Work Text:
Mayu's Pov
College was supposed to be about survival like the usual, passing exams, meeting deadlines, and trying not to drown in those invisible expectations. I thought my biggest problem would be making it to a 7am class without falling asleep, but then I met Ariah Arceta and suddenly everything felt different— like my life had quietly shifted without me asking for it.
Ariah was everything I wasn't. She was carefree, loud, effortlessly approachable. She had a lot of circle friends than mine. People gravitated towards her like she carried her own sun. And maybe she did. But behind that bright smile, I noticed the cracks like the way her eyes dimmed for a second when she thought that no one was looking, the way her hands fidgeted when she was stressed.
It was our second week of sophomore year. I was running late to a GenEd class, clutching my iPad and some of my things while half-jogging up the stairs. When I entered the room every seat was filled except for the one beside her. She looked up, then smiled but not that kind of forced smile people give out of politeness, but the kind that felt like a warm sunlight sneaking into the room. I froze for a second, and then awkwardly slid into the seat.
"Hi" she said, her voice soft but sure, as if she already knew people would listen.
"Uh.. hey," I replied, too aware of how awkward I sounded.
That was it. A simple 'hi' but it was enough to lodge her existence into my mind.
The next time I saw her was different. It wasn't in a room, not in a middle of the crowd, not with her friends either.
It was late night evening. I had stayed in the campus longer than usual, buried in a project in the library. By the time, I finally packed up, the hallway were quiet, the usual noise of students long gone. My iPad was tucked under my arm, stylus clipped neatly to its case, and I scrolled through my notes as I walked toward the back exit.
That's when I caught sight of her.
Ariah was leaning against the wall in a dim corner of the courtyard, the kind of spot you'd miss if you weren't paying attention. A faint glow lit up her face — not from a phone screen, but from the cigarette between her fingers. Smoke curled lazily in the air, dissolving into the yellow spill of the street light above her. She looked... drained. The sharp edges she usually carried in daylight had dulled. her expression shadowed with exhaustion.
I stopped in my tracks. Not because smoking was shocking itself, but because it was her . Ariah Arceta, the girl with good grades, have a lot of friends, who's always composed — suddenly looked fragile, caught in a moment that wasn't meant for anyone else to see.
She looked at me. For a brief of second, something like panic flickered across her face. Then it was gone, replaces by that practiced smirk, like an armor sliding back into place.
"Oh, I've got caught" she said lightly, though her voice carried the tired lungs. "Don't tell anyone, yeah?"
I didn't fumble or blush like I probably would've weeks ago. Instead, I shifted the iPad in my arm, glanced at the cigarette, then back at her. My heartbeat betrayed me, yes, but my voice came out steady, almost detached.
"Your secret's safe with me, don't worry" I said simply.
Her mouth curved into that crooked smile I'd only seen from a distance. "Thanks, uh — Lim, right?"
She remembered me. That small detail registered deeper than it should have, like quiet spark in my chest.
"Yeah, " I answered with a small nod.
She took another drag, exhaled slow, smoke dissolving into the night. Then, almost to herself, she laughed. "Cool, then I guess you're officially my accomplice now."
I tilted my head slightly, studying her — the cigarette, the fatigue in her eyes, the way she seemed both herself and a stranger at once. I didn't say much else. I didn't need to. Sometimes silence carried more weight than words.
I didn't know it then, but that night marked a shift. The first crack in the distance between us. The first thread that would eventually tie me to her, quietly, and unshakably — no matter what.
After that night, things just… shifted. We weren’t suddenly best friends or anything, but she started acknowledging me more, like I’d been upgraded without even asking. A small wave in the hallway, a “see you” after class, sometimes even sliding into the empty seat next to me instead of her usual crowd.
I wasn’t used to that kind of attention. Ariah had a world of her own, and I’d never been in its orbit before.
It started with study sessions. She’d drag me to the café across the street from campus, coffee cups and highlighters scattered across the table. She wasn’t exactly the most focused person, but she tried, and I—well, I had everything neatly laid out. Notes on my iPad, files backed up on my drive, summaries ready to go. I’d tease her for being disorganized, and she’d tease me back for being lowkey obsessed with organizing everything.
But then there were the small things.
The way she’d absentmindedly twirl her pen when she was trying to memorize something. How she’d lean closer to peek at my notes, her hair brushing my shoulder, smelling faintly of coffee and perfume. The way she’d sometimes look at me mid-sentence, as if I was the only person in the room who mattered.
It was in those moments I started noticing the shift inside me. A pull I couldn’t ignore.
And then, little by little, she started calling.
Sometimes it was about school.
“Mayu, you awake? Can you help me review? I really can’t get this.”
I’d be half-asleep already, eyes heavy, but I’d sit up, laptop screen lighting my face. I’d walk her through formulas, key terms, or whatever it was she couldn’t wrap her head around that night. She’d sigh, sometimes laugh at her own mistakes, and I’d smile silently on the other end, thinking there was nothing sweeter than hearing her voice in the stillness of 2 a.m.
But more often, it wasn’t about school at all.
“Hey, can you come with me? I don’t feel like going home yet.”
And I would go. Always. Even if I was tired. Even if I had a deadline. Even if it meant waiting outside her building until she finally walked out, her hair a little messy from the day, her smile faint but still there. She never asked twice. She didn’t have to.
There were nights we’d just sit in my car, not even talking much. She’d scroll on her phone, head leaning back against the window, and I’d steal glances at her like I was memorizing constellations. The shape of her lashes, the little crease on her forehead when she thought too hard, the way she always cracked her knuckles when she was nervous. I knew her rhythms—the way her mood shifted by the tone of her hello, the way silence meant she wanted company more than conversation.
I told myself it was just friendship. That’s what friends did, right? They showed up. They listened. They made space. But somewhere between her laughter spilling across our study tables and the quiet hours where she fell asleep mid-rant, phone still in her hand, I realized I wasn’t just being her friend anymore.
I was orbiting her completely.
She’d call me after bad days—voice trembling, but never fully breaking. “Can I just… stay with you for a while? I don’t need to talk, I just don’t want to be alone.” And I’d let her sit in silence, no questions asked. Sometimes I’d hand her my hoodie because she always got cold, even in the middle of summer. Sometimes I’d buy her ice cream on the way, because I knew she's a sweet tooth and food always made her feel better.
I memorized her without even meaning to. I knew her favorite drink to order before she even placed it. I knew which songs she skipped on her playlist, which streets she avoided because they reminded her of someone she once cared for, which bench in campus she liked because “mas presko rito.” She never had to explain, she just had to exist, and I know it all too well.
I became her one call away. Her safety net. Her silent witness.
And truthfully, I didn’t mind. Because every time she reached for me instead of someone else, it felt like choosing. Even if I knew, deep down, I knew she wouldn't see me in that way. But maybe, just maybe, I was the constant she never even realized she had.
Third-person POV
Over the years, nothing changed.
Mayu stayed. Through crammed all-nighters, Ariah’s breakdowns before presentations, and even those quiet nights where Ariah just needed someone to sit with her in silence. She was there. Always there.
When Ariah fought with her parents, it was Mayu she called. She’d find her curled up on the dorm bed, eyes red, trying to hold it all together. Mayu never pried, never forced words out of her. She just sat beside her, handing her a glass of water, letting Ariah cry it out until her breathing evened. Then, softly, Mayu would say something like, “ You’re not alone, Ariah. Not when I’m here.”
When Ariah failed a quiz she swore she had studied for, it was Mayu who drove them out at midnight, buying her strawberry ice cream from a small convenience store, the two of them sitting on the hood of Mayu’s car under the faint glow of the streetlights. “It’s not the end of the world,” Mayu said, spoon in hand. “You’ll do better next time. I know you will.” And Ariah smiled at her through tears, the kind of smile that made Mayu think: this is enough. Just being the reasoned she feels lighter.
Mayu carried her like gravity, soft, invisible, constant.
Even after college, when the weight of adulthood settled in like an unshakable shadow, Mayu remained the same. She’d pick up the phone at 2 a.m. when Ariah whispered, “I just need to get away, can you come?” She’d drive across the city, hair messy from sleep, heart steady with a kind of loyalty no one asked of her. Ariah would sit in the passenger seat, silent at first, staring out the window as neon lights flashed past. And Mayu, calm as always, would let the silence stay, because sometimes presence was louder than words.
And then, one day, Ariah got a boyfriend.
She told Mayu about him over coffee, cheeks flushed in a way Mayu had never seen before. “He’s name is Keanu. He’s really sweet, Mayu. You’ll like him.”
Mayu smiled, because what else could she do? She said all the right things, “I’m happy for you. He seems nice.” She even teased her about it, nudging her shoulder playfully and laughing along like it didn’t sting. And she meant it, at least partly. Because Ariah deserved happiness. Because Ariah deserved someone to hold her hand openly.
But that night, lying in bed, Mayu stared at the ceiling until her eyes burned, a quiet ache lodged deep in her chest.
Still, she stayed.
She stayed when Ariah’s boyfriend canceled on her, ditching a planned dinner for ‘something urgent.’ Ariah’s voice had cracked on the phone when she said, “Are you free? I just don’t want to eat alone tonight.” And of course, Mayu came. She sat across from her in a dim café, listening as Ariah ranted, her hands waving as she spoke, frustration spilling from her like a broken faucet. Mayu laughed at the right moments, said the soft words that mattered: “You deserve better than someone who forgets you.” By the end of the night, Ariah’s shoulders had loosened, her laughter ringing across the table. She smiled at Mayu like she was home. And Mayu smiled back, swallowing the whole truth.
She stayed when Ariah vented about their fights, pacing back and forth in Mayu’s apartment, voice sharp with anger. “Why can’t he just listen? Why does it feel like I’m always the one giving?” Mayu sat on the couch, patient as ever, calm eyes following her movements. She gave advice she didn’t always want to give, words that sometimes cut her too: “Maybe he just doesn’t know how to love you the way you need. But you’ll figure it out. You always do."
She stayed when Ariah was stressed at work, shoulders sagging under the weight of deadlines and pressure. “I’m so tired, Mayu. I don’t think I can do this anymore.” Mayu would take her hand without a word, leading her into the car, driving through the winding roads up to the high places in Manila where the city stretched endlessly below them. They’d sit on the hood of the car, fries and soda between them, the cool night air brushing against their skin.
Ariah would lean back, hair brushing Mayu’s shoulder, letting out a sigh that sounded like surrender. And Mayu would glance at her, at the glow of the city reflected in her tired eyes, and whisper so quietly the wind could almost steal it away—
“Sana ako na lang, Ari.”
But Ariah never heard it.
They fought sometimes, too—not because of anger, but because of distance. Once, after a long day, Ariah snapped at her, “Why are you always here, Mayu? Don’t you have your own life?”
It cut deeper than she expected. But Mayu only shrugged, calm as always, and replied, “Maybe you just don’t notice, but you’re my life too.”
Ariah froze at that, guilt flickering across her features. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, unable to form words. Mayu smiled like it didn’t hurt, like it wasn’t the truest thing she’d ever said. She changed the subject before Ariah could answer.
Years passed, but the roles stayed the same. Ariah laughed and cried and broke and healed, and Mayu was always in the background, catching, steadying, loving.
Because she loved her. Not in the loud, reckless way movies told you love should be, but in the quiet sacrifice of choosing someone else over yourself. In memorizing someone so completely that they became your compass. The way Ariah chewed her straw when she was anxious, the way she tilted her head when confused, the songs she skipped on playlists, the exact coffee order she needed when she was stressed. Mayu carried all of it, written on her heart like scripture.
And in the quiet spaces of her mind, Mayu carried the questions she never dared to voice.
What if I confessed? What if I took the risk? What if I was brave enough to tell her I’ve always loved her?
But she never did.
Because being part of Ariah’s life, even if it meant always being the second choice, even if it meant being the quiet presence she took for granted while someone else held her heart, was enough. Just to be there when she cried, just to catch the pieces she let fall, just to offer a shoulder when the world refused to stop hurting her, that had to be enough. She was always the one who stayed, the one who loved in silence, the one who never won, the one who got hurt quietly while the story went on around her. The nice character who always lost in the game of love, but still played anyway.
Or at least, that was what she told herself, clutching the lie so tightly that admitting the truth, that it would never be enough, that she would never be the one Ariah chose openly, would have shattered her completely.