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Three days have passed since that photo, #008 out of a hundred, slipped into my inbox and refused to leave my head. I told myself I’d moved on. Focused. Rebooted. But every time I close my laptop, the image flickers behind my eyelids: a blurred girl on a bench, a runner in mid-stride, sunlight cutting through the frame like a memory pretending to be coincidence.

I should’ve deleted it. Instead, I archived it because that’s what you do with ghosts you’re not ready to confront. Now it’s Thursday, the week already running on caffeine and denial.

By mid-morning the Ateneo sun feels like it’s powered by spite. The tree beside the SEC benches is doing its best, scattering bits of shade that never stay still. Diane and Mikha are already there, like they always are, turning an ordinary bench into their own personal sitcom set.

Diane’s sprawled sideways, one leg up, iced coffee in hand. Mikha’s sitting cross-legged beside her, munching on pandesal like it’s fuel for world domination. Their laughter rolls across the walkway loud, unfiltered, a kind of chaos the breeze can’t compete with.

I should’ve known better than to walk this way. I only wanted to find somewhere quiet to review for Philo, but apparently silence has been discontinued in this part of the campus.

“Snob Queen at twelve o’clock!” Diane announces the moment she sees me. “Come here, kailangan ka namin pang moral support.”

“I don’t do moral support,” I deadpan.

“Then immoral support!” Mikha grins, patting the space beside her. “May extra pandesal ako, peace offering.”

I sigh, check my watch, and make the single worst decision of the day. I sat down.

They cheer like I’ve signed a peace treaty. Diane immediately leans over my notes, pretending to read. “Uy, legit pala ‘tong notes mo. May margin, may color-code parang may trauma sa formatting.”

“Organization prevents disaster,” I reply, pushing my laptop open. “You should try it.”

“Organization prevents personality,” Mikha counters, crumbs at the corner of her mouth. “Saka boring kaya pag masyadong ayos. Look at you, walking aesthetic ng spreadsheet.”

“Spreadsheet?” I echo, unimpressed.

“Yung tipong lahat ng columns aligned, pero walang fun formula,” she says, eyes dancing. “Kung ako Excel sheet, ikaw ‘yung pivot table na ayaw mag-refresh kahit i-F9 mo.”

Diane snorts so loud half the bench turns. “Tama! Si Mikha naman ‘yung file na laging corrupted pero cute, so we keep re-downloading.”

I shouldn’t laugh. But a snort escapes before I can stop it. “You two are insufferable.”

“Team Little Rascals lang tayo,” Diane says, raising her cup. “Powered by caffeine and bad decisions.”

“I can see that.”

They start another volley of inside jokes, something about a disastrous group project and a printer that caught fire. I type a sentence, erase it, type again. Concentration is at zero percent.

A leaf falls on my keyboard. I flick it away. Mikha leans over, hand shading my screen. “Too bright, ‘no? Shift a bit, dito ka sa shadow ko.”

“I’m fine.”

“Hindi ka nga fine, nagre-reflect na ‘yung font sa noo mo.” She shifts anyway, adjusting so the sunlight cuts off right before my laptop. “There. Much better.”

Her shoulder’s inches from mine now. The air smells faintly of soap and grass and something citrus, her shampoo, maybe. Diane’s eyebrows rise, wicked. “Wow, human umbrella! Sige, protect her peace!”

“Protect your mouth,” Mikha shoots back, but she’s smiling.

I try to focus on my notes, but the cursor blinks like it knows better. My “noise filter” hums, useless, while the two beside me dismantle the concept of productivity.

Then Mikha says it again, that nickname but softly this time, not teasing. “Hey, Snob Queen. You hungry?”

Something about the tone, half-teasing, half-gentle makes my stomach tighten in protest. “I’m fine.”

“Wrong answer.” She unwraps another pan de sal and holds it out. “Hindi ako aalis hangga’t ‘di mo kinukuha ‘to.”

Diane leans in, whispering loudly, “Ayaw mo ba ng crumbs of affection?”

“Diane,” I warn.

“Fine,” she says, laughing. “Pero admit it, cute ‘yung gesture.”

I take the bread just to end the conversation. “Thank you,” I mutter, then because logic demands balance add… “For the carbs. Not the affection.”

Mikha smirks. “Noted. Pero at least kinain mo.”

Diane wiggles her brows. “Kinain talaga.”

I throw them both a glare sharp enough to cut fiber optics. They dissolve into laughter. I should leave. I tell myself to. But somehow my fingers stay on the keys while their noise loops in the background like background music I’ve grown used to.

Later, Diane starts talking about someone’s disastrous internship. Mikha interrupts every few sentences with increasingly ridiculous advice “Mag-fake fainting pag may overtime,” or “Sabihin niya allergic siya sa Excel” and somehow Diane actually takes notes on her phone.

“Aiah,” Diane says, turning to me, “anong gagawin mo kung may boss kang perfectionist na walang puso?”

“Quit,” I say automatically.

Mikha groans. “Ayun! Di kami makaka-survive sa kanya. Snob Queen confirmed.”

“You’re both hopeless,” I mutter, but my mouth twitches before I can stop it.

“See? She smiled!” Diane points accusingly. “Document this moment!”

“Shut up,” I say, hiding behind my mug.

Mikha grins like she just debugged my system. “Ang ganda mo pag natatawa, alam mo ba ‘yon?”

The sentence lands too fast, too casually. I freeze mid-sip. “Excuse me?”

“Fact lang,” she says, shrugging. “Don’t report me to HR.”

Diane clutches her chest. “May HR ba dito, college pa lang tayo? Kasi kung meron, i-rereport ko ‘tong tension na ‘to.”

I inhale slowly, counting until the heat leaves my face. “I’m leaving.”

“Hindi pa tapos ‘yung coffee mo!” Mikha protests.

“I don’t need caffeine,” I say, closing my laptop.

“Liar,” Diane sing-songs.

I stand, shouldering my bag. “Unlike some people, I have to actually study.”

Mikha tilts her head, still smiling. “Sa library na naman? Boring ka talaga.”

“Productive,” I correct.

“Boringly productive,” she insists, eyes gleaming.

I roll mine. “Goodbye, corrupted file.”

She laughs, low and real. “See you later, pivot table.”

I walk away before they can see the tiny smile tugging at my lips.

But fifteen minutes later, I find myself in the same spot again. Not by choice. Because apparently, every other study area is either full or under renovation, and the only open space with shade and stable Wi-Fi is still this bench. With them.

I stop a few feet away, deadpan. “Why are you still here?”

“Waiting for divine inspiration,” Diane says.

“Waiting for my grade,” Mikha adds, lazy grin in place, one foot bouncing lightly on the pavement. A water bottle rolls by her ankle, catching a shard of sunlight before she taps it back with her shoe.

I sigh, sit down again, open my laptop. “Then divine inspiration better be quiet.”

They exchange grins. “Yes, ma’am,” they chorus, too innocent to trust. For a few blessed minutes, they actually are.

It’s… peaceful. Almost.

Then Mikha shifts again, subtly blocking the sun from my screen. No words this time. Just a quiet, automatic movement. And I realize something unsettling, I’ve stopped fighting it. The noise, the laughter, the light.

The routine. Them.

Across from me, Diane’s scrolling through her phone again, giggling like the world’s most chaotic algorithm. “Uy Mikha, trending ka pa rin! #CrushNgKatipunan, hello!”

Mikha groans, half-hiding behind her hands. “Can people please stop making delulu threads about me?”

“Bakit? Enjoy mo rin secretly,” Diane teases. “Every girl from other departments knows you! Kanina pa ‘yung mga Psych majors nag-hi sa’kin kasi akala nila friend mo ako. I’m basically your PR manager.”

As if on cue, three girls from LS walk by, waving.

“Hi Diane!”

“See you sa mixer!”

And, finally… “Hi Mikha!”

They giggle as they pass. One nearly trips over her own bag.

I raise an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Do you two hold recruitment drives?”

Diane flashes a grin, shameless. “Fan service. Public relations is life.”

Mikha elbows her. “PR? More like flirting with benefits.”

“Jealous?” Diane fires back, tilting her shades like a sitcom star.

“Of course not,” Mikha says, mock-serious. “Just concerned for your time management.”

Diane smirks. “Hindi mo lang alam paano. Come, dear, I will teach you.”

“Oh no,” I mutter, fingers poised over my keyboard. “Don’t—”

But she’s already standing.

Diane straightens her back, stretches her neck, and slides her sunglasses on, the full confidence of a woman who’s memorized every teleserye love interest known to man.

“Step one,” she announces, “eye contact.”

“Step two, smile.”

“Step three, compliment something random.”

A random engineering major passes by, minding his own peace. “Hi! Cute ng notebook mo!” she calls.

He blinks, startled and then blushes like he’s been hit by a soft-focus filter. “Uh… thanks!”

“See?” Diane turns to us, triumphant. “Proof of concept.”

Mikha’s laughing so hard she’s doubled over. “Okay, okay, my turn!”

She stands, pretending to stretch like she’s psyching herself up for a game. Then, spotting another student, says… “Hi! Cute notebook mo rin. Ay, hindi pala notebook, ikaw pala ‘yung cute.”

The girl actually stops mid-step, laughs awkwardly, then flees. 

Diane claps, wheezing. “My God, Mikha, hopeless! But I’ll give you points for delivery.”

Mikha shrugs, smug. “See? Flustered. That’s a measurable outcome.”

“Stop it, Diane,” I say, the words escaping before I can soften them. “Don’t pollute her.”

The sound hangs in the air for a beat too long.

Even the breeze seems to pause.

Diane’s smirk turns feral. “Ay may nagseselos na walang karapatan!”

My pulse betrays me with a skip. “Excuse me?”

She cups her ear dramatically. “What’s that, Aiah? Jealousy detected at 98% confidence?”

“Diane,” I hiss.

She grins wider. “Diba binasted mo na si Mikha? Pero look at that reaction, oh.”

Mikha blinks, then smiles. The small, unhurried kind that makes time forget what it’s doing. “Binasted na pala ako. Wow. At least may record.”

“Shut up,” I say, but my voice doesn’t sound as sharp as I want it to.

Diane isn’t done. “Ganto lang ‘yan, Mikha. Give chance to those who are willing, A! Kung ayaw mo, madami namang nakapila na gustong bigyan ng chance si Mikha. Unless…”

“Diane—”

“Unless,” she teases, grinning, “may gusto kang i-priority.”

Mikha leans forward, grin soft but dangerous. “Don’t worry, Aiah. The only chance I need is with you.”

Beat.

“Mag-selos ka lang,” she adds, quieter now. “You have all the right.”

The air shifts. Something fragile trembles in my chest. Her tone isn’t teasing anymore. Not really. The sunlight falls just right catching the strands of her hair, the soft sheen of sweat from practice, the curve of a smile that doesn’t know it’s lethal.

My heartbeat stutters. My throat goes dry. And for a ridiculous second, I swear the world blurs at the edges.

I force myself to look away, pretend to type something, anything. The words on my screen dissolve into nothing. My reflection stares back, pink-cheeked, caught.

This is absurd.
I don’t blush.
I don’t get flustered.
I don’t—

“WHAT DID I MISS?!”

Chesca’s voice hits like a pop-up ad, impossible to close. She drops her tote bag beside the bench, eyes darting between the three of us.

She freezes when she sees my face. “Oh my God. Why did Aiah turn into a tomato?”

Diane throws her hands up, ecstatic. “Nasobrahan ng Vitamin K!”

“Vitamin what?”

“Vitamin Karapatan, girl!” Diane howls. “Binigyan ni Mikha!”

Chesca sputters, almost spilling her drink. “No way. NO WAY. This bench is sacred ground now.”

I sink into my seat, half-hiding behind my laptop. “You’re all children.”

“Children with proof,” Diane says, snapping a photo.

Mikha’s laugh is low and genuine, not her usual teasing one, warm enough to melt whatever guard I still have left. “Grabe kayo. Hindi niyo ako titigilan, ‘no?”

“Nope,” Chesca chirps. “You made Aiah blush. That’s basically a campus achievement.”

Diane raises her cup in a mock toast. “To Vitamin K, the daily dose of kilig this university never asked for!”

They all laugh. I try not to smile. I failed.

For a moment, I just sat there, watching them. Diane with her chaos, Chesca with her energy, Mikha with that easy warmth that wraps around everyone without even trying.

And I feel it. That strange, light-headed ache of being part of something I didn’t plan for. The kind of moment that smells like sun and laughter and beginnings you can’t debug.

I tell myself it’s nothing. Just routine. Just noise.

But when Mikha catches my eye again, smiles lazy and sure, my pulse trips over itself, and a single, treacherous thought forms before I can stop it.

Maybe Mikha Cruz isn’t just charming.
Maybe she’s dangerous.
Because she’s starting to feel like something familiar.

By the time I finally pack up from the benches, I can still feel the echo of their laughter following me, like static that won’t fade even after you switch devices.

Vitamin K, Diane called it. A full-body allergy, if you ask me.

The walk to Rizal Library is meant to cure it. Neutral colors, quiet hallways, a kind of air that smells like dust, disinfectant, and relief. The lights hum at a polite frequency, the kind of brightness that doesn’t demand attention. Inside, even footsteps sound apologetic.

Perfect. Controlled. Predictable.

I found a seat by the window. Single desk, nearest outlet, full signal. The sunlight filters through the blinds in measured stripes, like the world itself is practicing discipline.

I line up my pens.
Open my notes.
Inhale. Exhale.
Reset.

My noise filter hums again. Steady, low, mechanical. A small illusion of control.

I tell myself: Just study. Just code. Just breathe.

It takes less than eight minutes for the illusion to die.

“Hoy! May saksakan dito!”

My shoulders stiffen.

That voice, half-whisper, half-megaphone. No mistaking it. Seconds later, two shadows fall across my table. The kind of shadows that come with chaos.

Diane arrives first, clutching a tangled charger and a bag of chips she’s pretending is invisible. Behind her, Mikha Cruz, tote bag hanging low, sunlight catching the faint sheen of sweat on her neck. She looks annoyingly alive for someone who claimed to be “burnt out” two hours ago.

They spot me almost instantly.

“Uy, Aiah! May free seat pa! Jackpot!” Diane beams like she’s announcing raffle winners.

I stare at her. “There are… other seats.”

“Yeah but no sockets,” she counters, waving her charger like proof. “We’re studying din, promise!”

Mikha grins that kind of grin that thinks it’s permission. “Promise. Tahimik kami.”

I exhale. “Define.”

Diane whispers conspiratorially, “Relative to Chesca? We’re saints.”

Hopeless.

I turn back to my laptop, pretending to focus, though I can already feel their energy bleeding into the air. Warmth, movement, laughter muffled by effort. The smell of coffee, hand sanitizer, and faint shampoo from Mikha’s hair mixes with the sterile air-conditioning.

The kind of mix that shouldn’t smell like anything, but it does. Familiar.

For a few minutes, it’s… manageable.
Pages turn.
Pens scratch.
I start believing the silence might survive.

Then Mikha starts humming. Softly. Not quite a tune, more like a thought with sound. She flips through her readings, brows slightly drawn, pencil resting between her lips. When she’s focused, she stops performing. The teasing disappears. What’s left is a quiet intensity, the kind that makes you forget to breathe properly.

I glance sideways, pretending to stretch. Her notebook’s open on her lap. Small, clean handwriting, margins full of arrows and tiny doodles that look like diagrams but probably aren’t. She taps the pencil twice before underlining a phrase, then bites her lip.

She looks completely unaware of how loud her silence is.

The hum in my head adjusts, syncing. Page turn. Tap. Scribble. Tap.
I hate that I notice the pattern.
Worse, I start following it unconsciously flipping my own page right after hers, like our rhythms are caught in the same loop.

Diane, meanwhile, is pretending to study but clearly watching a TikTok compilation through her reflection on her laptop screen. She’s whisper-laughing, trying not to get caught.
Mikha throws a tissue at her.
It misses.
I don’t look up, but my mouth twitches.
A fraction of a smile. Gone in a blink.

A few minutes later, Mikha murmurs something under her breath, barely audible.

“I used to memorize these by pattern, remember?”

The word remember is soft, almost instinctive. It breaks through the hum like a key in the wrong lock. I pause mid-highlight, the line of neon yellow freezing halfway through a definition.

“Remember what?”

She blinks, caught. A flicker of confusion, then the smallest smile.

“Nothing. Deja vu.”

Deja vu.The way she says it. Too casual, too quick feels like a closed door she doesn’t want opened. For a heartbeat, the air between us shifts. The light flickers against the page, catching the edge of her wrist, where that black elastic still sits my black elastic, technically. It glints faintly under the sunlight, like it remembers for her.

I tell myself to ignore it. To focus. To rebuild the firewall.

But it’s like trying to study with gravity changing direction. My notes begin to tilt toward her orbit. My handwriting slipping, my margin doodles forming into tiny arrows and numbers that mimic her annotation style.

It’s… unnerving.
I don’t mirror people.
I don’t sync.
Yet here I am, unconsciously aligning my page turns to hers, my pen strokes to her rhythm.

The noise filter hums, but this time I don’t switch it off.
Maybe because it’s not filtering anymore.
Maybe it’s translating something I don’t have the language for.

After what feels like hours but is only thirty minutes, I snap my notebook shut.

“I’m getting air,” I whisper, more to myself than to them. “Too much static.”

Diane blinks, crumbs on her lip. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

Outside, the door closes behind me with a hiss, air-conditioned calm giving way to the heavy breath of the afternoon. The heat greets me instantly, wrapping around my skin like consequence. The campus smells alive again. The grass, dust, distant barbecue smoke from a nearby stall.

I find a seat on the library steps, shade half-covering my face. I take a long breath, long enough to convince myself it’s peace and not escape.

Through the glass doors, I can still see them inside.
Diane twirling her pen like it’s choreography.
Mikha, head bent, reading, still biting her pencil, eyes moving quick.
The sunlight catches her hair again. She tucks it behind her ear without looking up.

And somehow, that small, ordinary gesture feels louder than all the noise they make combined.

I look down at my notes.
The last line trails off mid-sentence, followed by doodles that don’t belong to me: arrows, circles, numbers. Her handwriting lives in mine now. I close the notebook, press it flat against my lap, and tell myself it doesn’t mean anything.

It’s just a habit. Just mimicry. Just noise.

But even as I sit there with sun in my eyes, heart too fast for silence, one thought presses through the static like code I can’t debug:

I left to escape her noise. So why does it still follow me, even in my head?

The noon bell hits like a system overload. By the time I reach ISO Cafeteria, the line’s already snaking past the glass doors, full of chatter, clattering trays, and the holy trinity of campus scent. Garlic rice, sisig, liempo, and sweet gravy that clings to the air like gossip.

Diane’s still printing her Philo paper somewhere in MVP. Mikha’s at practice, probably burning through calories the cafeteria couldn’t dream of serving.

So it’s just me.

The stainless counter gleams under harsh fluorescent light. Steam clouds rise from trays like ghosts of overworked students. Aling Nena stands behind them. Apron crisp, gold necklace catching the light every time she moves. Her ladle is a weapon of precision, her voice carries the authority of someone who’s fed half the Ateneo population.

When it’s my turn, she brightens.

“Aiah! Anak, gusto mo ulit ‘yung caldereta?”

Her tone is both questioning and knowing.

I hesitate, then nod. “Yes Aling Nena… with extra rice, please.”

She smiles wider. “Mukhang nagustuhan mo ah. May extra rice eh.”

Her ladle hovers mid-air, steam rising between us. The smell of simmered beef and bay leaf wraps around the moment, familiar but a little too warm for comfort.

I clear my throat. “It’s good protein.”

“Protein?” She chuckles, shaking her head. “Ganun din sabi nung isa noon. Pero araw-araw caldereta, araw-araw may iniisip. Hindi tiyan ang busog, anak, puso.”

I blink, caught off guard. “Excuse me?”

She waves it off, ladle clinking gently against the tray. “Wala. Teacher lang ako ng ulam, huwag mong seryosohin.”

The line behind me snickers quietly. I manage a polite smile, tray balanced in both hands, and retreat to the end of the counter.

The cafeteria’s noise wraps around me. Metal trays clattering, chairs scraping tile, a chorus of overlapping chatter. The scent of liempo tangles with garlic rice and the faint tang of dish soap from the sink area. Everything is too alive, too human, and somehow comforting in ways I don’t want to name.

I find a table by the window, away from the thickest crowd. Light pools across the surface, catching in my water glass. I take a sip, exhale, and finally let my shoulders drop. The caldereta sauce gleams red against the white rice. I mix a bit too carefully, pretending to care about distribution.

Then, “Nay Nena! One sisig, one water, dagdag rice, please!”

The voice hits before the face does. Bright. Familiar. Effortless.

I look up.

Mikha’s at the counter, hair still damp from practice, Ateneo shirt sticking to her back, laughter spilling like she’s been here forever.

“’Nay Nena, dagdagan mo na po. Training fuel!” she says, flashing a grin that makes even the cashier laugh.

Aling Nena waves her ladle at her. “Eh ikaw talaga, parang dito ka na nakatira!”

“Pwede rin po, kung may loyalty card.”

Laughter ripples across the counter. I watch her from behind my glass of water, pretending not to. She fits here. The noise bends around her like it’s adjusting itself to make space. Even the light seems to favor her. Catching in her hair, softening the edge of her jaw, highlighting the small damp curls near her temple.

She doesn’t even notice it, of course. She never does.

She turns, scanning the tables, and her eyes find mine almost instantly.

“Uy, Aiah.”

“Hi.” I gesture at the empty seat across from me before I can overthink it. “You’re sweaty.”

She laughs, unbothered, sliding into the chair. “Wow, thanks. Gusto mo rin bang sabihin basa rin buhok ko?”

“I was going to say you could at least towel off before eating.”

“Too hungry. Priorities.” She grins, already mixing her food. “Besides, I heard this seat has the best view.”

“Of what? People?”

She gestures lazily toward me with her fork. “Exactly.”

I roll my eyes, but my face warms anyway. “You need to stop saying things like that.”

“I could,” she says, mouth half-full, “but I won’t.”

A few minutes pass in an uneasy sort of peace. Mikha devours her meal like she’s racing the clock, while I pick at mine, pretending to check emails I’m not actually reading. Then Aling Nena passes by again, tray balanced on her hip, and eyes us with that same amused glint.

“Mikha, anak,” she says. “Alam mo ba, dati may tumulong sa fun-run dito sa Ateneo. Cruz din apelido. Parang ikaw rin eh,” she adds, nodding toward Mikha.

My fork stills.

Mikha blinks, mid-chew, then laughs. “Baka kamag-anak ko po. Madaming Cruz sa mundo.”

“Baka nga,” Nena hums, ladle tapping against her tray. “Pero pareho kayo. Maingay. Palangiti.”

Mikha laughs again, brushing it off easily. “Ay, insulto po ba ‘yan o compliment?”

“Depende,” Nena says with a wink, before moving along.

I stare at my food, pretending to eat. Cruz. Fun-run. The words bounce around in my head like loose code fragments searching for a match.

Mikha doesn’t notice. She’s already back to teasing one of the cafeteria staff for shortchanging her by half a scoop of rice. The room’s warmth returns. Noise, laughter, sunlight against glass but it feels slightly off-balance now.

I glance at her again.

The tan lines around her wrist. The faint scar near her knee. The way she leans forward when she laughs. And suddenly, I feel it again, the pull I keep trying to deny. It’s not dramatic. Not cinematic. Just a quiet, impossible truth settling in like heat.

Mikha Cruz is undeniably… 

I look away too fast, pretending to sip my water. The glass trembles just slightly in my hand. When I set it down, she’s still laughing with the staff, sleeves pushed up, sunlight painting her profile gold.

And I realize, with a quiet kind of dread, that my firewall isn’t holding anymore.

Because this isn’t distraction.

This is intrusion.

And every system I’ve built to keep her out is already failing.

By the time the sun starts folding itself behind the buildings, the campus has gone quiet. The hum of the day softens into something slower, a low-fi version of itself. The air smells faintly of wet grass and liniment from the soccer field. Floodlights hum alive one by one, their halos turning the pathways gold.

I’m still on the same bench. Laptop open, page blank. Technically, I’m revising our paper. Realistically, I’m pretending.

The breeze moves through the acacia trees, stirring a few leftover leaves onto my shoes. It’s that in-between hour when everyone’s either rushing home or staying too long for reasons they don’t admit.

From the corner of my eye, there’s a movement.

Mikha Cruz.

Still in her training kit, shirt darkened with sweat, a towel slung over her shoulder. She slows when she spots me, expression unreadable for a second. Then, without breaking stride, she tosses a cold bottle of water in my direction.

I catch it by reflex. Condensation chills my fingers.

“Hydrate,” she says, voice low, already moving toward the bench opposite mine.

No teasing. No grin. Just… habit.

I twist the cap open, take a sip. The water’s sharp, cold, grounding. Somewhere nearby, the sound of bouncing balls fades as the rest of the team disperses. Diane waves once from a distance, something about an early dinner with Chesca, then disappears down the walkway, leaving just the two of us and a stretch of amber light.

Silence expands, comfortable and awkward at once. Crickets start up. The breeze smells faintly of detergent and sweat and dusk.

Mikha sits at the edge of the field, one knee bent, head tilted back. She ties her hair again with that easy, practiced motion and the elastic between her teeth, wrist flicking in a loop. The black band catches the light.

Something tugs in the back of my memory.

A snapshot of a sun-washed field, a younger version of her, the same movement, the same tilt of the head. A photograph half-forgotten. My chest tightens at the echo of it, at the certainty that I’ve seen this frame before.

She exhales, elbows resting on her knees, gaze lost somewhere in the fading sky. And I realize I’ve been staring too long.

I glance back at my notes, but the words blur—lines dissolving, letters softening into white noise. Every logical thread I’ve been clinging to starts to unravel, quiet but deliberate, like a system rejecting false input.

My pulse picks up, uninvited. One, two, three beats too fast.

This is ridiculous, I think, the corner of my mouth twitching despite myself. She’s loud, impulsive, allergic to silence. But the thought doesn’t land like an insult. It hums under my skin, restless, alive.

Another breath. Slower this time. Shallower. And somehow… impossible to classify.

She laughs at something one of the janitors shouts from the gate, her voice bright and unguarded, echoing across the open air. It cuts through the stillness, through me, with precision.

God.

A pause.
A heartbeat.
Another.

The world narrows to the sound of her laughter fading against the hum of the field lights.

She’s…

My lips press together, but the thought pushes through anyway, reckless, electric.

Mikha Cruz is undeniably… gorgeous.
And, God help me, hot.

The words hit the inside of my skull like a confession I didn’t mean to speak. They burn there, alive and merciless. My throat goes dry. I drag my gaze back to the page, pretend to underline something, pretend I’m not trembling at my own honesty.

A laugh escapes before I can stop it. Quiet, startled, almost nervous. It feels like catching myself mid-fall. Because apparently, even I can’t debug attraction. Not when the error keeps looking back.

She glances over at the sound, curious. “Something funny?”

I shake my head quickly. “Nothing. Just a miscalculation.”

She shrugs, stands, slings her bag over one shoulder. For a moment, the light catches her wrist, the black elastic and she gives me that small, familiar grin. Then she taps her phone once, almost absently. She’s typing on it. I glance down.

011/100: The Snob Queen blushed, smiled, and laughed.

My breath hitches with half annoyance, half something else. When I look up, she’s already walking toward the field exit, shoulders relaxed, steps easy. The breeze moves again, warm this time, carrying her laughter down the path.

The wind shifts to warm, carrying that faint citrus-soap scent she somehow always leaves behind. Then, just before the sunlight swallows her at the field exit, she looks back over her shoulder.

“Careful, Aiah,” she says, voice light but dangerous, the kind that sticks. “You keep smiling at me like that, I might start thinking the experiment’s working.”

And then, God help her, she winks.

The world stills for a second too long.

The breeze moves again, chasing her laughter down the path, leaving my pulse in shambles. I try to look unaffected, to keep my pen moving, but my hand won’t stop trembling.

And I can’t help it, I smile.

Because somewhere between irritation and intrigue, the variables have reversed.

I’m the one being observed now.  And maybe, just maybe, I want to be.