Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Aiah’s Point of View

"Two years na, Aiah. Limang taon mo ng kaibigan tapos two years mo nang gusto. Hindi ka pa rin nagsasawa magpaka-martyr?"

Stacey’s voice sliced through my morning peace like a knife, loud and unfiltered as always. 

I was quietly scrolling through my notes while waiting for Mikha to come back from buying her usual iced chocolate.

Our spot by the shaded bench near the college garden was calm, breezy—until Stacey and Maloi showed up with no regard for volume control.

I sighed, not even looking up from my phone.

"Can we not start the day with a full-blown intervention?"

Maloi flopped onto the bench beside me and leaned in dramatically, voice lowered but still teasing. "Hindi na nga intervention 'to, eh. Funeral na. Pinaglalamayan na namin ang love life mong hindi umaabante."

Stacey snorted. "Oo nga. Araw-araw kang kasama ni Mikha pero hanggang ngayon, ni 'I like you' wala ka pang nasasabi. Gusto mo ba talaga siya or hobby mo lang 'tong self-sabotage?"

I finally looked up and glared at both of them. "I like breathing, you know. And confessing would ruin everything. I’m not about to throw away five years of friendship just to make it awkward."

"But you already make it awkward—with your eyes," Maloi deadpanned, mimicking my supposed lovesick stare. "'Oh Mikha, let me carry your bag. Oh Mikha, you dropped a pen, let me frame it. Oh Mikha, I memorized the exact shade of your lip balm.'"

"Shut up," I muttered, but my ears were already burning.

They laughed.

And right on cue—because of course the universe loves playing with me—Mikha came skipping back toward us with her iced chocolate in one hand and a big, innocent smile on her face. 

Her hair was up in a high ponytail today, and she was wearing her oversized cream hoodie that nearly swallowed her whole. 

I was convinced she could’ve murdered someone and still looked like a cartoon character saying sorry with sparkles in her eyes.

"Guys, ang init! The line sa café was so long pero I got you this!"

She handed me a second drink. 

Cold brew. My favorite.

I blinked. "You bought me coffee?"

She nodded enthusiastically. "Para sa ‘best friend’ ko."

There it was. The F-word.

Best. Friend.

I bit back the way my heart did a little jump and die routine and smiled like a normal, non-suffering human.

"Thanks, Mikha."

She plopped down beside me and leaned her head on my shoulder with a little sigh, completely unaware that I had just ascended and died three different times.

"I swear this week’s draining me. Do we really have to go to that org meeting later? Colet and Jhoanna are making me go but I just wanna nap in the library."

"You always wanna nap in the library," I teased, careful to keep my voice light.

"And you always let me," she said proudly. "Kasi you love me, diba?"

I froze.

Then she looked up, laughing. "As a friend, of course!"

Yeah. Of course.

Behind her, Stacey silently mouthed ’lagot ka’ and bit back a grin.

I took a long sip of my coffee like it could save me from combusting.

An hour later, we were sitting inside the student council office-slash-org room, aka the least ventilated room on campus. 

Colet was babbling about logistics for an upcoming campus fair, Jhoanna was fixing the giveaways, and Mikha was beside me doodling little stars in the margin of her notebook.

She tapped me with her pen.

“Do you think stars are romantic?”

“Huh?”

“Like, in real life. Kasi sa movies lagi silang ginagamit in love confessions. Do you think it actually works? Confessing under the stars?”

I blinked. “Are you… planning something?”

Mikha laughed. “Wala lang. Curious lang! Maybe someday, I want mine to be like that.”

Mine. As in her future someone.

I swallowed. “Yeah. It’s cute. Romantic.”

She smiled and went back to her doodles like she hadn’t just indirectly stabbed me with a shooting star.

Later that afternoon, I was walking her to her next class. Something I always did even if it wasn’t in my route. I mean, who wouldn’t walk Mikha Lim to her next class? She never asked me to. She just got used to it, like brushing her hair or carrying her emotional support stuffed penguin in her bag.

“I’m so sleepy,” she yawned. “Can I just skip?”

“Attendance,” I reminded her.

“Ugh. You sound like my mom.”

I grinned. “Glad I could fill the role.”

She stopped suddenly, turning to face me. “Hey, Aiah?”

My breath hitched. “Yeah?”

Her face was serious for once. She stepped closer. “Can I… ask something kinda weird?”

My mind was already spiraling. Was she going to ask me if I liked her? If I thought of her as more than a friend? If I—

“Do you think penguins have knees?”

I blinked. “What.”

She blinked back. “I mean. I googled it before but I still don’t get how they bend their legs.”

I stared at her for a long second, then started laughing. Loud and full.

“That’s your weird question?”

“Yes!” she giggled. “I was just randomly thinking about it kanina sa org room.”

“God, Mikha,” I chuckled, shaking my head as I walked her to the building steps. “You’re so—”

So adorable. So ridiculous. So perfect.

But I said, “So weird.”

She pouted. “You like me weird.”

Too much.

When she finally entered her classroom, I stood there for a few seconds just… catching my breath. Like always.

“Stop looking like a kicked puppy.”

There was Stacey again, appearing out of nowhere.

“You’re like a ghost,” I muttered.

“More like your conscience,” she quipped, falling into step beside me. “One day, you’re gonna have to tell her.”

“She wants to be confessed to under the stars,” I replied flatly. “Do I look like a constellation?”

Stacey shrugged. “Then fake a blackout and bring fairy lights. I don’t care. Just say something before someone else does.”

I paused.

Because that? That part? That’s what keeps me up at night.

Because even if she’s clueless now, someday someone else is going to see Mikha Lim the way I do—and what if that person’s braver?

What if he doesn’t wait two years?

And what if she falls?

Not into my arms, but his.

What if… I waited too long?

—

It started with a ping.

Actually—no. That’s a lie.

It started with me rereading our last chat for the fourth time like an idiot. Then the ping happened, and I nearly threw my phone across the room.

Meka Lem: 
Aiahhh:(

My heartbeat? Immediate disaster mode. 

I sat up straighter on my bed like she could somehow see me from the other side of the phone screen. 

My dorm room was dim except for the warm desk lamp glowing beside my untouched notes. Midterms were coming up, but Mikha messaging me? That always took priority.

Meka Lem: 
Are you busy? :(

Me: 
Kinda reviewing… why? What’s up?

She was typing. Mikha is typing…

Then it stopped.

Then it came back.

Then stopped again.

I was practically holding my breath. Girl, just say it. Say you need me. Say you wanna elope. I’ll pack.

Finally—

Meka Lem:                                                    I need help with stats 🥲

Oh.

Of course.

I exhaled and leaned back, staring at the ceiling. Stats. It’s always stats.

Still, I smiled. Because even if it was just math, she needed me. She chose me.

Me: 
Send the problems. Let’s suffer together.

She replied instantly.

Meka Lem:  
Yay!! 🐧 ily aiah u da best.

Me: 
Penguin emoji? Really?

Meka Lem: 
He’s cute and round like you 😚

I froze.

Paused.

Read it again.

Cute. And round. LIKE ME?

WHAT.

THE.

HELL.

I stared at my phone like it personally betrayed me.

Round?

Excuse me?

Me:  
…round???

Meka Lem: 
Not like… bad round!! You know!! Fluffy energy!! Like soft!! Not literal!! I mean you’re not round?? You’re—uhm—warm? Like comforting?? Not like a rice ball idk STOP 😭

I actually burst out laughing.

Out loud. Hand over my mouth. Laughing like a maniac.

Oh my God. She was panicking. I could picture her typing in a frenzy, her face flushed and her bangs flying everywhere as she scrambled to explain herself.

Fluffy energy.

Mikha Lim just described me as having fluffy energy.
That’s it. I’m dead. Bury me.

Me: 
You’re lucky you’re cute.

Meka Lem: 
stoppp

Me: 
No. I won’t. You deserve it.

There was a pause. No typing bubble.

I sat there in silence, heart thudding.

Too much?

But then—

Meka Lem: 
You’re also cute tho 🙈

OH?

OH?

HELLO???

I had to close my eyes. I couldn’t breathe. I was literally clutching my pillow like it held my sanity.

I paced my room. 

Pacing. 

Literal pacing. Like some cliché K-drama male lead going, 

"What does this mean? What do I say next?!"

Because what the hell do you say when the girl you’ve been secretly in love with for two years suddenly calls you cute too?

I sat back down, took a breath, and reminded myself of the golden rule:
Mikha says sweet things all the time. It doesn’t mean anything.

She calls Jhoanna “baby” during karaoke nights. She kisses Colet’s cheek when they’re drunk. She once held Maloi’s hand during a horror movie and didn’t even blink.

So no, Aiah. Do not read into this.

Even if your heart is flipping like a damn pancake.

Me: 
Wow. Coming from Miss Strawberry Shortcake herself.

Meka Lem: 
That’s not even an insult I love it 🥰

She sent a selfie.
Just like that.

Mikha Lim. Sent. A. Selfie.

Her messy bun had mostly fallen out, she had her glasses on (the big round ones I secretly loved), and she was hugging a penguin plushie while pouting.

Pouting.

With fluffy energy, apparently.

I stared at the photo so long my phone dimmed.

Me: 
Okay I take it back. You’re the fluffiest one here.

Meka Lem:
NOOO

Meka Lem: 
You areee

Me:
I’m literally going to lose my mind, Mikha.

It slipped.

I typed it before I could stop myself.

Silence again.

Typing bubble.

Gone.

Typing again.

Oh God.

Meka Lem: 
Why?? :((

I threw my head back dramatically.

Why?

Why, she says.

Because you’re adorable. 

Because you keep making my chest tighten like it’s the last scene of a romance movie. 

Because every little message you send makes me feel like I’m sixteen and in love for the first time.

Because you have no idea that you’ve been holding my heart since orientation day.

But of course I typed:

Me: 
Because you say things like that and expect me to survive.

Meka Lem: 
Is it bad 😭

Me: 
No. It’s you. It’s always you.

I immediately wanted to take it back. That was too much. Too real.

But she didn’t question it.

Meka Lem: 
Awww:( ilysm talaga, Aiah. I’m so lucky you’re my best friend.

And just like that, I got punched straight back into reality.

Best friend.

There it was again.

That little label that tasted sweet and sour all at once.

I didn’t reply right away. Just stared at her message, a soft ache blooming in my chest. Some twisted mix of joy and pain.

Because yeah, she said ily.

But it was the safe kind. The innocent kind. The kind that ended with emojis and hugs and absolutely no idea how badly I wanted her to mean it differently.

Finally, I replied.

Me: 
Always, Mikha.

Always your best friend.
Always the one you come to at 8:41 PM for stats help and emotional comfort.
Always the one who walks you home and listens to your day and memorizes your coffee orders and saves your selfies in a hidden album called don’t-be-weird.jpg.

Always.

Even if I’m screaming inside.

Even if I never get to be anything more.

I locked my phone and fell backward onto my bed.

Then immediately opened it again just to look at her selfie one more time.

Yeah.
I’m not surviving this semester.

Chapter Text

It’s only 11:03 AM and I’m already in hell.

And by hell, I mean: Mikha Lim, in her volleyball jacket, laughing softly under the tree near the university courtyard while a freshman boy with a tragically hopeful smile hands her a giant stuffed bear.

Another one.

Seriously?

She tilts her head, blinks, and does that little shoulder shrug she always does when she’s flustered. “Aww, thank you! You really didn’t have to.”

I stand a safe distance away, chewing on my straw and praying my iced Americano will cool me down enough before I do something stupid like walk over there and accidentally growl at someone. 

Stacey and Maloi are beside me on the bench, both watching the scene like they’re at a movie premiere.

“Oh look,” Maloi deadpans, “another contender enters the arena.”

“Do you think Mikha knows she’s basically the lead in every campus crush poll?” Stacey says, raising an eyebrow. “She has like, three gift bags in her arms. What is this, a fanmeet?”

I glare at them. “Can you two shut up?”

Maloi sips from her juice box like it’s wine. “Aiah, I’m just saying, if I were that bear, I’d feel special. It was sacrificed in the name of love.”

“I’d feel thrown,” I mutter, stabbing my straw through the ice.

Stacey nudges me with her elbow. “Seriously though, when are you gonna do something about it?”

“She’s clueless.”

“Exactly,” Maloi says. “Which is why someone not clueless will eventually get through.”

I don’t respond. I can’t.

Because they’re right. And the thought of someone else—anyone else—getting past that sunshine-colored cluelessness and winning her over before I even get the courage to try?

It makes my stomach twist.

And yet.

I just sit here.

Watching.

Mikha finally bounces toward me ten minutes later, arms full of stuff she didn’t even ask for.

“Sorry! Ang dami kong nakasalubong kanina!” she says, plopping down beside me and immediately leaning against my shoulder like we weren’t in the middle of a full public area.

Like I wasn’t already sweating from trying to not make a scene.

“They gave you all that?” I ask, eyeing the pink paper bag that has her name spelled in sparkly foam letters.

She giggles. “Yeah. I told them wag na but they insisted. Cute noh?” She opens the bag and shows me a bottle of perfume, a heart-shaped lollipop, and what looks like a hand-drawn comic of her playing volleyball with cat ears. “Look, may fanart pa!”

I raise a brow. “Do you even know these people?”

“Uhm… one of them was in a GE class I took last sem? And the other… I think she’s from Science High before?”

I stare at her.

She blinks at me.

I stare harder.

She pokes my cheek with her finger. “You’re doing that grumpy face again.”

I snap out of it. “I’m not grumpy.”

“You are,” she says, chewing on the lollipop wrapper, eyes smiling. “But it’s okay. You’re still cute when you’re grumpy.”

I glance sideways. “You need to stop saying stuff like that.”

She tilts her head. “Why?”

Because I’m gonna explode, that’s why.

Instead I say, “People might take it the wrong way.”

She laughs. “Good thing you’re not people.”

Excuse me?

Before I can respond, Jhoanna and Colet join us at the table with trays of food.

“Hoy Mikha, you didn’t even save us a spot,” Jhoanna whines, setting down her lunch.

“Sorry na!” Mikha pouts. “I had to… uhm… entertain my fans daw sabi ni Aiah.”

Colet cackles. “Eh totoo naman! Ikaw lang ‘yung may fanbase sa university na walang kahit anong official page.”

I roll my eyes and dig into my food, trying not to listen while Mikha tells them how she accidentally stepped on a confession letter and had to apologize while picking it up.

Colet smirks at me. “And ikaw, Aiah. Surviving?”

I glare at her with a mouth full of rice.

Maloi leans forward from the opposite bench. “Barely. If Mikha gets one more plushie, Aiah might combust.”

Jhoanna giggles. “Wait, what if we do a gift exchange thingy? Like… you give something to each other pero anonymous? Secret palooza!”

Mikha gasps. “That sounds so fun!”

I give her a side glance. “Even though you already get gifts every day?”

“But this one’s more meaningful! Kasi secret friend! Like, you don’t know who gave it but you still feel kilig. Right?”

I raise a brow. “You like not knowing who’s giving you stuff?”

She shrugs. “Sometimes. It feels… exciting. Like you’re in a book or something.”

I nod slowly, even as a dangerous idea starts to form in my brain.

Later that day, Mikha’s waiting for her PE class to start. She’s sitting on the bleachers in her volleyball uniform, hair tied up, legs crossed as she scrolls on her phone and munches on dried mangoes like she isn’t breaking hearts without trying.

I’m standing near the court entrance, staring.

"Don’t," Stacey warns from behind me. "Do not give her that note."

I hide the tiny folded paper in my hoodie pocket. “It’s not a confession. It’s just… a dumb drawing. And snacks.”

Maloi peeks over my shoulder. “You drew her in chibi style holding a penguin plush. That’s not just a drawing, Aiah. That’s practically a marriage proposal.”

“She likes penguins!” I hiss.

“She also likes being single, apparently,” Stacey adds. “You wanna risk her guessing it’s you?”

“She won’t,” I say, even though my hands are already sweating. “I made sure it’s vague.”

“She calls you fluffy, Aiah.”

“I—shut up!”

Still, I walk over to the benches when no one’s looking, drop the paper bag beside her gym bag, and walk away without saying a word.

I watch from the shadows like a creep.

She notices it two minutes later. Picks it up. Looks around, confused but smiling.

She opens the note. I can’t see her face clearly, but she giggles.

GIGGLES.

Then she reads the snack label, sees the penguin-themed sticker, and clutches it to her chest like someone just proposed with fireworks.

My heart? Immediately doing backflips.

Stacey appears beside me again. “You’re whipped.”

Maloi nods. “Beyond saving.”

I sigh, unable to fight the smile on my lips. “I know.”

And in that moment, it almost feels enough. Almost.

Even if she doesn’t know it’s me.

Even if she never finds out.

Even if I stay the anonymous sender behind every little thing that makes her smile.

At least I get to see her happy.

That’s more than I can ask for.

—

Mikha's late to lunch. Again.

She sent a message five minutes ago:

Meka Lem:                                            WAIT FOR MEEEEE i’m buying banana bread. i also left something sa org room see u soon ily mwamwa 💖

Yeah. That last part? “Ily mwamwa”?

She does that to everyone.

Anyway.

We’re in our usual spot under the acacia tree near the middle of the campus field. I’m sitting with Stacey and Maloi. Across from us? Colet and Jhoanna, sitting side-by-side with matching cups of milk tea like this was a talk show segment.

I don’t like this setup. It looks like a trap.

Stacey’s biting into her takoyaki, blissfully unaware. Maloi, on the other hand, looks like she knows something is about to go down.

And me? I’m just here. Holding onto Mikha’s seat like I own it or something.

Because I do.

“Y’all notice anything weird lately?” Jhoanna says suddenly, stirring her straw like she’s warming up for drama.

“Define weird,” Stacey answers without looking up.

“Like... Mikha being weird,” Colet says, eyes flicking toward me. “Extra dreamy. Smile-y. Secretive.”

I go still.

“Weird how?” I say casually, chewing on the inside of my cheek.

“She’s been acting like she’s in a Wattpad story,” Jhoanna adds, leaning forward. “Last night she called me at 1 AM kasi may bago siyang theory about her mystery admirer. Sabi niya baka daw ikaw ‘yon, Aiah.”

I freeze. “She WHAT?”

“Relax,” Colet laughs. “She was half-asleep and delusional.”

Maloi snorts. “I think we need to unpack why that was her first thought.”

Stacey smirks. “Maybe because the person giving her very thoughtful, perfectly matched gifts knows her better than anyone?”

Jhoanna beams. “Aww. So specific. Who could that be, hmm?”

Oh. My. Gosh.

I shoot them a warning glare.

They smile like angels. Lying, smug angels.

“She said it wasn’t Aiah,” Colet says innocently, sipping her drink. “Sabi niya Aiah’s too chill and sarcastic to do something ‘that soft.’ Pero hindi ba kapag may crush ka talaga, you go soft? Right, Aiah?”

Maloi nearly chokes on her rice.

I want the earth to swallow me whole.

“Y’all are deranged,” I mutter, stabbing my food violently.

“Oh we’re just connecting the dots,” Jhoanna shrugs. “Like how the first snack she got was that exact strawberry panda biscuit na Aiah randomly bought once during film night.”

I blink.

“You were there too, Colet,” I say. “You brought seaweed chips.”

Colet leans back smugly. “Exactly. And Mikha hates seaweed chips. But she ate Aiah’s biscuits.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” I hiss.

Jhoanna smiles, folding her hands. “Maybe. Or maybe you’re just very subtle with your feelings.”

There’s a heavy pause.

Then Stacey coughs.

Loudly.

“Y’ALL. AIAH MADE HER A WHOLE PENGUIN DRAWING IN A NOTE.”

“IT WAS A CHIBI!!” Maloi adds, cracking.

I slam my spoon down. “WHY ARE YOU EXPOSING ME?”

Colet gasps dramatically. “So it’s true??”

I bury my face into my hands. “I hate all of you.”

“You LOVE her,” Stacey sings.

“Down baaad,” Maloi adds, cackling.

Jhoanna grins at me. “Aiah. Seriously. How long?”

I stay silent for a second.

Then I answer.

“Second year.”

All of them freeze.

Colet and Jhoanna literally lean forward like I just dropped a bomb.

“That was TWO YEARS AGO?” Colet shrieks.

I nod.

“And you’ve done nothing?” Jhoanna whispers.

I shrug.

Stacey’s eyes soften a bit. “You’re really scared, huh?”

“Terrified,” I say honestly.

Because if I mess this up… it’s not just feelings.

It’s her. It’s our years of friendship.

The comfort of knowing she’s always there.

The safety I feel when she leans against me or texts me good morning or calls me at midnight just to rant about her nails breaking.

I’m not ready to lose that.

Mikha shows up ten minutes later, bouncing toward us with a bright paper bag and banana bread in hand.

“I got extra!” she announces, waving it around. “For my favorite girls!”

I half-expect her to give the banana bread to Jhoanna. Or Colet. But instead, she drops the whole thing in front of me and smiles.

“Eat, sleepyhead,” she says. “You look like you haven’t rested since 2004.”

“Thanks,” I say quietly.

She plops down beside me and leans her head against my shoulder like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“You okay?” she whispers. “You looked stressed kanina from afar.”

“I’m good,” I lie.

She hums. “You’d tell me if you had a secret admirer, right?”

I nearly choke.

“I… what? Why would I have one?”

“You’re mysterious!” she teases. “And you’re cute when you’re annoyed. I’d fall for you.”

I swear my soul just detached from my body.

I side-eye her. “You say that to everyone.”

She grins and pokes my cheek. “Nope. I only say it to my favorite person.”

Right. Favorite person. Best friend.

Still.

My heart skips like a scratched CD.

And in that moment, I hate how much I love her.

Later that day...

I walk past the bulletin board she mentioned last time, and sure enough, there's a new sticky note from her.

To my secret sender:
Your gifts always make my day. I hope one day, I get to thank you in person.”
Love, your favorite clueless idiot 💕

I bite my lip and stare.

My hand itches to write back.

But for now?

I just smile.

Because at least she’s smiling too.

Chapter Text

Meka Lem: 
Aiaaahhh. Don’t get mad ah please? Promise me first?

That alone should’ve been my warning.

I was just about to put down my mug of lukewarm coffee when her next message came in, slapping me in the face like a frying pan.

Mekh Lem: 
Colet and Jhoanna… kinda… set me up on a date. TONIGHT. With some guy from their Physics class daw. Apparently he’s “cute” and “funny” and “pogi naman if you squint” I hate them

And then—

Meka Lem: 
BUT I HAVE TO GO or else they’ll get mad at me and you know how Colet gets when she pouts ughhhh

I stare at the message. Blink once.

Twice.

Then whisper, “Tangina niyo talaga, Colet at Jhoanna.”

“Whoa,” Maloi mumbles from the couch, pausing her Netflix. “Did someone die?”

“Almost,” I mutter, tossing my phone aside like it betrayed me. “Someone’s gonna die later.”

Stacey pops her head out of the kitchen. “Is it about her again?”

I glare.

She grins. “That’s a yes.”

Meka Lem:
Alsoooo can you come over muna later? Help me get ready? I’m nervous:(

Meka Lem: 
Like help me pick an outfit and maybe do my hair if that’s okay?? I trust you kasi you know what I look good in hehehe:( PLEASE. Save my soul. 1PM? Okay? mwamwa ily!!

Kill me.

Just kill me.

I didn’t even get to finish my coffee. I threw on a hoodie and joggers, tied my hair back like I was about to fight a war, and drove out of the parking lot like a Fast and Furious reject.

Mikha lives twenty minutes away.

I made it in twelve.

Because apparently, when your best friend is about to get ready for a date that isn’t with you, your foot slams the accelerator on its own.

By the time I arrive, my fingers are gripping the steering wheel like it owes me an explanation.

I march up to her front door, breathing through my nose like I’m trying not to cry or punch someone—or both.

I knock twice.

The door swings open. Mikha’s in a giant t-shirt with a cartoon bunny on it, her bangs slightly curled and lips pursed.

“You’re early,” she says flatly.

“You told me 1. It’s 12:59.”

“Yeah. But you left your house at 12:45”

My jaw tightens. “What?”

She narrows her eyes. “You were speeding, weren’t you?”

I blink. “What are you talking about?”

She huffs, turning her phone screen to me.

There it is. Life360.

That cursed tracking app we both downloaded in second year as a joke after I got lost going to her birthday dinner.

Apparently, we forgot to delete it.

Apparently, it still works.

“You were going 90 on a 60 road!” she scolds, arms crossed.

“You—why are you checking that?!”

“Because my phone buzzed like ‘AIAH IS DRIVING AT AN UNSAFE SPEED’ and I panicked! What if you died on the way here just to help me pick a skirt?!”

I blink.

“Wait. You were worried about me?”

“OF COURSE???”

We both freeze.

I don’t know why that answer surprises me. But the way her voice cracked on “of course” made something in my chest crack, too.

Then she scrunches her nose and mumbles, “Stupid app. I should uninstall it before it gives me a heart attack.”

“No,” I say too quickly.

She tilts her head. “No?”

I cough. “I mean… it’s helpful. You know. For emergencies.”

She squints. “Or when you need to stalk each other’s location for late-night Jollibee runs.”

I chuckle. “Exactly.”

She rolls her eyes and steps aside. “Come in, Speed Racer.”

Her room is the same pastel mess as always. Pillows shaped like animals. Fairy lights. A calendar with doodles all over the borders. One photo of us on her shelf, from a fun run two years ago. My arm’s over her shoulder. She’s holding a banana.

Don't ask.

“I haven’t decided what to wear,” she says, flopping onto the bed. “I hate this.”

I sit on her desk chair, spinning slightly. “Did they at least show you what this guy looks like?”

“Yes,” she groans. “He’s okay, I guess? Like… his hair is nice. But he used ‘hehe’ in his first message and now I don’t trust him.”

“Valid.”

She sighs and pulls out three outfits. “Okay, help me. Skirt with the white blouse, jeans with the cardigan, or that red dress Colet said I should wear if I want to look ‘dateable.’ I hate the word ‘dateable.’ Ew.”

“Burn the red dress,” I say without thinking.

She laughs. “That was fast.”

I look away. “Not your color.”

“I thought red was my color?”

“Yeah. Just not when you’re going out with—what’s his name again?”

“Harvey. Or Hardy? I forgot.”

I raise my eyebrows.

She shrugs. “Not important.”

I exhale, finally relaxing just a bit. “Go with the cardigan.”

“You think so?”

I nod. “It’s soft. It looks like you.”

She bites her lip, looking away. “I was kinda hoping you’d say that.”

I pause. “Why?”

She shrugs. “I like it best when you compliment me.”

Silence.

Then she blurts out, “BUT NOT IN A WEIRD WAY OKAY. I MEAN LIKE… LIKE YOU’RE HONEST. NOT LIKE COLET WHO TELLS ME I LOOK HOT EVEN WHEN I’M WEARING FROG PAJAMAS.”

I snort. “You do look hot in frog pajamas.”

She throws a pillow at me.

I help her curl her hair. She insists on curling mine too because “you look like a strict librarian and it’s annoying.” I let her. She nearly burns her finger.

When she’s dressed, she turns to me and says, “I look okay, right?”

I look at her.

Not just at the outfit. Not just at the makeup or the perfect little bow she clipped into her hair.

I look at her.

The way her eyes sparkle even though she’s complaining. The way she stands slightly off-balance like she’s always caught between bouncing and twirling. The way she still looks at me like I’m her favorite person in the room.

“You look beautiful,” I say quietly.

She stares.

Then—

“AWWWW,” she squeals, hugging me tight. “I love you.”

I laugh, hugging her back. “I love you too.”

And I do.

God, I do.

Even if she’s going on a date tonight with some Physics major named Harry or Helium or whatever the hell.

Even if I have to drive home later and pretend this didn’t hurt.

Even if she never realizes…

I already gave her my heart.

She just thinks it’s banana bread.

—

I shouldn’t be staring at my phone like this.

I really shouldn’t be refreshing Life360 
every ten minutes like a psycho.
But here I am. Sitting in my car in my own damn driveway, watching a dot that says:

“Mikha Lim – UP Diliman Technohub (Starbucks)”

With someone who isn’t me.

I tossed my head back, groaning at the roof. “Get it together, Aiah.”

But no matter how many times I say that, it doesn’t change the fact that the girl I’ve been secretly in love with for two years is on a date. With a guy. Who probably thinks “hehe” is charming.

And to make it worse, she looked so good when I dropped her off. Her hair was still slightly wavy from the curling iron. Her lip tint was this subtle coral shade that made her smile look even softer. And she smelled like peaches. Freaking peaches.

I bet that dude’s falling in love with her right now over a Java Chip and a shared brownie.

I hate him.

Stacey:
How you holdin’ up, soldier? Ayos pa, Aiah?

Maloi:
Narinig ko na he wears loafers without socks. stay strong queen.

Me:
I’m 3 seconds away from launching myself into that Starbucks and dragging her out.
Tell me not to. pls.

Stacey:
DO NOT.

Maloi:
Unless he touches her shoulder. then ibalibag mo.

I shut my phone off and groan again, this time into my hoodie.

Then it buzzes.

Meka Lem:
aiah…
i hate this 😭

My spine straightens like I got electrocuted.

Me:
what happened?
you okay??

Meka Lem:
he just asked me what my hobbies are and i said ‘eating banana bread and annoying aiah’ and he just. didn’t laugh.
HE SAID ‘cool’
aiah i’m so bored help

A laugh slips out of my chest before I can stop it.

Me:
tell him your next hobby is going home in 5 minutes.

Meka Lem:
can i really? like is that rude? i don’t even wanna finish my drink
i already texted Colet and she said to at least give it 30 more mins 🙄
save me pls

Me:
i’m on my way.

Meka Lem:
WAIT WHAT
YOU’RE JOKING RIGHT

Me:
not really
just sit tight. order something to go. i’ll park far. pretend like you have another thing scheduled. i got you.

Meka Lem:
🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺 ily aiah. i owe you banana bread for life

I make it there in ten.

And I watch from a distance.

She’s seated across from some guy in a varsity jacket. Probably tall, probably nice. But he’s scrolling through his phone while she’s talking. What a joke.

Then Mikha stands. She gestures something like “I have to go” and he looks disappointed, but he nods.

She waves awkwardly and walks out fast, clutching her tiny purse like it’s her ticket to freedom.

She doesn’t see me right away. She’s turning her head left and right like she’s trying to spot a getaway car in a movie.

I roll the window down and whistle once.

She jumps, then beams when she sees me.

“Hi, favorite human,” she sighs as she slips into the passenger seat, immediately kicking off her heels.

“Rough night?” I smirk.

“You have no idea.”

We end up parked near the university lagoon. Quiet. Breezy. The kind of place you go when you don’t want anyone to interrupt the silence.

Mikha’s curled in her seat with her knees up, sipping the drink she didn’t enjoy. I passed her my hoodie because she was cold. She’s swimming in it now.

“He kept talking about stocks,” she grumbles. “Stocks, and cars, and—get this—his own Instagram engagement. Like. Bro.”

I laugh. “Sounds like a catch.”

“I was this close to throwing my straw at him,” she mutters.

Then she sighs. A long one. Like her whole chest deflated.

“Thanks for picking me up,” she says softly, not looking at me.

I glance at her. Her face is lit by the streetlamp outside. Her cheeks are still a bit pink from frustration, but her eyes are soft now.

“Always,” I say.

She goes quiet again.

Then—

“I just… don’t get it,” she says. “Why can’t dating be easy? Why does it never feel right?”

I grip the steering wheel tighter.

Because the answer is right next to her.
Because I’m right here.

But I can’t say it.
Not when she’s sad.
Not when I’m her comfort, and that’s all she sees me as.

So I ask instead, “What would feel right?”

She turns to me slowly. Thinking.

“I dunno,” she says, voice smaller. “Someone who makes me laugh. Who listens to my rants. Who brings me food when I forget to eat. Who knows I’m sleepy when I go quiet. Who notices the way I fidget with my ring when I’m nervous.”

She glances down at her hands.

“I guess… someone who already knows me. Like knows me knows me.”

I stare at her.

And my heart breaks a little.

Because she just described me.

But she doesn’t even realize it.

So I just nod. Quiet. Holding my breath like that might stop the ache.

Then she reaches across and squeezes my hand. Gently. Warm.

“I’m lucky to have you, Aiah,” she says. “Like, even if all these dates suck, at least I always have you.”

I smile.

It hurts.

But I smile anyway.

“Yeah,” I whisper. “You always do.”

Later that night...

I drop her off. She walks backward to her door, still in my hoodie.

“I’ll wash this and return it next week!” she calls.

“Keep it,” I say. “I have like six more.”

She grins. “Oooh. So I’m special?”

“Top tier.”

She makes a finger heart. “Night, bestie. Mwa.”

Then she disappears inside.

And I sit in my car for a minute, eyes closed.

Because “bestie” still stings like hell.

But her smile?

God.

That makes it all worth it.

Chapter Text

After she made that finger heart and vanished inside, I should’ve driven off. I really should’ve.

But no.

Because thirty seconds later, my phone buzzed again.

Meka Lem:
wait… are u still outside???

Me:
about to leave. why?

Meka Lem:
can u come in muna hehe

I blinked at the screen. Slowly. Suspiciously.

Me:
why what’s wrong

Meka Lem:
nothingg:) i just want you to say hi to mama and papa!! they’re eating late dinner and asked if u could join.

Me:
you literally just called me bestie 12 minutes ago

Meka Lem:
and?? u are my bestie, bestie with food privileges now get your ass inside pls

I laughed under my breath, shut the engine off, and pocketed my keys.

The moment I rang their doorbell, Mikha peeked out, already barefoot and in her pambahay. 

Her ponytail was loose now and her face was fresh—bare of the makeup she wore earlier. She looked ten times cuter, if that was even humanly possible.

“Took you long enough,” she mumbled, dragging me in by the wrist.

“Hi tita! Hi tito!” I greeted the moment I stepped into the dining area.

“Aiah!” Mikha’s mom beamed. “Anak, you haven’t eaten, have you? Come, come. May caldereta pa. And Mikha, get her juice, ha.”

Her dad was already sliding me a chair beside him. “So you were the one who saved our daughter from that date disaster, ah?”

I chuckled awkwardly and shot Mikha a look as she handed me a glass of juice.

“She told you?”

Her dad laughed. “Oh yes. She walked in and dramatically declared, ‘Never again!’ before ranting about a man who didn’t laugh at banana bread.”

Mikha groaned, hiding behind me and smacking my shoulder. “Papa, don’t expose me!”

They all laughed, and I did too. Because this? This felt like home.

Halfway through dinner, just when I was wiping sauce from my fingers with a tissue, I heard the front door open.

“Oh great,” Mikha muttered. “Here we go.”

“Yo!” A male voice echoed through the house. A few seconds later, a tall guy strolled into the dining area, still wearing his gym shorts and a towel around his neck.

Mikha’s kuya.

Kuya Rafi.

And as usual, his eyes lit up the moment he saw me.

“Well, well, well,” he said, grinning like the menace he was. “Look who’s here. The prettier Arceta.”

I stood up politely and waved. “Hi po, Kuya Rafi.”

“‘Kuya’? Come on now,” he said, walking straight up and slinging an arm around my shoulder like we were suddenly in a teleserye. “You can drop the ‘kuya.’ Makes me feel old.”

“You are old,” Mikha snapped. “And back off. That’s my hoodie she’s wearing. Mine. Go shower, you smell like basketball court.”

“Relax,” he said, chuckling as he backed off, hands raised. “Just saying hi to my future—”

“NOPE!” Mikha launched a throw pillow at his face from the couch. “Absolutely not. In your dreams.”

Rafi caught it easily, still grinning. “One day, Aiah. One day, you’ll see the light. You’ll realize you deserve someone who can give you—”

“—a restraining order,” Mikha deadpanned, dragging me back to the seat beside her. “Now leave. Your protein shake’s in the fridge. Go.”

He snorted and saluted. “Copy, commander.” Then he winked at me. “Bye, Aiah. You know where to find me.”

Mikha made a gagging noise until he disappeared down the hallway.

After dinner, Mikha and I were curled up on the couch with our legs tangled under the same throw blanket, her head resting on my shoulder. The living room was dim and quiet except for the soft sound of the TV playing some old sitcom.

“I swear, I’m gonna start locking the door every time you come over,” Mikha muttered, hugging her plushie tighter. “Kuya’s such a flirt pag andito ka.”

“Eh kasi I’m cute,” I teased, nudging her.

“You’re mine,” she muttered, then blinked. “I mean—my best friend.”

My heart did that thing again.

The ache-then-skip combo that happens every time she says something like that. Every time she nearly says more.

But I didn’t comment. I just let her adjust her head on my shoulder again, like this was normal. Like this was safe.

Which, in her mind, it probably was.

In mine? It was torture.

“Mikha,” I whispered after a long moment.

“Mm?”

“You ever think about... who you’ll end up with?”

She didn’t reply right away. Just curled closer and tugged the blanket higher.

“Yeah,” she finally murmured. “Sometimes.”

“What do you think that person be like?”

“I dunno,” she said softly. “Maybe someone who makes me feel like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like… this.” She gestured vaguely to our position. Her curled into me. Her fingers tucked under mine. “Comfortable. Safe. Warm.”

I didn’t breathe for a full five seconds.

Then I said, quietly, “I hope you find that.”

She smiled against my arm. “Me too.”

When I finally stood to leave, her mom insisted on giving me a container of caldereta for my family. Her dad gave me a half-hug and told me I was always welcome.

As I slipped my shoes back on, Mikha followed me to the door.

“You really going home?” she pouted, arms crossed in oversized sleeves—my hoodie, mind you.

“If I don’t, your brother might take that as a sign.”

She scowled. “He better not. Ugh.”

I chuckled.

Then she looked up at me. “Text me when you get home?”

“Always.”

She smiled, but it was that soft one. The kind she gives when she’s feeling something she can’t put into words.

Then she opened the door, only to slam it again quickly and whisper, “OHMYGOD. He’s shirtless.”

I blinked. “Who?”

“KUYA. He’s in the living room. Gross. Okay, ugh, wait here, I’ll distract him so you can escape.”

I laughed so hard I choked.

Only Mikha would treat me like an undercover agent avoiding her hot, gym rat of a brother.

And only I would go through all this just to hold on to what little space she gave me.

Even if it was all under the label of best friend.

—

Mondays are evil.

But apparently, not for Mikha Lim.

She walked into the courtyard this morning like it wasn’t the start of another hell week. Hair in a loose braid, hugging a pink tumbler, laughing at something Colet whispered to her. Her tote bag had a little stuffed strawberry keychain on the zipper now. New. Definitely new.

I knew that because I was the one who ordered it from Shopee and stuck it in her locker this morning before sunrise.

She clutched it to her chest like it was the most precious thing in the world.

“You think she knows?” I asked quietly, peeling the wrapper off my sandwich as I sat on the stone bench under our usual tree.

Stacey, who had literally just taken a bite of her fries, raised a brow. “Who, Mikha?”

“No, the Pope. Yes, Mikha.”

Maloi chuckled. “You’re getting bold, ha. Strawberry keychain now? What happened to the classic banana bread?”

“She’s been using that bag for a week. It just made sense,” I muttered.

“She’ll figure it out eventually,” Stacey said, chewing. “Or she won’t. Because she’s… you know.”

“Adorably dense,” Maloi supplied.

“Naively soft,” Stacey added.

I leaned back and groaned into my hoodie.

“She keeps asking around,” I said. “Last night, she was texting me again.”

Stacey leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “Oh? What’d she say?”

I pulled out my phone and opened the chat.

Meka Lem:
aiah i got another one today :(((
a pink strawberry thingy for my tote huhu
WHO IS ITTTT

Me:
no idea
maybe you have a stalker
be careful lol

Meka Lem:
if they were creepy i’d be scared
but like… they’re not
they’re just really sweet
but now i feel like i’m disappointing them
what if they’re expecting something back??

Me:
you’re not disappointing anyone
you’re literally the sun in human form

She didn’t reply after that. Probably fell asleep.

“God,” I muttered now, staring at my phone. “She thinks she’s disappointing them. Can you believe?”

“She’s too pure for this world,” Maloi sighed dramatically.

“Also,” Stacey added, “you should’ve told her she’s a galaxy and a half.”

“Yeah, thanks. Let me just risk our friendship and my dignity all at once.”

At lunch, we were all seated around the long table near the second-floor balcony — the one with the good wind and a view of the gardens. Mikha was right beside me, of course, munching on a pork katsu bento she definitely didn’t make herself.

“I’m still investigating,” she declared as she placed a small notepad on the table. “This mystery sender is leaving a trail.”

“Seriously?” I asked, trying not to smile as I popped a grape into my mouth.

Colet leaned over and squinted. “Wait, what’s that?”

“My suspect list,” Mikha said proudly. “And no offense, Aiah, but you’re on it.”

I choked.

“What.”

“You’re suspicious! You’re the only person I know who comes to school before 7 AM.”

“That’s because my 7:30 class is on the other side of the campus.”

“Still counts.”

Jhoanna giggled beside her. “Plot twist, it’s someone unexpected. Like Kuya Rafi.”

“EW,” Mikha snapped. “Don’t say that. I’ll cry.”

“Didn’t he give you a strawberry pillow last year?” Colet teased.

“He said he won it in Timezone and had no space for it. Please. That man uses deodorant as cologne.”

I snorted. Hard. My rice nearly fell from my spoon.

Mikha turned to me, all serious now. “But for real. If it were you, you’d tell me, right?”

My whole brain short-circuited. Stacey and Maloi both coughed violently on their drinks.

“I… I mean, yeah?” I said, trying to sound casual.

She narrowed her eyes. “You hesitated.”

“Because I was mid-chew.”

“Hmm.”

Colet leaned in, eyes twinkling. “What if it’s a secret admirer, Mikha?”

“Then why would they hide?” Mikha frowned. “If they like me, shouldn’t they just tell me?”

Jhoanna elbowed her. “Maybe they’re scared.”

“Why would they be scared?” Mikha blinked.

I was about to scream.

Stacey came to the rescue. “Because some people like you more than you think.”

Mikha blinked again. “Like… as a friend?”

Oh my Gosh.

“Like like,” Maloi said, very slowly, as if explaining to a child that fire is hot.

Mikha tilted her head. “But I’m not even that likeable.”

My fork dropped. “What.”

“I’m serious,” she said, biting her katsu. “I’m so makulit. I don’t even try to be cute. I just… like… get excited and stuff. Isn’t that annoying?”

“Not even a little,” I said, without thinking.

The table went quiet.

I cleared my throat, eyes suddenly glued to the fried fish on my plate. “I mean. You’re… you’re just being yourself. That’s good.”

I could feel Stacey kicking me under the table.

Mikha was staring now. Quiet. Her lips parted like she wanted to say something.

Then—

“Oh, shoot. I forgot I have a volleyball meeting at 2!” she said, scrambling to gather her things. “Colet, tell coach I’ll be five minutes late, I left my other jersey in the locker room!”

Colet stood with her, grinning. “Sure, Meka Lem. Take your time.”

Mikha glanced back at me before leaving.

“You’re really sure it’s not you?” she asked, one last time.

I smiled faintly.

“Positive.”

She frowned. “Hmm. I still don’t believe you.”

Then she was gone.

After lunch, I was left with Stacey and Maloi again. They looked at me like I was a lab rat who just failed her maze test.

“You’re insane,” Stacey muttered.

“She literally gave you the perfect opening,” Maloi added. “She thinks it’s you. Just say yes and let her kiss you in the hallway.”

“She also thinks I’m her safest friend,” I argued. “The one she vents to, leans on, hugs randomly. I say one wrong thing and that disappears.”

“But what if it doesn’t?” Stacey asked. “What if she’s just waiting for you to say it?”

“Then why does she keep looking for someone else?”

They didn’t have an answer.

Because honestly, neither did I.

Chapter Text

If missing someone who still talks to you every day was a crime, I’d be serving time in the maximum security wing of down bad penitentiary.

Because this week? Mikha’s been everywhere… except with me.

Technically, we still see each other during lunch. Technically, we still chat every night. But it’s not the same. Not when her brain’s halfway in practice drills and her body’s always sore and half-asleep when she texts.

And it’s not like I’m mad. I’m not. I’m just—

Okay, maybe a little pathetic.

But can you blame me? She’s running around prepping for this inter-university volleyball tournament like her life depends on it, while I’m here... rereading our messages like a loser who fell first and way too hard.

I caught her at lunch, finally.

She dropped her bag with a dramatic thud beside me and collapsed onto the bench like the universe owed her sleep.

“Three hours of drills,” she groaned, burying her face in her arms. “Tapos bukas, scrimmage na naman. I’m gonna disintegrate. Like poof. Dust.”

Jhoanna poked her with a spoon. “May time ka pa ba maligo?”

Mikha lifted her head just to glare. “Excuse me. I always smell nice. Ask Aiah.”

And she looked at me—flushed, sweaty from the sun, with her bangs stuck to her forehead. Smiling like she knew I’d never say otherwise.

I shrugged, trying not to sound like my chest was doing somersaults. “She does.”

“See?” she grinned.

Colet leaned across the table with a teasing smirk. “Naka-three compliments ka kay Aiah this week. Should we start counting?”

“Hoy,” Mikha rolled her eyes. “Friendly appreciation lang ‘to.”

Friendly appreciation.

Yeah, tell that to my heartbeat.

Stacey snorted from her seat beside me. “Appreciation daw, pero si Aiah nag-aabot ng buko juice kada lunch. Hmm.”

Maloi chimed in, not even looking up from her kimbap. “Tapos may banana bread na naman sa locker niya today. Mystery sender vibes. Sino kaya, no?”

Colet tilted her head. “Oo nga, Mikha. Any progress sa investigation mo? Do you have suspects?”

Mikha groaned and dramatically banged her forehead against her Tupperware lid. “NONE. No prints. No traces. Just good handwriting and insanely good gift taste.”

I tried not to choke on my water.

She propped herself up again and said, “But swear, I’ll find out who it is. I even took a pic of the note today. Look.”

She shoved her phone in the middle of the table. Sure enough, there it was: another short note in my stupid, now-too-familiar script.

Drink lots of water today. I know you’re tired, but you’re doing great. Always rooting for you.

No name. Just the usual tiny heart in the corner.

Mikha grinned like she was impressed. “She? Or he? Whoever this is—ang galing niya talaga mangtiming. Like alam niya kung kelan ako pagod.”

Yeah. Because I watch you. All the time. Because I know you. Because I’m—

God. I’m gonna explode.

“Maybe it’s someone close,” Maloi said, shooting me a look that made me want to slide under the table. “Yung tipong laging nandiyan. Laging tahimik.”

Stacey nodded. “Hmm. Like a reliable presence.”

“Matangkad. May driver’s license,” Colet added with a smirk.

“Pol Sci student. Black hoodie. Naka-green shoes ngayon,” Jhoanna sang.

Mikha blinked at all of them. “Grabe kayo. That sounds suspiciously specific.”

I pressed my lips together and stabbed my rice.

She turned to me. “Aiah, are you sure na hindi talaga ikaw?”

I raised my brows like she just accused me of arson. “Why would it be me?”

She shrugged. “Di ko alam. You’re suspiciously perfect.”

...Okay.

That one almost knocked the soul out of my body.

“Thanks?” I replied, voice not quite as steady as I wanted it to be.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of lectures and lab work. Mikha had afternoon training, so we walked to the gym together after class.

She was rambling about drills and rotations, still munching on the sandwich I packed in foil that morning.

“Sabi ng coach ko, I need to work on my back row reception. Eh, syempre gusto ko magimprove. Gusto ko maglaro during the opening match. And… wait—did you toast this?” she asked, holding up the sandwich.

I nodded. “Just a little. You didn’t eat breakfast.”

She gave me this look. This look. The kind where her lashes lower just slightly and her lips curve softly. “You’re gonna make me fall in love with you, swear.”

I laughed. It came out weird and choked.

“Relax,” she added. “Joke lang. Charot.”

“Right,” I said. “Charot.”

Charot daw. My heart doesn’t think so.

That night, my phone lit up again.
I was already lying in bed, blanket up to my chin, when the notification came in.

Meka Lem:
heyyyyy

Me:
still alive?

Meka Lem:
barely
my legs feel like jelly and my coach is lowkey satan
but i scored 7 service aces today so he was impressed :)

Me:
let’s gooo
legendary behavior

Meka Lem:
ikr :>
btw. did you see the banana bread?
like. i know you said it’s not you. but it’s giving… you.

I stared at my screen, brain buffering.

Me:
not me. promise.

Meka Lem:
hmph.
okay. i believe you. (i don’t)
still. i wanna hug the mystery person. whoever they are. like tight hug. real tight.

Tight hug daw.

My chest. My chest is not okay.

Me:
they probably want to hug you back too.

She replied with just:

Meka Lem:
:>

The next few days were more of the same.

Morning classes. Mystery gifts. Mikha running in late with a ponytail and knee pads. Me pretending not to stare. Her pretending not to suspect me. Her friends dropping more hints. My friends throwing me warning looks every time I almost slipped.

And every night, we’d talk.

Sometimes about volleyball. Sometimes about school.

Sometimes about the most random things — like what she’d name a dog if she got one (“Potchi,” she declared. “Or Truffle. Depending on the vibe.”), or how she wants to travel to Osaka just for the fluffy pancakes.

She made me laugh. She made my heart hurt.

She made me want more.

And yet... I stayed quiet.

Because she still hadn’t figured it out.

And part of me wanted her to — badly. Desperately.

But the other part?

The other part was scared of what would happen once she did.
If she'd run.

Or worse…
If she wouldn’t feel the same.

So I just kept giving her banana bread.

And pretending it wasn’t my way of saying, I love you.
Without saying it.

Yet.

—

The thing about volleyball tournaments is this:
They bring out the worst in me.

As in, the most obvious part of me that I keep trying to hide.

Because it’s hard—so hard—to pretend to be chill and composed when the girl I love is leaping in the air and slamming balls down with enough force to cause an earthquake… while also smiling so cutely that I forget how to breathe.

“Reserved seats, let’s gooo!” Jhoanna cheered, flopping onto the bleachers with her popcorn and a comically large fan.

“VIP treatment,” Maloi smirked, adjusting her sunglasses like we were at a concert.

“Well, we are watching a star,” Colet added as she waved at the court where both teams were already warming up.

And there she was.

Mikha.

In full maroon jersey and spandex, kneepads in place, hair braided back into a no-nonsense ponytail, face flushed but focused. She was going through warm-up serves like she was born to do this—toss, jump, slam. Each one cleaner than the last.

God.

She didn’t even have to try to ruin my life.

“They’re up against Nueva Heights, right?” Stacey asked, scanning the game schedule. “Isn’t that the school with the super tall middle blockers?”

“Yup,” Colet replied, eyes narrowing. “But they’ve never gone past second round. Mikha’s team has been prepping for this match since last month.”

I nodded. “We’re hosting, too. So home court advantage.”

“Exactly,” Jhoanna beamed. “Now all they need is a little magic.”

“She is the magic,” Maloi muttered beside me, then added with a smirk, “And judging by the way you’re white-knuckling your tumbler, Aiah, you agree.”

“I’m not,” I mumbled, loosening my death grip.

“You always act like this when she plays,” Stacey teased, leaning in. “As in first year pa lang, palagi kang nanginginig kapag nagda-dive si Mikha.”

“That’s not—”

“Remember last year?” Jhoanna cut in. “Yung diving receive niya tapos tumama ulo niya sa floor? You stood up and almost ran down the bleachers.”

“I thought she had a concussion!” I argued, defensive.

“She didn’t,” Maloi laughed. “She literally gave a thumbs-up while lying flat on her back. Meanwhile, ikaw—pacing like a dad waiting outside the delivery room.”

I groaned and buried my face in my hoodie.

They were right. I’m a wreck every time she plays.

Because while she’s out there being powerful and graceful and downright unstoppable... I’m here clenching my jaw every time she dives.

She’s too important.

Too bright.

Too breakable.

The buzzer rang.

Time-in.

---

First set.

The opening rally lasted exactly nine seconds.
It ended with a cross-court spike from Mikha that sent the ball flying between the opposing libero and outside hitter.

The gym exploded. Our section went wild.

“FIRST BLOOD! LET’S GOOO!” Jhoanna screamed, waving her foam finger.

Mikha turned, chest heaving slightly, and her eyes flicked to our section.

To me.

And when our gazes met, she grinned.

I swear, I almost passed out.

---

She served next. One step, a toss, and bang—the ball whipped over the net like a missile.

Ace.

I clapped once. Then again. Then just kept clapping because my body forgot how to process things normally.

By her third consecutive ace, I was sitting on the edge of my seat, muttering to myself like a gambler at a horse race.

“Come on, come on… yes—YES.”

Fourth ace.

Nueva Heights called a timeout.

“WALA KAYONG PANDEMIC SA SERVICE AREA!!” Jhoanna shouted, standing with both arms in the air.

“She’s on fire,” Maloi whispered, sounding both amazed and terrified.

I couldn’t even talk.

---

By mid-set, Mikha had already notched five aces, two monster blocks, and six clean hits from the back row.

Every time she jumped to hit, I flinched.

Every time she fell, I held my breath.

And when she rolled her ankle a little during a quick cross-court dig—just a little, barely a stumble—my whole body tensed.

“She’s fine,” Stacey whispered beside me.

“I know,” I said.

But my hand was clenched so tight, my knuckles cracked.

She didn’t notice me worrying. Of course she didn’t. She was too in-the-zone—barking quick calls to her setter, fist-bumping teammates, eyes locked on the ball like a predator.

But in the rare moments she glanced up and saw me —even just for a second—my entire world tilted.

I didn’t even know what the score was anymore.

All I knew was her.

---

They won the first set, 25-14.

Second set? Even smoother.

More aces. More clean hits.

She switched to front row and ran a slide attack so beautiful, I think I saw a coach from the other school mouth wow from the sidelines.

And then there was the dive.

End of the second set. The score was 22-13. Ball got tipped, no one in backline. Mikha launched herself sideways across the floor—full stretch, one arm out, straight pancake receive.

The crowd gasped.

I stood. No thought. Just instinct.

“Mikha—”

She popped back up like it was nothing, wiped her hands on her jersey, and gave the thumbs-up again.

The crowd cheered.

But my chest didn’t unclench until she smiled again.

“You okay?” Stacey asked gently.

“I hate when she does that,” I muttered.

“You love when she does that,” Maloi corrected. “You just hate that she could get hurt.”

“Same thing.”

---

Third set was a blur.

Mikha served five more aces.

She spiked one ball so hard it bounced into the second row of the opposite bleachers.

The referee actually paused the game because the linesman dropped his flag mid-reaction.

They closed it out 25-11.

Straight sets.

Total massacre.

As the final whistle blew, the gym roared.

Everyone in the crowd stood.

I stayed frozen for a moment, watching her get mobbed by teammates, coaches, even someone from the media taking pictures.

Then she turned, beaming, and pointed — at us. At me.

Like she needed me to see. Like this win wasn’t real unless I witnessed it.

I clapped. Smiled. Tried to play it cool.

But inside?

I was gone.

Hopelessly, stupidly gone.

—

The final whistle was still echoing when the entire gym exploded.

Cheers, chants, clapping—students banging on railings, waving flags, screaming Mikha’s name like she was some rockstar. Which, I guess, she kind of was right now.

I was already standing. Couldn’t help it.

My hands were hurting from how hard I clapped, but I didn’t care. They won. She won.

Mikha Lim—11 service aces, 14 attacks, 2 blocks, and way too many heart attacks caused (at least for me). The announcer literally said her name last in the “Player Highlights” rundown because she had the most.

The team broke into a huddle in the middle of the court, shouting their cheer, jumping in unison, before breaking apart into hugs and laughter.

Then Mikha turned.

Spotted us.

I swear to God she looked straight at me.

And I—

Oh.

Oh, no.

She ran.

Fast.

Straight toward—

“COLET!!!” she squealed.

And slammed into Colet’s arms like she hadn’t just won the entire game for the university.

“OHMYGOD YOU WERE SO GOOD,” Colet shrieked, lifting her slightly off the ground.

“I WAS???”

“YES???”

“WE WON???”

“YESSSSSS!!!”

The two of them spun in circles while Jhoanna clapped dramatically behind them and Maloi pretended to faint.

“I hate both of you,” I muttered under my breath, crossing my arms.

“She ran right past you,” Stacey whispered beside me, grinning.

“She’s excited.”

“She tackled Colet.”

“She has known Colet longer.”

“She also hugged the mascot before you.”

I gave her the side-eye. “Whose side are you on?”

“The side of truth, bestie.”

I stood there awkwardly for another full minute.

Just watching Mikha bounce around — hugging her libero, talking to their setter, dapping the assistant coach. Then one of the campus photographers came up to her.

“Hi! Can I get a few shots for the official page?”

“Oh! Uh—sure!” she said, brushing some sweat off her face with her towel.

He snapped a few candid shots — her holding her ball, her pointing to the team name on her jersey, her biting her lip mid-laugh.

Then another student approached. “Can I take a selfie with you? Please?”

“Me?” Mikha blinked. “Oh… okay, sure!”

And just like that, a small line started forming beside her. A few underclassmen — mostly girls — with excited expressions and their phones out.

“Oh no,” Jhoanna said, watching the crowd grow. “She’s becoming a campus crush.”

“She already is,” Colet added, smug. “We’re just finally getting the visual evidence.”

“She’s not even fixing her hair,” I muttered. “She just looks like that.”

“Selos ka?” Maloi asked.

“No.”

I was.

But I wasn’t about to say that out loud.

Twenty minutes later, the court was finally clearing. Most of the players were already in the locker room. Mikha was still outside, sitting on the bench just off the sideline, finishing her sports drink and trying to fan herself with her towel.

I walked over slowly.

She didn’t notice at first. She was scrolling through her phone, probably replying to all the “OMG MVP!” texts blowing it up.

“Hey,” I said.

Her head shot up.

Then, like someone pressed pause on her whole body, she just… stilled.

And then smiled.

Big. Wide. All teeth. Like me standing in front of her was what made the win finally real.

“Hi,” she said back, breathless.

“Tired?”

She nodded. “So tired.”

“Hungry?”

She nodded harder. “So hungry.”

I reached into my tote and pulled out a protein bar and a chilled Yakult I had prepped just in case.

“God,” she muttered, grabbing both, “why are you like this?”

“Efficient.”

“Insanely sweet.”

“I said what I said.”

She peeled open the wrapper, took one bite, and groaned like it was the best thing she’d ever eaten.

Then she leaned her shoulder against mine. Just lightly. Just enough to let herself rest.

“You were amazing out there,” I said softly.

She smiled again, chewing. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

She bumped me. “You looked stressed.”

“I was stressed. Every time you dove, I had to stop myself from screaming.”

“You always do,” she teased. “It’s cute.”

I rolled my eyes. “It’s a heart attack. But okay.”

Then she turned her face toward me, hair sticking slightly to her forehead, eyes heavy but bright.

“Thanks for being here.”

“I’m always here.”

She didn’t answer for a while.

Then she reached up and tugged lightly on the sleeve of the hoodie I was wearing — hers, technically. The one she gave back last week, only for me to start wearing again.

“I’m glad,” she said.

And that one sentence — that small, quiet sentence —hit me harder than anything else tonight.

“MIKHA LIM, MEDIA ROOM!”

We both turned.

Her coach was calling from the hallway.

“Interview?” I asked.

She nodded, grimacing. “Coach said they requested the ‘top player’ and I was like… ughhh.”

“You’ll do great.”

She stood, stretched, then faced me again.

“I’ll find you after, okay?”

“Okay.”

“And… if anyone else asks for pictures, just glare at them until they leave.”

“I’m not that territorial.”

She tilted her head.

I sighed. “Fine. I’ll consider it.”

Mikha grinned, took one step back, then two — still facing me.

And then she did that thing she does sometimes.

That look.

The one that sits somewhere between I’m happy you’re mine and I don’t even know I love you yet.

Then she winked.

Turned.

And jogged away.

As soon as she disappeared into the tunnel, I felt Stacey’s arm loop through mine.

“You survived,” she whispered.

“Barely,” I muttered.

“You love her so bad.”

“I really do.”

“She’s still totally clueless.”

“I know.”

We sighed in unison.

Then Jhoanna popped in from behind.

“Soooo... is this the part where we all pretend you didn’t look like a simping Victorian poet every time Mikha served?”

“I didn’t—”

“I have videos,” Maloi said.

“Multiple angles,” Colet added. “Some of them even slo-mo.”

I groaned.

This is my life now.

And honestly?

If it means watching Mikha win—over and over again—I’d endure all of it.

No questions asked

Chapter Text

The day after the game felt like someone had wrung the entire school dry and replaced every student with a fan of Mikha Lim.

Every hallway we walked down?

“OMG, MVP!”

Every elevator ride?

“She’s so good. And pretty.”

Every group of underclassmen sitting in the shade?

“Did you see that third service ace? I think I passed out.”

It was... exhausting.

And I wasn’t even the one playing.

Mikha, on the other hand, was still in her sweaty-socks era—literally lugging a tote bag full of ankle wraps, a spare knee pad, her water bottle, and the same volleyball she’d been using since first year.

“Why are you even bringing that ball to training?” I asked as we walked together across campus.

“She’s my lucky girl,” Mikha said, hugging the ball like it was a baby. “She listens. Unlike some people.”

“Wow. Jealous of a ball. New low.”

She grinned. “Meka Lem supremacy.”

I gave her the side-eye.

She gave me a peace sign.

Training was brutal.

Even just watching from the bleachers made my back ache.

Coach divided them into skill-based circuits—serve receive, blocking lines, spike timing, floor defense. Mikha was everywhere. She wasn’t even supposed to block, but she helped the middles during a drill and got yelled at for it.

And don’t get me started on when she dove to save a shanked ball and smacked her elbow.

I leapt out of my seat so fast that Stacey had to yank me back down.

“She’s fine,” Stacey whispered, trying not to laugh. “Sit down, lover girl.”

“She hit her elbow,” I said through gritted teeth.

“She also laughed right after.”

“She winced.”

“She always winces.”

I sank back into the bench, arms crossed.

“Why is this sport like this?”

Maloi, two seats down, leaned forward. “Because volleyball is pain. Especially when you're in love with a human cannonball.”

I sighed dramatically.

After training, Mikha was dead.

She didn’t even change her socks. Just slumped beside me on the bench, hair still wet, her entire face flushed and glowing from effort.

“You’re gonna get athlete’s foot,” I said.

She didn’t even look up. “Then bury me with my MVP medal.”

“You don’t have a medal yet.”

“I will,” she said confidently. “Manifesting.”

“You also forgot to untie your shoelaces again.”

“You’re literally the only person who cares about that.”

“I don’t want you to trip over yourself like a loser.”

Mikha finally lifted her head and grinned. “Aw, you care.”

“I want to avoid secondhand embarrassment.”

“You love me.”

I stared at her.

And for half a second, something flickered in her smile.

Something almost... real.

But then Jhoanna ran over and ruined the moment.

“Bro,” she huffed, “they just confirmed the match tomorrow. Elcano State’s sending their full starting lineup.”

Colet whistled. “They’re taking it seriously.”

“I like that,” Mikha said, finally sitting up straighter. “Let’s ruin their weekend.”

Next Day – Game Day
Linarez University vs. Elcano State University

The gym was full.

More than yesterday.

There were even people standing along the railings, holding up signs that said Lim-ited Edition, SERVE AND SLAY, and LU: Unstoppable Power.

Mikha looked calm.

Too calm.

Like she wasn’t about to face a school that had actual national-level players warming up across the court.

“You good?” I asked as she tied her hair back into a ponytail.

“Yup.”

“You’re not nervous?”

“Terrified,” she admitted. “But if I say I’m calm out loud, maybe I’ll trick my brain.”

“Classic Meka Lem logic.”

“It works,” she shrugged. “Kind of.”

I reached out and tightened the strap of her elbow pad.

“Just play like yesterday,” I murmured. “You got this.”

She nodded once. Focused. Then jogged off to warm-up.

The match was a warzone.

First set — tight.

Their libero was fast. Their spiker hit hard. But Mikha was on fire. She aced twice, blocked once (even though that’s not her usual job), and ended the set with a wicked backrow hit that sent the crowd screaming.

25–22. Linarez.

Second set?

Messy.

Long rallies, saves that made me clutch Stacey’s hand in fear. At one point, Mikha tripped after a dive and hit her knee. She got up like it was nothing, but I swear I almost jumped over the barrier.

“She’s fine,” Stacey whispered for the twentieth time.

“She’s limping,” I hissed.

“She’s acting like she’s limping for drama points. You know her.”

True.

They won that one too — 26–24.

Third set?

They snapped.

Mikha served five aces in a row. One hit the line so precisely that even the Elcano bench clapped. Colet, from the stands, literally stood and yelled, “AND SHE’S SINGLE, LADIES!”

Mikha turned, winked in our direction, and blew a kiss at the crowd.

“Disgusting,” I muttered. “I love her.”

They took the third set 25–17.

Straight sets again.

Linarez was going to finals.

The gym exploded.

Mikha didn’t even wait for post-game formalities this time.

She jogged over, high-fived her teammates, bowed quickly toward the stands — then bolted straight to where we were sitting.

And yes.

Sprinted.

Not to me.

But to Maloi.

“YOU’RE THE LUCKY ONE TODAY!” she screamed, tackling Maloi with all her sweat and energy.

Maloi went limp immediately. “I regret everything!”

Mikha bounced up. “WE’RE GOING TO FINALS!”

“Yes, we see that!” Colet shouted, laughing.

“You carried the whole game!” Jhoanna added.

“I’m just... trying my best,” she said between breaths. “And also maybe crying.”

And she was.

Her eyes were misty. 

She looked overwhelmed. Like everything—the crowd, the cheering, the relief—was finally catching up to her.

Then she turned to me.

And didn’t say anything.

Just stared.

I stared back.

Then I opened my arms.

She didn’t even hesitate.

She crashed into me, forehead pressing against my collarbone, arms wrapping tight around my waist.

“I couldn’t breathe halfway through that second set,” she murmured.

“I know.”

“I wanted to cry.”

“I saw.”

“But then I remembered you were watching.”

I swallowed.

“And I couldn’t lose,” she whispered.

So I just hugged her tighter.

Let her stay like that as long as she needed.

Because this was our win too.

Not just Linarez’s.

Ours.

—

Time skip.

Finals.

The last game.

The one Mikha’s been dreaming about since freshman year, since before she even made it to the varsity roster. Since before she ever scored her first ace.

And today, it was finally happening.

Linarez University versus Lazara South Institute — the defending champions. Three-time title holders. Undefeated for the last three years.

They weren’t just good. They were monsters.

Mikha was practically vibrating through her seat at the cafeteria table. She was trying to stab her rice with a spoon like it offended her.

I watched her from across the table as she exhaled deeply and dropped her utensils.

“I can’t eat,” she muttered.

“You say that now, but you’ll regret it when you’re hangry mid-set,” Jhoanna said, popping a chicken nugget into her mouth.

“She’s right,” Maloi added. “Remember last game? You snapped at your libero for breathing too loud.”

“He was breathing too loud.”

Colet grinned. “You’re scared.”

“I’m not—” Mikha cut herself off, groaned, and then face-planted into her folded arms. “Okay. I am.”

Stacey reached across the table to pat her on the back. “It’s normal. Finals na eh. Of course you’ll feel it.”

“It’s not just that,” Mikha mumbled against her arms. “It’s Lazara. We’ve never beaten them. Even last year, sa semis tayo natanggal. And now it’s them. Again. UGH.”

Her voice was muffled but the frustration was clear.

“Didn’t they have a middle blocker na six-footer?” Jhoanna asked.

“They still do,” I muttered.

Mikha groaned louder. “Why are we talking about her?! That girl can block a plane.”

“Okay, okay,” I said, leaning forward. “Listen. You’ve beaten every other school that’s tried to stop you this year. And you didn’t even drop a set.”

Mikha raised her head just enough to peek at me.

“You got this,” I said, voice low. “You’re Mikha Lim.”

She blinked. “And?”

“And you’re allergic to losing.”

That finally got her to crack a smile.

Just then, my phone buzzed.

I reached for it without thinking—assuming it was another meme from Maloi or Colet's chaotic volleyball Twitter threads.

But it wasn’t.

It was a message from Prof. Reyes.

> Aiah, I urgently need you to present your research this afternoon. 2 PM sharp at Lecture Hall B. Dean’s team will be there. Mandatory.

I stared at it.

And then at the time.

2 PM.

I checked the game schedule.

Finals match start: 2 PM sharp. Main court.

My stomach dropped.

No. No no no no no.

“What’s wrong?” Mikha asked.

I didn’t realize everyone had gone quiet.

Stacey was looking at me. Maloi too. Mikha especially—her brows slightly scrunched the way they always do when she knows I’m trying to hide something.

I locked my phone. Forced a neutral face.

“Nothing. Just a prof. Something popped up.”

“What kind of something?” Mikha asked slowly.

“Just... presentation,” I said, trying to keep my voice casual. “Research. You know. Academic death stuff.”

“When?”

I hesitated.

She waited.

I gave in.

“Same time as your game,” I admitted.

Mikha blinked. Her lips parted, like she wanted to say something but didn’t.

Then she looked away. “Oh.”

And it hurt.

The silence that followed hurt.

I scrambled.

“But I’ll try to finish fast!” I added quickly. “If it’s just a defense, I can maybe be there by the second set. Maybe even earlier, if they don’t ask a lot of questions.”

“Maybe,” she echoed.

The smile on her face was tight. Forced.

“Miks—”

“No, it’s okay!” she said too brightly, waving her hand like she was dismissing a bad joke. “Duh. School first. I get it. You should go.”

“Mikha.”

“I mean it!” she said, now laughing but not the kind that reached her eyes. “We’ll just see each other after, right? Win or lose, you’ll still be proud of me.”

“I’m always proud of you.”

“Then we’re good.” She grabbed her water bottle and stood. “I should go stretch. Coach said early warm-up starts soon.”

“Mikha, wait—”

But she was already walking away.

Colet shot me a look. “That’s gonna haunt her.”

“I know.”

“She won’t say it, pero she really wanted you there, Aiah.”

“I know.”

I pressed the heel of my palms against my eyes, as if I could press the guilt away.

---

We all walked toward the gym together, but there was a different kind of tension in the air.

The usual pre-game jitters weren’t just coming from the players.

I felt it too.

Mikha was talking to her teammates now, laughing, stretching her arms behind her back, keeping up the energy.

But she kept glancing toward me.

And I—

I was already dying inside.

My friends were chatting around me, trying to lighten the mood.

“Maybe you can run after the first panel?” Maloi offered. “Like, pag tapos na yung Q&A, bounce ka na agad.”

“What if I skip?” I said under my breath.

Jhoanna nearly choked. “Girl—no. Academic suicide yan.”

“I don’t even care.”

“Yeah, but Mikha will care if you throw away a grade for her.”

I groaned again. “Why does it have to be the same time?! Of all days.”

“You can’t clone yourself?” Colet teased.

“Working on it.”

---

We reached the court. The crowd was buzzing.

The Lazara South Institute team was already there — tall, intense, and stretching like Olympic athletes. Their team captain had knee braces on both legs and a look like she was ready to devour souls.

The moment Mikha saw them, her shoulders stiffened.

I walked over to her and touched her wrist gently.

She turned to me, quietly.

“You got this,” I said.

“I know.”

“Even if I’m not—”

She nodded. “Yeah. I know.”

I wanted to hug her. 
I wanted to tell her that I would scream her name even from a stupid lecture hall. 
I wanted to say a million things.

But her coach blew the whistle.

And that was it.

She had to go.

And I had to leave.

But as I watched her jog across the court and take her place in the warm-up line, she turned her head back, just once.

Our eyes met.

And she smiled.

Small. Soft. Brave.

And just like that—

I started running.

Because there was no way I wasn’t going to find a way to come back to her.

Not today.

Not finals.

Chapter Text

The moment I clicked through the last slide and heard Professor Reyes say, “Excellent presentation, Miss Arceta,” I almost collapsed in relief.

Not because of the grade.

Not because of the pressure.

But because that meant I was finally free to run.

My legs were already halfway down the corridor when I heard the rest of my panel clapping faintly behind me.

Screw applause. Screw everything. Set 2 must be starting already.

I quickly pulled out my phone as I speed-walked through the corridor. 2:42 PM.

Shit.

First set should’ve ended fifteen minutes ago.

I opened the volleyball livestream one of the students from campus media was sharing and—yep.

Second set.

Score: Lazara South Institute – 12
Linarez University – 5

I nearly tripped on air.

I closed the app immediately.

I couldn’t watch it. Not like this.

My heart was pounding, and every cell in my body was screaming run faster.

When I finally reached the gym, I burst through the back doors, nearly knocking over one of the school photographers.

I scanned the seats.

There—our usual spot.

Jhoanna, Maloi, Colet, and Stacey were sitting together in a tight little pack of nervous energy, eyes fixed on the court. Jhoanna spotted me first.

“Hey!” she shouted over the crowd noise. “Finally! Research girl makes it back!”

I practically flung myself into the row.

“Who won the first set?” I asked, catching my breath.

Maloi gave me a look.

“Take a wild guess.”

I stared at her.

“Don’t tell me—”

“Lazara,” Stacey said with a sigh. “Ten-point lead. Wiped us clean.”

I looked down at the court.

And then I saw her.

Mikha.

She was standing near the back row, sweat already darkening the collar of her jersey. Her knees were taped like usual, her fingers flexing restlessly. And for once—she didn’t look like Mikha.

She looked… lost.

“She's out of it,” Colet muttered beside me. “We’ve never seen her play this distracted. I swear, kanina parang nag-f-flinch siya every time the ball went to her.”

“She wasn’t this tense the entire tournament,” Maloi added.

Jhoanna leaned in and whispered, “Baka kasi wala ka.”

I shot her a glare.

But then I looked again—and yeah. Maybe.

Maybe that’s why her shoulders seemed lower. Maybe that’s why she hadn’t scored a single ace so far.

She didn’t know I was here yet.

And then—

She turned.

Her eyes scanned the bleachers for just a moment—and then landed on mine.

I raised my hand slightly.

She blinked once.

And then she smiled.

It wasn’t big or flashy. It was small, soft, and warm—like she was relieved just seeing me.

And in that instant, the entire court shifted.

She rotated to serve.

Bounced the ball once.

Twice.

Tossed.

And boom—ace.

Just like that.

“She’s back,” Colet whispered.

I felt it in my chest. Mikha wasn’t just here now—she was Mikha again.

That girl who served fire and dove for balls like she didn’t care about her bones.

By the end of the second set, Linarez University took the win, 25–20.

We were tied: 1–1.

But it wasn’t smooth sailing from there.

The third set was a war.

Long rallies. Blocks that shook the floor. Lazara’s libero was supernatural, saving impossible balls and ruining every clean kill Mikha tried to pull off.

Still, our girls kept fighting.

They clawed their way to 24–24.

Deuce.

Then 25–25.

And then 27–27.

Crowd on their feet. Drums banging. Everyone chanting.

But one miscommunication on a soft drop—and Lazara took the set, 29–27.

Fourth set came like thunder.

And this time, we stormed them.

Colet leaned forward as Mikha landed yet another crosscourt kill. “She’s pissed,” she said. “Look at her face. That’s murder.”

“She’s not losing this without a fight,” I said.

Mikha was in full beast mode now. She served like her arm was a cannon. She called plays. She read the blocks. And when she scored the winning point of the fourth set with a straight-line kill from the back row, she didn’t even scream.

She just exhaled.

2–2.

Fifth set.

Fifteen points.

Winner takes all.

And let me tell you—

I was not okay.

None of us were.

Even Jhoanna was rocking back and forth like she was about to give birth.

“Do you guys realize we’ve never reached this far before?” Stacey muttered.

“They were supposed to eliminate us by semis again,” Maloi whispered.

“Do you guys realize I might puke?” I added.

And then the final set began.

First point: Mikha kill.

Second point: Mikha service ace.

Third point: Lazara — their six-foot blocker shut down our middle.

Then another. And another.

Back and forth.

8–7.

Switch sides.

My hands were literally shaking.

Linarez took the next point. Then Lazara again.

10–10.

Every. Point. Was. Hell.

And then it happened—

Mikha dove for a low dig, barely getting it up. Her knees scraped. I flinched.

“Please don’t break anything,” I muttered into my hands.

13–13.

Then—another Mikha ace.

14–13.

Match point.

Lazara served.

Ball sailed.

Our libero received.

Perfect pass.

Set.

And Mikha—oh my god.

She flew.

Like the court didn’t exist.

And she slammed the ball down so hard, it bounced off the defender’s shoulder and out of bounds.

15–13.

Game.

Over.

LINAREZ UNIVERSITY WINS.

The gym erupted.

People were screaming. Crying. Jumping. The drumline went wild. Streamers burst. The announcer’s voice cracked.

And Mikha?

She didn’t scream.

She didn’t shout.

She turned slowly.

Took one look at her teammates rushing at her—

And ran straight in the opposite direction.

Right to us.

“OH SHIT—” I stood, startled.

But before I could even process it—

“MIKHA LIMMMM!” she shrieked, practically flying into the bleachers.

My soul left my body.

She flung herself at me, arms wrapping around my shoulders, nearly tackling me in the process.

“WE WON! DID YOU SEE THAT?!”

“I SAW—CALM DOWN—”

“DID YOU SEE MY ACE?! DID YOU SEE MY DIIIIIIVE?!”

“YES, MIKHA, I HAVE EYES—YOU NEARLY GAVE ME A HEART ATTACK!”

She was sweating, panting, eyes wide with adrenaline and disbelief and joy.

And she just stood there, holding me like I was her personal victory shrine.

“You freaking made it to the finals,” I whispered, still slightly stunned.

“We won the finals,” she corrected proudly. “Oh my god, Aiah. We freaking won.”

“I saw,” I said, barely keeping the grin off my face.

She beamed at me—then grabbed my cheeks with both hands and shook my face like an aunt seeing her favorite pamangkin.

“You’re my lucky charm, promise.”

“Oh my god—stop—”

“I MEAN IT,” she shouted. “YOU SHOWED UP AND SUDDENLY I WAS SCORING LIKE A CRAZY PERSON!”

“You were already scoring like a crazy person—”

“I will literally frame your face.”

“You’re deranged.”

“And you love it.”

Before I could swat her away, her teammates were already yelling from the court.

“MIKHAAAAAAA!”
“OUR MVP, COME BACK TO US!”
“WE’RE LIFTING PEOPLE NOW, HURRY UP!”

Mikha made a face. “Ugh. Fine. Friends before fans.”

“I’m not even a fan—”

“Sure you’re not,” she smirked, backing away and jogging toward her team. “Catch me later, Miss Arceta!”

She ran backward a few steps just to shoot me a finger heart—and then turned back to join the wild celebration on the court.

Colet slid beside me with a smug grin.

“You’re so down bad.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.

—

I stayed on the bleachers, watching her from where I stood.

Mikha was surrounded—by teammates, fans, photographers. 

She was glowing.

Like she was built for moments like this. 

She was laughing, her hair a mess, her cheeks flushed red. Still wearing my hoodie under her uniform jacket.

And for a second, it felt enough.
Just watching her be happy.

Then—

The microphone screeched.

Everyone froze for a moment as the feedback echoed through the gym.

All eyes turned toward the hosting platform at the far end of the court. 

A tech student holding the mic was clearly confused and trying to fix it. But someone else—taller, wearing a familiar black varsity jacket—had already taken it.

“Wait,” Colet whispered beside me. “Is that…?”

“Mic check—uh… hi.”

The crowd murmured. A few people laughed. Some cheered.

Mikha looked up, frowning, clearly confused.

Then he said her name.

“Mikha Lim.”

The gym exploded into noise. Some people whooped, others turned to each other in shock. 

My stomach dropped.

Mikha blinked. “What the…?”

He raised his voice over the sound of the crowd.

“Hi. Sorry. I—I know this is so unplanned and you just played the game of your life… and congrats on winning, by the way.”

The girls beside Mikha were gripping her shoulders, half-laughing, half-screaming.

“But I just… I couldn’t let the day end without saying this.”
He looked around, as if acknowledging the thousands of eyes on him. Then he turned to her again.

“You’ve been the sunshine of this school for so long. And today? You lit the whole place up. And I know we haven’t known each other that long, but… I really, really want to.”

My chest started tightening. I felt Colet tense beside me.

He smiled at Mikha, clearly nervous.

“So… I’m asking. Can I court you?”

The gym was roaring now. Everyone stood up. Phones were out.
People were shouting “SAGUTIN NA YAN!” from the upper bleachers.

I watched her.

She wasn’t smiling.

Just frozen. Shocked. Clearly processing. 

Her teammates turned her toward the mic guy, nudging her like go on! say something!

Mikha blinked.

Then she gave him a thumbs up.

It was small. Hesitant. But visible enough.
And the moment it happened—the crowd exploded.

People screamed, stomped on the bleachers, confetti popped from the cheer squad, and the host finally took the mic back and said, “AND THAT’S A YES, FOLKS!”

Laban ni Aiah?

Wala.

I’m her best friend.
I’m just her hoodie supplier and her ride when dates go bad.
I’m the secret gift sender she still hasn’t figured out.
I’m the one who hides feelings behind stupid banter and late-night chats.
And he? He gets to say it out loud. With a microphone. With confidence.

Colet turned to me slowly. “Aiah…”

“I’m okay,” I said. It came out too fast.

Stacey leaned forward. “Are you sure—”

“I’ll go ahead. May… kailangan pa akong ayusin. The professor chatted me, may error daw sa paper ko.”

They didn’t stop me. They just watched as I stepped down from the bleachers and walked quickly toward the gym exit.

I didn’t look back.

—

Maloi’s Point of View

I watched Aiah walk out like her soul had left her body.

Jhoanna, Colet and, Stacey didn’t move either. Just sat there like someone threw a cold bucket of water on them.

“She said she was okay,” I muttered.
“No, she’s not,” Colet said immediately.

From the court, Mikha had finally peeled herself away from her team and jogged up to us, still out of breath.

“Hey, where’s Aiah?”

Colet and I glanced at each other.

“She—uh—left. She said she had something to fix,” I said.

Mikha frowned. “Why? It’s still early. We were supposed to take pics pa with all of you.”

“Maybe she didn’t wanna get in the way of…” Stacey trailed off, jerking her head subtly toward the guy still on the hosting platform.

Mikha looked at the spot.

Then back at us.

“You okay?” Jhoanna asked her. “You looked… weird out there. Not gonna lie.”

Mikha sighed and slumped into the seat beside me. “I didn’t know he was gonna do that.”

“Then why’d you say yes?” I asked. Gentle, but real.

She let out a tired laugh. “Because if I didn’t… it would’ve been public humiliation in front of the entire university.”

“So you don’t actually like him?”

“NO!” she said quickly, way too quickly. “I mean—he’s nice, but like—no. That was so sudden, and I—I panicked.”

We all stared at her.

She rubbed her eyes. “I just… I didn’t want to be mean. Everyone was screaming. I’ll talk to him later. Tell him it’s not like that.”

I nodded slowly. “You better. ‘Cause you looked miserable after saying yes.”

Mikha exhaled. “I was miserable.”

Then she paused.

“Wait. Was that why Aiah left?”

No one answered.

Mikha looked down at her hands. “She was probably annoyed, no? I mean, she already warned me about guys like him. And then boom—he’s suddenly making announcements like it’s a school fair.”

Colet nudged her. “You really don’t get it, do you?”

“What?”

“Never mind,” I said softly, watching her. “Just talk to her. You owe her that.”

Mikha nodded.

Then she pulled out her phone.

And I swear, her hands were shaking.

Chapter Text

I didn’t even let the front door close properly before I headed straight to the bathroom.

I needed to shower. Not because I was sweaty or gross, but because my brain felt like a cluttered Google Drive folder with twenty tabs open and no Wi-Fi. 

I stood under the water for who knows how long—arms limp, eyes closed, head against the tile wall—just…existing.

All I could hear was the crowd in my head.

Cheering.

Screaming.

Laughing.

And that guy.

On the mic.

“Mikha, can I court you?”

I winced, letting out a sigh as I tilted my head up to the shower.

The water had already gone cold, but I didn’t move.

I didn’t even blink.

It wasn’t jealousy, okay?
It wasn’t. I was just…
…annoyed.

At the timing. 
At the chaos. 
At the audacity of doing something like that after a championship match like he was accepting an award for bravery in cringey behavior.

And the way Mikha just stood there, confused.

Then gave a thumbs up.

I shut off the water with a huff.

I wrapped myself in a towel, stepped into my room, and threw myself on the bed face-down.

Phone still buzzing.

Over and over again.

I reached out blindly and grabbed it, squinting at the screen as droplets rolled off my hair.

15 missed messages.

Group chats. Colet. Maloi. Stacey. Jhoanna.

And—yup.

Mikha.

I clicked.

Mikha:                                                                            Hello are you alive :(
Are you home na
I swear I’m gonna throw a volleyball at that guy’s face
Can we talk?
Please. I’ll keep it short I promise
(not really)
But really :(
Pls pick up
Ayams?

A call came in while I was still reading.

My thumb hovered.

Then I rolled over and answered.

“Hello?”

“You’re alive,” Mikha sighed dramatically. “Thank God. Maloi thought you evaporated.”

I wiped my face with my towel. “I just got out of the shower.”

“Took you thirty years to reply.”

“I was fixing something,” I said casually, turning on my side. “There was an issue sa submission ng research file ko. My prof emailed me something urgent while I was in the gym kanina. I had to go back to the lab and edit stuff.”

“Oh.”
She sounded… relieved?

“Why didn’t you say anything?” she asked.

“You were kind of busy, if I recall correctly,” I said, teasing a bit. “Winning a championship. Starring in your own teleserye. Getting publicly—well… yeah.”

“Oh my gosh, stop,” she groaned. “I swear I didn’t know he was gonna do that! I was just saying thank you and then suddenly may mic na.”

I snorted. “Plot twist ng season.”

“And you left!” she said, fake offended now. “That was my biggest game ever! You weren’t even there for the last picture.”

“I didn’t mean to miss it, okay?” I said. “I really had to fix something. I literally submitted my revision ten minutes ago.”

Silence on the other end for a second.

“…So you didn’t leave because of that guy?”

“No,” I said clearly half lying. “But if he held the mic for one more second, I might’ve.”

She burst out laughing.

“AIAH!”

“What?! I’m just being honest!”

“You’re so mean. Oh my god.”

“You’re the one getting mystery proposals in public.”

“I said YES out of pressure!” she groaned. “Do you know how humiliating it would be for him if I said no right there?”

“Do you like him?” I asked, voice flat but not…invested. Casual. Best friend mode.

“Of course not,” she said instantly. “I just didn’t want the headlines to be ‘volleyball girl destroys man’s ego on national stage.’ I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”

“Tell him to stick to clapping next time.”

“I’m telling you, he got the mic from one of the student hosts. I didn’t even see it happen.”

“You attract chaos.”

“And you left me.”

“I’m literally talking to you now.”

“We were supposed to be celebrating.”

There it was. That drop in her voice. Still playful—but that quiet, lingering tone of disappointment underneath.

“I know,” I said, trying to keep my voice light. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“Oh?”

“Tomorrow. My treat. You pick. Let’s go out.”

“Can I order milk tea AND cake?”

“You can order milk tea, cake, fries, and another cake.”

“Good. Because I’m gonna be emotionally recovering from that public proposal.”

“I’ll be emotionally recovering from the crowd screaming like it was Taylor Swift Night.”

She giggled.

“…Thanks for calling,” she said softly.

“You called me.”

“Still. Thanks for answering.”

“Sleep, Meka Lem.”

“Don’t call me that in a serious tone, it’s so weird,” she whined.

“Fine. Go to sleep, Mikhaela.”

“Oh ew. That’s worse.”

“Goodnight, Mikha.”

“Better. Goodnight, Ayams.”

She hung up first.

I stared at my ceiling for a while. Then rolled to the side and smiled like a damn idiot.

—

I stared at my phone screen.

Meka Lem:
u here na? 
bc I am sooo not ready yet :(
just come inside na langgggg
yaya’s there
sit ka muna hehe
sorryy

I blinked.

Not ready.

Again.

Of course.

I sighed, tightening my grip on the paper bag beside me—the one with her favorite mango cheesecake, her almond milk tea with half sugar and less ice (yes, I memorized it), and that strawberry lip balm she mentioned once during lunch and thought I wasn’t listening to.

Spoiler alert: I was. I always do.

I stepped out of the car and made my way to their gate, pressing the doorbell once. Their yaya, Ate Lani, opened it almost immediately.

“Oh, Aiah! Nandiyan ka na pala,” she said cheerfully. “Pasok ka, hija. Si Mikha, ay naku, malamang nasa kwarto pa ‘yon. Kabibihis lang siguro.”

I smiled politely. “Oo nga po, sabi niya hindi pa siya ready.”

She laughed knowingly and waved me inside. “Alam mo naman ‘yon, akala mo aakyat ng entablado sa pagdadamit.”

I stepped in and sat on their cream-colored sofa, placing the paper bag carefully on the table. Their living room looked the same as I remembered—minimalist, framed family pictures lining the walls, and a faint smell of lavender and something freshly baked from the kitchen.

I wasn’t even scrolling through my phone for two minutes before a voice spoke from behind.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t our beautiful-slash-friend.”

I didn’t even have to look.

Mikha’s older brother.

He plopped himself onto the armrest beside me like he owned the couch.

“Oh wow,” he said, eyeing the paper bag on the table. “Is that cheesecake? Are you trying to win Mikha’s heart through desserts?”

I raised an eyebrow. “No. I’m trying to keep her from throwing a tantrum before 10 a.m.”

He grinned. “Ah, doing the Lord’s work.”

I shook my head, amused despite myself. “She said she wasn’t ready.”

“She never is,” he said, leaning back, eyes subtly flicking to me. “But you, you’re always on time. Smart, responsible, single…”

And there it was.

I sighed. “Please don’t start.”

“Start what?” he asked, pretending to be innocent. “I’m just saying, if you ever get tired of Mikha forgetting her keys and stealing your fries—”

“Kuya!”
The voice came from the stairs.

I turned.

There she was.

Hair slightly damp at the tips, black cropped tee, light jeans, sneakers half-on as she hopped down the steps, still fixing the strap of her bag. And glaring murder at her brother.

“Wala ka talagang hiya,” she muttered as she marched toward us. “Wala ka na ngang ambag, nambubulabog ka pa.”

“Just keeping your visitors entertained,” he said, giving her a wink.

She rolled her eyes and grabbed the paper bag from the table. “Let’s go, Aiah. Before he proposes to you again.”

I stood up with a chuckle, trailing after her as she led me out. “He’s persistent.”

“Persistent? He’s delusional,” she muttered. “I swear, kung hindi lang kita friend, I’d make you punch him.”

“Good thing I’m peace-loving.”

“Hmph.”

We reached the car and I opened the door for her. 

She slid in, tossing her bag onto the backseat before placing the paper bag on her lap.

She peeked inside.

“…You remembered the lip balm?”

I shrugged, trying to sound casual. “You said yours was running out.”

Her face softened, and for a second, she didn’t say anything.

Then, with a fake sob:
“You love me.”

“Stop it.”

“You dooo. I knew it.”

“Mikha.”

“You’re my sugar mommy now. This confirms it.”

“Do you want me to take the milk tea back?”

“No. Sorry. I take it back. You’re just my rich best friend. Who loves me.”

I shook my head, starting the car.

We didn’t really have a fixed plan. Just snacks. Cakes. Maybe lunch somewhere. A drive. No pressure. I didn’t need pressure when I was with her.

The quiet moments were loud enough when she was around.

Especially now.

She leaned her head against the window, sipping her drink like she hadn’t just been proposed to in front of thousands yesterday.

I glanced at her once, then back at the road.

“I’ll talk to him today, after this. Ayoko ng misunderstandings.” 

I nodded. “Good.”

She reached out and poked my arm with her straw wrapper.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she grinned. “Just checking if you’re sulking.”

“I’m not.”

“Sure ka?”

“Do you want me to prove it?”

She grinned wider, then faced front again. “No need. I already know you love me.”

“I will eject you from this car.”

“You won’t.”

And she was right.

Of course I wouldn’t.

—

Café Soluna, tucked between the old bookstore and that flower shop Mikha always slows down in front of.

“I can’t believe you brought me to a place with tiny cakes,” Mikha muttered, pouting as she eyed the glass display.

“They’re not tiny. They’re minimalist,” I countered, stepping up to the counter. “Also, size doesn’t matter. Flavor does.”

“That’s what someone who eats sad pastries would say.”

The barista chuckled.

I ignored her and pointed. “One dark chocolate espresso tart, one burnt basque cheesecake, and two medium oat milk lattes. Half sugar.”

Mikha blinked. “Since when do you know my coffee order?”

I gave her a look. “You’ve ordered the same thing for the past year.”

“Still,” she said, cheeks puffing slightly, “you remembering makes it feel more… intimate.”

“Don’t make it weird.”

“Too late.”

We took our seats by the window, the café humming with soft music and low conversations. Sunlight streamed in, catching in the strands of Mikha’s hair.

She was busy taking pictures of the cake for her private story—she always angled it to look aesthetic, then took a bite that made it ugly in three seconds.

“Say ‘ah,’” she teased, picking up her fork and holding it toward me with cheesecake.

“I’m not a child.”

“You’re a grumpy old man.”

I sighed and leaned in to take the bite. “Happy?”

“Very.”

We ate in mostly silence for a bit. Mikha humming between sips. Me going over my notes from yesterday. Until—

“So,” she started, twirling her fork. “How was the research presentation? Yung totoong version ha, not the 'it was fine' na sagot mo lagi.”

I smirked. “It was fine.”

She raised an eyebrow.

I sighed, then relented. “Okay. I mean, my prof really grilled me with questions. Especially sa methodology part. But I managed to explain everything and—he nodded.”

“Omg,” Mikha said dramatically, setting her fork down. “Not the nod. Was it a respectful nod or a disappointed one?”

“Respectful. I think.”

“You think?”

“He gave me an ‘excellent work’ after the panel.”

She gasped. “My baby’s grown.”

I rolled my eyes. “Stop.”

“No, seriously, Aiah. I know you always downplay everything, but that’s a big deal.”

Her voice was soft now. Sincere. Proud, even.

And for a moment, I wanted to grab her hand across the table and say thank you. Really thank her—for waiting, for not asking why I wasn’t there earlier during her big game, for understanding before I even explained.

But I didn’t.

Because we don’t do that. We never cross that line.

So instead I shrugged. “It’s done. I can breathe for a bit now.”

She nodded and went back to her cake.

Five seconds of quiet passed.

Then she looked up.

“So. My mystery sender.”

Of course.

I sipped my coffee slowly. “Still thinking about it?”

“Yes,” she said, stabbing her cheesecake like it offended her. “They’re consistent. Every week may gift, may note. Witty pa minsan. It’s driving me crazy.”

I bit the inside of my cheek. “Maybe it’s not that deep. Baka admirer lang.”

“Exactly! That’s what’s scary!” she exclaimed. “Like… what if it’s someone weird? Or like—like that upperclassman from Bio who tried to ask me out after seeing me at intrams? Or worse…”

“Worse?”

“What if it’s someone I know, like super close, and they’re just playing around?”

Ouch.

I took another sip of coffee.

“Wouldn’t be the worst thing,” I muttered.

“Huh?”

“Nothing.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You always say nothing when it’s definitely something.”

“You always overthink when it’s nothing.”

She squinted more. “Wait. Are you not really the mystery sender?”

I nearly choked on my latte.

“I—what? No.”

She grinned like a child catching their sibling stealing cookies. “You hesitated.”

“I didn’t. You’re being annoying.”

“Admit it,” she whispered dramatically. “You have a box of pre-written notes under your bed and a list of my favorite snacks laminated on your desk.”

“Please stop talking. You've been accusing me for these past few weeks!”

She laughed and reached for her milk tea. “Okay, okay. I’ll let you live—for now.”

We sat there longer than planned, just talking about nonsense. 

The barista switched the playlist. Mikha pointed out a couple beside the window and whispered fake stories about their break-up. 

I asked her about her favorite jersey number and why she never uses it.

She told me about her superstition.

I told her about mine.

Hours passed.

And still, we stayed.

I never wanted to leave.

Chapter Text

The soft hum of the air conditioner filled the car, broken only by Mikha’s occasional humming to the song on the radio. 

She’d picked it, of course—some upbeat indie-pop that had been stuck in her head for days. Her window was slightly rolled down, letting in the scent of the city and the lazy late afternoon light. 

One of her shoes was off, her leg tucked under her, her arms wrapped around the milktea cup she never finished.

She was glowing.

Happy, soft, relaxed in a way I rarely get to see.

And for a moment, it felt like the universe was giving me a break. Just letting me have this.

Us.

Then her phone buzzed.

Once.

Twice.

A third time.

She didn’t check it immediately.

She was in the middle of telling me how she once failed a pop quiz in grade school because she spent the whole night making a glittery birthday card for her class adviser.

I chuckled. “You’re really like that?”

She shrugged. “I had a whole sticker album for emergencies.”

Buzz.

She frowned, finally grabbing her phone and flipping it open. Her thumb froze on the screen.

Then her expression shifted—just a fraction.

The way her eyes squinted, the way her lips pressed flat, the way she stopped bouncing her leg.

I noticed all of it.

I kept driving, waiting.

“Who is it?” I asked, trying to sound normal. Light.

She didn’t look up from her phone. “Uh…”

“Mikha?”

She slowly turned her head toward me, something unreadable sitting heavy behind her eyes.

“It’s Denise.”

My hands tightened slightly on the wheel.

Denise.

Of course I knew who that was. 

Her ex. 

The one before everything. 
The one who, up until today, had been the unspoken name in our stories, the ghost that lived in vague references and sad jokes. We never talked about her directly.

But I knew.

They were together for almost a year.

Denise, the campus dancer turned ghost. The girl who left.

“She said she wants to meet up,” Mikha continued, voice quieter now, like she wasn’t sure she should even be saying it out loud. “For closure daw.”

I swallowed. “Oh.”

Mikha looked out the window. Her voice dropped lower. “She just texted out of nowhere. I didn’t even think she still had my number.”

A silence settled over us, the kind that didn’t feel heavy—just careful.

“Are you gonna go?” I asked.

Honestly, I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear her answer.

But she nodded. “Yeah… I think I will.”

I glanced at her quickly, surprised. “You will?”

“She left, Aiah. Just like that. No proper goodbye. No answers. Just—gone. And it took me months to stop waiting for a message that never came,” she said, her fingers tightening around her phone. “If she’s reaching out now… I need to know why.”

I didn’t respond right away.

I wanted to ask why now.

I wanted to say she doesn’t deserve your time.

I wanted to shout you don’t need closure from someone who didn’t even respect you enough to explain themselves back then.

But instead, I said the only thing I could:

“I get it.”

Because I do. As much as I hate it.

She needs her peace. Even if it means opening old doors again.

“I’ll support you,” I added, even though the words felt like glass in my throat. “Text me when you get there. Just so I know you’re safe.”

She looked at me then, really looked.

And smiled.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “I didn’t know how to tell you.”

“You don’t have to hide anything from me,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “You know that.”

“Yeah. I just didn’t wanna make things weird.”

“Nothing’s weird,” I lied.

Nothing’s weird except the way my chest feels tighter than usual.

The way I suddenly hated the name Denise more than I ever thought I could.

The way I had no right to feel anything but still wanted to turn this car around and cancel that closure meetup myself.

We pulled up to her house. The engine idled.

She unbuckled her seatbelt and turned to me. “You’ll be okay, right?”

I forced a small laugh. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

She rolled her eyes playfully, then reached over and lightly squeezed my wrist. “See you soon?”

“Yeah.”

And then she was gone, heading inside, the door shutting behind her.

I waited until I saw the front door close before driving off.

I didn’t blast music this time. I didn’t even touch the radio. Just drove.

Home felt farther than usual.

When I got in, I went straight to the shower. Water scalding hot. Tried not to think. My phone buzzed three times while I was in there.

One from our group chat.

One from my professor again.

One from her.

Meka Lem:
I'm meeting her at 5. Somewhere public. I’ll be careful.

I stared at it for a few seconds, not sure how to reply.

Eventually I typed:

Me:
Okay. Just text me when it’s done.

She didn’t reply right away.

I threw my towel on the bed, lay down, and closed my eyes.

This time, I wasn’t worried about someone hurting Mikha.

I was worried she’d find something she thought she needed.

And maybe realize I was just… temporary.

—

I’ve been lying on my bed for what feels like forever.

The ceiling has never looked this dull. 

The fan blades spin the same way they always do. 

The faint humming of the neighbor’s karaoke downstairs keeps playing in the background—some old OPM ballad—but I couldn’t even hum along.

It’s been hours since Mikha said she was going to meet Denise.

And she still hasn’t messaged me.

I stared at my phone, flipping it between my fingers. I already opened her chat at least ten times, just to see if the “typing…” bubble would show up. I even refreshed my connection. Nothing.

What if they talked things out and realized they missed each other?

What if Denise apologized, explained herself properly, said she regretted everything?

What if Mikha decided to give her another chance?

What if I… what if I lose her?

I shook my head and buried my face into my pillow.

I had no right to feel this way, did I? Mikha’s not mine. I never confessed. I never asked for more than what we had. We were best friends. That was our thing. That’s always been our thing.

But the thought of seeing her with someone else, smiling the way she smiled at me, joking the way we joke, leaning her head on someone else’s shoulder while sipping milk tea or ranting about school—God, it made my chest feel so tight I couldn’t even breathe properly.

I didn’t know when I started counting her as something I wanted to keep.

The clock ticked toward 10 PM. I forced myself to scroll on my phone—opened TikTok, closed it. Tried to watch a reel. Swiped up. Stared blankly. Didn’t even laugh when someone tripped over a grocery cart.

And then—

Buzz.

My phone lit up.

Meka Lem
Now active

I shot up so fast I hit my head on the wall.

“OW—what the—”

Buzz.

Buzz.

Buzz.

My heart was beating like crazy. I opened the chat immediately.

Meka Lem:
Hi Aiaaahhhhh. I'm home now hehe.

Me:
Oh my god finally :(
I was about to send a search party.
How did it go?

Meka Lem:
Hahahaha sorry sorry!
I should’ve messaged sooner.
It went okay, actually.

Me:
Okay like...?

Meka Lem:
Like...we’re not getting back together lol
Not even close.

Me:
THANK GOD

Meka Lem:
AIAH LMAOO
Wait lang let me explain
So she just wanted to talk kasi
She said she left back then kasi may family issues and she was scared to open up to anyone
So instead of dealing with it like a mature person… she ghosted me :(

Me:
That sucks.
Still not a good enough reason tbh.

Meka Lem:
Exactly my thoughts :(
Pero it was nice to finally get it out of the way.
I guess that chapter’s really closed na.

Me:
You okay?

Meka Lem:
Yeah! Super. Actually… relieved din.
Mas lalo ko na-realize na I’m not even hurt anymore.
Just needed answers, I guess.

Me:
I’m really glad you got them.
I was worried, y'know.

Meka Lem:
I knowww
Sorry talaga :(
I was gonna text na after but I ended up talking to that basketball guy din pala

Me:
Really?

Meka Lem:
Yep. He asked me too meet him up and I told him na lang the place where Denise and I talked para less hassle siya for me.                                                         He was waiting outside and sabi niya thank you daw for not embarrassing him
He said he just wanted to shoot his shot (literally and figuratively daw gago)
I told him to not do that again sa mga babae without asking lol
AND that I’m not interested :)

Me:
Period.
Okay now I’m breathing again

Meka Lem:
Hahahaha were you really that nervous?

Me:
Mikha.
I have not moved from my bed in four hours.
I listened to the same sad song 5 times.
I’m emotionally bloated.

Meka Lem:
EMOTIONALLY BLOATED BAHAHAHAAHA
I’m sorryyyy Aiah
If it makes you feel better
I missed talking to you the whole time :(

Me:
Yeah?
You did?

Meka Lem:
Yeah.
I even almost texted you while I was with her
But that would’ve been rude so… I waited.
But you were in my head the whole time.

Me:
You’re in my head all the time, Meka Lem.

Meka Lem:
Aiahhhh 

Me:
Hahahaha

Meka Lem:
See you tomorrow?
Training again eeeeekkk

Me:
I’ll bring you water. And snacks. And the entire sports med team if needed.

Meka Lem:
Ang bait mo.
You like me ba or something? 😏

Me:
Sleep.
Now.

Meka Lem:
HAHAHAHAHAA
Goodnight bestieeeeee
I’ll dream of you again LOL

Me:
Better be a good dream
Night, Meka Lem.

I clutched my phone and let out a sigh of relief so loud, I probably scared the dog next door.

She’s not getting back with Denise.

She’s not interested in Mr. Public Confession.

She talked to me first after everything.

And maybe… just maybe… I still have a chance.

Even if I can’t say anything out loud yet.

Chapter Text

The sun was high, but the breeze was kind.

Mikha and I had just dropped our trays on the table, joining Colet, Jhoanna, Stacey, and Maloi for lunch. Laughter erupted almost immediately—Colet was balancing her chicken leg on a rice mountain, claiming it was some sort of “cultural sculpture.”

I was mid-eye-roll when I felt it.

That shift in the air.

A presence behind me.

“Mikha?”

The voice.

My body tensed.

Like someone hit the mute button on the entire cafeteria.

Mikha froze, spoon halfway to her mouth. I turned, confused—and instantly regretted it.

There she was.

Full uniform. Student ID swinging gently on her lanyard.

Denise.

Yep. That Denise.
Ex-Denise. Mikha’s-ex-Denise.

And judging by the way everyone else went quiet like it was a courtroom drama, I wasn’t the only one thrown off.

“Denise…?” Mikha blinked. Her voice was soft. Careful. Like she needed a second opinion to confirm what her eyes were telling her.

“Surprise,” Denise grinned, biting her lip like we were all supposed to be thrilled. “I transferred here.”

Surprise?
What the hell do you mean, “surprise”?

“I’ll be finishing the semester here. Something came up with my old school’s program, so… new beginnings, I guess.” Her gaze flicked across the group.

And then—of course—landed on me.

“Hi, Aiah. Long time.”

I mustered the smallest polite smile I could manage without cramping a muscle. “Hi.”

Colet coughed directly into her spoon.

Denise looked back at Mikha. “I was wondering… I’m kinda lost. Any chance you could tour me around after lunch?”

I felt my eyebrow twitch. 

Mikha hesitated. I saw her scan the table—her eyes lingered on me just a second too long.

“Oh, uhm…” she glanced at her food. “Yeah. I mean… sure, yeah. My next period’s free anyway.”

“Cool.” She smiled like she didn’t just drop a grenade in the middle of our lunch table and slid into the seat beside Mikha. “I’m starving. Can I sit here?”

You already did.

Maloi, ever the peacemaker, cleared her throat. “So… Denise, right? What school were you from before again?”

“Lindenwood,” she answered. “It was okay. Mikha and I were classmates back then. And Aiah, too.”

I poked my food with my fork. I couldn’t even taste anything anymore.

Colet leaned into me and whispered out of the corner of her mouth, “Breathe. You look like you’re holding a knife with your eyes.”

“I’m fine,” I muttered.

“Hindi ka kumukurap,” Jhoanna added.

“I said I’m fine.”

Meanwhile, Denise? Already fully assimilated like she was never cut from the script. Laughing, joking, complimenting Stacey’s hair—like she belonged.

And then she turned to me again. Of course.

“I heard you presented your paper last week. Congrats! Heard it went really well.”

I nodded, flatly. “Thanks.”

Mikha glanced at me again. Said nothing.

Eventually, trays clattered and lunch ended. Denise stood first. “Ready, Mikha?”

“Uh… yeah.” Mikha stood too, adjusting her bag strap. “We’ll just… be back before next class.”

And just like that, they were walking away.

Side by side.

Denise talking.
Mikha listening.
And me?

Trying to swallow whatever was tightening in my throat.

The second they disappeared—

“Okay, what in the tele-serye just happened,” Stacey whispered, eyes wide.

“THIS IS A PLOT TWIST,” Colet slapped the table.

“Bakit hindi niya sinabi na lilipat si Denise?” Jhoanna asked. “Did she even know?”

“Doesn’t seem like it,” Maloi said, glancing at me.

Everyone looked at me.

I kept slicing at my (already massacred) chicken nugget.

Stacey nudged me. “Aiah.”

“What?”

“Are you okay?”

“I said I’m fine.”

“You didn’t say anything,” Maloi pointed out.

“…I thought it.”

Colet laughed. “You look like you’re gonna throw hands.”

“I’m not gonna throw hands,” I said flatly. “Just maybe accidentally push her into a fountain if we ever pass one.”

Everyone snorted.

“Real talk…” Jhoanna started, gentler now. “You okay with Mikha showing her around?”

I didn’t answer right away.

Because Mikha had every right to say yes. And I knew her.

She was nice like that. Too nice.

She said yes to interview requests she didn’t want. To classmates who ghosted her but still asked for help. To training on her only free days.

Of course she’d say yes to this.

Talk about refusal skills. Tss.

But it still didn’t sit right.

I felt another nudge.

“You’re allowed to be a little jealous,” Colet said.

“Sinong nagsabi na nagseselos ako?”

Everyone raised their hand.

I groaned and buried my face in my hands.

I wasn’t mad at Mikha.

Not really.

I was mad at myself—for feeling this threatened.

For not knowing how to not feel this way.                  For pretending I didn’t care when it was so obvious I did.

Maloi sighed. “Well… looks like this arc’s just beginning.”

“And it’s getting good,” Colet muttered.

I looked toward the corridor where Mikha and Denise had disappeared.

And for the first time in a long time, that usual warmth I felt when Mikha walked out of a room?

It didn’t come back.

Not yet.

—

Graduation was around the corner.

The campus was louder than ever—clearance forms, thesis defenses, gown fittings, Viber notifs. Everyone was scrambling.

I sat alone on the bench beneath the acacia tree.

Our bench. Mine and Mikha’s.

Back before things got complicated.                     

Before thesis.                                                                 

Before externships.

Before Denise.

I looked down at the small box in my lap.

Inside it?

A volleyball keychain. Stainless steel. Engraved at the back: Laban lang, Mikha Lim. Proud of you.

It was supposed to be my final gift.

My “you survived, you’re awesome, I’m proud of you” gift.

But Mikha wasn’t coming to training today. Or any day after.

She’d been excused from varsity duties. She had plans now.

Denise wanted to check out the studio rooms upstairs!

Let’s hang out soon, promise!!

Fourth time this week.

I didn’t reply.

Our “hangouts” always became “next time.”

And Denise was always already there. Already in the space that used to be mine.

I opened my phone.

Too many notifications.

But I clicked on the smaller group chat.

Just me, Maloi, and Stacey.

Me:
hey. think i’m gonna stop.

Bubbles popped up instantly.

Maloi:
stop what??
breathing???
loving mikha????

Stacey:
girl. clarify. like now.

I looked at the box again before replying.

Me:
sending the gifts.

Stacey:
WHAT
STOPPP
wait—
like for real real???

Me:
yeah. i think it's time. mag-g-graduate na tayo pero i don't think I'm going to continue this. she’s still wondering who the mystery sender is. still teasing me about it. and now she’s always with denise… it just feels… pointless. hindi ko na alam gagawin ko.

The silence that followed stung more than I expected.

Maloi:
but you love doing this.
like, L-O-V-E in bold italics.
sure ka bang this isn’t just the stress talking?

Me:
it’s not. it’s… i don’t even get to talk to her properly anymore.
i don’t think she even misses our convos.
every time we have a plan, she reschedules or cancels.
she’s always with denise now.

I bit the inside of my cheek.

Because I did love it.

Planning the gifts.
Picking the message.
Seeing that quiet little smile Mikha had when she found something unexpected in her locker or tote bag.

It used to be the highlight of my day.

But lately?

It had started to hurt.

Stacey:
…are you okay?

No. Not really.

Me:
not really.
but i think it’s better to stop than wait for something that isn’t coming.

A minute passed.

Then Maloi sent:

Maloi:
if you’re stopping the gifts…
are you stopping everything?

I stared at that message for a long time.

Everything?

Did that mean the messages too?

The teasing?
The way I always looked for her in every crowd?

I didn’t know.

I placed the box in my drawer—alongside everything I never gave.

A birthday poem.
A pressed flower from our last walk.
A silly comic of us I never had the courage to send.

My phone buzzed.

Meka Lem:
just got home from org work!!
u okay, ayams? u didn’t reply earlier hehe. i owe u milktea soon!

I stared at her message.

Typed back slowly.

Me:
all good :)
hope you had fun.
you owe me more than milk tea now. like cake. and ice cream.
and maybe your time? HAHA

She sent a gif of a bunny holding a bouquet and bowing.

Meka Lem:
time and attention all yours soon, Ayams! just let me finish catching denise up with the org! she doesn’t know anyone paa. i feel bad :(

I didn’t reply immediately.

I just stared at the ceiling, phone on my chest.

How much longer could I keep waiting in the shadows?

I knew Mikha didn’t mean anything by it.
She was kind. Soft. Over-accommodating.

That’s who she was.

But sometimes…
I wished she had just enough refusal in her.

Enough to say:
not today. not now. not this person.

Enough to say:
I want to be with Aiah instead.

But maybe that was just me…
Wishing too hard.

Me:
yeah. of course.
you’re always nice like that. :) 

Meka Lem:
HAHA hey that sounds like a diss :(
am i being annoying again?

Me:
no. just… being you.

I locked my phone.

And for the first time…

I wasn’t sure if that was comforting—or just really, really sad.

But tomorrow would come.

And maybe this time…
I wouldn’t bring a gift.

Not anymore.

Chapter Text

Thank God Denise wasn’t around.

It was the first time this week—no unexpected appearances, no surprise pop-ins at lunch, no awkward hovering behind Mikha while she ate. No “can Mikha tour me here?” or “can I borrow Mikha for a sec?” lines.

Just us again, finally.

It almost felt like normal.

Almost.

I sipped on my iced matcha and let my gaze drift from the grilled chicken sandwich in front of me to Mikha, who was seated across, animatedly talking about her org’s post-grad plans. 

Stacey and Maloi were deep in their own side convo about capstone submissions, and Colet was texting someone under the table—probably her thesis group. And Jhoanna? Quietly humming to herself, eyes darting between everyone’s plates like she was still hungry.

And Mikha?

Mikha was finally back.

Kinda.

“So!” she beamed, slicing into her carbonara, “I talked to Denise last night and told her she can hang out with her new blockmates from Comm Studies. I think they vibe better anyway—and honestly,” she chuckled, eyes flicking to each of us, “I kinda miss this. Being with you guys. Especially you, Aiah. Parang ang tagal ko na kayong hindi nakakasama.”

I forced a smile. “Yeah, tagal nga.”

Because it has been long.

And you only just noticed.

Mikha turned back to her food, her lips still curved up—probably expecting a playful comeback from me. But I just returned to my matcha and nodded, pretending to be far too focused on the swirl of ice in my cup to continue the banter.

Then came the moment.

Like clockwork.

Mikha glanced over her shoulder toward her tote bag—the one she always brought with her on Fridays. Her eyes flicked to me, then to the bag again.

Like she was waiting.

Expecting.

It was always Fridays.

That’s when I sent the bigger gifts. Or the longer notes.

 The ones I hoped she’d carry into the weekend. 

The ones that would linger when we didn’t see each other till Monday.

A photo frame of her with the team. 
A personalized scrunchie. 
A book quote that reminded me of her. 
A drawing of her mid-spike, wind in her hair and victory in her eyes.

But today?

Nothing.

No mystery bag in her locker.

No hidden envelope inside her tote.

No sticky note in the corner of her binder that read: You survived this week. That’s badass.

Nothing.

I watched, silently, as Mikha kept her eyes fixed on her bag a little too long. And when she opened it—pretending to look for her wallet—she paused.

Just for a second.

Like she thought maybe she missed something.

Like maybe it was buried deeper in there.

Then she sat back, blinked once, and slowly zipped it back up.

She didn’t say anything.

But she didn’t have to.

Her smile faltered.

Just for a breath.

And I felt it.

In my chest.

A sharp little pang that made me want to get up and run straight to the printing kiosk, scribble something stupidly sweet on a pink card, and slide it under her folder before lunch was over.

But I didn’t.

Because I said I’d stop.

And I meant it.

At least—I was trying to mean it.

Jhoanna leaned toward Colet, whispering something under her breath. Colet’s eyes widened for a second before she looked at me.

The realization was dawning.

I could tell.

They knew.

Not officially. Not with 100% certainty.

But… enough.

I stood up.

My heart pounding like a freaking drumline.

“I need to go,” I mumbled, adjusting the strap of my backpack. “May babalikan lang ako sa faculty. Then I have something to print. Maybe mag-s-stay ako sa library after.”

Mikha blinked up at me. “Wait, I’ll come with you.”

I shook my head—too quickly, too firmly.

“No need. 'Di rin ako sure kung saan ako mapapadpad after. Might meet with my thesis partner. Might not. Just… I’ll see you guys later?”

Mikha frowned. “Are you sure? I was actually gonna ask if you wanted to grab coffee with me after lunch—”

“Next time,” I said, smiling faintly. “I’ll message you.”

She nodded slowly, unsure. “Okay…”

I turned away before I could see the disappointment fully settle in her eyes.

Before the guilt could win again.

I didn’t go to the faculty room.

Didn’t print anything either.

I sat by the third-floor reading nook, hidden between the Philosophy and Gender Studies sections, with my phone on silent and my laptop open just for show.

No one would find me here.

Not today.

Not while I tried not to think about how Mikha stared at her empty bag, confused and waiting. How her eyes dimmed for a second when there was nothing there.

And how it was all my fault.

I knew it would hurt.

But I didn't think it'd hurt me this much too.

And maybe the worst part?

The tiny, cruel voice in my head whispering:

She misses the sender.
Not you.

Not the girl sitting right across from her.

Not the best friend she's known since freshman year.

Just the mystery. The magic. The fantasy.

And I’m tired of hiding behind it.

Me:
she noticed.

Stacey:
what happened??

Me:
looked at her bag.
waited for something.
nothing came.

Maloi:
u okay?

Me:
not really.
but maybe it’s about time she realized things don’t just magically appear.

—

I was lying on my bed, half-buried under my blankets, phone face down beside me, trying not to scroll. 

My head felt heavy. 

Maybe from the way Mikha looked at me today. 
Maybe from the way she didn't look when I walked away.

I wanted to go back to that lunch table and take it all back. The standing up. The brushing her off. The cold shrug.

But I needed distance.

I needed to protect what was left of me.

Or maybe I was just tired of being the ghost behind her gifts. Tired of feeling like the side character in someone else’s story.

My phone buzzed beside me. I glanced.

Maloi: 
Girl

Stacey: 
We may or may not have set you up on a date tomorrow:)

My whole body froze.

Me: 
NO
Me: 
STFU
Me: 
WHAT

I barely sent those messages when a voice call came in from Stacey. I groaned and answered.

“Makinig ka muna kasi!” Stacey said immediately, as if she already knew I was fuming.

“What the hell do you mean you set me up?” I snapped, sitting up.

Maloi chimed in, “His name is Andrae. Civil Eng. Section C. We met him through my org. He’s… normal. Friendly. Tall. Speaks like a K-drama second lead. Literally, your type.”

“I never gave you a type!” I hissed.

“Well,” Maloi said smugly, “kung hindi mo naman i-pu-pursue 'yong besfriend mong lowkey (and highkey) na gusto mo for years, then maybe it’s time you gave someone else a shot.”

My chest stung.

“Andrae’s actually really kind,” Stacey added gently. “And he’s only here ‘til graduation. He asked if you were single. We said yes.”

“Because I am,” I muttered bitterly.

The line went quiet for a bit before Maloi sighed. “You don’t have to fall in love. Just… maybe get coffee. Give him a chance to distract you from what you obviously can’t have.”

I wanted to argue. 
To yell. 

But I didn’t.

Instead, I stared at the blank ceiling, sighed, and mumbled, “Fine. What time?”

Maloi squealed.

—

Then a notification came like a punch.

Meka Lem:
heyyy, ayamsss. you still up?

I blinked.

I wanted to ignore it. I really did. But like a reflex, my fingers moved on their own.

Me:
yeah

Meka Lem:
you okay? :(

Me:
I’m fine. Why? 

Meka Lem:
idk. just checking. parang wala ka sa mood kanina:( wanna go out tomorrow? just us? I kinda miss you

My heart paused.

Of course.

Of all nights.

Of all nights.

Why now?

I stared at the message for a full minute before replying.

Me:
I actually have plans tomorrow.

Meka Lem:
huhh?? with??

I hesitated. I could lie. But I was too tired to play safe tonight.

Me:
Maloi and Stacey set me up on a date.
Apparently his name is Andrae. And I have no say. :/

It took a full minute for the “typing…” bubble to appear.

Meka Lem:
ohhh. like a date date?

Me:
coffee date. that’s all i know.

Meka Lem:
ahh okkk. good luck then, ayams:)
he’s luckyyy

The way my chest hurt at those two words.

He’s lucky.

God, no he’s not.

He’s not lucky because he won’t get the version of me who wakes up extra early to buy limited-edition matcha macarons for a girl who never even suspects. 

He won’t get the girl who memorized volleyball schedules just to sit quietly in the bleachers and count service aces like they were shooting stars. 

He won’t get the girl who keeps little Polaroids of their “group hangouts” just to crop out everyone except her.

He won’t get the version of me that’s hopelessly, foolishly, stupidly in love with Mikha Lim.

But that version of me has already been quietly dying. Dimming. Shrinking.

Maybe this date is just the funeral.

I’m lying in the dark now, half-asleep, my last thought echoing louder than it should.

If Mikha didn’t look sad when the gifts stopped…

Maybe it really never mattered.

Maybe I never did.

—

I stood outside the café for a solid thirty seconds pretending to read the menu by the door. 

I wasn’t reading. 

I was panicking.

What was I even doing here?

Stacey and Maloi really had the audacity to set me up with someone I didn’t know that well, send me a last-minute message, and expect me to survive an actual social interaction without collapsing mentally.

Eventually, I sighed, shoved my phone into my pocket, and pushed the glass door open.

The café smelled like roasted beans, fresh pastries, and cinnamon. It was cozy. Low lights. Wooden interiors. 

There were couples and friend groups scattered across the space, talking softly or typing away on laptops. Jazz music hummed faintly in the background, adding to the strange, date-like atmosphere.

Then I saw him.

Andrae.

He was seated near the window, wearing a clean white button-down and beige pants, one ankle resting over his knee. His hair was neat, and his glasses were fogged slightly from the cold drink in front of him. He looked like he belonged in a university brochure. Very… polished.

He saw me and stood up with a smile, waving.

I walked over with the stiffest steps known to mankind.

“Hey,” I greeted.

“Hey,” he said, sounding surprisingly normal. “Thanks for coming.”

“Didn’t have much of a choice, did I?” I smirked and sat down. “My friends are relentless.”

“Same. Apparently, if I canceled, Stacey said she’d submit my org photos with an emo filter.”

I laughed under my breath. “That sounds about right.”

We settled into the chairs, and a few seconds passed in awkward silence. Not heavy, but definitely noticeable.

He cleared his throat. “I ordered already. But I wasn’t sure if you’d want anything so I waited.”

“Oh. Thanks,” I said. “I’ll get something light. Maybe just a matcha latte or something.”

He flagged down the barista and helped me order, then returned to his seat, folding his arms.

“So… Aiah,” he started, glancing at me. “Hindi ba weird 'to?”

“I was hoping you’d say it first,” I chuckled, sinking back in my chair. “It’s very weird.”

“I mean, we barely know each other,” he added. “We’ve only talked in passing. And suddenly—boom—forced date.”

I nodded. “Welcome to our friends’ way of saying, ‘Fix your personal life.’”

He laughed. “And do you… need fixing?”

I looked out the window. “Don’t we all?”

He hummed. “Fair enough.”

There was a short pause. This one felt easier.

Then he asked, “So what do you do when you’re not being strong-armed into random café dates?”

I glanced at him. “I’m a Political Science major. Fourth year.”

“Right. You’re in the same org as Maloi, right?”

“Yeah, and Colet. I also volunteer at the student helpdesk sometimes.”

“Impressive,” he nodded. “And, uh… I know you’re close with Mikha.”

My gaze flicked to him.

“Don’t worry,” he added quickly. “I’m not trying to be weird about it. Lahat naman ata alam na you both basically inseparable.”

I gave a small smile. “We’ve been friends since senior high. She kind of… pulls people in. You either get sucked into her gravity or orbit from a distance.”

“That’s oddly poetic,” he said, raising his brows.

“Not my intention,” I replied, taking a sip of my drink.

We both chuckled.

“What about you?” I asked, changing the subject. “Tell me something you do that people wouldn’t expect.”

“Hmm,” he leaned back, considering. “I bake.”

“No way.”

“Dead serious,” he said. “Cakes, cookies, banana bread. I even tried making cream puffs once.”

I stared. “You don’t look like someone who owns an apron.”

“I own three,” he said proudly. “May pusa pa nga 'yong isa eh.”

I snorted into my drink.

“Okay, your turn,” he said. “Something people wouldn’t expect about you.”

I paused. “I watch mukbang videos when I can’t sleep.”

Andrae burst into laughter. “What?? Why?”

“A g calming kaya,” I shrugged defensively. “It’s the chewing sounds.”

“Oh my gosh,” he said, wiping his eyes. “You’re one of those.”

“They’re relaxing!”

“Do you also like slime videos?”

“...No comment.”

He grinned. “You’re way more chaotic than I expected.”

I smirked. “Takes one to know one.”

We went quiet again for a bit, but it was comfortable now. 

He tapped the table rhythmically with his finger while I lazily stirred my drink.

He spoke up again. “So, when do you graduate?”

“Next month,” I said. “Our thesis presentations just wrapped up. Mikha and I are took the same course but not classmates. Maybe but in different classes nga lang.”

“Oh, right,” he nodded. “That’s cool.”

“Try having lunch with her every week,” I muttered.

He chuckled. “And yet here you are, still hanging around.”

I didn’t say anything.

He didn’t push.

Instead, he asked, “Alm mo na ba gagawin mo after graduation?”

“Not really,” I admitted. “I might apply for grad school. Or maybe a short internship first. I just want to breathe after all the deadlines.”

He nodded. “Same. I feel like my brain’s just a bunch of Google Drive folders screaming for help.”

I laughed. “That’s the most accurate description of thesis season I’ve heard.”

“You know,” he leaned forward, “this is actually… not as horrible as I thought it’d be.”

I looked up at him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said. “You’re funny. And easy to talk to.”

I smiled a little. “You’re not bad either.”

The drinks were nearly gone. 

I was nursing the last sips of my matcha like it was my coping mechanism, while Andrae had already unwrapped a random candy from his pocket (who carries candy in their pocket?) and was crunching it like we weren’t mid-blind date.

“I’m just saying,” he said dramatically, “the lighting in here is so tragic. Like, what’s the vibe? Romance under a fluorescent death beam?”

“Please,” I said, laughing. “You picked this café.”

“I picked it for the pastries, not for the LED horror,” he huffed, fluffing the sleeves of his denim jacket. “Anyway.”

He went quiet. I could feel the question hovering. He’d been itching to say something.

Then—

“So like,” he began, leaning in way too dramatically, eyes squinting like we were in a spy movie, “are you… into guys?”

I blinked.

“What is this, a BuzzFeed quiz?” I sipped slowly, raising a brow. “You first.”

He gave me a look—an offended look—before clutching his chest dramatically. “Wow. Me? Exposed? In public? At this mid-tier café?”

“Cut the dramatics, theater kid.”

“Fine, fine,” he said, waving his hand like a rich widow dismissing a butler. “No. I am not into girls. Not even a little. Never have been. Never will be. If I have to fake-laugh at one more straight couple’s ‘how we met’ story I might burst into sequins and combust.”

“Not burst into sequins,” I said, wheezing.

“I mean it. I spent the first seventeen years of my life pretending to care about Jennifer Lawrence movies.”

I choked on air. “What—”

“And alam mo pa kung anong mas worse?” he leaned closer, voice lowered. “I almost convinced myself na may gusto ako sa babae. In third year high school. Her name was Trisha. She had bangs and a Hello Kitty pencil case.”

“What happened?”

“I realized I was more obsessed with her aesthetic than her as a person,” he said, hand on his chest again. “It was tragic. I even tried asking her out once. I stuttered so bad I sounded like a corrupted MP3.”

I laughed. Loud.

He smiled. “Anyway. That’s me. Fully, flamboyantly, absolutely on the other side of the spectrum.”

I nodded slowly, sipping my drink.

Then he tilted his head. “Your turn, mystery girl.”

I looked down at my cup, then out the window, then back at him.

“No. I’m not into guys either.”

He blinked.

“I knew it,” he whispered, slapping the table gently.

“Yeah,” I said. “Surprise.”

“I felt the gay energy,” he said. “It’s in your aura. Your eyeliner? Lesbian-coded. Your aura? Sapphic. Your outfit? I’d wear that on a first date with a woman and slay.”

“Ang dami mong alam,” I said, laughing again.

“So,” he asked, “who is she?”

I hesitated.

“Mikha.”

He dropped his spoon. “Mikha Lim? Like…Your best friend Mikha, Mikha?”

“Yes. Keep your voice down.”

“Oh my god, of course it’s Mikha. I mean—hello? The chemistry? The way she looks at you? I thought you two were already dating.”

“Nope,” I muttered. “Just friends.”

He stared at me like I’d just told him the sky was green.

“I’ve been in love with her for years,” I added, voice small.

“Oh, girl,” he said, reaching across the table and patting my hand dramatically. “You poor tragic lesbian. You are the main character in a queer novel. I swear.”

I rolled my eyes, but I was smiling.

“She doesn’t know?” he asked.

“Syempre, hindi.”

“Ugh. Classic. Let me guess—ex hanging around?”

“Denise,” I mumbled.

“Of course her name is Denise,” he said with distaste. “Sounds like a shampoo brand I’d never use.”

“She just transferred. Mikha’s being polite.”

“Polite? She skipped out on lunch with you for that conditioner bottle?”

“I’m trying to be understanding,” I said.

He narrowed his eyes. “You’re too soft. If I had someone I liked sitting across from me every day looking like that and laughing like that, I would’ve proposed with a glittery ring pop already.”

“You’re wild.”

“No, I’m just gay and emotionally available,” he said with pride. “Meanwhile you’re gay and emotionally constipated. Big difference.”

I threw a tissue at him. He caught it like a diva at a photoshoot.

“Do you ever think of telling her?” he asked, more serious now.

“All the time,” I said. “But I don’t think I can.”

“She might like you back.”

“She might not.”

He went quiet. Then leaned back and said, “Well… even if she doesn’t, you’ll still be iconic. I mean, look at you. You’re hot. You’re smart. You drink matcha. That’s elite lesbian behavior.”

“You’re so dumb.”

We stayed there for a little longer. 

Just talking. 

About org dramas, graduation nerves, future plans, skincare, RuPaul, and random professors we suspected were lowkey dating.

When we finally left the café, the sky was cotton candy pink and Andrae had officially declared he was “retiring from pretending to be masc.” I clapped.

Outside, he stretched and said, “You know what? I’m gonna get that ube cheesecake you mentioned.”

“Get two. Celebrate your gay awakening.”

“Oh honey, I’m about to celebrate it every weekend.”

We paused before parting.

He gave me a sincere look. “You’re gonna be okay, Aiah. You’re already braver than you think.”

I nodded. “Thanks. And you’re gonna slay your gay era.”

“I always slay.”

And with that, he twirled (literally twirled) and walked away down the sidewalk like he was on a Vogue runway.

I stood there for a second.

Smiling.

Because for once, I didn’t feel like I was drowning.

I just felt seen.

Chapter Text

I was curled up under my blanket burrito-style, the lights off, hair still slightly damp from a rushed shower, and the fan humming its sleepy lullaby. 

My limbs were finally relaxed — the kind of tired that felt heavy but satisfying. My phone, however, was buzzing like it didn’t understand the concept of winding down.

Maloi:
GURLLLLLLL

Stacey:
PLS DON’T LEAVE US HANGING. KAMUSTA YUNG DATE???

Maloi:
Binigyan ka ba ng flowers? Pinatawa ka ba niya? May skincare routine ba si Andrae???

Stacey:
Kayo na ba or should I start Photoshopping wedding invites?

I groaned and buried my face into my pillow.

These two had zero chill.

I pulled the blanket down enough to peek at my phone and started typing slowly, fingers sluggish from sleep:

Me:
Okay naman siya. We vibed.

Three dots appeared almost instantly. I didn’t even have time to blink before—

Stacey:
VIBED??? BE SERIOUS

Maloi:
ON A SCALE OF 1 TO ‘I’M CHANGING MY LAST NAME,’ WHAT DOES “VIBED” MEAN???

I giggled softly, shaking my head.

Me:
We’re better off as friends. He agrees. Nothing romantic.

A pause.

Then:

Stacey:
…pangit ba sa paningin mo or hindi lang straight?

Maloi:
BECAUSE THOSE ARE THE ONLY TWO REASONS ANYONE WOULD NOT DATE YOU TBH

I snorted.

Me:
I’m not answering that

They both spammed me with GIFs of people gasping and dramatically collapsing.

Stacey:
So… do we set up another one?

Maloi:
I have this friend from my cousin’s org—

Me:
NO.

Me:
I’m on break. Permanent hiatus. Never again.

Maloi:
Ang drama mo

Stacey :
Love that for you. Love that for us. Can we sleep now?

Me:
Please.

I put my phone on silent, turned to my side, and stared at the glow-in-the-dark stars I’d stuck on my ceiling in second year. 

I should’ve peeled them off by now, but they were kind of comforting. Like, even when everything was falling apart, I could lie down and look up and be like, “Hey, fake stars. At least you’re consistent.”

I shut my eyes and exhaled.

Finally. Sleep.

But of course.

Of. Course.

BUZZ BUZZ.

Not two minutes later, my phone lit up again.

I groaned dramatically, already ready to curse Maloi and Stacey to the gods, but when I turned my phone over…

Meka Lem 
hey, ayams...
u still awake?

I blinked at the screen.

Then I blinked again.

Suddenly, I wasn’t sleepy anymore.

My heart? Absolutely wide awake.

Alert. Jumping. Flipping like it had its own gymnastics routine.

Why was she texting now?

I sat up, turned on my bedside lamp, and stared at her message like it would rearrange itself into something less dangerous.

Me:
yeah. why?

Three dots appeared.

I started panicking.

Then they disappeared.

Then reappeared.

Then vanished again.

Meka Lem:
just… curious
how was the date?

OH.

So that’s what this was.

I stared at her message for so long that my phone screen dimmed itself out of boredom.

Why was she asking?

She never asked about dates. She avoided talking about my dating life like it was a live grenade on a dinner table.

But now, here she was.

Midnight.
Asking.
Remembering.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard.

Me:
it was… okay.
nice guy. good convo. but we’re definitely not a match lol

I stared at the text before sending it.

Simple. Casual. Not too specific. Not too vulnerable.

Send.

She saw it immediately.

Typing bubble.

Then gone.

Then back.

Meka Lem:
ohhh
i thought u liked him?

I blinked.

Where the hell did that come from?

Me:
s'an mo naman nakuha 'yan?
we literally just met today??
he’s nice but… idk. not what i’m looking for.

There. That felt honest enough.

She saw it. But didn’t reply right away.

I stared at her name glowing at the top of my screen, feeling every nerve in my body tap-dancing.

Meka Lem:
ohh, that’s gooddd
i mean not good like
nvm lol
it’s late sorryyy

Was she… nervous?

Was Mikha Lim — queen of confidence, goddess of smooth talk, destroyer of chill — actually fumbling over text?

I bit my lower lip and typed:

Me:
why’d you ask?

Three dots.

Then—

Meka Lem:
idkk just wondering
wanted to know if u had funnn
andd if you’re okay.

My breath caught.

That was… unusually soft.

She never asked me things like that unless something was wrong. Or unless—

No.

No no no. Don’t spiral. Not now.

Me:
i’m okay
promise
you can sleep now tho

Meka Lem:
yeahhh
u should sleep too
night, ayamss:)

Me:
night, meka

I stared at the screen long after the conversation ended. My heart wouldn’t settle. My thoughts wouldn’t shut up.

Why did her asking feel so intimate?

Why did it feel like she minded?

And if she did mind—

Why now?

Why after weeks of being so distant? Why after Denise? Why after I told myself I was moving on?

I let out a shaky breath.

Pulled my blanket back over my head.

And stared at the fake stars again.

Fake or not, they glowed anyway.

Kind of like hope.

Even the kind you tried to kill off quietly.

—

If hell had a waiting room, I’m 100% sure it looked like our school cafeteria on a Monday.

Fluorescent lights too bright for no reason, the smell of reheated chicken fillet, and the echo of “Wala na pong rice!” from the third stall like a funeral bell tolling across the crowd.

Every chair scraped like a banshee.

Every table sticky for reasons I no longer questioned.

But still, we were here. And we were starving.

By the time I slid my tray onto the table, I already spotted them—Colet waving dramatically with a fork full of spaghetti, Jhoanna sipping iced tea with both cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk, and Mikha looking… deflated.

Hair up in a messy ponytail, sleeves rolled up from the lab earlier, and her expression just a little too pouty for someone holding an extra large halo-halo.

She looked cute, which, again, was rude. Because I was trying to move on. Or pretend to.

Maloi sat beside Colet while Stacey plopped down next to me, and I dropped into the only available chair beside Mikha.

It wasn’t on purpose.
Probably.

“Why do you look like someone canceled your birthday?” Colet asked Mikha.

Mikha sighed and poked at the crushed leche flan on top of her halo-halo. “Because someone basically did.”

“What?” Jhoanna blinked.

“No gift,” Mikha said with the same energy as someone saying, “No heartbeat.”

I paused mid-sip of my bottled water.

“What do you mean, no gift?” Colet asked.

“You know… mystery sender,” Mikha mumbled. “No note. No surprise. No soy latte with my name spelled wrong on purpose. Since Friday, guys.”

The table went quiet.

I could feel it—the heat. The sudden slow turn of heads.

Oh no.

Here it comes.

“You’re right…” Jhoanna said slowly, eyes darting toward me. “weird nga.”

“Super weird,” Colet added, nudging Mikha. “Especially ‘cause Friday drops were usually extra.”

“Right?” Mikha pouted, looking confused. “Like, I didn’t even do anything wrong.”

“Sure ka?” Stacey chimed in, eyebrow raised. “Maybe they saw you with someone else?”

“Like Denise,” Maloi said oh-so-innocently.

I choked.

Not dramatically. 

Like, actual coughing. I pounded my chest while reaching for my water again.

Mikha blinked at me. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I gasped. “Just swallowed wrong.”

I glared at Maloi and Stacey over my cup.

They looked way too pleased with themselves.

“I mean,” Colet said, trying not to laugh, “Denise has been practically glued to you since the exemption. Maybe the sender thought you’re off the market.”

Jhoanna gasped again, playfully. “Oh my God, what if they’re heartbroken right now? Baka nagseselos.”

Mikha’s expression fell a bit. “Do you think…?”

“I’m just saying,” Colet said, leaning back, “loyalty only goes so far when you’re being third-wheeled by an ex every lunch.”

Okay.

Enough.

I was about to speak—say something neutral, save Mikha from spiraling or myself from bursting—when a familiar voice cut through the noise of the cafeteria.

"Aiah!"

I turned, and time stopped.

Andrae.

Walking toward me with a confident stride, messy black hair slightly wind-swept, wearing a white shirt and a denim jacket like he came out of a commercial. 

He looked like he belonged in a teen drama as the heartthrob transfer student who also played guitar and probably had a tragic backstory.

I stood up before my brain could stop me.

He grinned. "There you are."

"Andrae?" I blinked. "What are you doing here?"

"Missed me already?" he teased, pulling me into a hug.

It was casual. 

Normal. But the kind of normal that made it not normal in front of this group. I could feel the table's confusion behind me.

When we pulled apart, he looked around. "Hi, Maloi. Stacey."

"Hey, Andrae," Maloi smiled knowingly.

Stacey raised a brow. "Didn’t think we’d see you again this soon."

He shrugged. "Got curious. Also… forgot to get Aiah’s number last time."

My brain stuttered.

"You what?"

"You heard me. I was so caught up talking about everything—" he paused and gave me a pointed look, "—that I completely forgot. So. Number?"

I groaned, dragging my phone from my pocket. "You’re so dramatic."

He smirked. "You know you like it."

I handed him my phone and crossed my arms as he typed. 

I could feel everyone staring again. I glanced to the side.

Mikha was watching us. Quiet. Still. Lips slightly parted. Her halo-halo sat untouched in front of her.

Andrae handed my phone back and smirked. "Now I won’t lose you."

I gave him a look. "You were never gonna lose me."

He leaned in just a little closer and smiled.

"Thanks, honey."

He turned and walked away, waving at Maloi and Stacey before disappearing into the crowd.

I froze.

Everything went still.

"Honey?" Colet whispered.

Jhoanna gasped. "He said honey?"

Stacey snorted into her drink. "That was the straightest honey I’ve ever heard."

"Are you guys a thing now?" Colet asked, eyes wide.

"We’re not—" I stopped myself. I looked at them all. "He’s just a friend."

"A friend who calls you honey," Jhoanna repeated.

"And hugs you like that," Mikha muttered.

I glanced at her.

She wasn’t looking at me. Just stirring her drink again.

Colet grinned. "So that’s why the mystery sender gave up, huh?"

Jhoanna added, "Because Aiah’s already being honey-ed by someone else."

I wanted to vanish. Just evaporate. Disappear into the thin, sticky air of the cafeteria.

And yet… I couldn’t stop my eyes from drifting back to Mikha, who still hadn’t looked up.

And for the first time since this whole mess began, I realized something terrifying.

I didn’t like seeing her like that.

Not even a little.

—

I swear, I’ve never seen Mikha eat that slow.

And this is coming from someone who once watched her finish a whole large fries during a fifteen-minute break between classes, with extra cheese dip, while walking uphill.

But now? She was just stirring her halo-halo with the energy of someone mourning a national tragedy. Stirring and stirring like she was trying to melt the ice with sheer disappointment.

I tried not to laugh.

But also… I kinda wanted to.

Because I knew what this was.

I knew what was up.

Andrae just had to go and say honey.

He couldn’t even settle for a “see ya later,” no. He had to drop that like we were starring in our own teleserye and the audience needed a final line before the credits rolled.

I didn’t look at Mikha the moment he left. But I didn’t need to. I felt it.

That weird shift in the air. Like she’d just slipped into sulking mode. She wasn’t even hiding it, which made it funnier.

I busied myself with my drink and let the teasing go on around me—Stacey and Maloi poking fun, Colet suggesting love triangle theories, Jhoanna stirring the pot like the little instigator she is.

And Mikha?

Dead silent.

Oh, she was so mad. But not really mad. You know? That kind of cute, helplessly sulky “you hurt my pride but I’m pretending I don’t care” kind of mad.

So I waited.

I knew she’d bolt first. 

That’s always her thing. 

When something’s off, she disappears with an excuse about the library or her thesis or “sudden cramps” that somehow always align with emotionally inconvenient moments.

Sure enough—

“Anyway,” Mikha said, standing up while holding her tray, “I’ll just head to the library. Need to finish something.”

I blinked.

There it is.

I stood up seconds after her, ignoring the knowing looks Stacey and Maloi gave me. I caught up with her right as she turned the hallway corner, already speed-walking like she was on a mission.

“You okay?” I asked, casually walking beside her like I wasn’t chasing her in my head.

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You barely spoke after lunch.”

“I barely had time to chew, Aiah. The conversation was busy with everyone freaking out over your boy toy.”

I stopped.

She stopped too, then turned to face me.

“I’m sorry, my what?” I said, raising an eyebrow.

“You heard me.”

Okay. So she was mad. Or whatever version of mad Mikha allowed herself to feel when she didn’t want to admit she was jealous.

Which—again—I wasn’t judging. It was… kinda cute.

“He’s not my boy toy,” I said. “Andrae’s just a friend.”

“A friend who hugs you and calls you honey.”

“Okay, that part was weird, even for me.”

She crossed her arms. “Then what is he, exactly?”

I shrugged. “A blind date that didn’t work out.”

“Sure.”

“Mikha.”

“What?”

“Why do you sound like that?”

“Like what?”

“You sound like you’re mad at me.”

She sighed. “I’m not.”

“You’re sulking.”

“I’m not sulking.”

I leaned against the wall and just… stared at her. Arms crossed. Silence on standby.

She eventually cracked. She always does.

“I just…” she mumbled. “I thought you said it didn’t click.”

“Because it didn’t.”

“But then you hugged him. And gave him your number. In front of everyone.”

I exhaled. “Because we’re friends now. He forgot to ask for my number when we met. That’s literally all it was.”

“You looked okay with him.”

I paused.

That part hit different.

She wasn’t just sulking. 

She was… unsure. And that was rare for Mikha.

She’s all jokes and teasing and confidence 99% of the time, but right now?

She looked like she was trying to protect something she wasn’t even sure she had.

“Look,” I said gently. “You don’t have to act like I betrayed you. I didn’t start dating him. I didn’t fall in love with him over the weekend. I didn’t even want to go in the first place. I just… gave it a shot. And I knew, the moment we sat down, that I wasn’t into it.”

She looked away.

“Hey,” I said. “You know you’re my best friend, right?”

She didn’t answer, so I kept going.

“And you acting all moody makes me feel like I did something wrong. But I didn’t. I promise I didn’t.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” she said quietly.

I stepped closer. “Maybe not. But I still don’t want you thinking something else is going on when it’s not.”

She finally looked at me.

And that was the thing with Mikha.

She doesn’t need to say everything. Her face says it for her.

“Okay,” she muttered. “I believe you.”

“Good.”

We walked side by side for a few seconds before she added, “He’s still annoying though.”

I smirked. “You mean attractive.”

She groaned. “Shut up.”

“Jealousy doesn’t suit you.”

“I am not jealous.”

“Sure.”

“I’m not!”

“I’ll believe you when you stop stabbing your poor halo-halo like it killed your cat.”

She laughed despite herself, bumping her shoulder into mine. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“Only when I’m right.”

“Whatever.”

We walked a bit more, quieter now.

Then I said, “You know I got you your iced matcha earlier, right?”

She glanced at me. “You did?”

“Yeah. Left it at the student lounge. I figured you’d need something to cool off with.”

Her expression softened. “You always do that.”

“Do what?”

“Buy me things. Remember my favorites. Make me feel better when I don’t ask you to.”

I looked at her, smiling faintly. “That’s what best friends do, right?”

She nodded. “Right.”

Chapter Text

I’m not going to lie.

It’s been four days, and every single one has felt like I’m trying to swallow soup with a fork.

I mean, on the surface? Everything’s fine.

Totally normal.

Mikha still pulls my hair when I don’t pay attention to her rants.

Still steals fries from my plate without asking.

Still waits for me outside class and walks too close and talks too much and complains about deadlines with all the drama of a soap opera star.

But…

There’s no late-night messages.

No 11:11 quotes.                                                             No good morning memes.
No "don't skip lunch, dummy" messages.
No "today’s playlist: you + me + chaos" Spotify links.
No "check your locker" surprises.

Nothing.

And the worst part? She’s not acting like she noticed.

Like she didn’t realize I stopped.

Like she didn’t even care.

Which, honestly, would’ve been easier to accept if she wasn’t still so close to me. 

She didn’t pull away. 

She didn’t become distant.

She was just… her.
Like I hadn’t been the mystery sender for weeks. 
Like she hadn’t waited excitedly for every new note I sent.
Like nothing happened.

And now?

Now she’s sending me things like this:

Meka Lem:
You and that guy again??? Third day in a row??? Should I be jealous?? Or like… respectfully back off??? 
I’ll cry but it’s okay.

I stared at my phone, the corner of my mouth twitching.

Because what the hell was I supposed to do with that?

Tease her back?
Assure her that Andrae was literally gayer than my Spotify Wrapped?

Send a voice message telling her she’s the only one who can make me laugh so hard I snort in public?

I didn’t reply.

Not because I didn’t want to.
But because everything I wanted to say was way too real.

Instead, I shoved my phone into my pocket and kept walking.

Andrae was waiting by the fountain, sitting cross-legged on the stone edge, sipping on his iced caramel macchiato like he owned the school.

“You look like you aged ten years,” he said as soon as he saw me.

“I feel like it,” I muttered, plopping down beside him.

“Let me guess.” He leaned closer. “Mikha still doesn’t know?”

“She knows something,” I said, “but I don’t think she’s connecting the dots.”

“Or she’s connecting them and pretending not to.”

“That’s worse.”

He sipped again. “You could just tell her.”

“Pwede naman akong tumalon sa fountain right now. Same energy.”

Andrae rolled his eyes and nudged my leg. “So ano plano mo? To keep suffering silently while she flirts with you like it’s her job and you die slowly inside every time she mentions another guy?”

“I’m not dying.”

“You’re decaying emotionally.”

“Big words from a man who called me honey in front of her.”

“That was iconic and you know it,” he said, smirking. “She looked like she wanted to punch me with a cupcake.”

I sighed, leaning my head back.

“She texted me again. Said I’m always with you.”

“Cute.”

“Frustrating.”

He shrugged. “She’s jealous.”

“She’s curious.”

“She likes you.”

“She likes attention.”

“She wants your attention.”

“She’s just—”

“—into you. Period. Accept it.”

I didn’t answer.

Because I wanted to believe him.

God, I wanted to believe him.

But the truth was, Mikha liked a lot of people. She was warm and sweet and affectionate to her entire circle. She flirted like breathing. Maybe it didn’t mean anything. Maybe I was just another person on her list.

Andrae tilted his head at me. “You’re so dramatic for someone who looks cool on the outside.”

“I contain multitudes.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m serious.”

“Then let me help.”

I raised a brow. “Help?”

He grinned—evil, wicked, chaotic.

“Yes. It’s time.”

“For what?”

“To make her jealous.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Andrae.”

“She’s already jealous. She just doesn’t know why. Let’s push her a little.”

“I’m not going to weaponize my sexuality for your stupid fanfiction plan—”

“She doesn’t know I’m gay.”

“Still.”

“I’m going to tell Stacey and Maloi soon. They’ll help.”

“You’re a menace.”

“I’m your best hope.”

I groaned into my hands. “Why do I let you talk me into things?”

“Because I'm your friend.”

“Debatable.”

“You’re not denying it.”

“You called me honey.”

He winked. “And she hated it.”

I paused.

Okay. Maybe he had a point.

That did hit a nerve with Mikha.
She hadn’t said it directly, but the sulking? The quiet shade? The passive-aggressive “your boy toy” comment? That wasn’t nothing.

Still… I didn’t want to play games.

Andrae seemed to read my mind because he leaned closer and lowered his voice.

“Look,” he said gently, “hindi mo baman siya kailangan utuin or what. Just… let her realize what she’s about to lose.”

I looked down at my hands.

“What if she doesn’t care?”

“She will,” he said. “I see the way she looks at you and kung tatanungin mo ako, that doesn't scream 'best friend energy'”

I didn’t answer.

Because if I opened my mouth, I might say too much.

Instead, I stood up and dusted off my jeans.

“Fine. We’ll see,” I said.

“Operation: Jealousy is a go?”

I rolled my eyes but didn’t say no.

He took that as a yes. Of course he did.

And as we walked back toward the building, Andrae pulled out his phone and typed something fast.

“Who are you texting?” I asked.

“Maloi.”

“Oh god.”

“And Stacey.”

“Andrae—”

“Relax. I’m just setting the stage.”

“For what?”

He smirked.

“You’ll see.”

—

I wasn’t looking at her.

Okay, maybe I was. A little.

Fine. I was staring.

But only because she looked really… tired. 

Like she hadn’t slept.

Her hair was up in that messy ponytail she always wore when she was stressed, and she kept stabbing her pasta like it said something rude.

Also, she wasn’t talking.

Which, for Mikha, was basically a national emergency.

Usually, by this point in lunch, she’d have complained about at least three professors, called Jhoanna her emotional support animal, threatened to drop out twice, and asked Colet if she could copy her answer for some assignment that isn’t even due yet.

But today?

Quiet.

Quiet and pouty.

And every few minutes, I caught her eyes flicking—just for a second—toward my end of the table.

Where I was sitting beside Andrae.

Who, to be fair, was laying it on thick.

“So anyway,” he said loudly, arm casually resting on the back of my chair like some kind of boyband member from 2003, “I told my tita, if Aiah doesn’t say yes to watching that movie with me, I’ll just go by myself and cry in the theater like a broken man.”

Maloi snorted, biting her straw. “That’s a little dramatic, Andrae.”

“Love makes me dramatic.”

Stacey nodded solemnly. “It’s the Aries Moon.”

“I’m not—” I tried to cut in, but he grabbed my hand and kissed it.

KISSED. IT.

Right there. 
In front of everyone. 
In front of her.

I felt my soul detach from my body.

Colet choked on her soda. 
Jhoanna gasped. 
Mikha—oh my god, Mikha just blinked. Blank face. No emotion. No smile. Nothing. Just stabbed another piece of pasta.

Andrae was having the time of his life.

“I just think,” he said, eyes twinkling like a smug little demon, “that when you have someone this gorgeous beside you, you don’t waste the chance to show them off.”

“Are you trying to get punched?” I muttered under my breath.

He winked. “She’s looking.”

And I didn’t have to ask who “she” was.

Because when I glanced back—Mikha wasn’t even pretending anymore.

She was just full-on watching us.

Her fork frozen midair. 
Her lips pressed together. 
Her brows—those little expressive brows—were slightly drawn together, like she couldn’t decide if she was confused or annoyed.

Probably both.

“Anyway,” Andrae said, leaning back with a proud little sigh, “this weekend, I’m thinking of taking her to that new café. The one with the heart-shaped pancakes.”

“You’re not taking me anywhere,” I snapped, cheeks burning.

“You’re not saying no,” he sang.

Maloi covered her mouth. 
Stacey fanned herself.

And Mikha?

She dropped her fork.

Clink.

“Oops,” she said flatly. Then bent to pick it up.

When she came back up, she smiled. 
Wide. 
Fake. 
Dangerous.

“So, Aiah,” she said, voice sugar-sweet, “are you guys like… official now?”

I froze.

Colet looked at me. 
Jhoanna raised a brow.

Andrae just sipped his drink like this was tea he was sipping, not soda.

“No,” I said quickly. “We’re just—”

“Exploring,” Andrae cut in. “We’re exploring things.”

My brain short-circuited.

I wanted to die.

I also wanted to teleport us both to another universe where none of this was happening.

Mikha nodded slowly. “Right. Exploring.”

She didn’t say anything after that.

But she also didn’t eat.

Didn’t look at me again.

Didn’t even react when Jhoanna started retelling the time she almost got locked in the AV room with a bat.

It was like someone turned her volume down.

And I should’ve been happy, right? That this plan was working. That we were finally seeing cracks in her walls. That Mikha Lim might actually be feeling something.

But all I felt was sick.

I stared at her for a long time, searching for something in her face. 
Anger? 
Hurt? 
Confusion?

But she just stared at her tray.

Quiet. Still.

Later that Day...

We were sitting under the acacia tree near the parking lot, the shade cutting the afternoon heat. 

Andrae had his legs stretched out in front of him, shirt untucked, eyes hidden behind sunglasses that made him look like a K-drama lead and a menace all at once.

“She didn’t even finish her lunch,” I mumbled.

“She didn’t want to see you feeding me a spoonful of my own chicken,” he said, casually scrolling through his phone.

“I didn’t feed you.”

“She thought you would.”

I sighed, rubbing my temples.

“This is a mess.”

“This is progress.”

“She looked upset.”

“Because she likes you.”

“Or because she thinks I’m leading you on.”

“Okay, fair point,” he said, lowering his shades. “But still. You saw her face. She was ready to slap me with a fork.”

I didn’t respond.

Because I had.
And I didn’t know what to do with that.

“She’s jealous, Aiah,” Andrae said gently. “She’s just not used to it. You’ve always been there for her. Always orbiting around her. Now the attention’s shifting and she’s spiraling.”

“But what if she doesn’t like me back?”

“Then we stop. We stop the games. We stop pretending. We let it go.”

I looked at him.

“And what if I can’t?”

He smiled, soft for once.

“Then you tell her the truth.”

I shook my head.

Because I wasn’t ready for that.

Not yet.

—

Meka Lem:
you looked happy todayy

I stared at the message.

So simple.

But I knew what she meant.

Me:
it was lunchhh, i was surrounded by loud idiots. of course i was happy

Meka Lem:
must be nice to have someone that flirty around you all the time.
you two look… cute. or whatever.

Ouch.

That stung.

Me:
you sound jealous

Meka Lem:
of course not. why would i be.

Liar.

I typed. Then deleted. Then typed again.

Me:
we’re just friends

Meka Lem:
righttt

Me: 
i mean it

you’re the only one i want to—

I stopped.

Deleted it.

Instead, I just turned off my phone and lay back on my bed, eyes on the ceiling, heart thudding way too loud in my chest.

Tomorrow’s Saturday.

If she doesn’t reply by morning, I’m going to explode.

And if she does reply?

I might explode faster.

—

Me:
Hey.
We’re going out today.
No excuses. I’m already on my way.

That was the message I sent her this morning, no greeting, no emojis, no pleading.

Because if I gave her time to say no, she absolutely would.

I was already outside her house when she replied.

Excuse me???

I grinned to myself, leaned back on the headrest, and sent:

Wear something comfy. Sneakers. Bye.

Five minutes later, she stormed out her front gate in a hoodie, denim shorts, and the biggest frown I’ve ever seen.

God, she was adorable.

She climbed into the passenger seat, arms crossed like she was about to scold me for waking her up early on a weekend. But she said nothing at first, just glared at me silently while I tried not to smile too obviously.

“You kidnapped me,” she said finally, buckling her seatbelt.

“Please,” I said, shifting gears. “You love it.”

“Hmm.”

We were halfway down the street when she muttered, “Where are we going?”

“Mall.”

“You hate the mall.”

“I hate crowded malls. This one has less people. Plus aircon. And churros.”

“You bribed me with churros?”

I looked at her. “Yes.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I still hate you.”

“Sure.”

Pause.

“You still owe me for ignoring me all week,” she mumbled, quieter now, like she wasn’t sure if I heard.

I blinked. “Huh?”

She kept her eyes on the window. “You’ve been with that guy all week.”

And there it was.

The real reason behind the pout.

Andrae. That idiot.

I swallowed a smile, trying not to look too smug.

“So you have been noticing.”

“I’m not blind,” she muttered.

“I thought we were okay. You said it didn’t matter.”

“You also said you two didn’t click.”

“We don’t.”

“Then why are you always with him?”

“Because he won’t leave me alone.”

I heard the sarcasm in my own voice and tried to dial it back. “And because…” I sighed, “he's my friend. That's all.”

She didn’t answer.

So I added, “And I like annoying you.”

That made her glance at me, cheeks puffed.

“You’re the worst.”

I smirked. “And yet, here you are.”

She rolled her eyes, but the pout had softened. Slightly.

“So. What do you want to do first?” I asked as we walked through the entrance.

She shrugged. “Eat.”

“Figures.”

“I skipped breakfast for this,” she said dramatically. “I thought you were dragging me out for something important.”

“This is important.”

“To feed me?”

“To spoil you.”

She froze for half a step.

I didn’t wait for a reaction.

Instead, I grabbed her wrist and pulled her toward the food court.

We got a tray of churros, a big plate of fries, two drinks, and something she picked randomly just because it had cheese. I let her talk with her mouth full while I wiped powdered sugar off her cheek. She didn’t even flinch.

It felt normal.

Too normal.

Too dangerous.

After lunch, we walked aimlessly—into random stores, past kiosks, and into that useless aisle in Miniso where everyone touches everything but never buys. She picked up a tiny panda plushie and poked its face.

“It looks like you,” I said.

“It’s literally smiling. I don’t smile.”

“Exactly.”

She threw the plushie at my head.

Then wandered off to look at the stationery.

God. I was so in love with this annoying girl.

We were standing near the glass window of a tea shop when I heard a voice that made me want to disintegrate into the tiles.

“Well, well, well.”

I turned slowly.

Andrae.

Wearing a denim jacket, sunglasses indoors, and the grin of a man who just walked into the mess he planted.

“You two look like a romcom,” he said, hands in his pockets.

Mikha blinked. “You’re here?”

“Oh hey,” he said, acting surprised, “I didn’t see you there. How coincidental.”

“Sure,” I muttered.

“I was just grabbing a drink,” he said innocently, “but seeing you two here? Destiny.”

I shot him a glare that could’ve melted steel.

He winked.

Mikha was already taking a small step back. “I’m gonna go… look at the other store. Alone.”

“Mikha—” I started, but she was already turning around.

Andrae raised a hand, pretending to block me. “Let her go.”

I stared him down.

“She’s mad,” I hissed.

“She’s jealous,” he corrected, smug as hell. “You’re welcome.”

“This wasn’t part of the plan.”

“Of course it was,” he said. “Step three: strategic mall encounter. Step four: mild emotional chaos. Step five: you make suyo.”

“She won’t even look at me now.”

“Then you better run after her.”

I hesitated.

Then I pushed past him.

But not before I heard him call out, “Good luck, honey!”

I flipped him off behind my back.

Found her.

In the self-help section.

Staring hard at a book titled “How to Stop Catching Feelings.”

Subtle.

“Hi,” I said softly, stepping beside her.

She didn’t look at me.

“Didn’t know you read self-help.”

“I don’t.”

“Then why—”

“I got lost.”

“In the self-help aisle?”

She crossed her arms.

“I didn’t know he was gonna be there,” I said. “He showed up out of nowhere.”

“Okay.”

“You believe me?”

“Not really.”

I sighed. “I’m not dating him, Mikha.”

“Wala naman akong sinasabi.”

“Galit ka ba sa'kin?”

“I’m not galit, Ayams.”

“You’re jealous.”

She scoffed. “Asa ka.”

I turned to her fully.

She still wouldn’t meet my eyes.

So I stepped closer.

“Okay,” I said. “Fine. Don’t admit it. But let me say this.”

I reached out, gently poked her shoulder until she finally glanced up.

“I only want to be here with you. I didn’t come to the mall to see Andrae. I came for you. I woke up, I thought of you, and I wanted to spend my day with you. No other reason.”

Her lips parted.

But she didn’t say anything.

So I added, “Also… he bought expired churros. That guy’s a menace.”

She snorted. Finally.

A real laugh.

Small.
But real.

And just like that, I felt the tension crack and fall away.

“Do I get to choose the next store?” she asked quietly.

I smiled.

“You can choose the next five.”

She looked up at me fully now, expression unreadable.

“Even the cute plushie shop?”

“Even the one with the creepy cat keychains.”

Then she talked again.

"I'm sorry for acting like that earlier, Ayams. I just didn't not expect him to be here and I thought sasama ka sa kaniya and leave me. It was supposed our day kasi and mag-po-pop out of nowhere lang siya.

"Hey, it's okay, you don't have to say sorry. Mas lalo kang nagiging cute."

"Ayams naman eh."

"Joke lang."

She bumped my shoulder with hers.

And just like that, we were okay again.

For now

Chapter Text

If there’s a week that tests not just your academic skills but your emotional stability, your physical endurance, and your ability to survive on nothing but caffeine and internal screaming—it’s Finals Week.

The stakes?
Your diploma.
Your last shred of sanity.
And in my case… Mikha.

The girl who’d been acting all casual around me lately, but whose eyes lowkey burned holes through my skull every time I so much as breathed in Andrae’s direction.

We were outside the building, too early for comfort, books in hand, jackets wrapped tight because the wind didn’t care that we were already suffering.

Mikha plopped down beside me, phone in hand, earbuds still in. 

She looked exhausted, hoodie two sizes too big, hair in a bun that was clearly done in the car, and eyes only halfway open. 

But she still looked good. Stupidly good.

"You look dead," she said with a sleepy smile.

"Thanks," I muttered. "You smell like mint."

"I brushed in the car. Do not judge me."

“Fair. Bare minimum hygiene in Finals week is already gold star material.”

“Please, I’m a legend.”

“Of chaos.”

“Of cute chaos.”

She gave me a tired little smirk, then leaned against the backrest with a sigh. “Ready to bomb?”

“I’ve made peace with my destiny.”

She chuckled, then yawned. “I didn’t even review Philosophy. I just stared at the readings and hoped for spiritual osmosis.”

“Bold.”

“Desperate.”

“Adorable.”

She raised a brow. “You’re flirting with me during a breakdown?”

“Who said I'm flirting?”

Before she could reply, someone called out, “Special delivery!”

Andrae showed up like a sponsor from a student hunger relief program, holding three brown paper bags.

I groaned. “Why are you always so dramatic?”

“Because I care,” he declared, handing me a bag labeled ‘Miss Martyr’ and giving Mikha one labeled ‘Clearly Jealous But In Denial.’

Mikha stared at the label. “Excuse me?”

“You’re welcome,” he said proudly. “You both need food. And distractions.”

She opened the bag and peeked in. “Are those gummy bears?”

“Also chocolate, crackers, and a mini coffee shot. Finals survival 101.”

I snorted. “You’re not even in our class.”

“I’m a community helper.”

Mikha rolled her eyes but smiled despite herself.

Andrae winked at me. “Plan still on?”

I gave him a tiny nod.

He leaned in. “She’s close. One push.”

“Shut up.”

“Good luck, honey,” he whispered, then vanished into the chaos like a smug little tornado.

Mikha looked at me. “What plan?”

“Huh?”

“You and Andrae. Always whispering.”

“Group therapy.”

“Hm.”

She didn’t press.

But I knew she was thinking about it.

And she definitely noticed when I pulled out the neon pen from the bag labeled ‘Lucky Charms of Academia.’

—

(Tuesday – 4:12 PM – Library)

Hour three.

The air was thick with highlighters, body heat, and collective desperation. Even the librarian looked done with life. 

I was on my third cup of cold, bitter coffee from the vending machine and my tenth failed attempt at memorizing a whole essay outline for our Critical Theory final tomorrow.

My head hurt. 
My neck was stiff. 
My back? 
Betraying me.

And right beside me, sprawled on the shared table with her cheek resting on her arm, was Mikha.

Mumbling about Freud and subconscious desires like she was casting a spell. 

Her eyes were droopy, nose slightly pink from exhaustion, and she had a highlighter between her lips like a cigarette. 
Her notes were everywhere, some crumpled, some doodled on.

She looked like a sleepy mess.

She looked cute.

Way too cute for someone who claimed to be “on the verge of an academic breakdown” this morning.

“You’re staring,” she muttered without lifting her head.

“Hindi kaya.”

“You are.”

“I’m studying your handwriting.”

“You’re studying my face.”

“Same thing.”

She finally looked up, one brow raised. “You’ve been soft lately.”

“You know me naman pag finals week. I’m emotionally vulnerable.”

“No,” she said, tilting her head. “You’re always soft.”

We blinked at each other.

Then she turned back to her notes like she didn’t just say something mildly illegal.

But I saw it—her ears were red.

I tried not to grin. I failed.

She nudged my leg under the table. “Focus. If I fail tomorrow, siaisihin talaga kita.”

“You’re welcome.”

We fell into silence again, but it was… soft. Comfortable.

I watched her chew on her pen cap, then flip a page. Her hair fell over her face. She huffed, then pulled out a random clip from her bag and shoved it on top of her head like a clueless gremlin.

It was pink. It didn’t match her outfit. She didn’t care.

And now I couldn’t look away.

Again.

“Still staring,” she whispered without glancing at me.

I buried my head into my reviewer. “Shut up.”

We moved downstairs. Less people. More dead air.

Mikha was now lying sideways across two chairs, tossing a squishy toy from hand to hand. My notes were on my lap, untouched for the past fifteen minutes.

“You think na papasa tayo?” she asked suddenly, looking at the ceiling.

“I think ma-su-survive naman natin. Barely nga lang.”

“We’re gonna need to bribe the gods.”

“Snacks?”

“Snacks.”

She sat up. “Let's take a break muna, Ayams.”

“We’ve been taking breaks for twenty minutes.”

“Please, this one’s intentional.”

“Fine.”

We ended up on the vending machine floor, legs crossed like kids in detention. 

She bought spicy noodles. I got a mystery sandwich that tasted like regret. We didn’t talk for a while. We just sat there chewing, tired.

Then she poked my arm with her chopsticks.

“I saw you laughing with Andrae earlier.”

“Okay…”

“Like, really laughing.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Are you okay with that?”

She clicked her tongue. “Of course.”

“Sure?”

“I’m just observant.”

“You’re always observant when it comes to Andrae.”

“I hate him kaya.”

“No, you don’t.”

She glared at her noodles. “I tolerate him.”

“Your jealousy’s showing.”

“Shut up.”

I smirked, sipping my sad juice box. “You’re cute when you sulk.”

“I’m not sulking.”

“You’re sulking.”

“I’m… annoyed.”

“Because I laugh with someone else?”

She turned her head away. “You’re annoying.”

I let her win that one.

For now.

We were packing up. 

I reached over to zip her bag for her because she clearly wasn’t functioning anymore.

“I got it,” she protested.

“Too slow,” I said. “Let me be useful.”

She didn’t argue.

We walked out together under the campus lights, quiet again.

Finals had everyone looking like zombies, but for some reason, tonight didn’t feel as heavy.

Probably because of her. 

Probably because of her stupid little pout earlier.

Probably because I knew—deep down—she wasn’t just annoyed at Andrae.

She was jealous.

And that thought alone was enough fuel to keep me up studying all night.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Just tired,” she mumbled. “And nervous.”

“You’ll ace it.”

She looked at me like I just said something unreasonably kind.

I shrugged. “Matalino ka, Miks. When you’re not being dramatic.”

“Lies,” she whispered.

We paused outside the gate.

She didn’t say goodbye right away. Just stood there, swaying a little on her heels.

Then—without warning—she tugged on my sleeve and mumbled, “Thanks for today.”

“For what?”

“For not letting me lose my mind.”

I blinked.

Before I could answer, she walked away.

And now I couldn’t feel my legs.

/

My notes were scattered. I was trying to cram Kant into my brain. It wasn’t working.

My phone lit up.

Meka Lem:
i hate youuu, Ayamss

I blinked.

Me:
what did i do?

Meka Lem:
i can’t stop thinking about how you zipped my bag
that was so unnecessarily soft, Ayams:(
stop being nice during finals week! you know that i’m emotionally unstable during this time!

I stared at the screen for a full minute.

Then smiled like an idiot.

Me:
no promises

Meka Lem:
i hate uuuu

Me:
u love me

She didn’t reply.

But I knew.

God, I knew.

And now I just had to make her realize it too.

—

(Wednesday – Lunch – Cafeteria)

I was halfway through my sandwich and already regretting not just skipping lunch entirely when Maloi started running her mouth.

“So like,” she said, way too loud for someone sitting right next to me, “are you and Andrae… a thing?”

I blinked at her. “Excuse me?”

Stacey leaned in with a grin so sharp I could feel my blood pressure rise. “You two are always together now. I saw you laughing with him again this morning.

Gosh. They're still doing the plan.

I sighed. Loudly. “He said something about falling into a canal. That’s not flirting. That’s concern.”

“Sure,” Stacey replied, unconvinced.

Across the table, Mikha was unusually quiet. Her food was untouched, her head low as she cut her chicken like she was performing surgery. No jokes, no teasing. Just tension.

Maloi smirked. “He’s kinda hot though, no?”

I shrugged, uninterested. “Sure.”

And then—

“They’re not dating,” Mikha said, flatly.

Like someone had flipped a switch. Her voice sliced through the noise of the cafeteria. 

All our heads turned.

She didn’t look up. Just kept stabbing her chicken like it owed her rent.

A second passed.

And then—like fate had scheduled it—Andrae showed up with his signature chaos energy and a new brown paper bag.

“Look who’s looking extra salty today,” he sang, dropping the bag right in front of Mikha. “I got you chips.”

Mikha stared at the bag like it was mocking her. “Do I need snacks every time I look mad?”

“Yes,” he said with pride. “It’s how I survive Aiah too.”

I smacked his arm. “I’m literally the least problematic person you know.”

“You’re literally the reason I started meditating.”

Mikha muttered something under her breath and snatched the chips.

Then, quietly—but not quiet enough—she mumbled, “Do you need to flirt in public?”

My brain short-circuited.

“I wasn’t—”

“Whatever.”

She stood up, took her tray, and walked off—to the next table where Colet and Gwen were sitting. Without even glancing back.

I stared after her, mouth slightly open, heart somewhere in my shoes.

Andrae leaned in like the devil he was.

“And that, my friend,” he whispered, “is called progress.”

Four exams in one day. 
My brain was soup. 
Mikha didn’t look much better.

She slumped beside me in the open study hall, hoodie back on, hair in a messy ponytail, and her face half buried into her reviewer.

“Two more days,” she mumbled.

I groaned. “Two more days and then I never want to see a Scantron again.”

“You’ll miss me.”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t miss you.”

That made her pause.

I could see her eyes flick over to me—quick, sharp, then gone.

She poked my shoulder. “Hey.”

“What?”

She was quiet for a second.

“Were you actually flirting with him?”

My heart tripped.

I looked at her. “With who?”

She didn’t say it.

I didn’t push. I just smiled slightly. “If I was, would it bother you?”

She looked like she was thinking too hard about her answer.

Then she grabbed her pen and muttered, “Ang pangit ng handwriting mo.”

“I asked a question.”

“And I answered.”

“No, you insulted me.”

“Same thing.”

/

We were walking slowly—bags heavy, eyelids heavier. The sun was brutal. The air hot and sticky.

Mikha walked a little ahead of me, quiet.

Every time I tried to catch up, she’d slow down again like she didn’t want to walk beside me. My chest hurt in a stupid, unnecessary way.

I knew this was part of the plan. 
Make her jealous. 
Stir the pot. 
Let her realize what she feels.

But no one warned me what it would feel like when she pulled away.

I reached out and tugged at her hoodie sleeve. She stopped.

“I wasn’t flirting,” I said.

She blinked.

“I mean—maybe I was. But not like that.”

She squinted at me. “Why do you care so much about how I feel about it?”

“Because you’re my friend and you matter to me.”

Lame. 
Weak. 
Lie.

She narrowed her eyes. “If you’re trying to make me jealous, it’s working.”

I swallowed.

“What?”

“I’m saying,” she said, arms crossed now, “if this is a game, congrats. You’re winning.”

It was the most direct she’s ever been. And my brain? Full-on white noise.

But before I could say anything else, she turned around again. “See you tomorrow.”

And walked off.

/

I sat on my bed, textbooks open but untouched. I couldn’t focus. My phone buzzed.

Andrae (gay):
She moved tables??
that’s like DEFCON 1 Jealousy.

Me:
She literally said it’s working.

Andrae (gay):
YOU WON.

Me:
I don’t want to win. I want to fix it.

Andrae (gay):
Then stop playing games and talk to her.

Me:
We still have two exams.

Andrae (gay):
Exactly. Perfect excuse to talk.
Use her notes. Trip in front of her. Cry. I don’t know. Just do it.

Me:
You're right. Pero ayokong bigyan siya ng distractions. I'll try after we're free in thie finals hell.

I stared at my phone.

I hated that he was right.

This plan… it started as something stupid, harmless. But now?

Now, I just wanted Mikha to look at me the way she used to.

To smile without hesitation.

To lean on me again—not because we were just “best friends” but because something else was growing underneath all that teasing and all that chaos.

Tomorrow was Thursday.

And if I had the guts, maybe a confession too.

But first—I had to survive one more cafeteria scene without jumping over the table and begging her not to look at anyone else the way she used to look at me.

And maybe finally ask her:
Did you really mean it… when you said I was soft?
Or did you always know I was yours to begin with?

—

(Thursday – After Exam)

I caught up with Mikha outside the exam hall. 

We both looked like death incarnate. Hollow eyes. 

Slumped shoulders. Emotional collapse disguised in tote bags and unfinished essays.

“That was tragic,” she muttered.

I nodded. “I think I hallucinated the last paragraph.”

“Same. I’m 87% sure I blacked out in the middle of my answer and just… kept writing.”

“If I fail, I’m blaming the pen. It gave up before I did.”

“I’m blaming society.”

We walked aimlessly for a while, neither of us saying it—but neither of us wanting to go home just yet either. 

Our feet took us to the shaded corner by the parking lot, where the low wall faced the school’s dried-up garden patch. It was quiet here. Nobody to overhear our burnt-out brains trying to function.

We slumped down without a word.

My legs stretched out. Hers were tucked up close to her chest, her hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands like she was folding herself in.

“I brought water,” I said, reaching into my bag. “You looked like you were evaporating mid-exam.”

She accepted it with a tiny nod and took a long sip. “Thanks.”

We didn’t talk for a while.

Just the sound of cars in the distance. Birds. The wind shaking the dried leaves in the bushes behind us. Mikha leaned her head back against the bricks, eyes closed.

Then—

“Also… sorry for being weird.”

I turned to look at her. Her eyes were still shut, like she couldn’t say it while looking at me.

“You were weird?”

“You noticed?”

“You’re usually weird.”

She cracked an eye open and kicked my shin lightly. “Shut up.”

I grinned.

But then she got quiet again. The real kind of quiet.

“I just…” she started, fiddling with the edge of her sleeve, “I didn’t like seeing you with him all the time.”

My breath hitched.

Even if you’re not together.

She didn’t have to say that part again—I could still hear it.

“So…?” I asked carefully.

She huffed through her nose. “I don’t know. I don’t like sharing you, okay? Best friend rights or something.”

My heart cartwheeled through my ribs.

“Then don’t.”

Her head turned toward me. Our eyes met.

And there was something there—something raw and unsure and messy. Like she wanted to say more but didn’t have the words yet.

She looked away first, like always.

“I’m not good at talking,” she mumbled.

“I noticed.”

She rolled her eyes. “And you’re too good at it. Always knowing what to say.”

“I don’t. I just wing it. Like everything else in my life.”

That made her laugh softly, and I swear I wanted to bottle that sound and keep it in my pocket forever.

She shifted a little, letting her shoulder lean into mine.

Then she whispered, “You still owe me fries. From last week.”

I turned my head toward her, smiling. “I’ll buy you three boxes. Large. With extra cheese.”

“Better,” she said, eyes still closed.

“And nuggets,” I added.

She cracked a small smile. “Don’t tempt me.”

“You deserve it. For surviving this week.”

“Barely.”

“Still counts.”

Another long pause.

Then she said something that didn’t sound like a joke at all:

“I didn’t think I’d make it through this week, Ayams.”

I glanced at her, frowning. “What do you mean?”

She opened her eyes, staring straight ahead now. “I was so close to giving up. With school. With everything. I was so tired.”

I swallowed hard.

She wasn’t saying it for pity. She was just saying it. Like it finally had room to come out.

“But then,” she continued, “you were just… there. Nandyan ka palagi. Every day. Showing up. Talking. Being annoying. Laughing at my jokes kahit corny. And I didn’t say anything but… that helped more than I thought it would. You're just being Ayams—the Ayams I knew—and I never thought I needed that—that I needed you. You alone made my day better kahit may exams, kahit I'm tired, kahit I'm close to giving up, you were there—right beside me. Oh gosh, I'm sorry, am I saying a lot na ba?”

I blinked, hard. My chest ached in a different way now.

“No, not at all and wow I didn’t know you felt that way,” I whispered.

“I didn’t want anyone to know.”

“Not even me?”

She shrugged. “Especially not you.”

“Why?”

“Because you always look at me like I’m made of unbreakable stuff. Like I’m always okay.”

“I never thought that.”

“Liar.”

I sighed. “Okay. Maybe a little.”

“See.”

“But only because I thought you were strong. Not because I thought you never needed anyone.”

She didn’t say anything.

So I kept going.

“I always want to be someone you can lean on, Mikha. Even if I never know what to say. Even if all I can do is sit beside you while you pretend your notes are absorbing through your hoodie.”

That got a breathy laugh out of her.

Then she leaned her head on my shoulder.

And just… stayed there.

We sat like that, in our post-exam haze, for minutes. I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe too loud. I was scared the moment would disappear if I blinked too hard.

She didn’t say anything more.

She didn’t need to.

Her weight against me, the way she sighed like she was letting out something she’d been holding all week, it said enough.

/

I couldn’t sleep.

I kept replaying her words. Her voice. The way she looked when she said “I didn’t like sharing you.”

I didn’t want her to share me either.

But tomorrow was Friday. Last day of exams. Last chance to figure out where we stood before the excuse of finals disappeared.

I stared at my ceiling and thought:
What if she doesn’t feel the same way? What if this was all just tired, finals-week feelings?

But then I remembered her leaning into me.

The way she didn’t pull away.

The way she said especially not you like it meant more than just words.

Tomorrow was the last day.

And maybe…
Just maybe…
It could be the beginning of something else.

But tonight, all I could think about was how her head fit perfectly on my shoulder.

And how I never wanted it to move.

—

(Friday – 12:04 PM – Cafeteria, Usual Table)

The moment I walked into the cafeteria, I felt it.

That weird, unfamiliar thing in the air.

Not tension. Not stress. Not even despair.

It was… peace?

No.

Freedom.

We were done.
DONE.
Finals were over. 

The last exam had been submitted. 
The last essay had been bullshitted. 
The last nerve had been fried.

All that was left was the waiting game for results and, if the universe was kind, graduation.

I spotted Mikha first.

She was slumped over the table, cheek against the surface like it owed her rest. Her hair was half in her fries. Colet sat beside her, combing through her own notes as if her brain hadn’t accepted the fact that exams were over. Jhoanna was just chugging water like a marathon runner. Maloi and Stacey were nowhere in sight.

I dropped my bag with a dramatic sigh. “We’re alive.”

Mikha lifted her head. “Are we?”

“Barely,” I said, stealing one of her fries. “But we made it.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You smell like cheap perfume and panic.”

“I overslept and sprayed three different body mists before running to class.”

“I respect that.”

“You still owe me nuggets.”

“I’m giving you a fry. That’s symbolic.”

I took it. “I’m touched.”

Right then, Stacey and Maloi arrived with trays full of greasy cafeteria food and enough energy for ten people. Maloi slammed her tray down, nearly spilling her orange juice.

“Okay. Hear me out.”

We all stared at her.

She didn’t wait.

“We’re done. We survived. We’re graduating—well, hopefully—and I am declaring tomorrow night our official ‘We Didn’t Die in Finals’ celebration.”

“Tomorrow?” Mikha asked, lifting an eyebrow.

“Yes. Saturday. The sacred day of the week. When the earth breathes. When the vibes align. When the clubs are alive. And I swear if you make me stay home watching true crime again, I will riot.”

Jhoanna laughed. “You’re this excited about bar-hopping after five exams?”

“I’ve never needed a drink more in my life,” Maloi said dramatically.

“And I’ve never needed to forget the last 72 hours more than I do right now,” Stacey added.

Mikha groaned, laying her head back on the table. “I’m tired.”

“We all are,” Colet said. “But think about it. One night. Music. Cold drinks. Dancing. Maybe making terrible decisions.”

Maloi’s eyes locked on mine. “Invite Andrae.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Text him. He’s cool. He’s hot. He buys snacks. What more do we need?”

Jhoanna raised her hand. “He gives Aiah free pens.”

“That too,” Maloi said. “He’s invited.”

Mikha’s eyes flicked to me.

I pretended not to notice.

“Are we even sure he’ll go?” I asked, stalling.

“Only one way to find out,” Maloi sing-songed. “Come on. Message him. Or are you shy?”

Stacey leaned across the table, grabbing my phone. “I’ll do it if you won’t.”

“Okay, okay!” I said, snatching it back. “Chill.”

Mikha was quiet now, pushing rice around on her tray like it had personally offended her.

Me: 
hey. plans tomorrow.
Me:
celebration. bar. maloi said you have no choice.

He replied in ten seconds.

Andrae: 
say less. i’m already picking an outfit. do i need to wear glitter.

Me: 
absolutely not.

Andrae: 
too late.

I groaned.

“He said yes,” I announced.

Maloi cheered like we just won the World Cup.

Mikha didn’t look up from her tray.

/

We were all slumped. 

Food coma settling in. A collective silence had fallen, the kind that only comes after shared trauma—or a week of exams.

Colet looked up. “So where are we going?”

“Somewhere cheap but chaotic,” Maloi said. “I’ll make a group chat. Theme: ‘May The GPA Rest In Peace.’”

Stacey snorted.

Jhoanna grinned. “Do we dress up?”

Maloi nodded solemnly. “We grieve in style.”

“Black fits?” Mikha mumbled.

Maloi pointed. “Exactly. Black. Boots. Drama. Desperation.”

“Sounds like a funeral,” I muttered.

“That’s because it is,” Maloi replied. “A funeral para sa mga brain cells natin.”

I caught Mikha looking at me again.

Just for a second.

I wasn’t sure if it meant anything, but her eyes lingered before she glanced away.

/

Everyone else split off to go home. It was just us now, walking under the afternoon sun with slow, dragging steps.

“I can’t believe we’re done,” Mikha said, squinting.

“I don’t believe it either. I think I’m still in fight-or-flight mode.”

She sighed. “I want to sleep for a week.”

“Same.”

We didn’t talk for a bit.

Then she said, softly, “Gusto mo bang pumunta tomorrow?”

I glanced at her. “To the bar?”

She nodded.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Kinda nervous.”

She smiled faintly. “Same.”

Pause.

“Pupunta ako if pupunta ka,” she said.

My heart.

Exploded.

But I kept my face neutral. “Then I guess we’re going.”

She bumped my shoulder. “And wear something cute. For once.”

“Excuse me—I’m always cute.”

“I said something, not someone.”

I gasped. “So you do think I’m cute.”

She froze.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You literally just—”

“I meant your shirt.”

“My shirt has a soup stain on it.”

She covered her face. “Uuwi na ako. I regret this conversation.”

I laughed.

Loud. Full.

And maybe it was finals being over. Maybe it was the heat. Or maybe it was just her—

But I was already counting the hours until tomorrow night.

Chapter Text

Meka Lem:
on the way!
brush ur hair. i’m not picking up a broom

Me:
ang sama mo!
i look great.

Meka Lem:
we’ll see;)
be ready. i’ll say hi to ur parents u can’t stop me

Me:
they like u more than me anyway

Meka Lem:
and that's trueeee

My legs carried me faster than I’d admit.

I peeked out the window and yep—there she was, in her usual chaotic glory, one hand out the window, shades on despite it being evening, and chewing gum like she was in a music video.

I made it to the door just in time to see my mom already stepping out.

“Mikha!” she greeted like she was the one being picked up.

“Titaaaa,” Mikha grinned, stepping out of the car and giving her a cheeky bow. “You look stunning as always!”

My dad appeared too, coffee in hand, amused expression on.

“Hi, Tito! I brought my license and manners tonight.”

My dad laughed. “That’s good. You’ll need both with Aiah.”

“I’ve accepted my fate,” Mikha said dramatically, holding her heart.

I groaned. “Can I just leave in peace?”

“No,” my mom smiled. “You two have fun. Mikha, mag-ingat sa pag-drive.”

“Always po,” she said with a wink.

As I slid into the passenger seat, Mikha whispered just loud enough for them to hear: “Returning your daughter in mint condition. No promises though.”

I elbowed her the moment the door shut. “Stop flirting with my parents.”

She shrugged innocently. “They like me. Can you blame them?”

“You’re impossible.”

“You’re pretty.”

I blinked.

“See? Now we’re both confused.”

I gave her a side-eye. “You’re wearing cologne.”

She grinned. “For you.”

I rolled my eyes but I was smiling like an idiot.

She shifted gears and pulled out smoothly. “You really do look good tonight. Like, if I wasn’t the one picking you up, I’d cry.”

“You told me to wear black.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t know you’d wear it like that.” She gave me a dramatic once-over. “I’m scared. Everyone at the bar’s gonna fall in love with you. May need ba akong suntukin later?”

I raised an eyebrow. “Maybe. Let’s see.”

“You’re scary.”

“You like it.”

She didn’t answer. Just bit back a smile and kept driving.

My phone lit up.

Andrae.

I groaned.

“What?” Mikha asked.

“Andrae’s calling.”

“Answer it.”

“I don’t want to talk to him right now.”

“Give it to me.”

I hesitated.

“Seriously, Aiah,” she said, reaching one hand over. “I’m great with customer service.”

I laughed and handed it to her. “Speaker mode.”

She tapped the green button.

“DARLING! My breathtaking, sharp-edged glass of wine. Are you glowing or is it just your aura again?”

Mikha squinted at the phone. “…Seriously?”

“Wait. That’s not my darling’s voice.
Mikha? Hi. Didn’t see you there.”

“Didn’t see me on speaker?”

“Just trying to check if my favorite Arceta is on her way. Y’know, wouldn’t want her to arrive without me. Not when she’s looking like heartbreak and vengeance.” Andrae responded.

Mikha gave me a blank look.

“Why do you let him talk like that?” she whispered.

“Because he doesn’t stop.”

“I mean, tonight’s vibe is giving ‘take me home and ruin my life’ and you KNOW I love that.”

Mikha leaned closer to the phone. “You trying to flirt in front of me now?”

“No. I’m trying to flirt with your date. This is my coping mechanism.”

She snorted.

“I’m driving her, Andrae,” Mikha added coolly. “We’re matching.”

There was a beat.

“Sounds like you’re already married.”

“We are.”

What the hell?

“Okay, well. See you two soon. Mikha, try not to crash the car just because Aiah’s eyeliner is sharp enough to kill a man.”

“Oh, I’m not looking at the road.”

“MIKHA—”

Mikha laughed and ended the call.

I turned to her. “You’re insane.”

She grinned. “He called you darling. I had to fight back.”

“He’s literally just being annoying.”

“Yeah,” she said, voice lower now, eyes on the road. “But you’re mine to annoy.”

I didn’t say anything.

Couldn’t.

Because my chest was doing weird flips again and I didn’t know what to do with it.

She glanced at me, smirking. “Blushing?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

“Your voice is too loud.”

“You love it.”

I did.

I really did.

We pulled up in front of the bar. Lights were bright. Music already thumping faintly from inside. A long night ahead.

But right now? I didn’t care about the noise, or the crowd, or what Stacey probably dared someone to do already.

All I could think about was the stupid grin on Mikha’s face, the smell of her cologne, and how she looked at me like she already knew I wasn’t going anywhere.

And she was right.

I wasn’t.

—

The moment we stepped through the doors, we were hit by the rush of neon lights, bass-thumping music, and the very real scent of spilled tequila and sweat. Classic bar chaos.

Stacey spotted us first, waving her arms like she was trying to guide a plane.

“There they are!” she yelled, already holding two drinks like a threat.

Colet, Maloi, and Jhoanna turned and collectively gasped like they were on some red carpet runway.

“OH MY GOSH,” Colet shouted, grabbing Mikha’s arms. “You said you’d dress cute—YOU DIDN’T SAY ‘DESTROY LIVES’ LEVEL HOT.”

“Stop,” Mikha said, fake-blushing but very obviously loving the attention.

Jhoanna eyed me next. “And Aiah… please. Please. Your eyeliner alone deserves a Nobel Peace Prize.”

“Peace prize?” I said, amused.

“Because you just ended all of our wars.”

Maloi leaned in with a grin. “You two came together, huh?”

Mikha slung her arm lazily over my shoulder. “Of course. I can’t let my best friend walk into this mess without security.”

“Oh, you’re security now?” I asked.

“I’m armed and dangerous,” she whispered dramatically.

“You’re wearing glitter.”

“Exactly. Blinding defense.”

The others were already moving to the high table, drinks being passed around, someone ordering fries even though we were literally at a bar. I didn’t question it. Our group thrived on chaos.

Mikha stayed close. 
Like—very close. 

Her hand brushed my back casually when we moved through the crowd. 

She reached for my arm when I leaned over to hear Colet better. And every time someone—especially guys—looked at me for longer than three seconds?

Mikha looked them dead in the eye.
Expression neutral.
Posture casual.
But vibes?
Hostile.

And the thing was—she wasn’t even saying anything. She didn’t have to. Her eyes were doing all the talking.

Eventually, Stacey dragged Maloi to the dance floor with a yell of “Let’s sweat out our trauma!!” and the table started to thin.

“Mikhaaaa!” Colet sang, poking her. “Dance with me.”

“Later,” she grinned, pointing to me. “Gotta watch the cryptid first.”

“I’m not a cryptid.”

“Have you seen your glare?”

I tried not to laugh as she said it. Then we locked eyes for a second too long, and it got awkward, and I immediately looked away.

And that’s when he showed up.

Andrae.

He arrived holding a bottle and flashing his usual cocky smile. “Missed me?”

Mikha's body shifted almost automatically. She moved slightly closer to me. Arm still on the backrest. Fingers brushing my hair “accidentally.”

“Oh look,” she said flatly. “The microphone with legs.”

Andrae snorted. “Relax, Lim. I’m here to drink, not fight.”

“You sure? You’ve been fighting for Aiah’s attention all month.”

I choked on my drink.

Andrae smirked. “Is it working?”

“Keep trying,” Mikha said, smiling sweetly. “She’s very loyal. To me.”

My brain was shutting down.

They kept exchanging not-so-innocent comments, and I just kept sipping my drink like it could drown me out of existence.

Eventually, Andrae gave me one of those teasing looks. “Dance with me?”

Before I could answer, Mikha actually laughed.

“She’s not a charity case, Andrae.”

“I know,” he said. “She’s just fun to mess with.”

“She’s also busy tonight.”

“I am?” I asked, confused.

Mikha leaned in, lips right next to my ear. “You promised me a dance, remember?”

I… did?

I mean, maybe not out loud. But apparently, I had now.

And just like that, she pulled me up.

“Sorry, Andrae,” she said, mock-apologetic. “Try again in your next life.”

And then she dragged me into the crowd.

The dance floor was already a mess of limbs, laughter, and lights. Mikha didn’t hesitate—she spun me around by the wrist, laughing as we landed in the middle of the chaos.

It was hot. Loud. A little dizzying.

But all I could focus on was her. Mikha, laughing as her hair bounced with the music. Mikha, reaching for my hands. Mikha, moving closer with every beat.

She wasn’t a good dancer.

Neither was I.

But God, we looked like we belonged there. In that mess. In that neon blur.

At some point, someone bumped into her and nearly pushed her into another guy’s arms.

She yanked herself back instantly and slipped in front of me like a human barricade.

Her hand gripped my waist casually, as if she did that every day. As if we were something already.

I leaned in, mouth near her ear. “You’re kind of intense when we go out.”

She looked at me over her shoulder. “Don’t like people touching what’s mine.”

“Yours?”

“Best friend rights,” she said, the same excuse from days ago, but this time her voice dropped.

It wasn’t teasing.

It was… serious. Almost soft. Almost like—

“Okay, but parang tunog villain ka in a movie right now?” I joked, trying to breathe.

She grinned. “Because I’m the love interest.”

My legs almost gave out.

She turned, grabbed my wrist, and spun me again—and this time I couldn’t stop laughing. 

Everything was so loud and chaotic, but she made it feel like the world was tuned into one frequency: her.

We danced until we couldn’t breathe. 

Until our hands were slick and our hair was a mess and I was gripping her arm just to stay upright.

When we finally stumbled off the floor, she was still holding my hand.

And she didn’t let go.

Not when we got back to our table.
Not when Jhoanna raised an eyebrow.
Not even when Colet whispered, “Do we need to leave you two alone orrrr?”

Mikha just gave them a grin, pulled my hand up, and kissed my knuckles dramatically.

“I’m fine,” she said. “I already won the prize.”

I covered my face with my free hand, trying to keep my heart from exploding.

Because what the hell was she doing?

And why was I starting to want her to keep doing it?

And why—despite all the lights and laughter and noise—was it suddenly hard to hear anything but her?

And why, even after everything…
Why did I still have no idea what she really meant?

And why… did I want to find out so bad?

—

Everyone was toast. Like, actual walking disasters.

Well—if they were walking.

Maloi was trying to sing something that sounded suspiciously like the Dora theme song. 

Stacey was already halfway asleep on Jhoanna’s shoulder, muttering something about fries and betrayal. 

Jhoanna looked five seconds away from calling for backup, while Colet calmly sipped water like she wasn’t surrounded by pure, chaotic energy.

“Okay,” Colet said, handing me a bottle of water. “We’ll drop off Stacey and Maloi. We’ve got them.”

“Sure?” I asked, glancing at Maloi who was now holding her shoe like a phone.

“Yeah,” Jhoanna nodded, already lifting Stacey. “You’ve got the other handful.”

I looked at Mikha, who was leaning against the car door like she forgot what bones were. Her hair was a mess, her eyes glassy, and she was giggling into her palm like she just heard the funniest joke in the world.

“Yup,” I sighed. “I got her.”

They left in a wave of farewells and tipsy giggles, and I turned to Mikha, who blinked at me slowly.

“Hey,” I said, crouching in front of her. “Where’s your car key?”

She tilted her head and stared at me like I was speaking a new language. Then—

“Ohhh,” she slurred, digging around in her bag. “The magic stick.”

“…The key?”

She held it up triumphantly. “Yes! Key sword!”

I took it gently from her hand, suppressing a laugh. “Alright, your highness. Let’s get in.”

Unlocking the car, I helped her into the passenger seat. She dropped into it with a soft oof, head falling back dramatically.

“You good?” I asked, buckling her seatbelt.

She pouted up at me. “You smell nice.”

“I—okay. Thank you?”

She giggled. “You always do.”

I closed the door, heart already thudding. Once I was in the driver’s seat, I shot a quick message to my mom.

Me:
Not sure if I’ll be home tonight. Mikha’s really out of it. Might crash at hers.
Love you.

I started the car, slowly pulling away from the bar. The streets were quieter now, just glowing traffic lights and late-night radio fuzz.

And then—
I heard it.

A soft, shaky sniffle.

I glanced over.

Mikha was staring out the window, her cheeks flushed—not just from the alcohol.

Her eyes were glassy.

And then she let out the tiniest, hiccuped sob.

My hands tightened on the wheel. “Mikha?”

No response. Just another sniff.

“Mikha, hey.” I flicked on the car’s interior light. “Are you crying?”

She wiped her face quickly like she was embarrassed to be caught. “No.”

“Mikha, I can literally see your tears.”

She pouted. “I’m not crying, I’m leaking feelings.”

“…Same thing.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re sobbing.”

“I’m emotional.”

I pulled over. 

There was no way I was driving while she was like this. 

I turned in my seat, gently brushing hair from her face.

“What’s wrong?”

She blinked at me, totally gone. “You know, I have a best friend.”

I blinked too. “You do?”

“Her name is Aiah and I call her Ayams! It's a cute nickname and I'm the only one who can call her that,” she said softly, eyes shiny. “She’s so p-pretty and smart and cool and she always helps me study even though I get distracted by her f-face.”

My heart slammed against my chest.

I didn’t breathe.

“She always acts all serious but she secretly laughs at my dumb jokes,” she whispered. “And when she s-smiles at me? I feel like… like the whole universe invented that smile just for m-me.”

Oh God.

Oh God.

“Mikha—”

“And sometimes,” she interrupted, voice wobbly, “sometimes she lets that guy Andrae hang around her. And I know she doesn’t like him, I know, but he’s always calling her things like 'darling' and 'cutie' and 'honey' and I hate it so much.”

She hiccuped, wiping her cheeks again.

“I hate it. I don’t even know why. I just do. Because it’s my job to make her laugh. It’s my job to call her cute. It’s my job to drive her home and walk next to her and hold her hand when she’s tired.”

She pressed her hands to her face.

“I don’t want to share her.”

I froze.

“I don’t know what that means,” she mumbled into her palms. “Maybe I’m a bad friend. Maybe I’m just weird. Maybe I drank too much and I’m gonna forget all this tomorrow. But tonight I just wanted her to dance with me.”

She peeked through her fingers.

“I wanted her to look at me like she looks at the stars.”

I couldn’t speak. My throat felt like it was closing.

“Mikha…”

But she was already nodding off, mumbling under her breath.

“She's my favorite person, y'know… Aiah... Arcetaaa…My Ayams.”

A yawn.
A pause.
A whisper:

“I think I like her. A lot…more than my banana bread...But shhh. Don’t tell her…”

She slumped to the side.

And just like that, she fell asleep.

Right there in the passenger seat. A teary, messy, beautiful storm.

I stared at her for a long time.

Processing.

Heart racing.

Pulse wild.

She liked me.
Maybe.
Possibly.
Definitely.

But she didn’t know she said it.
Didn’t know I heard.

And now I was sitting here, with all this truth between us,
while she snored softly against the window.

And all I could do was grip the steering wheel and whisper:

“…Too late, Mikha. I heard everything.”

/

I didn’t even realize I was smiling until my cheeks started to hurt.

The moment she dropped those words—I don’t want to share her… I think I like her—it was like the inside of my brain turned into a fireworks show.

I couldn’t stop replaying it. Her flushed cheeks, the way she pressed her hands to her face, her sleepy mumbling about Aiah Arcetaaa like she was casting a spell.

I glanced at her again. Still asleep, lips parted slightly, forehead gently resting against the window.

She had no idea what she just did to me.

My hand reached blindly for my phone, the giddy grin still plastered on my face as I hit the call button.

“Yo,” Andrae answered, voice lazy. “Why are you calling? Thought you were dropping off your drunk girlfriend.”

“She’s not—oh my God. Okay. First of all—” I was already laughing. “Your stupid plan? It worked.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Wait. Seriously?”

“She confessed.”

“WHAT?”

I had to lower the volume; the man screamed.

“She said it in the car,” I said, still grinning. “Started crying. Told me she gets jealous of you. Called you annoying. Admitted she likes me.”

“YOU’RE LYING.”

“She was half-asleep but she said it, Andrae. I swear. It wasn’t even subtle.”

“That’s it. I’m a genius. I expect snacks and praise and a national holiday in my name.”

“You are so annoying,” I groaned, but my tone was too light to be taken seriously. “Thank you, okay? For real.”

“Hey, what are gay friends for? Even when I’m fake-flirting and risking getting punched.”

“You didn’t even flinch when she glared at you last week.”

“She looks like she eats people pag galit siya. I almost cried.”

I laughed.

“I gotta go,” I said, turning the car into her subdivision. “We’re almost there.”

“Yeah, yeah. Go be a hero. Update me if she remembers.”

She'll take days to remember.

I hung up with one final chuckle and looked over at her again.

Still out cold.

Still mumbled something like, “Stupid Andrae…”

I parked in front of her house and gently nudged her shoulder. “Hey. We’re home.”

Mikha stirred, blinking like she’d just been dropped from a cloud. “…Huh?”

“We’re at your house,” I said softly.

She rubbed her eyes and yawned. “Why’s your face so shiny?”

“Because I’m pretty and you like me, remember?”

“…Wha?”

“Nothing. Come on.”

I got out and rounded the car, helping her out carefully.

She leaned on me like I was her personal walking stick, and I tried really hard not to melt on the spot.

I rang the bell, and after a few seconds, her yaya opened the door, brows lifting in surprise.

“Oh, Ma’am Aiah! Good evening,” she said warmly. “Uminom po si Mikha ng marami?”

I smiled sheepishly. “Yeah. A little more than usual.”

She tsked gently, then opened the door wider. “Sige, pasok na kayo. Yung kwarto niya naka-ayos na. Si Sir at Ma’am ay nasa beach house naman at umalis ng maaga kanina. Ang kuya niya ay nasa dorm niya ngayon.”

“Got it,” I said, walking Mikha inside. “Salamat po.”

We made it up the stairs slowly, Mikha still wobbling like her legs were made of noodles. 

She clung to my arm like she’d drown without it, and halfway to her room, she started mumbling again.

“Hate him… stupid... chips… hate him…”

“Who?” I asked gently.

“Andrae. Always around you. Psh.”

I bit back a laugh. “He left early, remember?”

She grumbled something unintelligible.

“Don’t worry. I’ll tell him you hate him extra tomorrow.”

“Good.”

Her yaya was about to step in to help when I smiled and said, “It’s okay po. I’ve got her from here.”

She nodded understandingly. “Sige, maiwan ko na kayo. Sabihin mo lang kung may kailangan kayo at kumatok ka na lang sa kwarto.”

“Sige po, thank you po.”

She left us, and I finally guided Mikha into her room, easing her down onto the edge of her bed.

She immediately flopped back onto the mattress like a ragdoll, arm thrown dramatically over her eyes. “Ayamsss.”

“Yes?”

“…Don’t leave.”

I paused, heart skipping.

“I won’t,” I said quietly.

“…You better not. Or iiyak ako ulit.”

I laughed, kneeling beside the bed to remove her shoes.

She peeked out from under her arm, eyes glossy again.

“You’re really pretty up close.”

“Mikha,” I whispered.

“I’m not drunk. You’re drunk.”

“You’re literally slurring.”

“I love your face.”

—

Mikha was already half-asleep again when I came back from the hallway cabinet holding one of her oversized shirts and soft cotton shorts. 

Her yaya had handed them to me earlier with a warm smile and a whispered “She sleeps better in loose clothes, para hindi na siya mahirapan bukas,” and honestly, I appreciated that woman more than words.

I closed the door behind me and turned to find Mikha…

…sitting up.

Sort of.

She was slumped against the headboard, pillow hugged to her chest like it was a life raft and she was lost at sea. 

Her cheeks were pink, hair a little wild, lips pouted from sleep or sulk or who knows what.

“Hey,” I said softly. “You need to change.”

She blinked at me.

“Comfy clothes,” I added, holding them up. “Here. These are your favorites.”

No reaction.

Just more blinking.

I sighed and knelt in front of her. “Mikha. Come on. You need to change or you’ll feel awful when you wake up.”

She tilted her head slightly. “Are you changing me?”

“No,” I said quickly, holding up my hands. “You can do it. I’ll just help. Okay?”

She stared at me. And then, in slow-motion, collapsed sideways onto the bed like a sack of potatoes.

“Mikha—”

She let out a dramatic sigh. “I don’t wanna move. I’m melting.”

I groaned. “You are not melting.”

“Then I’m... evaporating.”

“You’re literally lying on a memory foam mattress.”

Her voice muffled against the pillow. “Foam can’t stop evaporation.”

I put the clothes beside her and gently tugged at her arm. “Okay, okay. Sit back up. Please. You can do this. I’ll help, I promise.”

She turned her head and squinted at me. “You’re so pretty.”

“Mikha.”

She giggled.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “I swear if you just sit still for one minute, I’ll buy you all the fries in the city.”

“You promise?”

“Yes.”

She blinked again, as if seriously weighing the worth of my offer, before lifting her arms like a sleepy toddler. “Carry me.”

“I’m not carrying you, you’re not unconscious!”

“I could be,” she mumbled. “If you believe hard enough.”

I stared at her in disbelief. “Mikha.”

She just flopped again, now halfway off the bed.

That was it.

I stood and crossed my arms, voice firm. “Mikhaela Janna Lim.”

She froze.

Actually froze.

Then she sat back up slowly, lower lip wobbling as she turned to look at me. “You used my full name…”

Her eyes glossed instantly. “Do you hate me? Are you mad na sa'kin, Ayams?”

I blinked. “What—no! What?!”

“But you yelled.”

“I didn’t yell!”

“You scolded me.”

Oh Gosh. 
Her voice. 
Her face. 
The eyes.
Her bottom lip doing that trembling thing. 

She looked like a kicked puppy that also lost its favorite toy.

And I. Was. Panicking.

“No, no, Mikha, I didn’t mean it like that!” I rushed to her side and crouched down again. “I just— I was trying to help you, that’s all. I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, please don’t cry—shit”

Her mouth scrunched up, wobbling even more. 

She didn’t cry, but she looked like she might, and that was somehow worse.

“I’m just… sleepy,” she mumbled pitifully. “And you got mad…to me”

I let out the softest laugh and wiped under her eyes even though no tears had fallen. “I wasn’t mad. You’re just—ugh—you’re so cute it’s driving me insane.”

She sniffled, dramatically rubbing her face.

“Let’s just change, okay?” I said gently. “We’re almost done. I’ll help, promise.”

She nodded a little, still sniffling but now holding onto the hem of her oversized shirt like she was actually going to cooperate this time.

I helped her pull off her current top, trying not to laugh when her head got stuck in the neckline for a good three seconds.

“I’m tangled,” she said flatly, voice muffled in cotton.

“You are not. You’re just facing the wrong direction.”

“I’m upside down.”

“You’re not.”

“I feel baliktad.”

I guided her arms through properly, trying not to smile like an idiot as she emerged with a soft grunt. She looked up at me again, dazed, before whispering, “That was hard.”

“You’re very brave,” I teased softly, helping her into the new shirt and then moving on to the shorts. 

She was surprisingly still for this part, only mumbling under her breath something like “don’t tell anyone you dressed me” as if we were in a spy movie.

“Sworn to secrecy,” I said with a hand over my heart.

When we were finally done, she was back in her bed, looking clean and comfy, all tucked in like a tiny human burrito. Her cheeks were still pink, hair mussed up, and her arms clung loosely to the same pillow she’d been hugging earlier.

I brushed a strand of hair away from her face again and whispered, “You’re really something else, Mikha Lim.”

She opened one eye lazily. “What’s that mean?”

I smiled. “You’ll know when you’re sober.”

“Tell me now.”

“Nope.”

“Mean.”

“Sleep.”

“Stay?”

“Hindi naman ako aalis.”

She finally relaxed again, curling up tighter under the blanket, her voice now nothing but a faint breath. “Good. ‘Cause I like when you’re here.”

And I?

I sat beside her like I hadn’t just melted into a puddle inside my own chest.

She didn’t need to say more.

I already knew.

And I wasn’t going anywhere.

Mikha was quiet now. 

Still.

She had curled up under her blanket like a sleepy little lump, cheeks pressed into her pillow, arms tucked close to her chest. 

Her breathing was starting to even out, and I could tell she was right on the edge of falling completely asleep. 

The only sounds in the room were the soft hum of the AC and her occasional little sighs, like she was dreaming of something warm and safe.

I sat beside her for a bit longer, just watching.

And then, because I knew I had to move before I melted into the mattress from staring too long, I stood and tiptoed toward her vanity.

I grabbed the micellar water and cotton pads like I’d done it a thousand times—and honestly? I might as well have.

I’ve removed her makeup before. 

After parties, after crying, during our random skincare nights. 

I knew her products by color. 
I knew which one stung her eyes if it wasn’t wiped fast enough. 
I knew what scent she liked on her toner. 

Her eyeliner brand? I picked it once for her when she was running late.

But right now, doing it while she was lying peacefully in bed, cheeks flushed, lips slightly parted…

Yeah, it hit different.

She didn’t even flinch when I crouched next to her and gently started wiping the light shimmer off her eyelids.

Her skin was so soft. So fair. Almost glowing even in low light. And up close, this close, she looked unreal.

I paused for a moment, pad still in my hand.

She was beautiful.

I mean—she always was.

That wasn’t new. But something about her lying here, drunk out of her mind, defenseless, trusting me to take care of her—it sent something cracking open in my chest.

I cleared my throat softly, brushing the pad over her cheek again. “You really don’t make this easy, you know,” I murmured, more to myself than to her.

She mumbled something into her pillow—nonsense syllables, nothing real. 

I bit back a grin and finished wiping her face, being as gentle as possible.

Once she was fully clean, I capped the bottle, placed it back, and gave her one last look.

She was already asleep.

Gone.

Out.

Mouth parted just slightly, arms now spread like a starfish. The cutest drunk starfish alive.

I took a deep breath, straightened up, and finally started to take care of myself.

She had a small guest bathroom attached to her room, and I used it to remove my own makeup. 

Her products were lined up like soldiers, labeled and organized, and I used only what I needed. Wiped off the light shimmer on my own eyelids, cleaned the foundation, took a moment to really look at my reflection.

I looked tired.

But... calm.

Weird.

There was something about being in her space, using her mirror, wearing her oversized shirt and the familiar smell of her body wash lingering in the air... It felt intimate in a way I hadn’t expected.

Once I was done cleaning up, I peeled off the rest of my clothes and slipped into the fresh pair Mikha’s yaya had set aside for me. An old band tee that was probably her brother’s and a pair of cotton shorts. They were loose. Warm. Smelled like her closet.

I stepped back into the bedroom quietly.

And froze.

She had rolled over now, facing the spot I was supposed to lie in.

One hand reached out absently toward the empty side.

Something twisted inside me.

I climbed into bed slowly, gently lifting the blanket and sliding under it. 

The mattress dipped slightly under my weight, and Mikha stirred just a little, brow twitching like she was about to wake. 

But she didn’t. 

She just let out another small breath and scooted slightly closer, still very much asleep.

And I?

I lay there, staring at the ceiling for a moment, heart beating a little too fast.

Her arm was just barely brushing mine.

I tilted my head, glancing at her.

Her lashes were long. Her cheeks still pink. Hair messy and soft, framing her face like she was some painting I wasn’t allowed to touch.

I wanted to freeze time.

I didn’t dare move. Didn’t want to ruin the moment.

But she shifted again.

Closer.

Now our forearms were touching.

Now she mumbled something again, barely audible.

My name.

I turned my head fully this time.

“Mikha?”

No answer. Just a soft snore.

I smiled.

I didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. I didn’t know if she’d remember anything from tonight. 

I didn’t know if she’d wake up and laugh it off, or cry, or pretend like nothing happened. 

I didn’t know if she would remember the way she clung to me in the car. Or how she told me—over and over—how she didn’t like sharing me.

But tonight?

Tonight she said it.

And that was enough for me.

I turned on my side and watched her a little longer.

Just in case this was a dream.

Eventually, I closed my eyes too.

And for the first time in a while… I fell asleep smiling.

Chapter Text

I was deep into sleep. 

The kind where your body feels weightless and time doesn’t exist. Until I felt something warm shift beside me.

I groaned softly, my eyelids fluttering as I felt the blanket pull slightly. Then came a tug at my shirt, and a pair of arms slowly snaked their way around my waist. At first I thought it was just unconscious movement, like those half-asleep rolls people do.

But then I felt her face press against my back, her breath warm and shaky against my spine. That was when I knew.

She was awake.

Barely.

“Mikha?” I whispered, voice hoarse and groggy.

She didn’t respond right away.

Then I heard it.

A small sniffle.

Followed by another.

I turned slowly in her arms, careful not to knock her out of the half-cuddle she’d wrapped me in. 

My eyes adjusted to the dark just in time to see her puffy cheeks and red nose, like she’d been crying quietly for a while now.

My heart clenched. I tucked her hair behind her ear gently.

“Hey. What’s wrong?” I whispered.

She blinked slowly at me, eyes heavy with sleep but filled with that unmistakable glimmer of emotion. “I don’t like him.”

I froze. “Huh?”

She sniffled again, brows furrowed now like she was deep in a dream argument. “The boy. That... that fake gentleman with the fake stupid smirk.”

I blinked. “Do you mean Andrae?”

She nodded once. 

Then her face crumpled as she buried it against my shoulder.

“He’s always... always around you. Flirting. Being annoying. Why is he always calling you darling? He’s so loud. His face is loud.”

His face is loud?

I bit the inside of my cheek, trying to keep the laughter in. “Mikha... he’s not even around right now.”

“He was,” she grumbled into my shoulder, voice muffled and pouty. “Earlier. Again. Saying things. Laughing like he’s so charming. He’s not. He’s a chair.”

“A what?”

She pulled back slightly, squinting at me. “A chair. You know. He’s just... there. Nagsasayang ng space. Useless. Unless you wanna sit on him.”

I had to cover my mouth that time to keep the laugh from escaping. 

Her vocabulary was unhinged at two in the morning, and I was living for it.

“Mikha, are you jealous? You're ranting again like how you ranted earlier at the car.” I asked teasingly.

She gasped dramatically, eyes wide as if the word was illegal.

“Am not,” she said immediately, even though her entire face betrayed her.

I gave her a look.

She pouted. “Okay, maybe. But only a little.”

I tilted my head. “Little lang talaga?”

“Fine. A medium bit. Okay? A medium-large portion of jealousy with extra fries.”

I shook my head, amused beyond belief. “Why didn’t you just say something?”

“Because,” she groaned, flopping fully on top of me now. “You’re my best friend. I’m not supposed to be all possessive. But I am. I don’t like sharing. Especially not with a chair.”

I snorted. “Still with the chair metaphor?”

She rolled her eyes, her cheek now pressed to my chest. “Yes. Chairs are sneaky. You think they’re just sitting there being furniture, and then boom—someone else’s butt is on them.”

“...I’m sorry, whose butt exactly is on Andrae?”

She ignored that completely and sniffled again, this time grabbing my hand and placing it over her waist. “Just stay here. I’m too tired to argue.”

“You’re the only one arguing.”

“I’m too tired to keep arguing.”

I rubbed her back gently, trying not to melt under the weight of her sleepy, clingy rant. “Mikha, you’re ridiculously cute when you’re drunk and emotional.”

She looked up at me, hair a mess, eyes barely open, lips forming the saddest pout imaginable.

“I’m not cute. I’m heartbroken.”

I raised a brow. “Heartbroken?”

“Yes. Because my best friend smiled at another person today and my heart said ‘no.’ It said ‘that’s illegal.’”

I couldn’t take it anymore.

I laughed. 
Quiet but real. 
The kind that shook my chest and made her pout deepen as she watched me with sleepy betrayal.

“You’re so mean,” she mumbled.

I kissed her forehead gently, still chuckling. “You’re unbelievable.”

She closed her eyes again, finally calming, now tangled up with me in the softest way imaginable.

“I just... like you too much,” she whispered. “Even when you’re annoying and you scold me and you let chairs flirt with you.”

I hugged her tighter, brushing her hair out of her face as she slowly slipped back into sleep.

“I like you too, Mikha.”

I love you, Mikha.

But she was already asleep.

And I?

Was very, very awake.

Smiling like a complete idiot in the dark, hugging a girl who called a human being a chair because she couldn’t admit she was in love.

I stared up at the ceiling.

I was so screwed.

But God, I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

—

The sun was barely up when I cracked my eyes open.

For a moment, I just stared at the ceiling, registering the warmth beside me, the faint scent of lavender and something sweet clinging to the sheets, the weight of a leg loosely tossed over mine.

Mikha was still sleeping, face turned toward me, her soft breaths ghosting against my collarbone.

I took a breath. Careful. Slow.

Not gonna lie—I could stay like this forever. But I knew she’d be hungry when she woke up. And probably cranky. And more than likely, dramatic about it.

So I slipped out from under the blanket carefully, lifting her leg like a ticking time bomb and sliding out before she noticed. 

She stirred a little, mumbled something that sounded like “french fries” and then promptly buried her face in the pillow.

Adorable menace.

Downstairs was quiet. 

The warm orange of early morning poured into the living room like honey, the air still, calm, almost sleepy.

I didn’t expect to see her yaya still up, but there she was, standing by the shoe rack already dressed to leave, her small bag hanging over her shoulder.

“Ma’am Aiah,” she greeted softly, with a little bow of her head. “Good morning po.”

“Hi po, good morning,” I smiled, fixing my hair with one hand.

She gave me a warm look. “Day off namin ngayon. Paalis na rin po ako.”

I nodded. “Ako na po bahala kay Mikha. You can head home.”

“Sure ka?” she asked, looking a little uncertain. “Minsan matigas ang ulo nung isa na ‘yon pagkagising.”

I smiled wider. “I can handle her naman po. Promise.”

She chuckled. “Naku, good luck. Sige po, ingat kayo. Salamat ha.”

“Walang anuman po.”

She slipped out the front door, leaving me alone in the house. And with that, I took over the kitchen.

I was pulling out ingredients from the pantry when I realized something: this felt… weirdly natural.

Like I’d done this before.

Like this wasn’t the first time I’d be cooking for her, taking care of her, memorizing the contents of her fridge just in case she randomly got a craving later in the day.

Hangover soup wasn’t fancy. Just some rice, egg, ginger, miso paste, and scallions. A little broth. A lot of comfort.

I was halfway through stirring when I heard it.

Upstairs. Door opening.

Soft footsteps. Hesitant. Slow.

And then—

The telltale dragging of sleepy feet on the stairs.

I looked up from the pot.

And there she was.

Mikha Lim.

In all her barely-conscious, oversized-shirt glory.

Her hair was doing the thing where it stuck out at weird angles, her eyes were puffed from sleep, and her expression was that of someone who hadn’t yet decided if she was awake or dreaming.

She blinked blearily at me from the bottom of the stairs.

I waved the ladle. “Morning.”

She rubbed one eye with the back of her hand and shuffled toward the dining table like it was an instinct.

She didn’t seem surprised to see me.

Not even a blink of confusion.

Which made me grin.

She definitely registered the clues. My slippers at the door. Her closet missing a shirt. The warm, extra weight beside her in bed this morning. The scent of food in the house. My presence was a given now. As if I belonged.

And I wasn’t going to correct her anytime soon.

She pulled a chair out and dropped herself into it like a sack of emotions and exhaustion. Her arms were folded on the table, cheek squished against them as she let out the longest groan I’d ever heard.

I placed a bowl of soup in front of her. “Hangover soup. Eat up.”

She peeked at the steam rising from the bowl and sniffed it like a curious kitten.

Her whole face lit up.

“Oh my Gosh,” she mumbled. “It smells like… heaven. With extra ginger.”

“Because it is,” I said, sitting across from her with my own bowl.

She took a sip, then groaned again—this time in relief. “This is illegal. You’re not allowed to be this good at cooking.”

“I’ll take that as a thank you.”

She looked up, squinting at me like I was the sun. “Did you cook this for me?”

“No. I cooked it for the ghost in your bathroom.”

“Rude.”

I laughed. “Yes, I cooked it for you.”

“You’re… nice.”

“You’re… hungover.”

She stuck her tongue out but kept eating.

We fell into silence for a bit. The good kind. Just soft clinking, quiet sips, and Mikha occasionally mumbling things like “so warm…” and “feels like my soul’s being hugged.”

She paused halfway through and groaned, covering her head with her arms again.

“My head,” she whined. “It’s like someone stuffed cotton in my brain and then danced on it.”

I blinked. “That’s… specific.”

“It hurts.”

“Because someone thought she could outdrink everyone last night,” I said pointedly.

She peeked at me. “Did I really?”

I raised a brow. “You ordered three tequila shots like it was soda.”

Her nose scrunched. “Mistakes were made.”

I nodded. “Yup.”

“Did I do anything dumb?”

I smiled. “You were just… you.”

She looked suspicious. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you were still cute. Just drunk.”

She pouted. “I don’t believe you.”

“You were.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re mocking me.”

I grinned. “A little. But lovingly.”

She dramatically dropped her spoon and leaned back in her chair. “I’m never drinking again.”

“You always say that.”

“This time I mean it.”

“Sure.”

She crossed her arms. “My head’s going to fall off. I can feel it. It’s already disconnecting.”

“I made soup. It’s your head glue.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Neither do you,” I said, sipping from my bowl.

She stuck her tongue out again but kept eating.

And me?

I watched her, amused and soft at the same time.

She didn’t remember everything from last night.

Not the jealous muttering in the car.

Not the sleepy clinging.

Not the whispered things at 2AM.

But I did.

And I wasn’t in any rush to remind her.

Because I knew something she didn’t.

That memory of hers? It worked in slow waves.

Eventually, it would hit her.

But for now, I’d enjoy this hangover morning. The soft grumbles. The hoodie sleeves too long for her arms. The sleepy pout. The shameless way she let herself be around me without even thinking twice.

Because she already trusted me.

And maybe, just maybe, she was starting to like me more than she realized.

But again—

No rush.

I had soup. I had Mikha. I had time.

And I wasn’t going anywhere.

—

I had just finished my soup, my bowl now empty save for a few grains of rice clinging to the bottom, when my phone buzzed from its place on the table.

Mom: Aiah, anak, pauwi ka na ba? I need help with the groceries. Sobrang dami ko nabili. Pati favorite mong yogurt may stock ako. Love you. Ingat pauwi.

I smiled—soft and small.

Then I looked up.

Mikha was slouched in her chair, hoodie sleeves halfway covering her hands as she absentmindedly twirled her spoon. 

Her eyes, though still a little puffy, had regained some of their sparkle. She noticed my expression immediately.

“Is that your mom?”

“Yeah,” I said, stretching. “She wants me home. She needs help with the groceries.”

Mikha perked up like a meerkat that heard a snack bag crinkle. “Oooh, tell her I said hi!”

I huffed a soft laugh, but typed the reply anyway.

Me: On the way soon po. Mikha says hi.

Mikha, clearly not satisfied, pushed herself up straighter in her chair and called across the table, like my mom could somehow hear her through sheer volume and intention. “Hi Tita! Thank you po for letting Aiah sleep over kahit I swore I’d drive her home last night. I broke the promise but I made her soup in exchange. We’re even now!”

I nearly dropped my phone.

“I—Mikha—she’s not on a call,” I said between snorts.

“Doesn’t matter,” she said, still shouting like she was on FaceTime. “Tita, if you’re reading this, Aiah was the best nurse-slash-cook-slash-human last night. Please don’t ground her for not going home.”

I covered my face with one hand, shoulders shaking.

“You’re chaotic.”

“You chose me,” she shot back, smug.

“Debatable.”

She grinned and pushed herself up from the table with all the drama of someone recovering from war. “Okay. Let’s get you home. I promised your mom, remember? And I do keep promises. Sometimes. After breaking them once.”

I blinked. “You’re… driving?”

“Of course,” she said, heading toward the stairs. “But you have to help me choose something decent to wear first. I can’t drive in this hangover-zombie state looking like I got hit by a pizza box.”

“I can just borrow something and commute.”

That made her pause mid-step.

She turned slowly on her heel. “Excuse me?”

I raised both hands. “I mean, I’m just borrowing a shirt. I can go home on my own.”

“Not happening,” she declared, arms crossed now. “No commuting when you’ve just made me hangover soup and made sure I didn’t cry myself into a tragic novella. I owe you a ride.”

“You still have a hangover,” I pointed out gently.

She dismissed me with a wave. “I’m not that dizzy anymore.”

“Mikha.”

“Fine,” she huffed. “We’ll compromise. You drive to your house. I drive on the way back.”

I blinked.

“Alright,” I said. “You win.”

She turned, triumphant. “I always do.”

As she disappeared upstairs to change, I stood there by the kitchen sink, trying not to let my own grin crack me open.

She didn’t remember last night.

Not the jealousy.

Not the sleepy confession.

Not the way she clung to me like I was her anchor.

But she was acting like she did.

And maybe that was even more dangerous.

—

She came down ten minutes later in a pair of gray joggers and a green crop top, hair half-tamed in a ponytail and her favorite sunglasses perched on her head like some celebrity hiding from the press.

“You ready?” she asked, spinning her car keys on one finger.

“You’re not even driving yet,” I said, snatching the keys. “I am.”

“Details,” she said airily, waving her hand.

We headed out, sunlight now filtering through the trees in golden waves. 

The car ride was calm, music humming through the speakers, the windows rolled down just enough for the wind to ruffle her hair.

She played DJ the entire time, of course.

One song in, she turned to me, head lolling slightly against the headrest. “Do you think chairs have feelings?”

I glanced at her. “I knew you were going to say something weird.”

“Just answer.”

“Chairs?”

“Yes. What if we’ve been sitting on their faces this whole time and they’re secretly offended?”

I snorted. “Mikha, please.”

“You’re laughing. I’m right.”

“You called Andrae a chair last night.”

“Sounds like me.”

“Do you even remember last night?”

She furrowed her brows. “Bits and pieces. Why?”

“No reason,” I said quickly. Too quickly.

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously but said nothing, turning her attention back to the view.

But inside?

Inside I was buzzing.

Because she would remember eventually.

Whether in a week, or two, or maybe during a slow afternoon while brushing her teeth or staring at the ceiling. The moment would come, and she’d recall the way her arms wrapped around me. The sniffles. The confession.

“I just... like you too much.”

And when that happened?

Oh, the reaction.

She was going to lose it.

Pretend it never happened.

Or deny it violently.
Or panic and dramatically demand a memory reset.

And honestly?

I couldn’t wait.

Because whatever that reaction would be—it would be so her.

But for now?

She was next to me, humming to a song she barely knew, sipping from the bottle of water I handed her, wearing her favorite sunglasses like they were a personality trait.

And I was driving.

Toward my house. Toward errands. Toward something more.

Slowly.
Carefully.

Like this whole thing was delicate.

Like I could cradle it with both hands and let it bloom in its own time.

And yeah—

She’d remember eventually.

But me?

I was already there.

And I wasn’t in a rush for her to catch up.

Chapter Text

The school courtyard was still bathed in that early morning light that made everything look cleaner and gentler than it actually was. 

The sun hadn’t reached full brightness yet—just enough to warm your skin, not blind you. The air was crisp, the breeze teasing the hem of my blazer, and the usual Monday chaos hadn’t fully kicked in.

Which meant—for now—it was peaceful.

And I was seated on one of the wooden benches outside the Humanities building, legs stretched out in front of me, sipping hot chocolate Maloi bought earlier, pretending I wasn’t eavesdropping on the birds arguing on the roof.

Stacey sat beside me, scrolling through something on her phone, probably a meme thread because every thirty seconds she would snort.

Maloi was on my other side, tapping her foot with that post-weekend-restlessness.

None of us were particularly talkative yet. The kind of silence that was natural for people who didn’t need to talk to enjoy each other’s company.

Until Stacey sighed and said dramatically, “I still can’t believe I found a curly fry in my hoodie pocket this morning.”

Maloi blinked. “Wait, from where?”

Stacey groaned. “Saturday night, syempre. Saan pa ba? Don’t even act like you remember anything.”

Maloi flailed a hand in dismissal. “Vaguely. There was singing. Screaming. Something about a drinking game involving Taylor Swift lyrics.”

I snorted. “Yeah, that was real. Mikha made it up on the spot and then forgot her own rules halfway through.”

Maloi let out a bark of laughter. “That sounds about right.”

Stacey leaned over to me, one brow raised. “You weren’t drinking, right? You were, like, our designated sense-haver.”

“Yup,” I nodded, blowing into my drink. “Someone had to make sure no one climbed the tables again.”

“That was one time!” Maloi said defensively. “And I was making a point!”

“You were trying to twerk to Single Ladies,” Stacey deadpanned.

Maloi clutched her chest. “Performance art.”

I shook my head, grinning into my cup.

But of course, nothing escaped my friends for long.

Especially not my grinning.

Maloi leaned in, squinting at me. “Wait.”

Stacey turned, too, narrowing her eyes. “You’re doing it again.”

I froze. “Doing what?”

“That smile,” they said in perfect unison, which was terrifying.

“What smile?”

“That stupid soft baby gay heart-eyes smile! Kanina mo pa 'yan ginagawa..

Stacey gasped. “YES. YES. I thought I imagined it but you—YOU HAVE BEEN SMILING LIKE A SIMP.”

“I have not.”

“YOU HAVE!” they said again in sync like I summoned them from a sitcom.

“Bawal bang good mood lang,” I said casually, sipping my drink like I wasn’t already planning an escape route. “It’s Monday. New week. Fresh start.”

Maloi raised a brow. “You. Liking Monday. That’s the most suspicious thing you’ve ever said.”

“Nagsisinungaling 'yan” Stacey added dramatically, holding up her phone like a lie detector. “We need answers. Spill.”

“I am not spilling,” I muttered, already sliding further down the bench like distance would make them drop it.

Stacey scooted closer. “Aiah.”

“No.”

“Aiah.”

“Nope.”

“Aiahhh,” Maloi joined in, dragging out my name like a horror movie ghost.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “You two are gremlins.”

“We know,” they said proudly.

I exhaled, staring at the sky for a solid five seconds.

They waited.

Quiet.

Too quiet.

I peeked.

They were both staring at me with their best innocent faces.

It was unsettling.

“Fine,” I muttered. “But you can’t freak out.”

Maloi’s eyes lit up like a kid being handed a box of secrets. “We’re definitely going to freak out.”

“I hate you both.”

“Mutual,” Stacey grinned. “Now go.”

I looked around, just to make sure no one was near enough to overhear—then leaned in slightly.

“Okay. So. After the party… I took Mikha home. She was very drunk. Like lasing to the max but still bearable.” 

Stacey blinked. “Yeah, we kinda noticed that. She called the water bottle her ‘emotional support boyfriend.’”

“She called Andrae a chair,” I said flatly.

Maloi cackled. “WHAT?”

“Yeah. She said, and I quote, ‘His face is loud. He’s a chair. Just taking up space unless you wanna sit on him.’”

Both of them doubled over laughing, smacking their knees like I had just performed a stand-up set.

“Oh my God, that is PEAK Mikha.”

“But wait, wait—why were you alone with her?” Stacey asked, wiggling her brows.

“She asked me to stay,” I said, failing to keep the smile off my face again.

And the moment it slipped?

Oh, they knew.

“AYAN NA NAMAN!!!” Maloi screamed.

“YOU’RE SMILING. THE SMILE AGAIN. THE—THE SIMP SMILE,” Stacey added, flailing.

I groaned into my hands.

They were absolutely losing it.

“Wait wait wait—did something HAPPEN?!” Maloi gasped.

“NAG-KISS BA KAYO?” Stacey practically yelled.

“NO,” I hissed. “She—okay. She cried.”

They paused. “Oh.”

“Not like… ugly cry,” I clarified. “More like… whispered emotional drunk ramble at 3AM kind of cry. She was cuddling me. And she was like, mad about Andrae calling me darling and kept muttering how she didn’t like it and that he’s annoying and he flirts too much.”

They stared.

“And then…” I scratched the back of my neck. “She said she doesn’t like sharing. Especially not with a chair.”

“STOPPPP,” Stacey screamed.

“And then she said—and I quote—‘I just like you too much. Even when you’re annoying and you scold me and you let chairs flirt with you.’”

A beat of silence.

And then—

“AAAAAAAAAAAAA,” Maloi let out an unholy screech, clutching her chest. “SHE CONFESSED?! UMAMIN SI MEKA LEM???”

“She kind of confessed,” I mumbled. “She was drunk. I don’t think she even remembers.”

“Oh. My. GOD,” Stacey wheezed. “She confessed and cuddled you and now you’re here smiling like a Christmas light and she doesn’t REMEMBER?!”

“Mababaliw na ata ako,” Maloi whispered dramatically. “This is better than TV. This is cinema.”

I buried my face in my hands as they continued their onslaught of questions.

“Did you say it back?”

“No.”

“Did you kiss her forehead?”

“…Yes.”

“DID SHE NESTLE INTO YOU LIKE A KITTEN?”

“WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?”

“OH MY GOD, YOU’RE BLUSHING—”

“I HATE YOU GUYS.”

“YOU LOVE US AND YOU LOVE HER!”

I tried to glare at them but failed, because… okay, fine. I was still smiling. Even now. Just thinking about it.

It was ridiculous.

She didn’t remember.

The bell rang suddenly, jolting us all slightly.

“Oh shoot,” Maloi said, grabbing her tote bag. “Let’s go before we get locked out.”

“You better text updates,” Stacey warned, wagging a finger at me. “I need to know when she remembers the confession. And I want screenshots of her reaction. Preferably with emojis.”

“I’ll think about it,” I said, standing.

“You mean yes,” Maloi grinned.

I just shook my head, following them toward the hallway with a heart that was way too warm for a Monday.

Whatever this was between Mikha and me—it was unfolding slowly.

Strangely.

Chaotically.

But it was happening.

And maybe, just maybe, I was already all in.

—

If there was one thing louder than the school bell on a Monday, it was this table. Our table.

The chaos table.

Where logic went to die and gossip was reborn in full technicolor.

I was seated at the far end, tray in front of me, spoon halfway to my mouth. Mikha was sitting to my right, visibly dazed as she poked at her rice like it personally offended her. 

Across from me were Stacey and Maloi, and to Mikha’s left were Jhoanna and Colet, deep in discussion about how a professor allegedly threw a chalkboard eraser at someone’s head that morning.

But I wasn’t listening.

Because the chaos duo across from me had that look.

That evil, mischievous glint in their eyes.

Maloi’s shoulders were already trembling with silent laughter, her lips pressed tight as if she was about to burst. Stacey kept glancing between me and Mikha like she was about to narrate a telenovela.

And I knew.

I knew.

It was about to begin.

“I swear,” Maloi whispered across the table, leaning forward, “if she nestles into you one more time like she did Saturday—”

“I will melt,” Stacey whispered, eyes wide and manic. “She put your hand on her waist, Aiah. Her waist.”

“Kumakain ako,” I said flatly, not even looking up.

“You’re smiling,” Maloi said back.

“Again,” Stacey added.

I stabbed my spoon into the rice. “It’s because the chicken is good.”

“It’s because Mikha is good,” Maloi said, too loudly.

I gave her a death glare. 

She mimed zipping her lips—but winked.

Meanwhile, Mikha was obliviously pouring calamansi over her fish fillet, pouting because she claimed the breading “wasn’t crispy enough to qualify as breaded,” whatever that meant.

And I?

I was dying.

From the effort of keeping a straight face. From the knowledge of what she didn’t remember. 
From how close she sat to me. 

Our arms brushed whenever she moved, and every time it happened, my brain short-circuited just a little more.

She looked at me suddenly, blinking. “You good?”

“Yup.” I smiled. Too fast. Too wide. “Bakit?”

“You’re smiling weird again,” she said, narrowing her eyes.

“Palagi naman 'yan nakangiti pag nandyan ka,” Stacey said under her breath.

I almost kicked her under the table.

“Oh yeah,” Maloi added with a whisper-shout. “It’s like a reflex now. Mikha enters the room, Aiah activates smile.exe.”

Mikha blinked. “What?”

“Wala!” I said quickly. “'Wag mo silang pansinin. They’re high on cafeteria ketchup.”

Mikha eyed them suspiciously, but then her phone buzzed and she got distracted. 

Hallelujah.

I leaned across to whisper at Maloi. “I swear to God, if you say one more thing—”

“Aiah!”

I turned at the sound of my name.

And my soul left my body.

Andrae.

Bounding toward our table like an excited Labrador.

God.

No.

Not now.

He had a tray of fries in one hand and a smoothie in the other, his entire existence radiating energy and volume.

I was halfway through muttering a prayer when he dropped himself in the seat beside me with a dramatic groan. “Ugh, I ran from the other building just to find you. You owe me a smoothie.”

“Why would I owe you anything?” I asked, eyebrows raised.

“For emotional trauma,” he said casually, then leaned closer, eyes glittering with mischief. “Also, I need answers.”

“About what—”

“About what you and Mikha were doing Saturday night.”

He said it loudly.

Loudly.

I choked on air.

Mikha looked up. “Huh?”

I glared at Andrae like I was mentally preparing his funeral.

But he was still grinning. “You know, the confession thing—”

I panicked.

I grabbed a spoonful of rice and ulam and shoved it into his mouth like I was feeding a baby bird.

“EAT. THAT.”

“MMph?!”

He gagged, coughing, flailing slightly as he tried to chew and swallow the food he did not ask for.

Mikha stared at us, eyes wide. “What the heck—?”

“Sorry!” I said cheerfully, dragging my tray up. “Just remembered I needed to—uh—talk to Andrae. Urgently. Something about... student council... forms.”

“That was rice,” Andrae mumbled around his mouthful.

I yanked him by the wrist and dragged him out of the cafeteria like he owed me money and I was a debt collector from a soap opera.

We burst through the double doors into the hallway, and I turned on him with all the wrath of someone who almost had their secret mutual crush revealed over fried chicken.

“What. Is. WRONG. With. You?!”

Andrae wheezed, still chewing. “You assaulted me... with food.”

“You nearly exposed me in front of her!”

He finally swallowed, then grinned. “Oh, so it’s true?! She did confess?”

I covered my face. “I literally called you and besides she was drunk. She doesn't remember.”

He stared at me, eyes wide. “She doesn’t know?”

“No.”

He blinked.

Then—

He laughed.

Hard.

“Dude! That is hilarious! She confessed, you caught feelings, and now she’s clueless?!”

I groaned, slumping against the wall.

He patted my shoulder. “Honestly, that’s kind of poetic.”

“It’s kind of a bangungit for me.”

He grinned. “So what now? Maghiihintay ka na lang until she randomly remembers?”

“I don’t know,” I muttered. “I’m not gonna pressure her. She was vulnerable. I don’t even know if she meant it.”

Andrae gave me a look. “She meant it.”

“You didn’t hear her tone—”

“I didn’t have to. You did. And you know.”

I was quiet.

Because yeah.

I did know.

He leaned against the wall beside me, sipping his smoothie.

“So... does this mean you get to flirt freely now?” he asked after a beat.

I gave him a look.

He raised a brow. “What? You’ve got insider info now. She likes you. You could totally use that to your advantage.”

“I’m not going to ‘test’ her or manipulate her,” I said flatly. “I’m not a chair.”

He howled at that.

“Oh my God—she really said that? She called me a chair?!”

“Yup.”

“Iconic.”

He calmed down, then nudged me gently. “For real, though. Just... be patient. But also, don’t overthink. She clearly feels safe with you. That’s rare.”

I looked down at my hands. “I just wish I could tell her without messing it all up.”

He smiled. “Maybe you don’t have to say anything.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Maybe you just... show her. You already are.”

And for once?

Andrae wasn’t being annoying.

He was right.

—

When I came back to the table, Mikha blinked up at me, spoon mid-air. “Everything okay?”

I smiled, sitting down beside her.

“Perfect.”

She nodded and went back to eating.

Then her thigh brushed mine under the table, and she didn’t move it.

Didn’t even notice.

But me?

I was combusting.

And Stacey and Maloi were watching from across the table, eyes gleaming, already planning their next interrogation.

I had to bite my lip to hide the grin.

Because yeah.

I was so freaking gone for her.

But I had time.

And slowly?

So did she.

Chapter Text

Dismissal bell had long rung. Most of the hallways were already empty, the lazy golden hour stretching over the corridors like syrup, slow and warm. 

The noise of students chatting and calling dibs on front seats in carpools echoed faintly, gradually thinning as everyone found their rides or headed out to eat.

But I?

I was walking beside Mikha.

And to absolutely no one’s surprise but my own, my brain was fried.

Because all I could think about was Andrae’s voice from lunch still ringing inside my head like a cursed jingle:

“So you can flirt freely now, huh?”

It kept playing.

On loop.

Loud.

And you know what? Maybe the guy had a point.

Mikha did confess that night—sure, drunk and half-asleep—but I wasn’t making it up. I wasn’t imagining the little pouts or the deathly jealous mumbling or the part where she literally called Andrae a chair. (That line will live rent-free in my head forever.)

And while she may not remember it right now… I did.

Every word.

So what’s the harm in flirting a little?

Subtle. Smooth. Not enough to spook her. Just… enough to test the waters.

Maybe it’ll even help her remember.

She was beside me, humming under her breath while scrolling through something on her phone, oblivious to the fact that my entire internal monologue had gone full rom-com protagonist in a slowburn scene.

We were approaching the school’s open lot, that familiar row of cars and noisy student drivers trying to reverse like they weren’t being watched by a hundred other teens. 

The air was still warm, sun dipping lower, making the sky look like it had been brushed in orange watercolors.

And then I did it.

I slid my hand into hers.

Casually. 
Effortlessly.

Like we’d done it a hundred times before.

Which—spoiler—we hadn’t.

Mikha froze.

Mid-step.  
Mid-scroll.

I could feel her eyes on me even though I was staring ahead like I hadn’t just done something absolutely criminal.

“Uh…” she blinked, head tilting. “What are you doing?”

I looked at her, face blank. “Holding your hand?”

She blinked again. “Why?”

“Why not?”

“Because…” she gestured vaguely with her phone. “I don’t know? That’s not something we usually do?”

I raised a brow and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Don’t best friends hold hands?”

She squinted at me like she was trying to scan for a lie. “We don’t.”

“We could start.”

She looked down at our hands. “And weird mo.”

“Am I?” I asked, deadpan.

“Yes.”

“Okay,” I nodded. “Weird for holding my best friend’s hand. Got it.”

“You’re smirking while you’re doing it. That’s illegal.”

I broke into a grin. “Guilty.”

She looked at me with that soft little face she does when she’s trying not to be flustered—eyes blinking fast, nose wrinkling slightly, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. Very "Mikha.exe has stopped working."

“But like… why today?” she mumbled, still not letting go. “Why the sudden skinship?”

“Skinship,” I repeated with a laugh. “Grabe, ano tayo? K-drama leads?”

She blushed instantly. “I didn’t mean it like that! You know what I meant—this—this hand thing—”

“Hand thing?” I teased, amused. “It’s called affection, Mikha.”

Her face was red.

Not just blush-pink. 
I’m talking emergency tomato mode.

“Are you okay?” I asked sweetly, swinging our hands a little.

“Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“The swinging! And the—ugh! You’re so annoying today!”

I leaned closer. “But you’re still holding my hand.”

She immediately tried to let go but fumbled when her Yakult slipped from the crook of her arm. 

I caught it with my free hand like the universe said, “Nope. Let the flirting continue.”

“Smooth,” I whispered.

“Shut up.” she said through gritted teeth, snatching the bottle back.

But still—no hand was released.

I could see her overthinking. Her entire being was practically glowing from confusion and caffeine and whatever the heck she was feeling. 

And I wanted to frame her expression. 

The chaos. 
The soft panic. 
The little glances. 
The way she kept squeezing my hand like she was checking if this was real.

She walked faster now, clearly hoping distance would help her outrun her spiraling.

Too bad she was stuck with me.

We finally reached her car, and she turned toward me with narrowed eyes. “Are you going to stop this now or are you planning to follow me home and do my skincare too?”

I gasped. “You’d let me in your skincare routine? That’s so intimate.”

“AIAH.”

“Just saying. Best friends, right?”

She muttered something under her breath that definitely didn’t sound holy.

Still—I let go of her hand dramatically, gave a little bow, and climbed into the passenger seat.

Once inside, I adjusted the AC, buckled my seatbelt, and looked over.

Mikha?

Still standing outside.

Staring at her hand like it had betrayed her.

I rolled down the window. “You coming in or are you gonna keep standing there trying to mind-read your own palm?”

She blinked up at me, cheeks still very much pink. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

I grinned. “Maybe.”

She climbed in finally, grumbling under her breath the whole time, refusing to meet my eyes.

Once she started the car, I turned to her and said innocently, “Thanks for the ride, bestie.”

“Don’t call me that right now,” she groaned, resting her forehead against the steering wheel before sighing like she aged five years in three minutes.

And me?

I leaned back, smiling like a criminal.

Because mission: flirt test was a success.

She was flustered. 
She didn’t remember confessing. 
She didn’t know what I was doing.

But she let me hold her hand anyway.

And if that wasn’t the cutest thing I’d seen all week, I didn’t know what was.

I mean, sure—eventually, she might remember.

But until then?

I was going to have so much fun driving her crazy.

—

We’d only been on the road for five minutes and I could already tell Mikha wasn’t okay.

Not like... in a serious way.

More like: she was being so unbelievably cute and awkward it was physically painful to watch.

Her grip on the steering wheel was all over the place. One moment she was clenching it like she was racing in F1, the next she was barely brushing her fingers over the leather, hands drifting and twitching like they didn’t know where to rest.

She was biting her lip, her gaze flicking to the windshield, then to the side mirror, then to me—only to immediately snap back to the road as if looking at me too long might kill her.

And let me just say: this was a new kind of adorable I hadn’t seen before.

Sunlight filtered in through the windshield, catching on the edge of her hair, painting her in this stupidly golden glow. 

She looked like someone had bottled up joy and added too much blush and caffeine.

But that squirming?

The way her fingers kept twitching every time they got too close to the console between us?

I knew what it was.

So I leaned back casually in my seat, like I wasn’t already giddy just from being beside her, and said, “Do you... wanna hold my hand again?”

Her head did a double take so fast I thought she might get whiplash.

“H-huh?” she blinked, too many times for it to be legal. “No—I mean—what? Why would I—”

I shrugged. “Ang galaw mo kasi like very fidgety. I just thought maybe it would help.”

“I’m not fidgety,” she said immediately. Which was a lie, because her hand literally twitched on the wheel as she said it.

“Mikha.”

She glanced at me, her cheeks growing pink.

I tilted my head. “It’s okay kung ayaw mo.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t want—!”

I was already turning away dramatically, looking out the window like the most heartbroken soap opera character in existence. 

“It’s fine. Rejection hurts, but I’ll survive—”

And then.

Her hand SLAMMED on top of mine.

“Don’t be dramatic!” she burst out, eyes wide and flustered and so so red. “I-I just—I was driving! Hindi naman kita ni-re-reject or anything! That’s not—Ugh!”

I blinked down at our now-entwined hands. “So... this means yes?”

She groaned. “Just—Shut up and hold it properly, okay?”

I smirked. “Yes Meka Lem.”

And so we continued like that.

Driving down the late afternoon streets, sunlight dappling through trees, soft music playing low in the background—her hand in mine.

But every time we reached a stoplight or a turn, she’d let go for just a second—like it was some mandatory driving rule. 

And then as soon as the road straightened again, she’d immediately reach back, fumbling slightly before latching on again like she couldn’t go more than thirty seconds without it.

It was endearing. 
So endearing it made my chest ache a little.

And I swear she didn’t even realize she was doing it.

The whole time, her lips were slightly parted, brows furrowed like she was concentrating really hard on not crashing us into the nearest bakery, and I was just sitting there beside her, pretending like this wasn’t the best car ride of my life.

Every now and then, I’d sneak a glance at her. And every time, I’d catch her already glancing at me and quickly looking away.

At one point, I muttered, “You okay there?”

Her reply?

“I’m fine,” she squeaked, definitely not fine. “I’m just—just trying to be a safe driver. And not—like—not die. Or kill us. Or anything.”

“Valid goal,” I nodded. “Handholding really does increase survivability.”

She gave me the most offended side-eye. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet you keep holding my hand.”

She huffed, cheeks puffing, but didn’t let go.

We passed her favorite café, and I could feel her slow down a bit, eyes lingering on the little pastel signage.

“You want coffee?” I offered.

“I don’t trust myself with caffeine right now,” she muttered. “Not when you’re being all... this.”

“All what?”

“This!” she waved our joined hands like it was a crime scene. “You're so harot, Ayams!And calm. You’re too calm! I feel like I’m short-circuiting and you’re just... lounging in it!”

I blinked. “I am lounging. This is delightful.”

She growled under her breath. “Aiah, I swear—”

But then she turned into my street.

And I felt it again.

That little flutter in my chest.

Like we were really getting used to this. 

The rhythm of us.

And then, as she rolled to a gentle stop in front of my house, I noticed the tiniest pout forming on her lips.

Like she didn’t want to let go yet.

“Home sweet home,” she mumbled, hands still on the wheel, but her eyes... on mine.

I nodded. “Thanks for the ride.”

“No problem.”

I made no move to leave. Just watched her.

And she... she was squirming again.

Hand twitching.

Eyes darting from mine to the dash to my hand and back.

“Do you wanna...” she cleared her throat. “I mean. Nevermind.”

I leaned closer. “What?”

“Wala,” she blurted out.

I smirked. “You gonna miss me?”

“No!”

“Liar.”

“Shut up.”

“You are.”

She turned to glare at me and paused—because I reached out and gently squeezed her hand again.

“See you tomorrow, driver,” I whispered.

Her face broke.

Into the softest, cutest, most violently sunshine-filled smile I’d ever seen.

Like she was made of golden hour.

And maybe a little whipped.

“Get out of my car, Aiah.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I stepped out and closed the door, waving through the window.

And Mikha?

She waited until I was safely on the porch before driving off.

But not before I saw her press her hand to her face.

Still smiling.

Still blushing.

Still absolutely wrecked from a single handhold.

God, I was in trouble.

—

I had just finished brushing my hair when my phone buzzed beside my pillow.

Didn’t even have to check who it was. Alam ko na agad.

I’d been waiting for that message since I got home. Since I stepped out of Mikha’s car. Since I spent the entire ride replaying that very specific moment when her hand clumsily found mine—and just… stayed there.

I dove for my phone like it was instinct.

Meka Lem: 
did u finish reading your book?

I smirked as I typed.

Me:
yeah. it’s kinda boring though.
lots of words, no substance. sounds familiar?

Meka Lem:
hey! rude
i am substance

Me:
you’re chaos in a pink hoodie

Meka Lem:
okay but at least i'm cozy chaos
anyway
pls don’t roast me tonight
i’m tired

Me:
then why are you chatting me?

Meka Lem:
because you’re fun to talk to
and maybe i like annoying you
idk

I paused there.

That one made me smile.

She was being playful. Unfiltered. Just enough to make my heart do something weird.

Me:
aw
you miss me already?

Meka Lem:
wala akong sinasabi

Me:
you didn’t have to
it’s implied
especially after what happened earlier

Meka Lem:
what happened earlier

I chuckled.

Oh, come on. As if she forgot.

I pulled my blanket tighter around me and started typing again.

Me:
hmm. should I pretend to forget?
or remind you how you practically clung to my hand the entire ride?

Meka Lem:
what? hindi kaya

Me:
yes, you did. you held it, then let go
then hinawakan mo ulit
like it was part of your breathing process

Meka Lem:
okay you’re exaggerating

Me:
not really
i was literally just sitting there
minding my business
and your hand kept… migrating

Meka Lem:
it wasn’t on purpose

Me:
sure. your subconscious just loves me that much, huh?

And then… nothing.

For a while.

I could feel her short-circuiting through the screen.

Meka Lem:
i was just
i don’t know
it was there
your hand existing
not doing anything
so i thought like
would it be weird?
or rude?
or i don’t know?
because we were best friends right?

Bingo.

I grinned to myself.

Me:
so you did think about it?

Meka Lem:
i mean
a little
but not like in a weird way

Me:
define “weird”

Meka Lem:
like
not like
romantic weird
just normal weird
friendly weird
like hand-holding-for-support weird
not hand-holding-because-you-like-the-way-it-feels weird

Me:
you like the way it felt?

Meka Lem:
i didn’t say that

Me:
you kind of did
indirectly
and I’m not complaining

Meka Lem:
stop teasing me
it’s not fair

Me:
what’s not fair?

Meka Lem:
you being calm while I’m here
blinking at my screen
wanting to bury myself alive

I laughed.

Me:
you’re being dramatic

Meka Lem:
you’re being smug

Me:
a little. you’re just… really cute when you panic

Meka Lem:
i’m not cute
i’m in crisis

Me:
same thing

Meka Lem:
don’t twist my words

Me:
too late
already added them to my collection of “reasons Mikha might secretly like me”

My heart did a happy little skip as I waited for the next reply.

And there it was.

Meka Lem:
goodnight
you’re insufferable

Me:
and yet
you’re still here
talking to me

Meka Lem:
against my will

Me:
while voluntarily holding my hand in a moving vehicle earlier

Meka Lem:
okay okay FINE
i got flustered
and i panicked
and i didn’t want to be weird
but also your hand was warm and i wasn’t thinking properly okay

Okay.

That one got me.

I bit back a grin, kicking at the blanket like a thirteen-year-old with a crush.

Me:
thank you for your confession

Meka Lem:
stop it

Me:
you’re adorable

Meka Lem:
ang sama mo, ayams!

Me:
and you liked holding my hand

Meka Lem:
i’m logging off

Me:
goodnight, hand-holder

Meka Lem:
aiah

Me:
yes, sunshine?

Meka Lem:
i hope your charger breaks

Me:
ang specific naman
almost as if you’re trying to emotionally recover

Meka Lem:
whatever
i’m sleeping now
don’t dream of me

Me:
too late
already did
and in that dream
you held my hand again
willingly
for longer

Meka Lem:
BYE

Me:
goodnight, Mikha
sweet dreams
and don’t worry
I’ll let you hold my hand again tomorrow
if you ask nicely

And that was it.

No reply.

Just silence.

And me—grinning like an absolute idiot under my blanket, staring at the ceiling like I’d just been handed a secret the whole world wasn’t supposed to know yet.

I held the phone to my chest and whispered into the dark, “She’s starting to feel it.”

And Gosh, I hoped she never stopped.

Chapter Text

There’s nervous, and then there’s Final Grades Portal Is Loading nervous.

I was both.

Clutching my phone like it held the last string tethering me to sanity, I stared at the university portal with a tight chest and an even tighter jaw. 

Maloi and Stacey were flanking me at the bench near the gym like overly curious vultures, waiting for my reaction.

“Well?” Stacey tapped her own phone, brows raised. “We already checked ours. It's your turn, Aiah Arceta. Don’t keep us hanging.”

“Hinihintay ko mag-loading!” I hissed.

“Ba't ka kasi nasa school Wi-Fi,” Maloi deadpanned. “Mauuna ka pa atang mamatay kaysa mag-loading 'yan.”

“I need to mentally prepare,” I muttered.

“Need us to hold your hand?” Stacey offered with an exaggerated grin.

That made me flinch slightly.

Because the word “hand” brought one thing to mind.

Or more specifically—one person.

PDimpled smile. Ridiculous rambling in the car. And a clumsy, blushing hand that found mine during the ride home like it had every right to be there.

My face heated up just thinking about it.

I cleared my throat and pretended to focus back on my screen.

“HELLO?” Maloi shouted beside me. “Nag-b-blush ka?!”

“No,” I said quickly. Too quickly.

“You are,” Stacey leaned in. “You’re pinker than Mikha’s hoodie yesterday.”

I side-eyed them. “Would you shut up? I’m trying to check—”

And then it loaded.

Right there.

Green bars. All subjects.

PASSED.

“Oh,” I breathed.

“Oh?” Maloi blinked. “Is that a good oh or an ‘I’m about to cry and transfer to another course’ oh?”

I turned my phone around to show them. “All green.”

There was silence.

Then—

“AAAAAAAHHHHHHH!” they both screamed.

The three of us immediately erupted into squeals and chaos and pure unfiltered joy.

“I KNEW IT!” Stacey grabbed my arms. “I told you, didn’t I tell you? This semester didn’t stand a chance against us!”

“Let’s celebrate! Gusto ko ng milk tea after class!” Maloi shouted, hugging me from behind.

“I can’t believe I passed Quantitative Methods,” I whispered, still in shock.

“We passed everything,” Stacey said, still bouncing on her feet. “All of us. The streak is unbroken!”

We settled back onto the bench, laughter still spilling out. But I… couldn’t stop smiling.

Not just because I passed.

But because, well…

Hand.

Holding.

Yesterday.

Every time I remembered how Mikha’s hand kept creeping toward mine—then retreating—then finally grabbing it with all the panicked energy of a puppy realizing it stole something... I smiled even harder.

“You’re still smiling,” Maloi observed, narrowing her eyes. “Like… more than usual.”

“Yeah,” Stacey joined in, elbowing me. “You already got your scores. What’s making you all sunshine and daisies?”

“Nothing,” I said too fast.

Maloi raised a brow. “Aiah.”

I looked down at my hands.

I didn’t want to tell them.

But I also… kind of really did.

So I caved.

“Okay,” I started slowly. “Promise not to scream?”

They both leaned in like predators. “No promises.”

“Yesterday,” I began, “after school… Mikha drove me home.”

“Okay…?” Stacey prompted.

“And while she was driving…I don't know but I kept flirting and I tried to offer my hand and teased her. Babawiin ko na sana jokingly but,” I bit my lip, trying not to grin like an idiot. “She kinda… held my hand well I held her hands first but that's beside the point.”

Both of them froze.

Absolutely still.

Then—

“WHAT?!”

Maloi grabbed my shoulders, shaking me like a maraca. “Are you telling me that Mikha—the chaos fairy herself—held your hand?!”

“It wasn’t even once!” I said quickly, laughing now. “She held it, let go, held it again, then let go—like five times.”

Stacey slapped her thigh. “She was testing the water! Girl was nervous!”

“She was so cute,” I admitted quietly. “Like she didn’t even know what to do with herself. Her hand kept twitching. She was rambling. I asked if she wanted to hold mine, and she said no—but then she panicked and grabbed it.”

“I can’t believe we weren’t there to witness this,” Maloi muttered. “I would’ve recorded it. Posted it. Made a slideshow.”

“And I just…” I sighed. “I let her. I mean, I didn’t want her to feel weird. I just… kinda went with it.”

Stacey raised a brow. “You went with it?”

“Okay fine,” I admitted, smiling guiltily. “I liked it. I wanted it.”

“So you're actually flirting now?” Maloi asked. “Like… openly?”

I hesitated. “I mean, technically… I just nudged things a little. Subtle. Andrae kinda gave me this dumb idea yesterday... triggering her memory through flirting.”

“You used the Andrae Flirt Plan?” Stacey gasped.

“I didn’t mean to!” I defended. “I said I didn’t want to manipulate her, but then… her hand just—okay! I accidentally manipulated her.”

“You emotionally nudged a very cute hand into yours,” Maloi said smugly. “We forgive you.”

“I feel bad na tuloy,” I sighed. “But also, like... not that bad.”

They laughed.

And then the universe, in all its dramatic timing, decided to gift us with him.

“Speak of the devil,” Stacey muttered, nodding behind me.

Andrae.

Walking toward us. Paper cup of taho in hand. His stupid smug smile already loading.

“Ladies,” he greeted. “Why does it smell like gossip and kilig here?”

“Because it is,” Maloi grinned.

Andrae raised a brow. “Oh?”

“She held Aiah’s hand,” Stacey said immediately. “In the car.”

Andrae’s mouth dropped open. “Wait—Mikha?”

Aiah-me nodded reluctantly.

“I knew it!” he shouted. “I told you! Flirt! Flirt and they will come!”

“Technically, I didn't flirt,” I said. “She made the first move.”

“Triggered by your presence,” Maloi added. “Because of the plan.”

“Still feels shady,” I muttered.

Andrae took a bite of taho and shrugged. “Love is war. Or psychology. Whatever works.”

“You’re the worst,” I said, but I was laughing.

“And yet… you’re welcome.”

“I didn’t say thank you.”

“You implied it.”

“I really didn’t.”

Stacey leaned in. “We should probably thank him. His trashy flirting strategy gave us this week’s serotonin.”

Maloi nodded solemnly. “We owe him a milk tea.”

“Ayoko ng milk tea,” Andrae said. “I want a front-row seat to the wedding.”

“Okay, relax,” I groaned.

He grinned. “Look at you though. You’re glowing. Like freshly charged LED.”

I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t hide the smile.

Because he was right.

I was already halfway down the cliff.

And I didn’t even want a parachute.

—

It was one of those lunch breaks where everything felt brighter. 

Lighter. 

Like the cafeteria smelled a little less like overused oil and more like something tolerable. 

Maybe it was the relief of knowing finals were over. 
Maybe it was the thrill of seeing my name on the portal next to nothing but passing marks.

Or maybe it was because Mikha was sitting beside me again.

And this time?

I had a plan.

“So, lahat tayo nakapasa?” Colet asked with a grin, stabbing her fork into her chicken like it owed her something.

“Yup,” Mikha chirped, holding up her phone proudly. “Check this out. All green. Even ‘Media Ethics’ which I swore was my academic villain.”

“That’s because you emailed the prof a meme about journalism ethics the night before,” Jhoanna deadpanned.

“It was thematic!” Mikha argued, eyes twinkling. “He liked it!”

“In-attach mo kaya sanfinal paper mo,” Jhoanna added. “Tapos tinawag mo pang ‘meme-ment of truth.’”

Colet and Maloi burst out laughing.

“Oh my Gosh,” Maloi said between cackles. “Ang lala naman ng trip mk.”

Mikha looked proud. “And yet, I passed.”

She sat back in her chair with a little satisfied huff, popping a fry into her mouth and beaming like the sun had a human form.

And that’s when I did it.

While they were still laughing, still distracted by her chaos, I slipped my hand under the table.

And rested it on her thigh.

Soft. 
Light. 
Like it belonged there.

She froze.

I didn’t even look at her. 

Just kept chewing calmly, eyes on my food, acting like this was the most natural thing in the world. 

Like my hand wasn’t resting on the very thigh of the girl I’d been crushing on for months.

I could feel her heartbeat through her jeans.

And then—

She shifted.

Not much.
Barely. 
Like a little squirm. 
As if trying to breathe like a normal human being while also not causing a scene.

I turned to her slowly, putting on the most innocent voice I could muster.

“You okay?” I asked, tone feather-light.

Her eyes flicked to me, wide.

“I—I’m fine,” she said too fast.

I hummed. “You sure?”

“Y-Yeah. Totally. Just... yeah. Mainit 'yong food.”

“Malamig 'yung rice.”

She glared at me.

I smiled sweetly and looked back down at my tray, my hand still firmly on her leg. Not squeezing. Just existing.

She tried to shift again.

And I let her think she had a chance.

Let her move just enough to feel like she could escape my palm—before I gently slid my hand further down and caught hers instead.

She gasped.

Tiny. 
Barely audible.
But I felt it.

She tried pulling back, but I laced our fingers together.

She stilled.

I bit the inside of my cheek to stop from smiling.

God, she was so easy to fluster.

“Mikha,” Jhoanna called from across the table. “Okay ka lang? You look... tense.”

“Kinakabahan ka ba or something?” Colet asked. “You’re blinking a lot.”

Mikha gave a strangled little laugh. “No! I’m great. Super great. Just... happy. Because, you know. Grades. Life. Food.”

Stacey tilted her head. “You’re sweating.”

“It’s spicy chicken.”

“Plain 'yan.”

“It’s spicy in spirit,” Mikha snapped.

I choked down a laugh. Her hand twitched in mine but didn’t let go. I squeezed gently, brushing my thumb along the back of it, and I felt her soul leave her body.

She tried again, voice wobbling, “I’m just really happy, okay? The semester’s over. We’re all alive. Let’s just eat.”

“Sounds like someone’s hiding something,” Maloi sang.

Mikha shot her a look that said, If you say one more word I will personally erase you from existence.

Colet narrowed her eyes. “Wait. Is this because—”

“Nope!” Mikha said quickly. “Nothing. No reason. Life is good. Pass the ketchup.”

I leaned toward her, lowering my voice to a whisper. “Still okay?”

“You’re the worst,” she whispered back.

“You’re not pulling your hand away.”

“I’m trying.”

“You’re failing.”

“I hate you.”

I smiled. “No, you don’t.”

She groaned. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“Glad to be of service.”

Across the table, the others were back to bickering over whose prof gave the strictest grading rubrics. 

Jhoanna was trying to convince everyone that her thesis adviser was a demon in human form, and Maloi was arguing that no one suffered more than she did in Quantitative Research.

Meanwhile, under the table?

Mikha's palm was still in mine.

She kept letting go every few minutes, only to grab it again like she couldn’t help herself. 

Like the absence was worse than the embarrassment.

Like she liked it.

She didn’t say anything else about it. 

Didn’t call me out. 
Didn’t stop me.

And that, for me?

Was a very, very loud green light.

I leaned back in my seat, stealing glances at her profile as she focused very, very hard on not reacting.

Cute didn’t even begin to describe her.

She was radiant. 
A walking, talking bundle of sunshine and nerves and stubbornness. 
And every second I got to hold her hand—even under a table—felt like a tiny win in a slow, beautiful game.

Eventually, we finished eating.

She wiped her mouth with a tissue, avoiding eye contact, probably hoping no one noticed anything.

And honestly?

No one did.

But I did.

And when she finally stood up, cheeks pink, lips pressed tight like she was trying not to pout—I let go of her hand and whispered, “Thanks for lending me your hand.”

She looked at me, scandalized. “You stole it.”

“Binalik ko naman,” I shrugged.

“Thief.”

“Willing victim.”

She shoved me lightly as we walked out of the cafeteria.

But she didn’t deny it.

Didn’t say I was wrong.

And honestly?

That was better than any passing grade I could’ve gotten today.

Chapter Text

After everything—the teasing under the lunch table, the hand-holding, Mikha practically evaporating every time I leaned in—I didn’t expect her to walk off right after we left the cafeteria.

But I also didn’t expect to follow her either.

And yet… here we were.

I found her at our usual spot—bench under the shade of a large flame tree, the kind with falling orange petals that made everything look dreamlike. 

She sat like she owned the breeze, her legs tucked to one side, phone in hand, brows furrowed like she was solving national problems while doom-scrolling.

I didn’t say anything.

Just sat beside her.

Not too close.

But not that far either.

She looked up for a second. Met my gaze.

Then looked back at her phone with an obvious, “I’m unbothered” act that had liar written all over it.

I didn’t press. I pulled out my book, flipped to the page I left off on, and tried to focus.

Keyword: tried.

Because my thoughts?

Absolutely not cooperating.

I read the same paragraph five times.

My eyes were on the page but my brain was somewhere else.

Namely: When will she remember?

Because sure—she acted like she didn’t recall the clingy confession night. But that hand-holding? The constant glances? The way her fingers curled tighter around mine when no one was looking?

They weren’t accidents.

Not anymore.

And honestly?

Her lips had been looking very inviting the past few days.

(What the hell. Joke lang.)

...

(Kind of.)

I risked a glance to my side and—yup. There it was again.

She was looking.

That half-second of eye contact before she looked down at her screen again, biting her lip like it offended her to be caught.

I went back to my book.

Then—

Her shoulder brushed mine.

Subtle.

Barely.

But enough for me to feel it.

I didn’t move.

Instead, I let the words spill out of me calmly, like I wasn’t fighting the urge to grin.

“You keep doing that,” I said, eyes still on the page.

Mikha didn’t answer.

So I tried again.

“Stealing glances. Leaning in.”

She blinked at me. “Huh?”

I finally looked at her.

“You’re not being subtle, Mikha.”

She sat up straighter like she’d been caught smuggling government files.

“I’m just scrolling,” she muttered. “Mind your business.”

I nodded slowly, amused. “Your ‘scrolling’ involves a lot of leaning to the right.”

“It’s a comfortable position,” she said defensively.

“Ang laki kaya ng bench,” I pointed out, tapping the space on her side. “Like, a full kilometer of free space. Why is your knee touching mine?”

“I don’t know,” she said, very fast. “It’s a bench, of course uupo ako. What do you want me to do? Levitate?”

“Noted,” I murmured.

I turned back to my book.

Waited two seconds.

Three.

Then said, quietly, “If you want to hold my hand again, sabihin mo lang.”

I saw her freeze.

Just a flicker.

But I caught it.

I leaned in, lowering my voice to a whisper that only she could hear.

“You’re the third person this week to pretend like they didn’t want to hold my hand.”

She blinked. “What?”

I looked at her from the corner of my eye. “First was you. Yesterday. In the car. Earlier at lunch—well I was the one who insisted that—Now you’re back at it. Round three.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Don’t lie,” I said, not unkindly.

Then I flipped the page in my book and added, “My hand’s right here. Feel free to hold it again… if you have the courage.”

That shut her up.

I let the silence return. Pretended to read. Watched her from the edge of my vision.

She didn’t move at first.

But her fingers twitched.

She scratched her neck. 
Adjusted her bracelet. 
Fidgeted with the sleeve of her hoodie. Shifted her weight.
Cleared her throat.

I kept reading.

Like I wasn’t waiting for the inevitable.

Then—

Quick.

Almost clumsy.

Her hand reached over.

And grabbed mine.

Not gracefully.

Not gently.

But desperately.

Like she was snatching a lifeline before she lost her nerve.

I blinked.

Looked at her.

She was pretending to scroll again. Face turned slightly away. Lips pressed together like she was keeping a scream inside.

Her cheeks?

Bright pink.

Her fingers?

Squeezing mine like she had something to prove.

I said nothing.

Just held her hand back.

Gently.

Patiently.

And let her be the one who panicked this time.

She tried speaking once.

Stopped.

Then tried again. “Don’t say anything.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“I can feel you judging me.”

“I’m just here. Existing.”

She gave me a side-eye. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

I smiled. “A little.”

“You’re a menace.”

“And you’re touchy when you think no one’s looking.”

“Lies.”

“Receipts.”

I raised our hands slightly, shaking them in the air for a second.

She groaned and tried to pull away, but I didn’t let her.

She sighed.

But she didn’t really try again.

I looked at her, really looked, and something inside me tightened in a way I couldn’t explain.

Because the Mikha beside me?

Was adorable. Flushed. Fidgety. Dramatic.

But she was also holding my hand like she didn’t want to let go.

And I was starting to think—

Maybe she really didn’t want to.

/

The afternoon sun was soft on our skin, just enough warmth to make the quiet feel comforting instead of lazy. 

I was still seated beside Mikha, our fingers loosely tangled together in a hold that was—at this point—impossible to call an accident.

We hadn’t talked about it.

She didn’t say anything when she grabbed my hand earlier.

I didn’t either.

But here we were.

Sitting on a campus bench, pretending we were best friends just casually holding hands in public… as if her thumb wasn’t brushing the side of mine every now and then like it had its own heartbeat.

I tried to keep my eyes on the book in my lap. I’d been reading the same paragraph for fifteen minutes.

Because how the hell was I supposed to focus when Mikha kept shifting beside me? Like she was trying not to look at me—but definitely looking at me.

And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t noticing the way she kept scooting closer, her knee brushing mine. At first, I thought it was nothing.

But now?

Now her entire leg was basically glued to mine.

My chest? Not normal.

Then—

“Yo! Aiah!”

That deep, too-confident voice cut through the peaceful bubble like a knife.

I looked up—and there he was.

Andrae. Black polo, watch flexed, that annoyingly charming smile plastered on his smug face as he approached like he was the star of some indie rom-com.

Of course, he saw our hands immediately.

Of course, he raised a brow.

But then he looked at me—just me—and I caught it.

That tiny flash of something behind his eyes. 

The smallest twitch of his brow. 

That look that said, ‘Sumunod ka na lang. I have a plan.’

I stared back.

He tilted his head, still grinning. “Coffee?”

My stomach dropped. I already knew what this was. 

He told me. “Flirt with her a little. Do something to test her. See if she’s feeling anything at all.”

And I told him I wouldn’t manipulate Mikha. I swore I wouldn’t go that far.

But I was also dying to know what she’d do.

Well the first plan worked which is the holding hands and now...

So maybe… just maybe...

“Sure,” I said slowly, standing up, pretending to be casual. “Why not—”

Only I didn’t get to finish.

Because Mikha’s grip on my hand tightened. Hard.

I turned, and there she was—still sitting—staring up at me like I’d just committed high treason.

“Just stay here,” she said, voice quiet but very firm. Her hand wouldn’t budge. “Don’t go.”

My brain short-circuited.

She wasn’t even pretending. 
She wasn’t trying to be chill or normal or best-friend-coded. 

She was holding onto me like it was life or death.

I blinked. “It’s just coffee—”

“You’re not free,” she cut in quickly, staring at Andrae now. “She’s not going.”

Andrae laughed, folding his arms. “Uh… she just said yes.”

“No, that’s just your hallucination,” Mikha said with a straight face.

Andrae’s eyes practically sparkled.

“Oh?” he said, oh-so-smug. “So you’re telling me what she can and can’t do now?”

“I’m telling you she’s not going anywhere,” Mikha replied, standing up beside me. Still holding my hand.

Still not letting go.

I didn’t dare breathe.

Andrae glanced at me, then at our joined hands, then back at Mikha—grinning like a winner already.

“Well,” he said, trying to suppress a chuckle. “Looks like someone’s a little territorial.”

“I’m not territorial,” Mikha snapped.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Andrae sang as he turned, already walking backward. “I’ll leave you two alone then. Enjoy your ‘friendly’ hand-holding.”

And then he winked at me—like a proud mom watching her kid take their first steps.

Plan: successful.

When he was finally out of earshot, I looked down at Mikha.

She was still holding my hand.

Still glaring at nothing.

Still pink in the ears.

“You okay?” I asked softly.

She scoffed. “He’s annoying.”

I hummed. “You didn’t have to scare him off.”

“I didn’t scare him.”

“Right. You just claimed me like a winning prize.”

She went silent.

Then finally—

“...He was being weird.”

I bit my lip to stop the grin. “So you got territorial?”

“No,” she said too fast. “I just—he’s weird. And loud. And he walks like a math teacher who grades hard.”

I nodded. “Right. Totally about the walk.”

She avoided my gaze.

“You know,” I added, squeezing her hand a little. “You didn’t let go.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m just saying.”

“I said shut up.”

I smiled.

She didn’t let go.

And I wasn’t about to let her either.

—

The breeze had just begun to shift a little cooler, carrying with it the sound of the courtyard fountain and distant laughter from the underclassmen who still had classes.

But not us.

Mikha and I remained on that bench, still tangled in something neither of us was brave enough to name out loud. 

Her hand—still in mine.
Her shoulder now slightly leaned against mine. 

The occasional brush of her knuckle like static electricity under my skin.

Everything about her was gentle right now. But my heart? Anything but.

I thought we were done with surprises. I thought that was already the peak of today’s quiet chaos.

Turns out the universe had more.

A loud speaker crackled somewhere above our heads.

"All fourth-year students, please proceed to the gymnasium for an important announcement. I repeat, all fourth-year students, please proceed to the gymnasium."

I blinked.

Mikha sighed beside me, not even hiding her annoyance. "Do we have to?"

I shrugged, trying to be nonchalant. "Pretty sure they’ll mark us absent if we don’t."

I made a move to stand, already preparing myself for the inevitable moment where her hand would slip away from mine—where we’d act like nothing happened and resume our regularly scheduled best friend programming.

But that moment didn’t come.

Because she didn’t let go.

I froze.

I was already half-standing, our hands suspended between us like a secret.

Still holding. 
Still warm. 
Still not accidental.

I glanced down at her, brows raised.

She didn’t even look embarrassed.

Instead, she looked up at me, eyes soft, then smiled casually. "Let’s go, Ayams?"

And just like that—I was ruined.

Utterly, spectacularly ruined.

My lips twitched into a stunned grin as I stood upright and let her pull me forward by the hand. 

It was like she’d done this before. 
Like she’d done it a hundred times.

We walked across the open halls toward the gymnasium like that.

Hand in hand.

Like we weren’t hiding anything.

Like this was normal.

I could feel the way some heads turned as we passed. 

Whispers, stares—but none of them loud enough to reach us. And if Mikha noticed, she didn’t care. Her fingers were still laced through mine, her grip easy but sure.

And God, I was trying so hard not to blush like some high school tita in love for the first time.

The gymnasium doors were open when we got there. 

Students were still trickling in from different directions, slowly filling the bleachers.

That’s when we spotted them.

Colet. Jhoanna. Maloi. Stacey.

They were already seated near the front, waving like maniacs.

And then—they noticed.

I felt it before they even said anything.

Stacey’s jaw dropped. Jhoanna elbowed Colet so hard she nearly fell off the bleacher. Maloi full-on pointed.

All of them staring.

At our hands.

Still joined. 
Still obvious. 
Still right there.

Mikha didn't flinch.

She just walked us over, tugging me along like it was nothing. Like this was how it had always been.

As soon as we sat down, the teasing began.

"Excuse me," Colet leaned over with the fakest cough ever. "Hindi ba natin papansinin 'tong dalawa na 'to? Pumasok na parang mag-jowa, eh."

"Walang nagsabi sa'tin na merong mabibigyan ng hand-holding privileges ngayon," Stacey added, eyes sparkling.

Maloi leaned in from behind. "Need ba namin umalis dito para ma-continue niyo kung ano man 'yan?"

I opened my mouth to respond, but before I could defend myself, a microphone crackled at the front of the gym.

"Good afternoon, students," a teacher said, their voice echoing through the sound system.

Saved by the bell—or in this case, the announcement.

We all quieted down and turned toward the small stage up front, where one of the senior coordinators—Sir Felix—stood with a clipboard and a mic in hand, looking unusually chipper for a Monday afternoon.

“Now that most of you have officially completed your final requirements,” he began, “and since graduation is just around the corner, we have a little surprise for all of our hardworking fourth years.”

The entire gym perked up at the word surprise.

Stacey leaned toward me, whispering, “Kapag talaga PowerPoint party 'yan, I’m walking out.”

Sir Felix smiled. “On Wednesday—yes, this coming Wednesday—we’ll be taking you all on a special day trip.”

The gym exploded in cheers.

“Wait, what kind of trip?” Mikha asked beside me, eyes wide.

“I swear,” Colet muttered from a few seats down, “if alaga museum na naman—”

“Beach!” Sir Felix called out, grinning now. “We’re going to the beach!”

Louder cheers. Literal screams. Chairs rattled.

I blinked.

Beach?

Oh no.

I was gonna have to see Mikha in beachwear. 

How the hell was I going to survive that?

Mikha tugged my arm. “Aiah! Beach! Can you believe it?”

Nope. 
Not one bit. 
Couldn’t believe it.
Could barely breathe, actually.

“You deserve a break,” Sir Felix continued. “You’ve been through so much these past four years. Exams, performances, papers, sleepless nights. And before we send you off into the real world—or college life—we want to give you a chance to celebrate and relax.”

The cheering got louder again.

“Tomorrow,” he said, “you’re all excused from coming to campus. Use that time to pack, rest, and prepare. We’ll be leaving early Wednesday morning.”

I nodded slowly, half-processing.

“Assembly is at 5:30 a.m. sharp here at the gymnasium,” Sir Felix went on. “Don’t be late. Bring extra clothes, sunblock, snacks if you want, and whatever makes you comfortable. Lunch and drinks will be provided. You’ll be allowed to roam, swim, and enjoy, but of course—rules still apply. You’ll receive the full itinerary later today.”

“YESSS!” Colet yelled from beside us, already shaking Jhoanna’s shoulder. “We’re gonna go nuts!”

“I’m bringing chips,” Jhoanna added.

“I’m bringing waterproof eyeliner,” Maloi whispered, serious.

I laughed—but Mikha hadn’t let go of my hand once.

If anything, she was holding it tighter now. I glanced at her. Her eyes sparkled like she’d just been told we were flying to Paris.

“Did you hear that?” she said, turning to me.

“Yeah,” I nodded. “Beach.”

“I’m so packing tonight.”

“Need help?”

She blinked at me.

“I mean—like advice,” I added quickly. “What to bring. Like… clothes.”

Her gaze narrowed, amused. “You wanna help me pick clothes?”

My brain skipped several beats. “I just meant—I—never mind.”

She smirked, bumping her shoulder into mine. “You’re cute when you malfunction.”

I groaned and covered my face with our joined hands.

Our friends, meanwhile, were already plotting.

“Group pics. We need group pics,” Colet said.

“And sandcastle contest,” Jhoanna threw in.

“I’m bringing a beach ball,” Stacey declared.

Maloi looked at us and raised a brow. “You two better not sit out of this one.”

But the energy in the gym had shifted into full-blown excitement now. Plans were already forming. Bags would be packed tonight. Camera batteries charged. Beach playlists created.

And as Mikha leaned closer to whisper, “You’re not ready for how cute I’ll look in sunglasses,” I realized something:

I was not, in fact, ready.

At all.

—

Just as the noise started to settle—the kind of excited chaos where everyone was either mentally packing or already planning matching outfits—Sir Felix raised the mic again.

“Ah, before you all go wild—wait lang,” he said, pausing mid-smile. “There’s one more thing. Pahabol announcement lang.”

The gym quieted instantly. You’d think he said, “Pop quiz.”

“Originally, this was going to be a one-day beach trip. But after some adjustments from the admin…” He grinned. “We’re making it a three-day getaway.”

For a second, it was dead silent.

Then the entire gymnasium exploded.

Screams. Shouting. One guy even jumped out of his seat and fist-pumped so hard, his water bottle flew across the row.

Sir Felix was laughing into the mic now. “Yes! I said three days! You’ll be staying at a beach resort—transportation and accommodations covered. This is the school’s gift to you. You’ve earned it.”

Mikha froze beside me.

Like actually froze.

Her hand, still in mine, suddenly clutched tighter. Tighter than before.

I looked over at her.

Eyes wide. Mouth slightly open. Brain visibly buffering.

“Three days?” she whispered.

I nodded slowly. “That’s what he said.”

“Three. Days. With you.”

I blinked. “With… the whole class.”

“No, no,” she muttered, voice suddenly hoarse. “I need time to process this.”

I smirked. “You okay?”

“No,” she deadpanned. “I don’t even know what I’m going to wear for one day. Three?! That’s… that’s like twelve outfit decisions. Or more.”

I held back a laugh. “Are you panicking?”

“I don’t know what I’m feeling right now,” she said, shaking her head dramatically. “Excitement? Terror? Fashion stress? Hormonal confusion?”

“I think you’ll look good in anything,” I said, and immediately regretted it.

Mikha blinked.

I looked away.

She did look good in anything. 

Especially oversized hoodies. 
Especially when she laughed too hard and her eyes crinkled. 
Especially when she acted like she wasn’t aware of the chaos she caused in my brain daily.

Sir Felix continued, trying to settle the room again. “You’ll be staying two nights at the resort. There will be team activities, free time, and yes—you’ll get your own free day to roam and enjoy. We’ll send itinerary details in the GC later this afternoon.”

Maloi was already gripping Stacey’s arm. “Do you think na hahayaan nila tayong pumili ng roommates?”

“Duh, dapat lang,” Stacey hissed. “I’m not bunking with someone who still hasn’t figured out how to close their shampoo bottle.”

Jhoanna leaned over from behind. “Are you rooming with Mikha, Aiah?”

Before I could answer, Colet butted in. “Tinanong mo pa talaga.”

Mikha groaned, hiding her face in her hands.

“Ang iingay niyo,” she mumbled. “We don’t even know how they’ll arrange it yet.”

“Manifesting,” Colet said, closing her eyes like she was wishing on a shooting star. “You. Her. One room. One bed.”

“There’ll be two beds,” I deadpanned.

“I said what I said.”

Mikha nudged me hard. “Say something.”

I turned to her, dead serious. “We should coordinate outfits.”

She stared at me.

Then burst out laughing. “You’re not serious.”

“I’m always serious about looking good beside you.”

“Oh my God, stop.”

I grinned.

Sir Felix began to wrap up. “Again—no classes tomorrow. Use that time to pack, get your things ready, and inform your parents or guardians. Departure time remains the same—5:30 a.m. sharp on Wednesday here in the gym. Don’t be late.”

There was more cheering, more noise, and a few people already making plans in the corner.

But beside me, Mikha was quiet again.

Still holding my hand.

Still recovering from the idea of three whole days together.

I bumped her shoulder lightly. “Hey.”

“Hm?”

“You okay?”

She exhaled. “I think I need…a very large suitcase. And maybe a therapist.”

I laughed. “I’ll help you pack.”

“No, because you’ll pick all the crop tops.”

“Only the ones I want to see you in.”

“Aiah!”

“Kidding.”

(Sort of.)

Mikha groaned again, pulling her hood over her head like a turtle retreating into its shell. “I need to mentally prepare.”

“You have one day.”

“One day is not enough for what you do to my blood pressure.”

I smirked. “What was that?”

“Nothing.”

But she still didn’t let go of my hand.

And I didn’t even think about pulling away.

Wednesday couldn’t come fast enough.

Chapter Text

I woke up before my alarm.

Like way before.

As in, the sun was just barely peeking through the blinds kind of early. But my body wasn’t giving me a choice. I had a mission today—a very important one.

Operation: Rescue Mikha From Her Own Packing Disaster.

Because let’s be real. 

That girl? She could stare at an empty suitcase for three hours and still end up only packing two hoodies, five phone chargers, and maybe a banana.

And even if she’d act all annoyed once I got there, I knew she’d secretly want the help.

She just wouldn’t say it.

I took a quick shower, tied my hair up in the messiest ponytail I could manage, slipped on a hoodie and joggers, then grabbed my overnight duffle just in case. 

I threw in some essentials—chargers, snacks, my copy of that book she always teased me about reading.

Then I headed to the kitchen.

"Mom, Dad, aalis na ako!" I called out as I grabbed my car keys.

My mom peeked from the dining room. "So early?"

"Surprise mission. Don’t wait for me to eat lunch, ha. I might be there a while."

My dad looked over his newspaper. "Drive safe. And tell Mikha we said hi."

I grinned. "Will do."

But first—food stop.

Because if I was going to survive whatever chaos Mikha’s room looked like right now, I needed reinforcements. 

I parked by the nearest food stall and got a silog combo, garlic rice, sunny side up, tapa with iced coffee and a cold brew for myself because Lord knew I was going to need patience.

I plugged in her address, even though I had it memorized already.

The roads were clear. 

The morning breeze was still light and lazy, the kind that made it tempting to drive with your windows down and music a little too loud.

But I stayed focused.

By the time I pulled into their driveway, the sun was starting to rise properly, casting a warm orange glow over the street. Mikha’s house looked quiet. Too quiet.

I grabbed the bag of food and made my way to the door.

One knock. Then two. Then three, rapid and intentional.

After a few seconds, the door opened.

"Good morning po, Yaya," I said, smiling.

Her eyes lit up. "Ay, Aiah! Anak, ang aga mo naman."

"Mission critical," I whispered, holding up the cheese rolls like a badge of honor.

She laughed. "Pasok ka, pasok ka. Nasa taas pa si Mikha. Tulog pa, sa tingin ko."

I stepped inside, slipping off my shoes.

And then—

"O, Aiah?"

There he was.

Kuya Rafi.

Shirtless. Again.

Leaning by the kitchen doorway like some drama series love interest in the wrong show.

"Wow, surprise guest," he said, voice still thick with sleep, hair all tousled like he styled it that way on purpose. "Didn’t expect to see you this early."

I gave him the bare minimum smile. "Hi, Kuya Rafi. Morning po."

"Morning," he said, smirking as he sipped his coffee like he wasn’t casually being a walking thirst trap. "You here for my sister?"

"Yes po," I said, nodding politely. "She mentioned you were both home today. Tito and Tita left last night, right?"

He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused I remembered. "You two talk a lot."

I ignored that and made my way toward the stairs.

"I’ll head up, Kuya."

"Sure. Just don’t scream if you see her room. I already peeked earlier—looked like a hurricane passed through."

I laughed. "I’m emotionally prepared."

As I climbed the stairs, I could already feel that quiet hum of anticipation in my chest. This was going to be interesting.

I stood in front of Mikha’s bedroom door with a paper bag of food in one hand, the other poised to knock but… reconsidering.

There was no sound inside.

No footsteps. No rustling. No “go away” groan.

Nothing.

Which could only mean one thing: she was still asleep. At past 8 a.m.

This girl.

I gave the knob a slow twist. Unlocked.

Classic.

I pushed the door open with the caution of someone breaking into a wild animal’s den. 

The curtains were still drawn, her comforter a tangled mess over her unconscious body. Mikha Lim was lying diagonally on the bed like she paid rent for all four corners.

“Seriously?” I muttered under my breath.

I walked over to her desk first, set the food bag down, then turned to face the chaos on her bed.

There she was. 

Hugging a pillow like her life depended on it, mouth slightly open, one socked foot sticking out from the blanket like she needed to regulate her body temp mid-dream.

Adorable and absolutely useless when it came to mornings.

I bent down, placed my hands on her comforter, and whispered near her ear:

“Mikhaaa…”

No response.

“Mikhaaaa, love of my chaotic life…”

Still nothing.

Okay.

Time for escalation.

I stood back up, inhaled dramatically, and yelled: “GOOD MORNING, MEKA LEM!”

She shot up like she’d been electrocuted. “WHAT—HUH?!”

I bit back a laugh.

Her eyes were wide, hair sticking in five different directions, blanket still half-wrapped around her legs. She blinked at me, disoriented, her voice still half-asleep. “What are you—what are you doing here?”

I grinned and walked over to her bed. “You told me your parents left. Alam kong mag-o- oversleep ka. Alam ko rin na you take FOREVER to pack. So here I am—your guardian angel and part-time bully.”

She groaned and fell backward onto the mattress. “No. You’re not allowed to be here.”

I flopped onto the edge of the bed. “Too bad. I brought food.”

She blinked up at me, suspicious. “What kind?”

“Silog combo. Garlic rice, sunny side up, tapa. With iced coffee from your favorite stall.”

Mikha sat up like a corpse resurrected. “Okay. You can stay for now.”

I rolled my eyes. “Wow. What a privilege.”

She stood up sluggishly and padded to her bathroom while muttering, “I need to fix my face. You surprised me. My heart’s still recovering.”

“Take your time,” I called after her, then added, “But not too long. We got work to do.”

She waved me off and shut the bathroom door behind her.

I smiled to myself and headed back downstairs to heat the food.

By the time she came down, her hair was still slightly damp, but her face was awake now—mostly. She was in her oversized gray hoodie and tiny shorts. Her favorite breakfast-eating outfit.

We settled at the dining table, and lo and behold—Kuya Rafi was still there.

Shirtless.

Drinking juice like it was a protein shake commercial.

He spotted me and grinned. “Aiah. What a pleasant surprise.”

“Morning po,” I said politely, giving him a small nod.

“Still no boyfriend?” he teased, flexing subtly as he scratched the back of his neck.

“Still not looking po,” I replied sweetly.

“Should I take that as a challenge?”

“Kuya!” Mikha barked, glaring as she passed him a dishtowel. “Put on a shirt. Hindi ka naman main character sa teleserye.”

Rafi raised both hands in surrender, but winked at me before walking off to his room.

I just laughed quietly as Mikha settled beside me and dramatically scooped rice into her mouth.

“Sorry about him,” she muttered with a mouthful.

“I’m used to it.”

“He’s so annoying. You know he flirts with you just to piss me off?”

“Sounds about right.”

“Don’t encourage him.”

“I’m not,” I said with a grin. “But I kind of like seeing you defensive.”

She narrowed her eyes at me but didn’t reply.

We ate quietly for a few minutes. 
She kept bumping my leg under the table. Whether it was on purpose or not, I didn’t call it out.

When she finished her iced coffee, she stood up, sighing.

“I’ll shower.”

“You better. I am not packing your stuff while you reek of bed.”

“I don’t reek!”

“You kinda do.”

She glared at me before heading up the stairs.

I grabbed the plates and started cleaning up.

By the time I was done, I went back to her room and settled on her bed, waiting.

I laid down for a second and stared at her ceiling.

So far, so good.

Mikha hadn’t kicked me out.

She didn’t complain when I took over her house.
She let me feed her.
And she was still blushing whenever our knees touched.

I looked toward her bathroom door.

This trip?

It was going to be fun.
Really fun.

Especially if she kept letting me in—this way.

One little moment at a time.

—

Fifteen minutes into watching some random baking show on Mikha’s TV, I was already slumped sideways on her bed, throwing popcorn at the ceiling and missing on purpose.

This girl took forever in the shower. Like, world-record-breaking long.

I groaned, rolled off the bed dramatically, and wandered around the room in slow circles. 

Her room wasn’t messy, but it had that kind of organized clutter vibe that made it very… her. 

Books stacked beside her lamp. 
Two hoodies draped over her chair. 
A half-finished crocheted frog hat in the corner. 
A polaroid of her and Jhoanna stuck to her mirror with a sticker of a duck on top.

I smiled at the details, then wandered toward her desk.

The drawers weren’t locked.

Which meant… it wasn’t illegal if I opened one. Right?

I tugged on the top drawer.

Inside, there were some random pens, tiny receipts, old IDs, a pack of gum, and—

I paused.

A stack of folded sticky notes.

I knew those handwriting loops. 

That uneven spacing.
That little heart I always drew beside her name when I wasn’t thinking too hard.

Wait.

I bent down a bit, my heart thudding strangely in my chest.

I reached in and pulled out the small pile. Beneath the sticky notes were other things—those mini keychains I used to leave in her locker, a dried flower I snuck between the pages of her book one time, and even the dumb, cringey “Hang in there, Miss Mikha Lim” doodle I put Inside her locker.

She kept them.

All of them.

I sat back on her desk chair slowly, setting the stack down in front of me.

I was frozen.

I thought—she never reacted to them. She never brought it up. I genuinely thought Mikha didn’t care. That I was just being ridiculous for even trying in the first place.

But here they were.

Kept neatly. Protected. Like they actually meant something.

I picked up one note and read the dumb rhyme I wrote at 2 a.m.:

“Roses are red, violets are blue, You’re probably tired, but I believe in you.”

I cringed so hard I had to cover my face with both hands.

“Oh my gosh.”

I looked around like someone was going to walk in and arrest me for being a walking embarrassment. “Why did I write that. Why did I even—”

The bathroom door creaked open behind me.

I froze.

Then slowly turned.

There she was.

Mikha Lim, hair still wet, dressed in a plain white shirt and those soft navy shorts she always wore when she was at home. She was toweling her hair when she looked up—and paused.

Her eyes flicked between me and the open drawer.

And then she saw what I was holding.

One beat.

Two beats.

And then—

“Wow,” she said, arching a brow. “You’re a bit pakialamera pala, Ayams, huh?”

I nearly choked. “No—I mean—I wasn’t—You were taking too long and I was bored and—”

She started laughing. 
Like, real laughing. Her whole shoulders shaking kind of laughing.

“I’m joking lang naman,” she said through a smile, padding barefoot toward me. “Relax. Hindi naman kita papaalisin.”

I blinked up at her. “So… hindi ka galit?”

“Nope.”

I looked down at the notes again. “I thought you threw them out.”

Her expression softened a little. She leaned her elbow on the desk beside me and said, “I almost did. But… I don’t know. Something about them felt really personal.”

I stayed quiet.

She continued, picking up one of the keychains and turning it over in her hand. “I keep stuff. Not just Mystery Sender things. Even notes from classmates. Old movie tickets. A bracelet from a retreat. But these?” She smiled. “These felt different.”

I swallowed. “Different how?”

Mikha shrugged. “They came at the right times. Like, always. When I was stressed. Or failing. Or just having a really crappy day. And then boom—one of these would show up. I didn’t know who it was, but I remember thinking… this person really sees me.”

I pressed my lips together to stop myself from blurting out that was me, stupid.

“Do you… remember when it stopped?” I asked carefully.

She nodded. “Yeah. It was this random Friday. I looked at my bag and I started digging but nope, no gifts.”

“Did you feel anything?”

Mikha bit the inside of her cheek. “A little sad, maybe. I was used to it. Getting used to kindness is weird, you know? You never expect it to be permanent. But then I figured maybe the person had their own stuff going on. Or maybe…” she glanced at me with a teasing glint in her eye, “maybe she got a jowa and moved on to sending notes to someone else.”

I blinked. “Wait—she?”

Mikha smirked. “I always kind of thought it was a girl.”

I tried not to look like I was dying on the inside.

“Oh,” I said. “Any guesses?”

“I had a few,” she admitted. “But none of them felt right.”

I rubbed the back of my neck. “Sorry… I didn’t mean to snoop.”

Mikha nudged me with her hip. “It’s fine. You’re already inside my room and halfway to stealing my hoodies, what’s a little drawer-opening?”

I smiled at her, still feeling a little guilty, but lighter somehow.

Then she stretched her arms above her head. “Sooo… do we start packing now?”

I groaned dramatically. “Only if you promise not to take ten years choosing which clothes to bring.”

“No promises,” she said with a grin.”

“God help me.”

And with that, we started pulling out her closet.

Somewhere in between laughing over her ugly beach hat and fighting over which pair of shorts sparked joy, I glanced at the notes again—sitting quietly by the drawer.

She kept them.

And maybe someday, I’ll tell her.

Maybe not today.

But soon.

Because apparently, Mikha Lim? She does care.

More than I ever thought.

And I wasn’t done making her feel that. Not even close.

Chapter Text

Packing with Mikha was an event.

Like a full-blown, no-pause, battle-of-wits-and-chaos kind of event.

“First of all,” I said, holding up the gray hoodie she was trying to sneak into the suitcase, “this is not coming.”

Mikha gasped like I just slapped her grandmother. “You can’t be serious!”

“Pupunta ka sa beach, Mikha. The beach. Not Baguio. Not Antarctica. The actual beach. Where there’s sun. And heat. And zero hoodie justification.”

“Paano kung lamigin ako—?”

“You won’t,” I deadpanned, tossing the hoodie across the room. “If the sun fails you, wear your pride.”

Mikha groaned dramatically and flopped back on the bed. “Ayams, ang sama mo. That’s my comfort hoodie!”

I crossed my arms. “You have one goal on this trip: to wear less than three layers of clothing.”

“You’re starting to sound like Colet,” she pouted.

“That is the highest insult you’ve ever given me.”

We laughed, and I sat on the floor beside her suitcase again, sorting through her “essentials,” which, apparently, included: two books she’ll never read, one hair curler she doesn’t know how to use, and a squishmallow named Shrimpy.

“Mikha, we have three days. Hindi isang taon,” I said, holding up a third pair of sneakers.

She just shrugged while munching on chips. “What if there’s an emergency fashion show?”

I gave her a look. “Then you can walk barefoot and serve anyway.”

She grinned.

And then—

She stood up.

“Okay, okay, I’ll start picking actual beach outfits,” she said, heading toward her closet.

I didn’t think much of it.

Until she started pulling out… options.

And I mean actual, dangerous options.

“Okay,” she muttered, laying them on the bed one by one, “I brought my one-piece—super safe, mom-friendly. But also…”

She held up something very not mom-friendly.

“…this cute two-piece Colet gave me.”

I blinked.

Then blinked again.
My throat went dry.
My brain? A puddle.

I didn’t know which to process first—the fact that she even owned that, or the fact that she was holding it up like it was no big deal.

“Oh, and this one’s more chill,” she continued, tossing another top beside the others. “I was thinking I’d just wear a sports bra and shorts most of the time. But, like, if I’m in the mood… who knows?”

She turned to me, smiling. “Cute, right?”

I blacked out for a second.

“You’re going to wear that?” I asked, very calmly. Very politely. Very much like I wasn’t fighting for my life.

“Which one?” she asked sweetly, holding up the top again and turning it side to side. “This one? Or the one with the crisscross straps? That one makes my back look nice, sabi ni Jho.”

Oh my God.

This was a test.
This was karma.
This was me trying to make her jealous all week, and the universe finally cashing in.

“You’re seriously wearing that?” I said again, this time slightly higher-pitched. “In front of… people? Who have eyes?”

Mikha squinted at me. “You okay?”

“Me? I’m great. Just thinking about how many… sunscreen applications you’ll need. For safety.”

She smirked and dropped the two-piece onto the bed. “Ang weird mo.”

“I’m not weird,” I said, too fast. “I’m just surprised. That’s all. I mean—it’s not like you usually wear that kind of—um—thing.”

She flopped beside the bed again and shrugged. “Maybe I’m evolving. Or maybe gusto ko lang ng tan lines. Who knows?”

I stared at her.

At her smile.
At the way her hair was still slightly damp from her shower and the way she was just casually acting like she wasn’t emotionally wrecking me.

“So,” she said, eyes twinkling. “Which one do you vote for? One-piece? Two-piece? Or mystery girl at the beach in a plain sports bra?”

“I vote for a towel. A very large towel.”

She laughed, pushing my shoulder gently. “KJ.”

I didn’t reply.

Because my brain was too busy painting images I had no business seeing yet.

“You know,” she said, suddenly thoughtful, “I used to hate the idea of swimsuits.”

I turned to look at her. “Why?”

She played with the hem of her shirt. “I dunno. I felt weird. Like people would stare too much or I’d look awkward. But now? I kind of want to not care. Like… I want to feel good. Confident.”

That shut me up.

Because it wasn’t even about the two-piece anymore. It was about her.

And that part—the part where she was learning to like herself out loud?

That made my chest ache in a completely different way.

“Then wear it,” I said quietly. “Whatever makes you feel good. You’ll look amazing.”

She glanced at me, her smile soft this time.

“Thanks, Ayams.”

I looked away. “Stop calling me that when you’re being nice.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ll start thinking you mean it.”

She snorted. “I do mean it.”

And then she stood up again and walked toward the suitcase.

“Alright, we’re packing the cute one,” she announced, folding the two-piece and tossing it in with unnecessary flair. “Pray for the public.”

I muttered under my breath, “They’re not the ones who need prayers.”

She smirked at me over her shoulder. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” I said quickly. “Just… excited for the beach.”

She hummed and continued folding, throwing in cover-ups, extra socks, her skin care kit, and, of course, still tried to sneak in a hoodie when she thought I wasn’t looking.

I snatched it away again. “No hoodies. Final warning.”

“But what if—”

“Nope. If I see one hoodie on that beach, I’m burying it in the sand.”

She pouted.