Handshake Protocol

The next morning, campus looks exactly the same.

Same cracked pavement near the fountain, same messy tangle of tarpaulins advertising org fairs and tutorials and some block party that promises “Free shots! Free regrets!” The same cluster of freshmen taking pictures beside the JGSOM sign like it’s a tourist spot. The sky is the same too. It’s too blue, too loud, like it didn’t get the memo that my entire internal architecture shifted last night.

Nothing looks different.

But everything feels like it’s running on a new operating system.

My bag strap digs into my shoulder as I cross the quad. I can feel the phantom warmth of her fingers there from yesterday, when she grabbed me by the hoodie at the bleachers like I was something she didn’t want to let slip. My brain replays the moment in a loop: my own voice, cracking as I said it out loud.

I like you.

And then hers, lighter than I’ve ever heard, like every tired bone in her body suddenly remembered how to float.

“About time, babe.”

My stomach flips again at the word, traitor that it is.

No. I tell myself. We are not doing this in public. We can’t. This is… it’s not official. There are still terms of use we haven’t agreed on, fine print I haven’t read. We’re in beta testing at best.

I pass the steps where she usually waits in the mornings, half the time pretending she “just happened” to pass by the same route. Today, she isn’t there. Which is good. Or should be good. It keeps my heart rate from spiking to unsafe levels.

“Relax,” I murmur under my breath, forcing my feet into the rhythm of my usual walk. “This is normal. Same schedule. Same you.”

The system hums in the background anyway, like a server room working overtime.

I’m almost at the ISO canteen when I hear it.

“Baaabe!”

The word cuts clean through the morning noise, bright and shameless and very obviously aimed at me.

My internal processes crash.

I freeze in the middle of the walkway. Students swerve around me with irritated looks, but the rest of the sound goes muffled, like someone turned down the world and turned up only her.

Mikha is jogging toward me from the direction of the parking lot, backpack slung haphazardly over one shoulder, lanyard crooked, hair messier than it was last night. There’s a half-unzipped jacket tied around her waist, and a water bottle bouncing against her hip with every step. She looks like she rolled out of bed and straight into a music video.

And she’s smiling.

Not the teasing, flexible one she uses on everyone. This one is sharp and sure, like a highlight drawn with a permanent marker.

“Hey, babe, wait naman,” she pants a little as she stops in front of me, hands braced on her knees before she straightens up again.

“Don’t call me that,” I blurt out, too fast, too loud.

My heart is sprinting. I can feel eyes on us, little pings of attention hitting from every direction.

Mikha’s grin doesn’t even flicker. “Why not? Nakakakilig naman ah.”

My face burns. “You’re not my girlfriend.”

It comes out flat, defensive. I don’t mean it to sound like rejection, but her brows twitch for half a second, quick enough that someone else might miss it. I don’t.

She recovers fast. Of course she does.

“Correction,” she says, adjusting her backpack like she’s presenting a slide in class. “Not yet.”

There it is, that familiar confidence, built on the bones of every “no” I’ve given her in the past. Except now it’s sitting on top of last night’s “yes,” and my system doesn’t know where to store the data.

I scowl to hide the way my mouth wants to curl. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Consistent,” she counters easily. “Hi babe, good morning. Na-miss mo ako?”

Before I can process a response that isn’t incriminating, another voice cuts in.

“Maka-babe ka diyan, kala mo jowa na!”

Chesca appears on my left like she teleported, tray in one hand, iced coffee in the other, eyes wide and delighted. Diane trails behind her with a paper bag of pandesal, already chewing, already watching.

“Oh my God,” Chesca says, looking at me, then at Mikha, then at our proximity, like she’s tracking a live plot twist. “So this is new. Since when may endearment kayo?”

“Since forever,” Mikha answers before I can deny anything. “Wala lang siyang receipt. Ngayon meron na.”

Diane snorts, almost choking on bread. “Wow. Soft launch pa ‘yan or full campaign roll-out na? May press release ba kami dapat basahin?”

“I will walk away,” I warn, shifting my bag higher, hoping the movement will hide the way my hands are starting to shake. “Promise.”

Mikha just leans closer, enough that I can smell coffee and peppermint gum on her breath. “Walk away, babe, I’ll just follow you. Nasubukan na natin ‘yan.”

My chest does that stupid tiny glitch again.

I force my feet toward the canteen entrance, ignoring the way the others fall into step with us like this is some casual morning stroll and not a full-blown system failure.

Inside, the ISO cafeteria is its usual chaos: trays clattering, the coffee machine hissing, people shouting orders over each other. The line at Aling Nena’s stall is already ridiculous.

We’re halfway to our usual table when I feel something brush the back of my hand.

I look down.

Mikha’s fingers are hovering just near mine, not quite holding, but close enough that if I curled my hand by mistake, our skin would touch.

“Relax,” she says quietly, so only I can hear. The brightness is dialed down, replaced with something softer. “Hindi kita lalagyan ng pirma sa noo na ‘Property of Mikha Cruz.’”

“Then tone down,” I mutter back. “You’re… loud.”

“Flattered ka lang,” she singsongs.

I don’t answer. My silence is not denial. And she knows it now. That’s the problem.

We reach our table by the window, the same one I picked a hundred times for the lighting and the outlet and the distance from everyone else. Somehow it feels smaller today. Like there’s less space between my side and hers.

Chesca dumps her things on the chair opposite us and collapses dramatically. “Okay, so, agenda for today: recitation, quiz, lab, and…” She gestures between us. “kilig.”

“I will actually stab you with my pen,” I say.

“Uy, violent si ma’am,” Diane laughs, dropping into the seat beside Chesca. She eyes me, then Mikha. Her gaze lingers on the way Mikha casually hooks her bag on the back of my chair instead of the empty one next to hers. “Pero hindi ka umaatras ah. Dati pa lang, pag lumapit ‘to, haalis ka na agad, parang may allergy.”

“I grew,” I say stiffly.

“In fairness,” Mikha says, tapping a finger on the table. “Character development ‘yan. Next step, sasabihin niya ‘yung ‘babe’ pabalik.”

“Dream on,” Chesca mutters.

“Manifesting my future,” she replies with a dismissive wave. “Shoo away sa mga nega. Right, babe?”

I inhale slowly through my nose, count to three, exhale.

If I let her, she’ll rewire my entire personality in public before lunch.

“Anak ko!” a familiar voice booms from the direction of the counter. “Nakabalik na ang princess ng block A!”

We all turn.

Aling Nena is elbow-deep in plastic bags and change, but she still finds the time to beam at us. Her apron is already dotted with coffee stains and sugar. She waves a hand in our direction.

“O, ikaw, si Aiah!” she calls out. “Halika nga rito sandali.”

I blink. “Me?”

Mikha nudges me. “O ayan, pinapatawag ka na ng fave mo.”

“She’s your fave,” I shoot back automatically, but my feet are already carrying me toward the stall.

When I reach the counter, Aling Nena squints at me like she’s examining a specimen.

“Aba,” she says, “totoo pala. Mas gumaganda ka pag may nagpapa-kilig.”

I choke on my own saliva. “Huh? I’m not—”

“Ay, ‘wag na mag-deny. Kita sa lakad,” she insists, sliding a small plastic-wrapped something across the counter toward me. “O, take mo na ‘to.”

I look down.

Yema. Of course.

“What’s this for?” I ask, even though I already know.

“Reward,” she says simply. “For being honest sa feelings mo. Saka…” Her wrinkled eyes soften as they dart past me, over my shoulder. “Para hindi ka masyadong masungit sa suki ko.”

I don’t have to turn around to know Mikha is watching.

“Aling Nena,” I say slowly, “I’m not saying—”

“Hay naku.” She waves me off. “May yema ka na, may babe ka pa. Masyado nang matamis ‘yan. Magka-diabetes ka d’yan, ‘nak.”

The word lands so hard my mental processes short-circuit.

Behind me, I hear a violent cough. I risk a glance back.

Mikha is half-standing, one hand over her mouth like she’s trying not to laugh, eyes shining. Chesca is losing it quietly, shoulders shaking. Diane has her phone out like she’s documenting my public humiliation for archival purposes.

“I—” I manage, cheeks on fire. “She’s not— I mean, she’s—”

“Hindi pa, ‘no,” Mikha calls from the table, loud enough for half the canteen to hear. “Work in progress.”

“Work on your life,” I snap back instinctively, which only makes Chesca squeal, “Aaaay, banter!”

Aling Nena chuckles, clearly entertained. “O siya, balik ka na doon. Baka mawala pa ‘yang babe mo sa kakaporma.”

I take the yema and walk back to the table, trying to hold what’s left of my dignity together.

Mikha holds out her hand as soon as I sit, eyes flicking to the candy. “Para sa’kin ‘yan, ‘no?”

“No,” I say, clutching it protectively.

“Wow. Kahit yema, pinagdadamot mo sa future mo?”

“Your future,” I correct coolly, “is not my liability.”

She clutches her chest. “Aray. Pero fine, I see how it is. Walang share si babe.”

I stare at her.

She stares back, eyes bright, daring.

Without breaking eye contact, I unwrap the yema, tear it in half, and wordlessly drop one piece on her napkin.

Her breath hitches almost imperceptibly.

“That’s not… indicative of anything,” I say quickly, looking away.

“Sure,” she murmurs. “Not indicative at all.”

Under the table, my foot taps the floor in tiny staccato beats until the system stabilizes.

For the rest of lunch, she keeps stealing glances. Quick, sideways, like she’s checking if the moment actually happened. I pretend not to notice, burying myself in my planner, but the truth is I feel it every single time. Like a cursor blinking in the corner of my screen, waiting for me to type something I’m not ready to say out loud.

By the time we disperse for our next classes, the heat outside has already climbed, a thick, humid weight that sticks to my skin. I tell myself I’m heading straight to the library, that I need to reset, recalibrate, flush her out of my short-term memory cache.

But halfway across the field, I see her.

I don’t mean to bring her water.

It’s just… hot.

The noon sun turns the soccer field into an oven, the kind with fake grass that traps heat and forgiveness. I’m passing by on the way to the library when I see her.

Mikha is in the middle of the pitch with her orgmates, hoodie discarded on the sidelines, cheeks flushed, hair tied up with a rubber band that looks dangerously close to snapping. She’s laughing at something one of the guys said, but there’s a fine tension in her shoulders that I recognize now. Overcompensation. She’s tired.

I check my watch. They’ve been out there for almost an hour.

My brain presents the options:

Option A: Proceed to the library. Follow the schedule. Maintain distance.

Option B: Divert route for a five-minute delay in exchange for… what, exactly?

I stand there, internally buffering.

Then I remember last night, her voice quiet for once, thumb brushing my knuckles when she said, “Do you even know how long I’ve been waiting to hear that?”

Option B it is.

I detour to the nearest vending machine, feed in coins, punch the coldest-looking bottle of water I can find. The machine spits it out with a loud clunk that feels disproportionate to the tiny decision I just made.

When I reach the sidelines, practice is on a break. Mikha is bent over, hands on her knees, catching her breath. Sweat darkens the collar of her shirt.

“Cruz!” one of her orgmates calls out. “Uy, may visitor ka.”

She looks up.

Our eyes meet across the field. For a second, everything else blurs at the edges, like someone tapped the focus on her face only.

I realize too late how this looks.

Regret tries to lecture me; my feet ignore it. I walk the rest of the way, hold out the bottle in front of her.

“Here,” I say, trying to sound neutral. Informational. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

Her chest is still heaving, but her smile is slow, spreading from one corner of her mouth to the other like it’s syncing with her heartbeat.

“For me?” she asks unnecessarily.

“No, for your coach,” I deadpan. “Of course, it’s yours.”

She takes it, fingers brushing mine.

My pulse jumps.

“Thanks, babe,” she says, low and earnest, the word suddenly stripped of all the loud, teasing performance. “Sobra akong nauuhaw na.”

The way she says it does things to my nervous system I’m not prepared to diagnose.

“Hydrate,” I say, because anything else will sound like admitting something. “You might pass out, that’s gonna be a hassle.”

“Grabe, concern,” one of her teammates pipes up from behind her. “Girlfriend mo ba ‘yan, Cruz?”

Mikha doesn’t even hesitate. “Soon,” she fires back.

I glare at her. “In your dreams.”

“Siyempre,” she says. “Doon nagsisimula lahat.”

She twists the cap open and tilts the bottle back, throat working as she drinks. I look away, suddenly fascinated by a particularly boring patch of bleachers paint.

“I’m going to the library,” I say finally. “Don’t die.”

“Yes, ma’am,” she replies, saluting with the bottle. As I turn to leave, she adds, softer, “Salamat ha.”

The ‘thank you’ follows me all the way to the stairs.

I try to shake it off as I walk, mentally dragging myself back into my schedule, but it clings like something warm, persistent, like humidity under my collar. Every few seconds, my brain replays the way she said it…quiet, sincere, no theatrics. Just… grateful. And my chest does that stupid micro-stutter again.

I tell myself the water was nothing.
A one-off.
A low-risk error in judgment.

But then I remember her fingers brushing mine barely a second, but enough to spike my internal temperature to unsafe levels.

By the time I get to my afternoon class, my system still hasn’t fully rebooted. I sit through the lecture with half my brain elsewhere, trying to rebuild my composure like corrupt files. It doesn’t help that every time I glance sideways, she’s already looking at me, as if confirming I didn’t just vanish after the field.

When the bell finally rings, we spill out into the hallway with everyone else. The crowd is loud, chaotic voices bouncing off concrete, doors slamming, someone laughing too hard at something not that funny. I use the noise like a cover, hoping it’ll drown whatever’s still humming in my chest.

It works for maybe three minutes.

By the time I get back to my unit, I’m exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with school.

I tell myself sleep will fix it.
A shutdown.
A clean reboot.

It doesn’t.

The next morning, there’s still a faint hum in my chest, like some background app refuses to close. I try to drown it with coffee, then with work, then with silence.

None of it works.

Which is how I end up here again, opening my drawer between classes, searching for something I pretend I don’t care about.

The first-aid kit in my drawer doesn’t match me.

It’s a cheap plastic case with a cracked hinge, stuffed with cotton balls, betadine, gauze, and a strip of cartoon Band-Aids I bought on a whim at the convenience store because they were near the cashier and my hands were already full.

They have tiny brown bears on them.

I stare at the box, fingers hovering over the Band-Aids. Logic says this is excessive. Irrational, even. She scrapes her knees all the time. She’s survived this long without my intervention. But then I remember last week her sliding into the classroom late, ripped stocking, a sloppy bandage, laughing it off like it didn’t sting.

I sigh, pick up one of the bear Band-Aids, and shove it into my pocket before I can think too hard about it.

The opportunity comes faster than I expect.

We’re in the hallway after a stats quiz, the crowd spilling toward the elevators. Mikha is walking backward in front of us, talking animatedly about some upcoming event for her org.

“And then may mini-program pa sa gabi, tapos siguro pa-raffle ng—”

She collides with the corner of a bench.

“Aray!” She cuts herself off, biting her lip as she grabs her thigh.

“Mikha,” I say sharply. “Watch where you’re going.”

“Okay lang, okay lang,” she insists, forcing a laugh for the benefit of the people around us. “Strong independent woman ‘to.”

“Strong independent bruha,” Diane mutters under her breath.

Chesca’s eyes widen. “Uy, may dugo.”

I look down.

There’s a shallow scrape just above her knee, a thin smear of red starting to bloom.

Before she can brush it off again, I reach for her wrist.

“Sit,” I command.

She blinks. “Yes, ma’am—”

“Now.”

The others oooh quietly like we’re in a live taping.

Mikha perches on the bench, eyebrows raised, trying to read me. I ignore the attention, kneel just enough to see the scrape properly, and dig into my pocket.

The bear Band-Aid rustles in my hand.

Her eyes widen when she sees it. “Aiah…” She draws out my name like it’s a question and a smile at the same time. “That is…so not your branding.”

“Shut up,” I say, tearing open the wrapper with more force than necessary. “Just use it.”

She doesn’t move. Her gaze is fixed on my face, like she’s trying to memorize every micro-expression.

I focus on the task.

I dab the scrape gently with a tissue first, blotting the blood away. Her skin is warm under my fingers. I pretend my hands aren’t trembling as I smooth the Band-Aid over the cut, pressing the edges down carefully.

“There,” I say, standing up too fast. “Issue resolved.”

She looks down at her knee, then back up at me.

“Bears?” she asks softly.

“It was the last pack,” I lie, which is ridiculous because no one else buys bear Band-Aids on purpose.

“You bought it,” she counters, “and you put it on me.”

“Do you want me to rip it off?” I threaten.

“No, ma’am.” Her smile is almost shy, and it hits me in a place I didn’t know was vulnerable. “Thank you, babe.”

I roll my eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t fall out. “Stop saying that.”

“Why?” she asks, tilting her head. “Totoo naman.”

“Not… yet,” I mumble, the word slipping out before I can pull it back.

Her breath catches.

Our eyes meet.

For a second, the hallway noise fades again, and I can hear only that tiny stutter in her chest, the delay between her inhale and her exhale. Packet loss. Glitch. Something.

“Copy,” she says finally, voice lower, gentler. “Not yet.”

Behind us, Chesca makes a strangled sound. “Okay, alam mo, kung hindi ko kayo mahal pareho, ibubulgar ko talaga ‘to sa buong block.”

“You already do,” Diane points out. “Nagla-live tweet ka na nga.”

“Freedom of information ‘yan,” Chesca argues. “Public interest.”

I glare at both of them, but my hand tingles where it touched Mikha’s skin. The Band-Aid sits neatly on her knee, the warmth of her lingered much longer on mine. I tell myself to breathe, to reboot, to let the moment fade.

It doesn’t.

It stays with me, quiet and insistent, as the days roll forward.

We’re at our usual table later that week when the topic shifts.

“Are you going to Mia’s party next weekend?” Chesca asks, picking at her fries. “Yung after midterms thing?”

“Which one?” Diane asks. “Si Mia na mayaman, o si Mia na mas mayaman?”

“The one with the dad na may hotel,” Chesca clarifies.

Diane snaps her fingers. “Ah, ‘yon. Sa function hall daw nila gagawin, ‘di ba? Same place from the fundraiser event of your mom last year.”

The words hit like a power surge straight to my spine.

Fundraiser. Last year.

The room blurs at the edges.

For a moment, I’m not in the cafeteria anymore. I’m standing in a ballroom that smells like money and polished floors, lights refracting off crystal, my mother’s hand on my shoulder, heavy as expectation.

“Aiah?”

Mikha’s voice cuts through the static.

I blink.

She’s staring at me, brows drawn, the joke she was about to make stalled on her lips. Her eyes track the way my fingers curl into fists on the table, the way my shoulders lock.

“You okay?” she asks quietly, ignoring the rest of the conversation.

“I’m fine,” I reply, too quickly. My throat feels tight. “I’m not going.”

Chesca pouts. “Wala namang dress code, ‘no. Puwede ka mag-all black if gusto mong magmukhang assassin.”

“I said I’m not going,” I repeat, firmer.

“Okay, okay,” she backs off, hands up. “Question lang.”

Diane shrugs. “Ako a-attend. Free food eh.”

“Of course,” I say dryly, grateful for the thread of normalcy. “You’d attend a funeral for free food.”

“Depende sa menu,” she says.

They move on, the topic shifting to professors and surprise quizzes and some scandal in another block. But Mikha doesn’t. Her gaze keeps slipping back to me like her cursor is stuck.

She doesn’t ask again.

She doesn’t say, “What happened?” or “Why?” or “Is this about your mom?” Even though the questions are flickering behind her irises, I can see them.

Instead, she nudges her foot lightly against mine under the table, a tiny, grounding tap.

“Kung ayaw mo, ‘wag,” she says simply, voice low enough that only I catch it. “No one’s forcing you to join the party.”

Relief spreads through my chest like a gentle override.

“Good,” I answer, managing a small exhale. “I’m not going.”

“Then we’ll do our own thing,” she says, shrugging. “Library date. Or yema date. Bahala na.”

Chesca’s head snaps up. “Library what?”

“Nothing,” I say quickly.

“Manifesting my future,” Mikha chirps.

I kick her under the table.

She winces, grinning. “Worth it.”

Later that week, I find myself standing outside a lecture hall I have no academic business being in. The hallway is half-full, students milling around, some sitting on the floor with their laptops, others scrolling on their phones. The sign beside the door says “SOCRATES ORG GENMEET” in bold, messy letters.

I check my watch. I’m supposed to be in the library, working on a draft for my paper. This detour isn’t on my schedule.

But I know she’s inside. She sent a message in the group chat earlier: “If anyone wants to support, punta kayo sa genmeet namin later. Free cookies daw sabi ni VP. Not a bribe.”

I pretend I saw it by accident. I pretend I’m only here because the library is temporarily full (it’s not).

The door opens. A wave of noise spills out with laughter, clapping, someone shouting into a mic. A few people slip out, then back in.

I hover near the wall, feeling ridiculous.

What am I doing?

No one made me come here. There is no academic requirement, no parental expectation, no strategic advantage on my resume. This is not efficient.

But last night, on Tumblr, there was a new entry.

#072/100 – She stayed.
A blurry photo of the bleachers, this time with two coffee cups in the frame, side by side.

Caption: She stayed. Even when she could have walked away. #IfAthenAlways

I stare at the door.

I want to know her too.

Before my courage can time out, the door swings open wider and she emerges, hair damp with sweat, face flushed from talking. She’s hugging a stack of papers to her chest.

Her footsteps slow when she sees me.

For a moment, she looks almost… uncertain. Like her brain is recalibrating the data on-screen.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hi,” I reply, hands slipping into my pockets so she can’t see them fidget. “Genmeet?”

“Yeah.” She shifts the papers, suddenly awkward in a way I’m not used to seeing. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be in the library?”

“No.” I hesitate, then meet her eyes. “I came to… listen. If that’s okay.”

Her expression goes through three micro-updates in less than a second. Surprise, something like awe, then a warmth so bright it feels like standing too close to a window at noon.

“You came,” she echoes softly.

“It was in the group chat,” I say, as if that explains anything. “You said… support.”

Her throat works. For once, she’s the one whose words are lagging.

“Do you want to… come in?” she asks. “Hindi pa tapos. Q&A pa lang, tapos election. Boring ‘yon, pero… may cookies nga.”

I should say no. My schedule is already off. My to-do list is glaring at me from my planner in my bag, every unchecked box a tiny red flag.

But I think of all the times she sat through my debates, my presentations, my late-night rants about professors and grading systems and policy. How she always looked like she wasn’t just hearing, she was collecting.

I nod.

“Okay,” I say. “I’ll stay.”

Her smile this time isn’t smug or teasing or loud.

It’s small, almost shy, but so genuine it makes something in my chest ache.

“About time,” she murmurs.

I roll my eyes. “Don’t push it.”

She laughs under her breath, steps aside, and gestures toward the door like she’s inviting me into some private universe.

As I slip past her and into the noisy room, I realize something that makes my pulse trip over itself.

For the first time, I’m not just letting Mikha Cruz take up space in my life by accident.

I’m choosing to make room.

And maybe that’s more terrifying than any confession.

But as I sit at the back, watching her move to the front, watching the way the room shifts when she speaks, I feel that same dangerous warmth unfurl in my chest again.

Maybe I want to know her.

Not just as the girl who kept chasing me.

But as the girl whose whole world I’m finally starting to see.

The meeting runs longer than expected.

People filter out in noisy clusters. Laughing, comparing notes, arguing about who should’ve won the raffle. Someone’s speaker crackles to life for a moment before dying again. A chair scrapes loudly against the tile. The usual campus chaos.

But around us, something steadier hums underneath.

Mikha lingers to help stack chairs, return the mic, fix a crooked banner someone half-taped to the wall. She moves through the room like she belongs in every corner of it, greeting people by name, throwing jokes over her shoulder, laughing that tired-but-real laugh that somehow still reaches me across the noise.

I watch her.

Not the way she watches me. Quietly, covertly, like she’s memorizing a pattern but with a kind of dawning clarity. Like I’m finally seeing the full architecture of her world.

When the last few members say goodbye and the room falls into that familiar post-event emptiness, she turns to me with her hair falling loose from her ponytail, cheeks still flushed, eyes bright.

“Ready?” she asks.

Ready. As if I’ve ever been. But I nod anyway.

We step out into the hallway, and the moment the door clicks shut behind us, the soundscape shifts everything softer, muffled, like someone adjusted the gain on the entire campus.

Outside, the sky is already deepening into the evening. Streetlights hum and flicker to life one by one, casting gentle halos on the pavement. The air is cooler now, quieter, almost tender.

We fall into step automatically.

Not touching.

Not quite apart.

Just… close.

Our shadows blur together on the ground as we walk.

Mikha starts talking first half-ranting, half-laughing about the genmeet.

“Si VP talaga,” she says, hands animated. “Sabi ko na nga ba he’d forget the cue cards. Buti na lang he memorized half of it spontaneously. And then parang he just—”

I listen.

Really listen.

The cadence of her excitement, the way her voice dips when she’s nervous about an upcoming event, the way it lifts again when she talks about helping new members feel welcome. She gestures with her whole body, like her hands are assisting her brain, like she’s trying to pull me into the memory too.

And I realize, I’ve never let her talk like this before.
Not fully.
Not uninterrupted.

She kicks a pebble forward on the path. It skitters ahead of us, making tiny tapping sounds on the concrete.

“Why do you do all that?” I ask quietly. “Why do you always try so hard for everyone?”

She stops mid-step.

Just for a second.

Her breath catches, like she didn’t expect the question… or the sincerity in it.

“I don’t know,” she says, voice lower now, edges softer. “Maybe… kasi wala masyadong ganun sa’kin noon. And I know how it feels. Yung… to be around people, pero not really seen.”

Her words settle somewhere inside me…unexpected, heavy, real.

I swallow, pulse flickering in my throat.

We start walking again, slower this time.

“Next time,” I say, surprising myself with how gentle it comes out, “tell me when you have events.”

She looks at me, brows lifting slightly.

“I’ll come,” I add.

We stop walking altogether. The light above us buzzes softly, casting a warm glow on her face. For a moment, she just… looks at me. Like the world reset itself between one blink and the next. Like she’s trying to confirm I actually said it.

“Copy,” she whispers.

Her voice isn’t teasing this time.
It’s thick at the edges.
Careful.
Hopeful.

We fall back into step, the silence between us no longer empty just full, settling, warm.

Our hands don’t touch.

But they almost do.

And for once, I don’t pull away.

For the first time, I wasn’t running from Mikha Cruz. I was walking toward her.