Chapter Text
Mikha often wondered how anyone was supposed to find peace in absolute chaos.
Shouting board members.
Endless emails.
Crushing expectations.
She didn't think it was possible.
Being the youngest meant watching her older siblings build their own lives elsewhere, leaving no one but her to carry the family legacy. At first, she told herself it was for them. Mikha genuinely believed it was her duty. Her obligation. But compliance hadn't brought happiness. It only suffocated her.
She desperately needed a breather, a complete escape from her stifling existence in Manila. So, she had packed her bag, fueled up, and set out on a grueling thirty-six-hour road trip to Lapu-Lapu, Cebu.
"Is this you, Aiah?" Mikha asked over the phone, her voice trailing off in uncertainty.
"Mikha!" Aiah practically shouted, her voice bursting through the speaker with uncontained excitement.
Mikha slowed the car. Standing by the side of the road was indeed Aiah, looking effortless in a white halter top and cream linen trousers, her hair held back by a tortoise-shell claw clip. Mikha rolled down the window, leaning over to push the passenger door open. "Sakay."
Aiah hopped into the seat and immediately pulled Mikha into a tight hug. Mikha froze, unused to that kind of genuine affection. But because it was Aiah, Mikha let her guard drop and relaxed into it.
The warmth of it carried her back to the summer of 2018—when fourteen-year-old Mikha Lim felt like an alien in a coastal paradise. Her father, a businessman with interests in real estate, had dragged their family to an island in Cebu for what he initially promised would be a month-long "working vacation."
While her father remained busy meeting with local developers, Mikha was left to navigate the slow-moving days on her own. She was a city girl through and through—used to towering malls, high-speed internet, and the constant hum of traffic. In that quiet island, there was simply too much blue and far too much stillness.
It was one Tuesday afternoon when the restless boredom finally became too much to bear, driving Mikha down to the shoreline with nothing but her Fujifilm X-T2 for company.
That was when she saw her.
Aiah, seventeen then, standing knee-deep in the crystal-clear water, helping an older man guide a brightly painted boat toward the sand. The sun on the water made everything look dreamy and Aiah stood right in the center of it.
Click.
The shutter sound was tiny against the lapping waves, but Aiah looked up instantly. She squinted against the glare, spotting the girl in the expensive white sundress standing awkwardly on the dry sand.
"Ali" Aiah called out, waving broadly overhead. (Come on!)
Mikha just stood there. Aiah laughed—a light, musical sound—as she jogged out of the water toward her.
"Sabi ko, 'tara'!" Aiah said, a playful glint in her eyes.
Mikha hesitated, her thumb hovering over the playback button on her camera. "I'm just taking photos."
"The best view isn’t from back here. If you want a real photo, you have to get closer," Aiah said, pointing out toward the water. Sensing her hesitation, Aiah took a half-step closer, the warmth in her expression never wavering. "I'm Aiah, you're the one from the big house, 'no?"
"Yeah, Mikha," she managed to say, slowly being disarmed by Aiah's easy energy
"Well, Mikha," Aiah said with a playful tilt of her head, "If you promise not to drop that fancy camera of yours, I’ll show you where the light hits the waves just right."
Aiah turned around and started walking. Mikha looked down at her sandals, then at Aiah's sun-browned, sandy feet as they moved. Without another word, Mikha stepped forward, trailing behind the girl who had managed to do the impossible: make her forget, for a moment, how much she wanted to go home.
That month became a series of firsts for Mikha: her first taste of puso peeled by Aiah herself, her first courageous jump off a boat, and her first time riding a habal-habal as it sped along the bumpy coastal roads. Mikha, in turn, showed Aiah the world through her lens, sharing stories of life in Manila that seemed like a fairy tale to a girl who had never left the island.
One month had unexpectedly stretched into an entire year, and eventually, the time came for them to return to Manila.
"You'll forget about this place once you're back in the city," Aiah had said quietly on their last night.
"I won't," Mikha promised, her voice sharp with conviction.
And she didn't. Over the next six years, their friendship lived through screens. When the pandemic hit in 2020, the connection deepened. They perfected the art of "being there" without actually being there—staying on video calls until three in the morning, sharing comfortable silences, or playing whatever video game Mikha was currently obsessed with.
That remained their reality until now, when the weight of Manila finally became too much for Mikha to carry. She had decided to leave and escape back to Cebu—back to Aiah.
"How was the drive?" Aiah asked, pulling back from the hug.
"Tiring, but peaceful," Mikha admitted with a small, lopsided smile.
"Was it really thirty-six hours?" Aiah tilted her head, clearly trying to calculate the timeline from the very first text Mikha had sent before leaving Manila.
"Yeah. Twenty-three hours of driving, six hours on the ferry, and another seven just waiting at the pier or at rest stops," Mikha detailed, the numbers sounding even crazier now that she was saying them out loud.
Aiah's eyes widened in disbelief. "You drove all that way alone? Grabe ka"
"Have you seen anyone here aside from me?" Mikha joked, glancing at the empty backseat.
Aiah let out a breathy laugh, shaking her head in disbelief. "Buang. You’re officially the craziest person I know. I can't believe you actually did it."
“It was worth it naman," Mikha said, her voice dropping into a quiet, steady tone that made it clear she didn't regret a single second of it.
"Kain tayo?" Aiah’s face brightened. "I’m sure gutom ka na. I know a place!"
"I am indeed hungry," Mikha admitted, shifting the car back into gear.
The drive was quiet, but unlike the last thirty-six hours, it wasn't lonely. Mikha kept her window cracked; the soft wind and the passing scenery of Lapu-Lapu unreeled like old memories.
"You know," Aiah said, suddenly breaking the silence, "when you texted me you were coming here, I really thought you were joking."
Mikha gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, her eyes fixed on the road. "I told you. I needed a breather."
"Well," Aiah leaned her head back against the headrest, "I'm glad you chose my city to breathe in."
Following Aiah’s directions, they finally pulled into a gravel parking lot of a well-known sutukil spot hidden just off the main road. The moment Mikha switched off the ignition, the weight of the miles finally caught up to her. She pushed her door open and stepped out onto the gravel, but the ground didn't feel solid. Her legs, violently numb from the long drive, buckled instantly.
She gasped, reaching blindly for the car door to steady herself, but caught a pair of steady arms instead.
"Woah, easy there," Aiah murmured, wrapping her arms around Mikha to catch her in a steadying hug. As they held each other, Aiah moved her hands flat up and down Mikha's back in a slow, comforting manner. "I've got you."
For a long moment, Mikha couldn't move. She surrendered, standing there on shaky legs. They hadn't even been together for an hour, yet this was already the second time she had been held. It was awkward, sure, but the urge to pull away never came.
When Mikha finally managed to find her footing, she pulled back just enough to look at Aiah, her cheeks slightly flushed. "Sorry," she muttered, looking down. "My legs completely forgot how to be legs."
Aiah offered a soft, understanding smile. "It's okay. You drove all the way here. The least I can do is keep you on your feet."
With their hands still anchoring each other, they took a coordinated step backward to get out of the way of the open vehicle. Aiah kept a firm, bracing hold on Mikha as she reached out and pushed the heavy car door closed. Only when the door clicked shut did Aiah shift a hand to the small of Mikha's back, guiding her inside.
The place wasn't the kind tourists usually flocked to. It was a simple, open-air spot filled with long wooden tables and the smoky aroma of grilled fish. Though it buzzed with chatter, the noise didn't feel intrusive. Once they claimed a table near the back, Aiah headed straight to the front, taking charge of the ordering.
Mikha simply watched her from a distance, absorbing the reality of her presence. To Mikha, Aiah felt different—older, more mature—yet entirely, beautifully the same.
Soon, a steaming bowl of tinuwang isda was placed between them, the aroma of ginger and lemongrass cutting through Mikha’s exhaustion. Alongside it was a stack of puso—a food she hadn’t seen, let alone tasted, in years.
"I can't believe I'm actually eating this right now," Mikha mumbled, still chewing.
"Remember when we used to pool our loose change together so we could buy and split them by the sidewalk?" Aiah recalled, giving Mikha a knowing look.
Mikha nodded with a tender smile. "Yeah. And I remember you always giving me the bigger half." She looked at the puso in her hand, her voice dropping to a whisper. "God, I missed this."
Aiah smiled, a slow, lopsided curve. She then pushed the steaming bowl closer to Mikha. "Higop ka," Aiah said, gesturing at the soup. "It'll help with the fatigue."
Mikha took a sip, the heat blooming in her chest. As the warmth settled, she watched as Aiah deboned the fish for her—just like she used to do when they were teens.
The conversation rolled on effortlessly as they ate; it was so natural it felt like they’d never been apart. But as the laughter died down, a brief silence took its place. That was when Mikha caught Aiah studying her.
"You've grown," Aiah remarked, tracing Mikha's profile.
Mikha knew she looked different than she did on a screen, which had hidden the sharp edges of her jaw and the weariness in her eyes.
"Yeah," Mikha replied. "Too early."
"I could tell you were busy... you know, doing important things." Aiah said softly.
"I was." Mikha’s voice dropped, a rare vulnerability slipping through. "And I grew tired."
"Then rest." Aiah said, reaching over to briefly squeeze Mikha's forearm.
Giving into the hugs earlier had been surprisingly easy, but this brief touch still held a power of its own. There was no agenda behind it. She knew Aiah's touch was just... Aiah.
Genuine.
Honest.
Nothing performative like the ones she used to get in Manila.
Yet, the moment Aiah let go of her arm, Mikha found herself stranded in the quiet.
Wiping her fingers on a napkin, Mikha abruptly stood up and stepped out from behind the long wooden bench, walking out to the gravel parking lot. Reaching into the cramped backseat of her Honda Prelude, she retrieved a familiar mirrorless camera—the exact one she had carried six years ago.
Walking back inside, she removed the lens cap and turned it on, slipping back into her spot at the table. Only when she was completely settled did she raise the camera, framing Aiah in the live view.
Aiah leaned forward, resting her forearms on the table. A smile broke across her face—her eyes crinkling into those soft, familiar crescents, and those small, distinct dimples appearing right along the lines of her smile.
Click.
It was the first picture Mikha had taken since returning to Cebu, capturing Aiah right there—in the blurred background of dining people, and the exact moment she was looking directly into her lens.
It was perfect.
And for the first time in years, the noise in Mikha's head finally went quiet.
Night had fully taken over Lapu-Lapu by the time they started the drive home. It was a quiet journey, filled only by the hum of the engine and the glances Mikha couldn't help but steal at the passenger seat.
Beside her, Aiah felt like the literal horizon. In her breezy halter top and linen trousers, she looked like she was made of the island itself. Her beauty wasn't something she put on; it was just there, in the way her sun-kissed skin seemed to hold the warmth of the day long after the sun had set.
Catching her own reflection in the side mirror, Mikha felt the sudden absurdity of her existence. She was a sharp contrast to Aiah—wrapped in low-rise bootcut jeans, a tight baby tee, and a structured leather jacket that felt far too heavy and too much like Manila.
"Left here," Aiah directed, pointing toward a gate draped in bougainvillea.
Before Mikha could even come to a full stop, Aiah unbuckled her seatbelt and hopped out of the passenger side to swing the gate open. Mikha rolled the car forward into the driveway, the tires crunching softly against the gravel before she killed the engine.
Getting out of the car, Mikha walked to the trunk and pulled out her camera bag and duffle bag. Behind her, Aiah slid the gate shut.
Aiah's house was a charming, modern bungalow tucked away just a few minutes’ walk from the shoreline. It wasn't flashy, but it was beautiful.
Mikha followed Aiah up the short pathway, the warm night air brushing against them. Aiah fished her keys from her pocket, the metal clicking softly as she unlocked the door.
"Welcome to my humble abode," Aiah said, swinging the front door open.
Inside, the space felt exactly like Aiah: open, warm, and effortlessly cozy. The interior was a beautiful mix of polished concrete and rich wood, with vibrant plants hanging from the walls. Polaroids and photostrips crowding the refrigerator, while mismatched picture frames lined in the shelves—candid shots of friends, laughter captured on beaches, and quiet family moments. The whole place felt lived-in. Alive.
Beyond the living area, wide glass doors opened up to a spacious balcony that stretched across the front of the house, offering a silver-blue view of the distant ocean shimmering under the moonlight.
But what caught Mikha's attention wasn’t the view. Positioned right beside those glass balcony doors was a leather sewing machine resting on a sturdy wooden table. Strips of cut leather, spools of heavy-duty thread, and a few scattered tools lay neatly beside it.
"You can leave your bags here, Mikhs. I’ll show you your room in a bit, but first—water?"
"Yes, please," Mikha said softly, setting her heavy duffle and camera bag down.
As Aiah disappeared into the kitchen, Mikha's curiosity pulled her closer to the wooden table. Spread across the center were rolled-up sheets of leather and fabric swatches in muted, earthy tones. A large sketchbook lay open to a page filled with intricate drawings of leather goods—bags, wallets, and accessories that combined traditional Filipino weaving with sharp, modern silhouettes.
Mikha leaned in, her eyes tracing the clean lines of a tote bag design. In the corner of the page, a logo was embossed in gold ink: AUREA.
"You've found it," Aiah’s voice came from behind her, soft and slightly shy.
Mikha turned, seeing Aiah standing with a glass of water, her tortoise-shell clip gone and her hair falling in dark, loose waves over her shoulders.
"Aiah... these are incredible," Mikha said, her hand still hovering slightly over the pages. "What are these?"
Aiah walked over, setting the water down. "It's my brand. I started Aurea two years ago. I source the weaves from the women in Argao and the leather from Carcar. It’s small, but... it's mine."
Looking back at the sketches, Mikha saw the sheer potential in the designs; they were sophisticated, soulful, and deeply rooted in Cebu.
"Aiah, these are... they’re stunning. The lines, the way you've integrated the texture..." Mikha shook her head, genuinely impressed. "You never told me about this,"
"You were busy," Aiah said quietly, scrunching her nose in that familiar, endearing way of hers.
At that, Mikha felt a sudden sense of guilt. Two years. She had been so caught up in her own life that she had completely missed this big part of Aiah's.
"Where do you sell them? Do you have a shop?" Mikha asked, her eyes still scanning the open sketchbook.
Aiah let out a soft, self-deprecating laugh, ducking her head as she shook it. "Oh, no. Nothing like that. The budget is tight, I still can’t afford to mass-produce, let alone lease a shop." She reached out, her fingers pointing toward a stack of consignment forms and delivery receipts tucked under a paperweight. "For now, I just rent out shelf spaces. I pay a small fee to a few resort and tourist gift shops around Lapu-Lapu just so people can see that Aurea exists."
The guilt tightened like a physical knot in Mikha's chest. "You should’ve told me," she said, her voice dropping, thick with regret. “I could've helped you.”
Aiah looked up, her eyes full of warmth. "I know, Mikhs. I just don't want you taking on anything more—you're already carrying so much on your own."
"But still..." Mikha mumbled, staring intently down at the gold-embossed logo on the page
Aiah held Mikha's arm and gently turned her so they were fully facing each other. "Hey, look at me," Aiah said softly, her voice incredibly tender as she waited for Mikha to meet her eyes. "Don't go getting all serious and guilty on me. I chose not to tell you."
"I didn't ask," Mikha countered under her breath.
"I was just deliberately keeping it safe for a better time,"
Mikha let out a shaky breath, her shoulders finally dropping. She wanted to argue, to say she should have been more present anyway, but the absolute sincerity in Aiah's eyes made the tight knot in her chest loosen.
Aiah reached past her and gently closed the sketchbook, her hand lingering on the cover for a brief moment before she looked back up.
"Come on," Aiah said softly, giving Mikha’s arm a gentle squeeze. "Let's get you settled before you fall asleep standing up."
Turning to walk, Aiah led the way across the small living room. Mikha picked up her heavy duffle and camera bag from beside the sofa. As they moved toward the two bedrooms on the right side, a sudden, quiet wave of sadness washed over Mikha. It hurt to realize how much she'd missed—that she hadn't been there for the one person who had always been her constant. Staring at the back of Aiah's head, Mikha knew one thing for sure: she was going to find a way to make it up to her.