Unexpected Input

Time does not rush us after the confession.

It moves the way December always does slowly at first, then all at once. Not dramatically. Not in milestones worth counting. Just… steadily. Classes grind toward their final stretch. Deadlines stack but feel lighter somehow. The campus changes texture of fairy lights threaded along railings, pop-up stalls selling bibingka and cheap ornaments, carols drifting faintly from speakers that never quite work right. Conversations blur into plans and exhaustion and countdowns. My calendar repopulates itself with finals and submissions and year-end obligations. My days regain structure.

And somewhere between review sessions and early sunsets, Mikha Cruz becomes part of that structure with the same inevitability as traffic at Katipunan. Always there, always adapting, always pretending she isn’t trying when she is clearly, loudly trying.

By the time the second semester settles into a rhythm, she has already claimed a spot outside my last class as if it’s her assigned post. She doesn’t hover in the doorway like a desperate freshman. She leans against the hallway wall like she owns the air, one shoulder to the concrete, one knee bent, bag strap slung across her chest, expression relaxed in that infuriating way that suggests she just happened to be passing by at the exact moment I step out.

She looks up when she senses me. She always senses me.

“Hi,” she says, casual, like my existence is a normal part of her day now.

It should scare me more than it does.

I adjust my grip on my notebook, force my face into neutrality, and walk toward her. “Why are you here?”

“Wow,” she replies, eyebrows lifting. “Good evening to you too.”

“I’m asking a question.”

“And I’m answering with my presence.” She pushes off the wall and falls into step beside me without asking permission. “Also, may dinala kasi ako for you.”

I don’t even have time to refuse before she presses a bottled water into my hand, cold enough to sting my palm. There’s a choco mint candy taped to it with a strip of masking tape like she personally curated a care package for a soldier.

I stare at it. “This is… unnecessary.”

“It’s necessary,” she corrects, walking like she’s leading us somewhere. “You looked like you needed some intervention. You need some yakapsul. Sabi nila it’s very effective.”

“That is not medically accurate.”

“It’s Mikhaccurate.”

We pass by a cluster of students lingering near the stairs, the hallway loud with end-of-day chatter. I hear my name once, just the tail of it, half-swallowed by laughter and my shoulders tense automatically, posture tightening as if the sound itself can expose me.

Mikha notices, because she notices everything.

She doesn’t touch me. She just shifts closer by half an inch, the smallest alignment. Protective without being possessive. Present without being loud.

Then she says it.

Like it’s nothing.

“Here, babe.”

The word lands on my nervous system like an electrical fault.

I don’t stop walking, but something inside me stutters. A micro-freeze with my eyelids blinking once slower than usual, jaw tightening, pulse jumping in my throat. I keep my face forward as if I didn’t hear it. As if my body didn’t just betray me with that tiny, involuntary reaction.

Mikha watches me from the corner of her eye, a smile already forming like she’s waiting to see if I’ll combust.

I lower my voice, precise. “Do not call me that in public.”

She blinks innocently. “Public?”

“Yes.”

She leans in slightly, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper that somehow still carries confidence. “Eh tayo lang.”

And then, as if the universe itself wants to humiliate me, a crowd of students appear. Everywhere.

A guard at the end of the hallway watching us with the blank expression of someone who has seen every kind of campus drama and now survives purely on resignation. Two blockmates from our class lingering by the bulletin board, staring openly like they are watching a live episode of something.

Even the fluorescent lights feel like they’re judging me.

“We are not,” I say through my teeth, “alone.”

Mikha follows my line of sight, sees the crowd, and her grin widens like this is the best news she’s received all day. “Oh. Cute.”

“This is not cute.”

“It is a little cute.” She takes another step closer, just enough for her shoulder to almost brush mine. “Relax. Nobody cares.”

“Nobody cares?” I repeat, flat.

She nods earnestly. “Nobody cares.”

At that exact moment, one of my blockmates does the least subtle thing possible. He elbow-jabs his friend and whispers, loudly, “Bro, that’s Aiah Ledesma, right?”

I stop walking.

Mikha stops too, because her body has become trained to match mine like a second heartbeat.

I inhale, then exhale slowly, calculating. I can walk away. I can pretend this isn’t happening. I can salvage control by creating distance and letting the moment die quietly like most things do.

Mikha tilts her head, watching my face like she’s reading my internal code.

And because she is Mikha Cruz and chaos is apparently her love language, she chooses this moment to “almost” do it again.

“B—” she starts.

I shoot her a warning look.

She pivots smoothly. “Beh.”

My soul briefly leaves my body.

The word is so wrong it feels illegal. It’s like she slapped a label on me that doesn’t fit and then smiled proudly at her own work.

I stare at her. “Do not ever call me that again.”

She places a hand over her chest in exaggerated offense. “Beh is cute.”

“It is not.”

“It’s normal.”

“It is not.”

“It’s—”

“It’s foolish,” I cut in.

Mikha laughs softly, like I’m entertaining. “Okay, fine. No Beh.”

We start walking again. I keep my pace brisk, eyes forward, refusing to acknowledge the stares. Mikha matches me easily, humming like she has all the time in the world.

I try to regain control by changing the topic. “Where are you going?”

“With you.”

“That was not the question.”

She shrugs. “Canteen. You need to eat.”

“I already ate.”

She gives me a look. “You ate crackers in your bag. That doesn’t count.”

I am going to deny it on principle, but she is correct. My mouth presses into a line.

We reach the canteen area, and the smell of fried food and sweet pastries hits like a warm slap. It’s later than usual, but there are still students scattered around, hunched over plates, some already in their Christmas break mood. Someone’s playing music on a speaker that sounds like it’s dying.

Mikha spots an empty table and beelines for it with the confidence of someone claiming territory. She sets her bag down, pulls out a small paper bag from inside like she’s been hiding it there for a specific purpose.

“What is that?” I ask.

She smiles. “A peace offering.”

I sit slowly, suspicious. “For what?”

“For being your girlfriend.”

I pause.

I hate how that word still makes something in my chest shift. Not fear exactly. Not panic. Something softer. Something that tries to bloom and terrifies me because blooming implies it can be crushed.

I keep my face neutral. “You are—”

“Don’t,” she interrupts immediately, grinning. “Don’t do the ‘technically’ thing. We are together. You literally held my hand and didn’t die.”

“That is not—”

“That is evidence.” She slides the paper bag toward me. “Open.”

I opened it. Inside is bibingka, still warm, wrapped in banana leaf, with a small cup of condensed milk on the side like she went the extra mile.

I stare at it, then at her. “Where did you get this?”

Mikha points vaguely with her chin. “There’s a stall outside. I saw it and I thought… ‘Aiah’s going to pretend she doesn’t want it.’ So I bought it.”

“I do not pretend.”

“You do.” She leans forward a little, lowering her voice like she’s giving me a secret. “But it’s okay. I like it. It’s like… your personality has a firewall.”

“My personality has boundaries.”

“Firewall,” she repeats, satisfied.

I should ignore her. I should focus on eating. I should not let myself soften in the middle of a canteen with half the campus within eyesight.

Instead, I cut a piece of bibingka, take one bite, and my shoulders involuntarily loosen at the warmth and sweetness. It tastes like December. Like the kind of comfort I don’t allow myself to crave.

Mikha watches my face with the focus of someone waiting for a verdict.

“It’s good,” I admit, begrudging.

She beams like she just won an award. “Thank you.”

“I did not say thank you.”

“You said good. That’s basically a proposal in your language.”

I glare.

She laughs again, and the sound is so easy it almost makes me forget I’m supposed to be careful.

Then, inevitably, she returns to her favorite sport: testing my self-control.

“So,” she says lightly, “are you gonna ban the word babe or just… regulate it?”

“I am going to ban it.”

Mikha nods like she’s listening, then promptly disregards it. “Okay, babe.”

I inhale sharply. “Mikha.”

She lifts both hands in surrender, eyes sparkling. “Sorry, boss.”

“Do not call me that either.”

She gasps. “So strict.”

“You are making a spectacle.”

“A spectacle?” she repeats, innocent. “I’m just talking.”

I glance around again. I can feel the attention like heat on my skin. I see two girls whispering near the drinks stall, eyes flicking between me and Mikha like we are a live rumor taking shape.

Mikha follows my gaze, then leans back, unbothered. “Let them.”

“That is easy for you to say.”

“Because it’s true,” she replies, quieter now. “Aiah… you’re not doing anything wrong.”

The sentence is simple, but it hits the part of me that still waits for consequences.

I swallow. “I don’t like being observed.”

“I know,” she says, soft, and something about the gentleness makes my chest tighten more than teasing ever does. “But you’re safe. Okay?”

The way she says okay feels like she’s asking, not ordering. Offering me the option to breathe.

I take a slow breath. Nod once.

Mikha’s smile returns, lighter again, like she’s relieved. Then she tilts her head, eyes narrowing in playful calculation.

“Fine,” she declares. “New term, approved by the council.”

“What?”

She clears her throat like she’s presenting in class. “My respected blockmate.”

I stare at her, horrified.

Mikha smiles proudly. “Formal. Safe. Non-affectionate.”

“That is worse.”

“It’s perfect.”

“It is ridiculous.”

“Okay,” she says thoughtfully, like she’s making a list. “My esteemed colleague.”

“Stop.”

“My co—”

“Mikha.”

She laughs, then finally… mercifully shifts the conversation away from labels before I actually commit violence in public.

“Tomorrow,” she says, suddenly bright, “Simbang Gabi.”

I pause mid-bite. “What about it?”

“I’m going.” She says it like it’s a declaration of war. “All nine.”

“That is… ambitious.”

“I’m determined.” Her eyes shine with the zeal of someone who has chosen a mission. “I have a wish.”

I narrow my gaze. “What wish?”

Mikha leans forward, elbows on the table, voice dropping to something warm and serious that makes my stomach flip. “If I finish all Simbang Gabi, my wish comes true.”

I should be skeptical. I should remind her of probability. I should point out that celestial forces do not operate on attendance-based reward systems.

Instead I hear myself say, “What is your wish?”

Mikha’s grin turns slow. Dangerous. Playful. She looks at me like she’s about to commit a crime with a smile.

“To have you with me,” she says simply.

My pulse trips.

I set my fork down carefully, like I need precision to keep myself from shaking. “That is not… a wish. That is a request.”

“Same thing,” she replies. “Are you coming?”

I stare at her. Church of the Gesu. Night. Crowds. People. Noise. The exact environment my body rejects on reflex.

Mikha sees it. The hesitation, the instinctive retreat flickering behind my eyes. She doesn’t push. She doesn’t guilt me. She just softens.

“It’s okay if you don’t,” she says, calm. “I can go alone. I’ll just… text you after. Tell you if the choir was good. Tell you if I survived.”

The fact that she gives me the exit makes the choice heavier.

Because now, if I refuse, it won’t be because I was cornered. It will be because I chose distance.

I look at her still bright, still lightly chaotic, still trying to make devotion feel like something playful instead of heavy. And I realize, again, that the word babe isn’t the real problem.

It’s the way she says it like she has permission.

Like love belongs in daylight.

Like I’m allowed to be claimed gently.

And the terrifying part is somewhere deep inside me, a part I don’t trust yet, wants to let her.

I pick up my water bottle, twist the cap slowly to buy time, then say, quietly, “What time?”

Mikha’s face lights up so fast it’s almost embarrassing. “Wait, seriously?”

I keep my voice flat, because if I let it soften, I might not stop. “What time, Cruz?”

She bites her lip like she’s trying not to smile too wide. She fails. “Eight p.m. We can go to the Church of the Gesu. After, bibingka ulit.”

“I am not going for bibingka.”

“Of course not,” she agrees, eyes sparkling. “You’re going for spiritual growth.”

I stand, gathering my things before she can say another word in public that might ruin me.

Mikha stands too, slinging her bag on her shoulder. She steps close, careful, respectful and without thinking, reaches for my sleeve.

A small tug. A tiny adjustment. Fixing the way my cuff sits, smoothing a crease like she’s done it a hundred times.

Her fingers are sure. Gentle.

The touch lasts barely a second, but my skin remembers it like it’s longer.

I look at her, and for a moment, my control slips enough to let something true show.

Mikha sees it. She always does.

She doesn’t tease this time. She just smiles like she’s holding something precious in her mouth and trying not to drop it.

“Okay,” she says quietly, like she’s sealing a pact. “See you tomorrow.”

We start walking again, back into the flow of campus life of students, noise, December air, lights that flicker like they’re tired. And as we pass another cluster of people, Mikha leans in, mouth near my ear, voice low and wickedly amused.

“Bye, babe.”

I stop.

She keeps walking.

I turn my head slowly, murder in my eyes.

Mikha looks over her shoulder, grinning like she’s about to sprint. “Run ka na, boss!”

“Do not call me—”

She laughs and actually runs, weaving through students like a menace, leaving me standing there with a water bottle, a half-eaten bibingka, and an emotion in my chest that feels dangerously close to joy.

I hate that I can’t stop my mouth.

“Oh God,” I mutter, following after her despite myself.

And because the universe has a cruel sense of humor, because it enjoys watching me lose control in small increments, I hear someone behind us whisper:

“Uy. Sila na.”

The words should make me retreat.

Instead, I keep walking.

Because apparently, in December, even I can learn to let something live out loud, just a little.

December deepens. The air cools just enough to justify hoodies indoors. Finals loom like a low-grade fever everyone pretends isn’t serious yet. My condo stops feeling like a temporary shelter between obligations and starts feeling… occupied. Not invaded. Occupied. The way a space changes when someone learns its rules instead of testing its limits.

Mikha Cruz, for reasons I still do not fully understand, takes those rules very seriously.

It starts with shoes.

She lines them up by the door every time, soles parallel, laces tucked in like they’ve been disciplined. Not because I asked, because I didn’t, but because she noticed I always pause to straighten them after people leave. The first time she did it, I said nothing. The second time, I noticed she adjusted her own shoes to match mine. The third time, I pretended not to see it at all.

Then comes the voice.

Inside my condo, she lowers it. Not in a sneaky way. In a respectful one. As if the walls themselves deserve gentleness. She laughs softer. Teases quieter. Even her chaos seems… house-trained.

But the thing that finally tips me into silent disbelief is the coasters.

I have coasters. I always have. They are neatly stacked on the coffee table, wooden, minimalist, purchased during a phase where I believed good taste could substitute for rest. Most people treat them as suggestions.

Mikha treats them like commandments.

She places her mug down, pauses, squints, then slides it half an inch to the left so it sits perfectly centered on the coaster. Not once. Not twice. Every time.

I watch from the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, pretending I am not cataloguing every movement like evidence.

She lifts the mug. Puts it back down. Adjusts again.

“Mikha,” I say finally, calm. “It’s fine.”

She doesn’t look up. “No, it’s not.”

“It is a coaster.”

“It is a line,” she replies seriously. “And lines exist to be respected.”

I blink. “You are being dramatic.”

She looks up at me then, expression solemn. “Aiah. Watermarks ruin lives.”

I stare at her.She nods once, like she’s said something universally accepted. “I have learned.”

I don’t ask what she means by that, because the answer will either be incriminating or ridiculous, and I am not prepared for either.

She lifts her mug again, then freezes. “Wait.”

“What?”

She rotates it slightly. One more microscopic adjustment. Satisfied, she finally takes a sip.

I look away before she can see my mouth twitch.

The domestic calm is… unsettling.

She sits on the edge of the couch, not sprawled. Her bag is placed neatly by the chair, not tossed. When she takes her phone out, she doesn’t scroll mindlessly. She flips it face down when she notices me watching, like attention is a choice she’s actively making.

It’s almost worse than chaos.

I am reaching for my own mug when the doorbell rings.

I pause. My brows knit.

“I’m not expecting anyone,” I say.

Mikha perks up. “Ooh. Plot twist.”

“Do not narrate my life.”

She grins. “Too late.”

I move toward the door, already composing a polite refusal in my head. The second I open it, Diane barrels in like physics no longer apply to her.

“AIAH I NEED—”

She stops mid-syllable.

Her eyes flick down.

Shoes. Aligned.

Her eyes flick up.

Mikha Cruz. Sitting on my couch. Mug. On a coaster.

Her brain audibly crashes.

“WAIT,” Diane says loudly, pointing. “IKAW? WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?”

Mikha lifts a hand in a small wave. “Hi.”

Diane’s gaze snaps back to the coffee table. Then to Mikha. Then to the coaster again.

“AND WITH A COASTER??”

The word echoes off my walls.

“Diane,” I say evenly, “you are being loud.”

She does not hear me. She is having a moment.

Mikha, meanwhile, straightens like she’s in a deposition. Dead serious. No smile. “Ayoko maging single ulit dahil sa watermarks.”

The sentence drops into the room and detonates. For half a second, nothing moves.

Not the air.
Not the coaster.
Not Diane’s brain.

“WAIT.”

Diane freezes mid-step, eyes snapping up like she misheard something illegal.

She blinks once. Then again.

“Single?” she repeats, slow, and dangerous. “As in… single ‘single’?”

Mikha nods once. Calm. Certain. Like this is a documented fact. “Hindi na.”

The world ends.

“OH MY GOD! WAIT! WAIT! WAIT!!!” Diane scream-laughs like she’s been physically struck, clutching her stomach as she folds in half, half-wheezing, half-screaming.

“YOU CAN’T JUST DROP ‘HINDI NA’ LIKE THAT!!!”

My chest seizes.

“No—” I say immediately, too fast, too sharp. “We are not—”

Both of them turn to me.

I feel heat crawl up my neck. My voice comes out clipped, panicked, controlled to the edge of fracture.

“We are not in a relationship,” I clarify quickly, like I’m correcting a legal document before it becomes binding. “That is not.. This is not—”

Dating.
Seeing each other.
Undefined but intentional.

Words stack in my head and collapse.

Mikha tilts her head, studying me, then looks back at Diane with infuriating calm.

“She didn’t say relationship,” Mikha says mildly. “She asked if I was single.”

Diane’s eyes widened.

“Oh my God,” she whispers. “She lawyered you.”

I open my mouth. Close it. Reopen it.

“That is not—” I try again, then stop, because I hear it.

The silence where denial should be.

Mikha shrugs, completely unbothered. “I’m not seeing anyone else. I’m not entertaining anyone else. I’m not pretending I’m available.” She glances at me, soft but steady. “So… not single.”

Diane lets out a noise that is not human. She fumbles for her phone, nearly dropping it, fingers shaking as she taps a contact and slams it on speaker.

“CHESCA! EMERGENCY! MAY COASTER SITUATION!!!”

I close the door slowly behind her, like I can trap the chaos inside if I do it gently enough.

Chesca’s voice crackles through the phone. “Ha? You stained Aiah’s table again?”

Diane gasps dramatically. “WORSE. Mikha Cruz is behaving.”

There is a pause. Then…

“HA?” Chesca yells. “Impossible.”

Mikha nods politely toward the phone. “Hello. It’s me, still Mikha.”

“HUY,” Chesca says immediately. “WHY ARE YOU USING A COASTER?”

“Because,” Mikha replies calmly, “this is Aiah’s condo.”

Diane clutches her chest. “DID YOU HEAR THAT? THAT TONE? THAT’S DOMESTIC ALSO MAS MALALA,” Diane gasps. “MIKHA CRUZ JUST ANNOUNCED SHE IS NOT SINGLE.”

There’s a beat.

Then Chesca screams.

“HA?!?!?!”

I press my fingers into my temple.

“This is being taken out of context,” I say tightly.

Chesca ignores me. “WAIT WAIT WAIT. Bakit may coaster involved??”

Diane points at Mikha like she’s presenting evidence in court.

“BECAUSE SHE’S USING ONE. VOLUNTARILY.”

Silence.

“Ay,” Chesca says. “That’s serious.”

Mikha nods. “Very.”

I exhale through my nose, trying to regain control of the situation that is very clearly no longer mine.

“We are not labeling anything,” I say firmly. “We are—”

“Emotionally exclusive,” Diane cuts in cheerfully.

“No.”

“Domestically compatible,” Chesca adds.

“Absolutely not.”

“One watermark away from marriage,” Diane finishes.

“DIANE.”

Mikha, traitor that she is, smiles.

Not smug. Not teasing.

Content.

And that, somehow, is what terrifies me most.

Because it isn’t the word single that caused panic.

It’s the fact that she said she wasn’t and didn’t look at all like she was afraid of what that meant.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Diane.”

She snaps to attention, lowers her voice theatrically, eyes gleaming. “Sorry. Inside voice.” Beat. “Not just dating.”

She leans in. Whispers loudly. “Domestic dating.”

Chesca cackles through the speaker. “ISO-certified love!”

Mikha brightens. “I like that.”

“You would,” Diane says, circling her like a shark. “Grabe. Nakuha ang pinsan ko sa kindat lang? God. Sino na lang kasama ko mag-bar nito?”

“Wala na,” Chesca declares. “Compliance na ‘yan.”

I clear my throat. “I am still here.”

They all look at me.

Mikha smiles sweetly. Diane beams. Chesca hums like she’s just confirmed a theory.

“Relax,” Diane says, waving a hand. “We’re just… observing.”

“I did not consent to observation.”

“You invited me into your home,” she counters. “That’s basically a case study.”

Mikha carefully lifts her mug, checks the coaster alignment one more time, then sets it down. Perfectly centered.

Diane watches. Goes quiet.

For one second, the teasing fades.

Because Mikha reaches for the water pitcher without asking, refills my glass like it’s instinct, like it’s muscle memory she didn’t know she was forming.

No performance. No joke.

Just care.

Diane’s mouth opens, then closes.

She exhales softly. “Oh.”

Chesca’s voice softens too. “Ay. Totoo ‘to.”

I look away, throat tightening unexpectedly.

Mikha slides the pitcher back into place, then looks up like she’s just realized she’s being watched. “What?”

Diane straightens. Clears her throat. Chaos reinstated.

“Nothing,” she says briskly. “Just… wow. Mikha Cruz. Coaster compliance. Never thought I’d see the day.”

Mikha shrugs. “Love makes you responsible.”

I choke on air.

“WHAT?” I say sharply.

She grins. “Kidding. Mostly.”

Diane claps her hands. “Okay! I have seen enough. I am both proud and terrified.”

She points at me. “You. You better keep her. I don’t want her feral again.”

Chesca laughs. “Too late. She’s domesticated.”

Mikha lifts her mug in a mock toast. “To watermarks avoided.”

Diane raises an imaginary glass. “To love that uses coasters.”

I stand there, surrounded by chaos, laughter bouncing off my walls, warmth filling a space I once guarded fiercely.

And for the first time, it doesn’t feel like exposure.

It feels like… inevitability.

Like this…this ridiculous, real, uncontrollable thing was always going to happen.

Whether I prepared for it or not.

We leave the Church of the Gesu later than most.

Not because we lingered on purpose. Not because there was anything left to wait for.

Just because neither of us felt the need to move quickly.

The campus has thinned into something quieter by the time we step out. Candles inside the church burn low behind us, their light barely spilling through the doors now. The last clusters of students drift away in murmurs and soft laughter, footsteps fading into paths that lead back to dorms, condos, lives already resuming.

The air is cool. Clean. The kind that settles into your lungs without asking.

Above us, the moon hangs high and unobstructed, pale, steady, unconcerned with whatever is quietly rearranging itself inside my chest.

We walk side by side without urgency.

Not because we’re tired.

Because there is no reason to rush.

My hand adjusts the strap of my bag automatically, habit guiding the motion as my eyes scan the familiar paths, the long shadows cast by trees stretching across the pavement. Ateneo at night always feels quieter, stripped down to its bones. A place that belongs only to the people who stayed long enough to mean it.

Mikha walks beside me, hands in her pockets, shoulders loose. There is something unstudied about the way she moves at this hour, like she has learned how to exist at this pace simply by staying near me long enough.

“You’re really finishing all nine,” I say eventually.

It isn’t a challenge. Just an observation.

Mikha nods. “Oo.”

No grin. No joke.

I glance at her. “You’re exhausted.”

She shrugs lightly. “Worth it.”

I don’t comment on that. I just file it away.

We reach an open stretch of campus where the moonlight spills freely with no buildings crowding it, no trees breaking the light into fragments. Just space. Silver air. Quiet that feels intentional.

Mikha slows. Then stops.

I take two more steps before I notice.

I turn back, eyebrow lifting slightly. “What?”

She hesitates.

It’s subtle, but I see it. The shift in her weight, the way her jaw tightens like she’s about to say something without a script.

Then, simply, “Aiah, can I?”

I blink. “Can you what?”

She gestures vaguely between us. At the open space. At the moon. At nothing specific at all.

“I know this is very random. But I’d like to dance with you. Can I ask you to dance with me?”

I stare at her.

There is no music.
No cue.
No justification.

“There is absolutely no music Mikha,” I say.

Mikha smiles, unbothered. “Meron.”

“We’re gonna look like idiots,” I reply flatly.

Her smile widens, not teasing, not mocking. Fond. Certain.

“Okay lang,” she says. “As long as we’re idiots together.”

I should refuse.

There is no performance value here. No structure. No audience. No reason that fits neatly into how I organize the world.

But Mikha isn’t asking for polish. She’s asking for presence.

“Fine,” I say, clipped but real. “Briefly.”

She steps closer, not touching yet. Just close enough for warmth to register.

“No steps,” she adds. “Just feel it.”

I hesitate for half a second longer.

Then I nod.

We move.

Not in time to anything external. Just a slow shift of weight. A subtle sway that feels more like standing still together than dancing. Mikha adjusts instinctively, matching my pace without leading, without correcting.

I’m stiff at first. My shoulders are too straight. My movements are too careful.

I’m thinking about how this would look from the outside.

Mikha notices.

“Relax,” she says quietly. “Walang nanonood.”

“That’s debatable,” I murmur.

She glances around. The campus is empty enough to feel private.

“Okay,” she concedes. “Walang importanteng nanonood.”

That almost earns a smile. Almost.

We keep moving. The silence stretches, not awkward, not heavy. Just wide. And then, without warning, I misstep. Not dramatically. Just enough to throw my balance for a split second.

Mikha reacts immediately, steadying me with a hand at my waist.

I freeze. Then I laugh. It slips out before I can stop it. Soft, startled, real. Like it surprised me as much as it did her.

Mikha stills. Because this laugh is different.

It isn’t measured.
Isn’t filtered.
Isn’t controlled.

I clear my throat, trying to recover. “That was—” I stop. “Never mind.”

She doesn’t comment. Doesn’t let go. She just resumes the gentle sway, keeping me exactly where I am safe, upright, unjudged.

I exhale. My shoulders lower. The tension drains from places I didn’t realize were still braced.

We move like that for a while. No rhythm except the one we negotiate silently. No steps except what feels natural. No goal except staying.

Eventually, I speak again. Quiet. Thoughtful.

“So,” I say. “What are you wishing for?”

She doesn’t answer immediately.

We keep swaying.

Then, honestly, “Na umabot ako hanggang dulo.”

“That’s it?” I ask.

She nods. “Oo.”

“Kasi kung kaya kong mag-stay hanggang dulo dito… baka kayanin ko rin sa ibang bagay.”

I understand what she doesn’t say.

I don’t reassure her. I don’t promise anything.

I just stay.

And somehow, that feels like enough.

When we finally stop, neither of us steps away right away. We stand there under the moon, close but not clinging, breathing even, grounded.

In my head, we probably did look ridiculous.

Two people swaying to nothing.
No music.
No spectacle.

But Mikha looked at me like it was sacred. And for once, I don’t argue with that.

We remain there, suspended in the quiet of the campus like the world has momentarily forgotten us.

No footsteps intrude.
No sound breaks the air.

Only the distant hum of the city far beyond Ateneo’s walls muted, irrelevant.

The moonlight catches on Mikha’s hair, the curve of her cheek, the slow rise and fall of her chest. I notice these things the way I notice patterns instinctively, without permission.

She doesn’t pull me closer.
She doesn’t lead.

She just stays close enough that the space between us is no longer empty.

I’m acutely aware of my body.

The warmth of her hand at my waist.
The faint pressure that’s present, grounding, asking nothing.
The way my own breathing begins to change without instruction.

At first, I breathe shallowly. Habit pulling me toward control.

But Mikha’s breathing is different.

Slower. Deeper. Unbothered. And without realizing it, I begin to match it.

In. Out.

The sway resumes not deliberate. Just shared adjustment.

My shoulder brushes her chest.

I freeze.

Then I feel it.

A rhythm.

Steady. Alive.

Her heartbeat.

It isn’t racing. It isn’t dramatic. It feels like it has nowhere else to be.

My own pulse reacts immediately too fast, thudding against my ribs.

She must feel it.

She adjusts not pulling away. Just shifting a fraction, enough that my forehead is closer to her shoulder, enough that our bodies align more naturally.

Our chests are nearly touching now.

Not pressed. Just… near.

I swallow.

Every instinct warns me this is dangerous. And yet, my heartbeat slows. Syncs. Not perfectly. But enough. Enough that the panic dulls. Enough that the need to brace fades.

I exhale. She exhales with me. We are moving together now.

Not dancing.

Existing.

My fingers curl into the fabric of her jacket without thinking not gripping, just anchoring. She inhales softly at the contact, breath stuttering before settling. The intimacy of it almost undoes me.

I have stood in crowded rooms.
Negotiated futures.
Spoken calmly under pressure.

None of that has ever made me feel this exposed.

Because this isn’t about being seen. It’s about being felt.

Her hand presses slightly more firmly at my waist, not claiming. Just confirming.

I close my eyes. The world narrows. This is what it feels like to not brace for impact. Her forehead rests lightly near my temple. Our breaths brush. Warm. Shared.

I don’t think about tomorrow. I think only this…This is enough.

“You okay?” she murmurs.

“Yes,” I answered.

And for once, it’s not a calculation.

It’s the truth.

We stay like that for a long time.

Two heartbeats.
Finding each other.
Staying.

When we finally separate, it’s gradual. Gentle.

She looks at me, unexpecting.

My heart is still loud. But it isn’t screaming. It’s steady. Grounded. At home. 

And I realize, with a clarity that feels both terrifying and peaceful. Love doesn’t always arrive with fireworks. Sometimes, it arrives quietly. And stays long enough for your heart to learn a new rhythm.

Classes do not end in a grand finale.

They taper off the way a candle burns down slowly, quietly, until one day you look at your planner and realize there is nothing left to underline in red. Finals are done. Deadlines have been submitted. The campus exhales. Conversations start to shift away from requirements and toward plans. I tell myself I will use the holiday to reset. To catch up on sleep. To put my brain back into order.

Then Chesca announces a Christmas party.

Not gently. Not as an invitation. As a decision that all of us are expected to comply with.

Her message appears while I am in the middle of reorganizing my bag. Highlighters in one pocket, chargers in another, receipts folded into a clean stack. The notification vibrates against my phone like a disruption.

I read it once, then again, waiting for my body to react with the correct response: refusal.

Before I can type anything, another message comes in. Then another. Then Diane starts spamming the group chat with the enthusiasm of someone whose primary fuel source is chaos. People ask if there will be food. Someone asks if there will be alcohol. Chesca replies like a tyrant with a cute profile photo.

I stare at the screen longer than necessary.

Then I feel Mikha lean over my shoulder, close enough that her breath touches the side of my neck for half a second before she pulls back. Casual. Unbothered. Like being near me has already become normal in her system.

“We’re going,” she says.

It lands like an assumption, and for reasons I do not fully understand, it does not irritate me.

I glance at her. “We are not a unit.”

She smiles like she has been waiting for that line. “Not officially. But you keep showing up with me.”

“I show up for obligations,” I say.

“Christmas party is an obligation,” she replies smoothly.

“That is not how obligations work.”

“It is in my world,” she says, and then she adds, softer, “Come on. Please.”

It is the ‘please’ that shifts something.

Not dramatic. Not cinematic. Just enough to make me pause.

Mikha has never forced anything. She does not corner. She does not demand. She makes room, and then she waits to see if I will step into it on my own.

So I do.

Chesca’s condo is loud before the door even opens.

I can hear laughter through the hallway, the muffled thud of music, someone yelling a name that is definitely not an emergency but is being shouted like one. When Chesca opens the door, she is wearing a green shirt and the expression of someone who has been waiting for an audience.

“Aiah Ledesma,” she says, pronouncing my name like a headline. “You actually came.”

“I am here,” I answered.

“And you arrived together with her,” Diane’s voice cuts in from somewhere behind Chesca, and then Diane appears in front of us like a jump scare, eyes gleaming, cheeks flushed from excitement and possibly sugar.

Mikha raises one hand in greeting. “Hello, everyone.”

Diane’s gaze flicks between us too quickly like she is trying to confirm something without directly saying it. “So this is real.”

“It is a party,” I say, stepping past her.

Diane follows immediately. “No, no. Not the party. You. You’re here. And she’s here. And you’re together. Like… together-together.”

“We are not together,” I say automatically, because the label still feels like a cliff.

Mikha, beside me, slips her shoes off neatly and lines them up by the door with a precision that looks suspiciously like compliance. She does it without thinking.

Diane sees it and makes a sound like she is choking on air.

“Oh my God,” she whispers, then louder, “Oh my God!”

Chesca raises an eyebrow. “What?”

Diane points out that she has discovered evidence in a murder case. “She aligned her shoes.”

Mikha looks up, unbothered. “I respect spaces I like.”

Diane turns to me slowly. “Aiah.”

I keep my face neutral. “What?”

“She respects your space.”

“It is a basic courtesy,” I say.

“It is not basic for her,” Diane insists.

Mikha smiles with full confidence, the kind that should be illegal in a small room. “Diane. Stop exposing my character development.”

Chesca laughs. “Character development? Who are you and what did you do to Mikha Cruz?”

Mikha shrugs. “I’m evolving.”

The condo is warm, crowded, alive. People are everywhere with our batchmates, classmates, friends of friends. There are snacks on the table, mismatched plates, cups that look like they were taken from five different households. Someone has placed a Santa hat on a lamp. It looks wrong. It looks exactly like something Chesca would do.

Mikha drifts into the noise easily. She laughs. She teases. She accepts a plate from someone and thanks them like she has known them forever. She does not act like she needs to be smaller to fit in.

I hover near the edge of the room, not because I want to leave, but because I prefer having an exit I can see.

Mikha keeps returning to my side anyway.

Not clingy. Not territorial. Just… present. Like her body has decided this is where it belongs.

At some point, she hands me a cup. Water. Cold. Condensation is already forming on the plastic. Thoughtful. Quiet.

“Drink,” she says.

I accept it. “Thank you.”

Her mouth twitches. She looks like she wants to say something, but she stops herself. It takes me a second to realize she is playing with the urge.

Because she does it again a few minutes later, when I set the cup down and she slides it back into my hand like she is managing my hydration personally.

“Here,” she says lightly. “Babe—”

I turn my head too fast. “No.”

She laughs. “Okay, okay.”

My voice stays clipped. “Do not call me that here.”

Mikha blinks innocently. “Ikaw lang nakakarinig.”

I do not need to look around to know she is lying.

The room is full of people pretending not to listen. There is always an audience. Even when no one admits it.

Mikha leans closer, voice lower, playful. “Fine. I’ll behave.”

“You will not,” I say.

“Watch me,” she replies, and then she immediately fails because five minutes later she starts speaking again and her mouth visibly catches on the first syllable like she almost said it anyway.

She corrects at the last second. “Beh.”

I glare at her. She grins like she won a prize by teasing me again.

The night continues with the usual barkada chaos: someone arguing about which Christmas movie is superior, someone insisting they can cook better than their mother, someone yelling “SHOT!” again even though the only alcohol visible is hand sanitizer.

I should feel drained.

Instead, I feel… anchored.

Mikha keeps doing small things. Sliding my cup closer when it drifts away. Moving a chair so I have space. Fixing the strap of my bag when it starts slipping, fingers careful, brief, as if she is still asking permission with every touch.

It is maddeningly gentle.

It is also dangerously comforting.

Then Diane stands in the middle of the room like a villain preparing a reveal.

“Okay,” she announces. “Game time.”

A collective groan rises.

“No,” I said immediately.

Diane ignores me with the confidence of someone who has never respected boundaries in her life.

“Five minutes in heaven,” she declares, eyes shining. “For the fun plot!”

Chesca snorts. “You keep saying that like you’re a writer.”

“I AM,” Diane insists. “I write the narrative of this whole crowd.”

Mikha, beside me, goes still in a way I recognize. She is trying to look casual. She is failing.

I feel my spine straighten. “Absolutely not.”

Diane points at me. “You’re saying no because you’re scared.”

“I am saying no because it is irrational.”

“It is tradition,” Diane counters.

“There is no tradition,” I say.

Chesca raises a hand. “There is definitely tradition. We did it last time.”

“I did not,” I answered.

Diane’s smile grows. “Exactly. You owe us.”

Mikha clears her throat softly. “Guys, we can—”

Diane turns on her like a spotlight. “And you,” she says, voice dropping dramatically, “you owe us because you keep calling her—”

Mikha panics and tries to cut her off with humor. “Babe, wag mo ‘kong iwan—”

Silence detonates.

Every head turns.

Diane’s face morphs into something feral.

“BABE?” she screams. “CONFIRMED.”

Mikha’s eyes widened like she just realized what she said out loud.

I look at her, cold. “Mikha.”

She lifts both hands. “It slipped. I’m sorry. Reflex.”

Diane is already physically moving us toward the hallway, hands on our backs like a shepherd herding irresponsible animals.

“Go!” she commands. “Five minutes! For science! For Christmas! For plot!”

“I will sue,” I mutter, but no one listens.

The cabinet door opens.

It is too small.

I know it is too small the moment I see it.

Mikha steps in first like she is accepting her fate. I step in after her because refusing now would be worse. The door closes behind us with a soft click.

And suddenly everything narrows.

The noise outside becomes muffled, distant, like the party is happening underwater. The air inside the cabinet is warmer. Closer. There is barely room to shift without brushing against each other.

Mikha’s shoulder is inches from mine.

I can feel her heat without touching her.

My pulse reacts immediately, sharp and traitorous.

I inhale, then regret it because Mikha smells like soap and night air and something quietly familiar that makes my brain stutter.

“This is stupid,” I say, too quickly.

Mikha laughs under her breath, but it is not triumphant. I am nervous. “I’m cozy.”

I set my jaw. “I am counting the minutes.”

“Okay,” she says. “Count.”

Silence stretches.

It is not the comfortable kind we’ve learned.

This silence is packed.

Compressed.

Full of everything we usually keep at a safe distance.

The cabinet is smaller than I expect.

Not claustrophobic, exactly—but intimate in a way that immediately rewires my awareness. The door shuts behind us with a soft click that sounds louder than it should, and suddenly the noise from the party collapses into a distant hum. Laughter bleeds through the wood. Someone shouts something incoherent. The world outside keeps moving.

Inside, there is only us.

Mikha shifts awkwardly, shoulders brushing the back wall, hands hovering uselessly at her sides like she isn’t sure where they’re allowed to exist. The light is dim, filtered through the slats, just enough to outline her face. Her eyes flick up to mine, then away again, then back—like she’s checking for instructions that were never given.

She laughs quietly, breathless. “This is… wow. This is small.”

“It is a cabinet,” I say, because logic is still my first instinct when my body doesn’t know what to do with itself.

“Right,” she replies quickly. “Yes. Cabinets are—by nature—small. This checks out.”

She clears her throat.

I notice things I shouldn’t.

The way she keeps adjusting her stance like she’s trying to minimize herself without actually stepping back. The way her shoulders rise when she inhales, then fall too fast when she exhales, like she’s trying to regulate her breathing manually. The way her fingers twitch, then curl, then uncurl again against her thigh.

She is nervous.

Not performative nervous. Not teasing nervous.

Real, unfiltered, endearingly human nervous.

And the realization catches me off guard.

Because Mikha Cruz is rarely this undone.

I am painfully aware of how close her mouth is when she speaks. Of the fact that if she shifts even slightly, we will touch. Of the fact that the only thing preventing it is control.

Mine.

Her breathing is steady at first.

Mine is not.

I inhale slowly through my nose, trying to anchor myself. The air smells faintly like detergent and something warm—something that feels familiar now in a way I haven’t catalogued yet.

Mikha glances toward the cabinet door, then back at me. “So,” she says, voice a little too bright. “Five minutes.”

“Yes,” I reply. “That is how time works.”

She snorts despite herself, then clamps her lips together like she’s afraid laughter will make this worse. Her foot taps once against the floor before she catches it and stills.

“I just—okay,” she says, rambling now. “We don’t have to do anything. We can just stand here. Quietly. Respectfully. Like two adults who were wrongfully imprisoned.”

“Diane is going to narrate this later,” I say flatly.

Her eyes widened in alarm. “Oh God.”

“She will embellish.”

“She always does,” Mikha groans. “She’s going to say we made out or something.”

I look at her. “Did we?”

She freezes.

“No,” she says immediately. Too soon. “No. Absolutely not. I would never… I mean… not without.. not like that—”

She stops herself, mortified.

Her ears are turning red.

The sight of it does something unexpected to my chest.

Because suddenly, the tension shifts.

Not sharp.

Not dangerous.

Soft.

Mikha presses her lips together, visibly trying to regain composure. She straightens her spine like she’s bracing for a presentation.

“Okay,” she says, nodding to herself. “We’re fine. We’re just standing. Normal. This is fine.”

She takes a deep breath.

Then another.

Too fast.

Her shoulders hitch.

She exhales sharply, then laughs again, this time under her breath. “Why is it suddenly hard to breathe?”

I watch her, really watch her, and something in me loosens.

She isn’t posturing.

She isn’t performing with confidence.

She’s just… here. Overthinking. Trying not to mess up. Trying very hard to be careful with something she doesn’t want to break.

With me.

The thought settles warmly in my chest.

My panic because it was there, humming just beneath my ribs softens into something else. Fondness, I realize. Quiet, unguarded fondness.

Mikha glances at me again, eyes searching. “Are you okay?” she asks, genuine concern cutting through her nerves.

“Yes,” I say truthfully.

She nods, relieved, then immediately starts fidgeting again, like her body doesn’t know what to do with the permission to exist.

I tried to speak again. To regain structure. To anchor us in something logical. Something neutral. Something safe.

“You are—” I start.

Mikha stills, eyes flicking to mine.

I intend to finish the sentence with something sensible. Something controlled. You are fine. You are overthinking. You are standing too close.

But what comes out is not safe at all.

“You are such a baby…”

The word slips out warm, instinctive, unguarded like it has been living in my mouth longer than I’ve allowed myself to admit.

The second it lands in the air, I freeze. Mikha freezes harder.

The words leave my mouth softly. Affectionate. Unfiltered.

Not accidental.

Not panicked.

Honest.

Mikha blinks.

Once.

Twice.

The universe pauses.

The silence after is violent.

I feel my chest tighten, panic rising fast, my brain scrambling for a way to retrieve the word and bury it like evidence.

“That was—” I start, voice snapping back into English, into control. “That was not—”

Mikha takes one tiny step closer.

Not enough to touch.

Enough to make the air feel thinner.

“It’s okay,” she says softly. “You said it.”

My throat goes dry. “I did not mean—”

“I know what you meant,” she replies, gentle in a way that feels like a hand held out in the dark. “And I’m okay with it.”

Her calm terrifies me more than teasing would.

Because teasing I can parry.

Gentleness I don’t know how to fight.

She smiles, small, bright, like the cabinet isn’t suffocating her. Like being this close to me isn’t dangerous.

“I’m no longer Mikha,” she says, suddenly solemn, like she’s making an oath. “I’m baby now.” My pulse jumps. “And,” she adds, voice dropping just slightly, “I’m Aiah Ledesma’s baby.”

The phrase should make me roll my eyes.

It should make me scold her.

Instead, something hot and helpless moves through my chest.

I laughed quietly, startled, involuntary.

It slips out before I can stop it.

Mikha’s eyes widen, not because she’s mocking me, but because she’s witnessing something rare: me, unarmored, even for a second.

Outside the cabinet, someone bangs on the door. “TIME!”

Neither of us moves.

Because the timer feels irrelevant now.

The moment already happened.

The door opens anyway.

Light floods in.

Diane’s face appears instantly, feral with curiosity. “WHAT HAPPENED?”

I step out like nothing happened, posture controlled, expression neutral.

“Nothing,” I say.

Mikha steps out behind me, cheeks slightly flushed, eyes bright like she’s holding a secret she’s afraid to drop.

“Everything,” she says at the exact same time.

Diane screams.

And as the room erupts again, as Chesca cackles and someone yells “SHOT!” for the third time, I stand there with my heart still too loud in my chest and one terrifying truth settling into me:

I did not lose control because I was forced.

I lost control because, with her, my body keeps forgetting it needs armor.

We left Chesca’s condo later than we planned.

Not because the party ran late but because neither of us was in a hurry to re-enter the world where things need names and explanations.

The hallway outside is quiet, emptied of laughter and noise. Somewhere behind us, Diane is still yelling about “plot twist” and “trauma bonding,” but the sound fades quickly once the elevator doors close. The building hums softly as it descends, steady and neutral, like it has no opinion on what just happened inside that cabinet.

Mikha stands beside me, hands tucked into the pockets of her jacket, shoulders relaxed now in a way they weren’t earlier. Her reflection flickers faintly in the elevator mirror soft, thoughtful, unusually quiet.

I am aware of everything.

The way our arms are close but not touching.
The way the space between us feels deliberate, respected.
The way my body hasn’t fully come down from the tension yet, like it’s still recalibrating.

When the elevator doors open, she gestures lightly. “After you.”

I step out first, the cool night air brushing against my skin the moment we exit the building. December has settled into the city. Not dramatically, not with spectacle, but with a chill that lingers just enough to be felt. The streetlights glow warmer this late, halos blurring at the edges.

We walk. Side by side.

The silence that settles between us is the kind that only exists when there is nothing left to prove.

It is not awkward. It is not uncertain. It is full of things already said, of things understood without language, of moments that no longer need permission to exist. We walk side by side without urgency, our steps naturally aligning as the city eases itself into sleep around us.

The sidewalks are nearly empty now. A stray cat darts across the street and disappears into shadow. Somewhere down the road, a jeepney engine coughs awake, rattles briefly, then fades into a side street. Christmas lights blink lazily from a nearby window, red and green reflections trembling faintly against wet pavement. The world feels quieter, slower, like it is making room for something private.

When I slow down, Mikha adjusts her pace without comment.

She always does that.

I do not look at her, but I am constantly aware of her presence beside me. Steady, unintrusive, never pulling me forward and never falling behind. She exists at my pace as if it is instinct rather than effort, as if she has learned how to match me simply by paying attention.

Our hands drift closer as we walk.

Not touching.

Almost.

I tell myself I do not need to think about it. That this proximity does not require analysis. That it is merely coincidence.

But I do think about it.

I think about how easy this has become. How natural it feels to exist like this beside another person. And how dangerous that ease is, because ease implies trust, and trust implies vulnerability, and vulnerability has always been the thing I ration most carefully.

When we reach my building, Mikha hesitates for half a second before following me inside. The lobby is quiet, the guard half-asleep behind the desk, barely lifting his head as we pass. He nods at us without interest, already unconcerned with whatever version of us exists beyond his shift.

The elevator ride up is shorter than I want it to be.

I notice the way the numbers light up too quickly, the way the doors close with finality instead of possibility. Mikha stands beside me, close but careful, hands tucked into her pockets like she is deliberately resisting a habit.

When the doors open onto my floor, the silence changes.

It tightens.

The hallway lights cast long shadows across the tiles, familiar in shape yet suddenly unfamiliar in weight. The space feels narrower than it should, like the night itself has drawn closer to listen.

This is my floor.

My space.

My controlled environment.

And Mikha is here.

We stop in front of my door, and neither of us moves right away.

Mikha rocks back slightly on her heels, then stills, as if deciding how to exit this moment without disturbing it. “So,” she says, her voice light and careful, as though testing the air. “I’ll—”

She does not finish the sentence.

She does not need to.

I nod once. “Yes.”

The word lands heavier than it should, dense with meaning I am not ready to unpack.

She smiles a small, soft expression that carries no demand. “Text me when you’re inside.”

“I always do,” I reply automatically.

“I know, babe.” she says, and there is something in her tone that tells me she likes knowing that. That this routine matters to her more than she will ever say out loud.

The silence stretches again.

Charged, but not unfinished.

Complete.

Our hands almost touch.

Again.

Mikha does not close the gap.

She never does unless I let her.

I turn toward the door, my fingers brushing against my bag as I reach for my keys, already preparing to reenter the part of my life where things are predictable and contained.

That is when it happens.

The lock clicks.

But not from my hand.

The door opens from the inside.

I freeze.

My mother stands there, fully dressed, hair neatly pulled back, posture impeccable. Her expression is unreadable in the way that has always meant she already knows something I do not.

For half a second, my brain refuses to catch up.

This is wrong.

This was not scheduled.

She was not supposed to be here.

My spine straightens automatically, posture snapping into place before I can stop it. “Mo—”

She does not look at me.

Her gaze moves past me.

Straight to Mikha.

And the air shifts.

Not dramatically. Not violently.

But decisively.

My mother’s eyes narrow not in suspicion, but in recognition. Her lips curve not into surprise, but into something polite, measured, and unsettlingly controlled.

“Well,” she says, her voice smooth and precise as it cuts cleanly through the quiet hallway, “if it isn’t Mikha Cruz.”

The name lands like a gavel striking stone.

Mikha goes completely still.

Not startled.

Not confused.

Frozen.

Her shoulders stiffen, and her hands slowly come out of her pockets, fingers flexing once as if grounding herself in place. Her expression sharpens not into fear or panic, but into something alert, something prepared.

My stomach drops.

I turn to look at Mikha, my heart suddenly pounding too loudly in my ears.

Before I can speak, before I can demand an explanation, my mother finally turns her attention back to me. She smiles again, too polite, too deliberate.

“Aiah,” she says mildly, as if pointing out a minor oversight, “you didn’t tell me you are friends with Mikha.”

Friends.

The word feels wrong in my mouth before I even think about it.

I opened it anyway.

Nothing comes out.

Mikha swallows slowly, deliberately, like someone choosing composure over instinct. She inclines her head with practiced respect, her voice calm and even. “Good evening, Mrs. Ledesma.”

My mother studies her then, really studies her, the way she studies contracts before signing them, weighing value, risk, and consequence.

And whatever she sees seems to confirm something.

The silence stretches.

Thick. Unforgiving.

The hallway suddenly feels too small. Too bright. Too exposed.

I become acutely aware of every variable I do not understand.

The door remains open behind my mother.

Inviting.

Threatening.

A threshold.

The door stays open like a verdict and for the first time, I cannot calculate my way out of what comes next.