incomplete.

So this is who she is.

The woman Aiah Arceta left the world for.

The one who brews silence into coffee and steadies storms with a glance.

I didn’t ask how they met. I didn’t ask what it was like, to love someone the world once claimed as theirs.

I just sat with the name for a while.

Let it settle on my tongue like steam.

And when I left, Aiah glanced up from the counter and smiled at me—not as a stranger, not as a fan, but as someone who had been quietly let in.

Maybe not all the way.

But just enough.

The next morning, something in me shifted.

I didn’t take photos today.

The sky was beautiful—the kind of blue you’d normally call “content-worthy.” And the breakfast I had at the corner stall was a perfect composition of color and texture: warm mango slices, sticky rice, coconut milk poured just enough to look effortless. But I didn’t reach for my phone. I didn’t think to.

Instead, I walked to the shore and sat.

There’s a bench tucked beneath a banyan tree near the far end of the beach—weathered and crooked, half-swallowed by roots. It’s where I go when I need to write these days, though I rarely bring the camera anymore.

This island is changing me in ways I don’t know how to record.

I wrote in my journal until the light changed. Pages and pages that won’t make it online. Things I’ve seen. Things I’ve felt. Things I don’t have hashtags for.

I wrote about them—Aiah and her partner.

About how love looks different here. Softer. Wordless. Unperformed.

The world used to watch Aiah Arceta fall in love every quarter, with a new co-star, a new storyline. I know. I followed them too. Liked the posts. Shared the edits.

But what I see now doesn’t belong on a screen.

It’s in the way she leans into silence without fear. In how her partner watches her like nothing about her needs to be curated. In how they stand beside each other in the café—never needing to explain, never hiding, but never offering more than what is freely given.

This isn’t a story for views.

This is a life.

And I think that’s why I’ve stopped trying to document everything. Some things—like the way Mikha (I still whisper the name like it’s a gift) absentmindedly sings under her breath while refilling jars, or the way Aiah wipes her hands on her apron before reaching to fix her hair—aren’t meant to be posted.

They’re meant to be remembered.

I didn’t come here to find them.

But now I don’t know how to leave without carrying them with me.

Not as characters.

Not as content.

As something better.

Real.

I’d stopped by the café again—third time this week, though I’ve lost count by now. It’s never crowded, not the way city cafés are. But there’s always a hush here, a kind of gentleness in the way people take their drinks and speak softly or not at all. As if we’ve all agreed not to disturb whatever this place is holding.

I had just taken my usual seat in the corner—by the window with the chipped frame—when I noticed her.

Her.

Aiah.

Not behind the counter this time. Not measuring beans or steaming milk or laughing quietly at something her partner said from the kitchen. She carried two mugs. For a moment, I thought she was heading to another table—until she stopped beside mine.

“Mind if I sit?”

I blinked. I must have nodded, though I don’t remember doing it.

She slid into the seat across from me like she wasn’t once the face of half the billboards in Manila.

She handed me the second mug.

“It’s not on the menu,” she said. “But Mikha says it tastes like rain on a quiet day.”

Mikha.

Hearing it from Aiah made it feel like a benediction.

And somehow it felt different hearing it from her lips. She said her name like the way people say anchor.

I wrapped my hands around the mug, letting the warmth fill the space between us.

We didn’t talk right away.

I think we both liked it that way.

Then—softly, like she wasn’t sure if she was offering something or asking for it—she said, “I know you know who I am.”

I looked at her.

Not the way I used to—through screens, through edits, through borrowed narratives.

I looked at her now. Hair pulled back in a low knot. A smudge of flour near her temple. Eyelashes damp from mist or ocean spray or sleep.

“I did,” I said. “But I don’t think I know who you are now.”

A slow breath escaped her lips. Relief, maybe. Or something older. Sadness turned gentle.

“I’m still figuring that out,” she said, looking down at her cup. “But I think I like her more than who I used to be.”

I wanted to ask who she is now. I wanted to ask everything.

But I didn’t.

When she stood to leave, she glanced at my journal—open, pen resting against the spine.

“You write things down,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

I nodded. “Only when I don’t want to forget.”

She smiled, almost to herself.

Then, quietly:
“When you’re ready, you can ask me things.”

She didn’t say what kind of things. She didn’t promise answers.

But she left the seat warm behind her.

I haven’t gone back to the café in two days.

Not because I didn’t want to. I’ve wanted to. I’ve walked past it twice already—once in the morning, once in the fading hush of golden hour—but both times I kept going. The first time, I told myself it was out of respect. The second time, I knew I was afraid.

She said I could ask.

But what if asking breaks something?

What if the spell only holds as long as I stay silent?

This morning, I walked the length of the shoreline before the sun had fully risen. The sea was a pale silver, flat and glassy, like the day hadn’t yet made up its mind. I sat on a rock and watched fishermen untangle nets, listened to the quiet clatter of boats moored close together, the occasional greeting in Bisaya drifting over the water.

Everything here moves at a pace you have to earn.

I think about what I would ask her.

Not about scandals. Not about what she left behind. The world already asked those things, and she gave them nothing. She owed them nothing.

But I would ask her what the quiet gave back.

I would ask when she stopped looking over her shoulder.

I would ask if love is easier when no one else is writing the script.

I think about writing it all down in my notebook—these questions, these half-formed truths I haven’t said aloud yet. But I don’t.

Instead, I just hold them in my chest, like smooth stones.

Maybe I’ll go back tomorrow.

Maybe she’ll be there.

Maybe the seat across from me will still be warm.

And if it is—

Maybe I’ll open my journal.

Maybe I’ll say her name.

And maybe this time, she’ll let me write it down.

It began without a recorder.

She sat across from me again, same table, same hour. The door was propped open, salt wind curling along the floor tiles. Mikha—her partner—was somewhere in the back, humming a song I didn’t recognize.

I had brought my journal, but not my questions. Not at first.

Aiah poured us both coffee. No fanfare, no small talk. Just warmth in ceramic, a quiet offering.

After a few sips, she glanced at my notebook and said, “Are you going to write it down this time?”

I hesitated.

She smiled. “You can.”

And just like that, she opened the door.

Not all the way.

But enough.

So I opened to a fresh page, took a breath, and said, “What made you leave?”

She didn’t look surprised. She didn’t even pause.

Instead, she leaned back and said, “I couldn’t hear myself anymore.”

Outside, a rooster called. The bell above the door tinkled in the breeze.

“I kept trying to be what people wanted,” she continued, “until I forgot what I sounded like. You don’t realize it’s happening. Not at first. It’s small things. The way you smile, how you sit. The words they write for you that start to feel like yours.”

“And when did you know it was too much?” I asked.

She thought about that one longer.

“There wasn’t one moment,” she said. “It was all of them.”

I nodded.

She glanced out the window, toward the sea. “I didn’t plan on disappearing. I just... walked out. Got on a flight. Found the first place that didn’t ask me to explain myself.”

“Limasawa.”

She smiled. “No one here cared who I was. They still don’t. They just cared if I was kind. If I showed up.”

I didn’t write that part down. Some things aren’t for paper.

“Do you miss it?” I asked. “The work? The world?”

Her expression shifted—soft, sad, but sure.

“I miss creating,” she said. “The rest? No.”

A long silence settled between us.

Then I asked, carefully, “Did you fall in love here?”

She looked down at her cup.

And she smiled.

“I think I started to.”

I didn’t press.

Eventually, she looked back up. “I was already broken when I met her. She didn’t try to fix me. She just made space for me to remember who I was before the noise.”

I closed my notebook.

She didn’t mind.

She looked relieved, if anything.

Like telling it once was enough.

Like she didn’t need her story shared with the world—just held by someone who would treat it gently.

I think that’s all she ever wanted.

I decided to go home the next day. I think I already overstayed my welcome, even though no one in the island cared how long you stayed.

The boat was late.

But no one seemed surprised.

The wind had quieted, and the sun had turned everything a soft gold—like the island wanted one last hour to keep me.

I stood at the dock with my bag slung over one shoulder, journal tucked between my arm and chest. I hadn’t added a word since that day in the café. I didn’t know how.

They came to see me off.

Aiah, in a loose linen shirt and sandals worn down by quiet walks. Mikha beside her, hair caught in the breeze, a small woven basket in her hands—fruit, pastries, something that smelled faintly like ginger.

They didn’t say much.

Mikha handed me the basket with a smile that didn’t try to be anything more. Aiah simply nodded toward my journal and asked, “Did you find what you came here for?”

I thought about it.

Then said, “No. But I found something better.”

She tilted her head. “Are you going to write it?”

I looked down at the book in my arms. The pages were still there—waiting. The story could be told. It could be spun into something soft and viral. People would read it. People who missed her, people who never knew they missed her.

But I shook my head.

“I don’t think I will.”

She didn’t ask why.

So I told her anyway.

“Some stories feel sacred. Like putting them into the world would make them less true. I think this one was meant to stay here. With you. With the sea. With the coffee that tastes like quiet.”

Mikha smiled.

Aiah looked like she might say something—but didn’t.

Instead, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around me.

It wasn’t a tight hug. Just warm. Grounded. The way someone holds you when they know you’ve seen something real and are leaving changed.

Mikha touched my shoulder once, brief and steady. “Take care of your heart,” she said.

I wanted to tell them you taught me how. But some things are better left unspoken.

The boat came.

I climbed aboard.

And as it pulled away from the dock, I looked back.

They were still there.

Aiah standing beside Mikha, her hand brushing lightly against hers, two silhouettes caught in the gold of the hour.

I didn’t take a picture.

I don’t think I ever will.

But here is what I carry:

The smell of roasted beans before sunrise.

The salt wind brushing through open windows.

The sound of someone laughing in the kitchen when no one else is listening.

A name scribbled in my notebook that I will never publish.

A smile that wasn’t for the camera.

A life that was not for content—but real.

And sometimes, I think that’s the better story.

The one you don’t post. The one you carry like breath.

The one that keeps you.

-Maloi