Exception Handling

The Ateneo soccer field always smelled like sunlight.

Not literally, of course. Sunlight had no scent. But somehow the entire place carried that warm, late-afternoon feeling permanently embedded into it anyway. Freshly cut grass. Rubber from worn-out cleats. Sweat. Gatorade. Dust rising from the edges of the field every time someone ran too hard across dry patches near the goalposts.

Noise echoed everywhere.

Whistles.
Laughter.
Someone yelling profanity in the distance.
Metal bleachers creaking whenever students climbed up and down them.
Music from another org event somewhere near SEC Walk bleeding faintly into the afternoon air.

The entire campus looked gold under the setting sun.

And unfortunately for my concentration, Mikha Cruz was standing directly in the middle of all of it.

Laughing.

Again.

I looked back down at my reviewer.

The highlighted paragraph blurred almost immediately.

Something about economic frameworks.

Or constitutional principles.

I honestly could not remember anymore because Theo had apparently decided his life’s purpose today was making Mikha laugh every three seconds.

“Dude!”

Theo sprinted backward across the field with a soccer ball tucked under one arm while pointing dramatically at one of his teammates.

“You call THAT defense?!”

“Defense mo mukha mo!”

“Coach!” Theo yelled immediately. “Verbal abuse!”

Coach Ramirez didn’t even glance up from his clipboard.

“Run five laps.”

“THIS IS TYRANNY.”

The team burst into laughter.

And right there, in the center of all that chaos, Mikha doubled over laughing hard enough that she had to grab Theo’s shoulder to steady herself.

My grip tightened slightly around my highlighter.

Interesting.

Beside me, Diane made a suspicious humming noise.

I ignored her.

The metal bleachers were warm beneath us from the entire afternoon heat. The air moved lazily around campus, carrying distant sounds from students leaving class buildings nearby. A couple walked past the field holding milk tea. Someone near the track was playing music loudly through a cheap speaker.

Everything felt annoyingly alive.

Especially Mikha.

God.

She was everywhere.

Even from this distance, I could see the way sunlight caught against the loose strands of hair escaping her ponytail. Her jersey sleeves were rolled carelessly up to her elbows, exposing tanned skin already glowing slightly pink from practice. Sweat dampened the collar of her shirt. Grass stains marked one knee of her training shorts.

She looked messy.

Unpolished.

Completely unlike me.

And somehow that made her impossible not to look at.

Theo said something else.

Mikha shoved him immediately.

Not hard. Playful.

Theo clutched his chest dramatically anyway.

“Violence! Coach she hit me!”

“You deserve worse,” another teammate yelled.

“I’m a victim!”

“You’re annoying.”

“Same thing!”

Laughter exploded again.

I turned another page in my reviewer.

Unnecessarily hard.

“A.”

I looked at Diane flatly.

“Yes?”

“You’ve been staring at Theo for the last ten minutes like you’re calculating murder.”

“I have not.”

Chesca leaned forward from the bleacher below us, sunglasses perched on top of her head.

“Correction. Fifteen minutes.”

“I am studying.”

“You’ve read the same paragraph four times.”

“I absorb information thoroughly.”

“Girl,” Diane snorted, “you absorb information like a jealous girlfriend.”

“I am not jealous.”

The words came out immediately.

Too immediately.

Diane and Chesca looked at each other. Then both slowly looked back at me with identical expressions.

“Oh my God,” Diane whispered.

“I am not jealous,” I repeated calmly.

“Holy shit,” Chesca muttered. “She’s actually jealous.”

I exhaled slowly through my nose and returned my attention to my reviewer.

Across the field, Theo suddenly threw an arm around Mikha’s neck from behind while yelling something loudly into her ear.

Mikha nearly fell over laughing.

My eye twitched.

Diane saw it.

Actually saw the exact second it happened.

Her entire body folded forward as she tried not to scream.

“THERE,” she whisper-yelled. “THE EYE TWITCH.”

“There was no eye twitch.”

“There WAS.”

“I simply dislike unnecessary physical contact.”

“With Theo specifically?” Chesca asked.

“With everyone.”

“Except Mikha.”

“That’s different.”

Silence.

I regretted answering immediately.

Diane slapped both hands over her mouth.

“Oh wow.”

I frowned.

“What?”

“You admitted she’s different.”

“I did not.”

“You literally just did.”

“I meant our relationship is different.”

“That’s even worse,” Chesca said.

The whistle blew sharply across the field before I could answer. Coach Ramirez pointed aggressively toward center field.

“Enough flirting! Formation!”

Theo saluted dramatically.

“Yes, commander heartbreak.”

“Theo Gonzalez manahimik ka na!”

The team scattered back into position.

Mikha jogged backward toward midfield before glancing toward the bleachers instinctively.

Toward me.

And just like that, her entire face softened. It happened so naturally that it startled me every single time. The loud, chaotic athlete disappeared for half a second. And suddenly she was just…warm.

Her smile reached me even from this distance.

Small. Easy. Real.

She lifted one hand slightly in greeting. Without thinking, I lifted mine back.

Diane stared at me in horror.

“Oh my God.”

“What?”

“You look soft.”

“I do not.”

“You do.”

“I’m literally sitting still.”

“You have this…” Diane gestured wildly. “This thing happening.”

“There is no thing.”

“There is absolutely a thing.”

Chesca nodded solemnly.

“Very anti-Snob Queen branding.”

“I hate both of you.”

“No you don’t,” Diane said cheerfully. “You’re in love.”

I looked away before my body betrayed me visibly.

The scrimmage started immediately after.

Chaos followed.

Always chaos.

The sound of cleats pounding against grass echoed through the field. Bodies moved fast beneath the late afternoon sun, jerseys flashing blue and white as players sprinted across the grass. Coach Ramirez yelled instructions nonstop from the sidelines while the team shouted over each other.

“LEFT SIDE!”

“PASS!”

“THEO YOU IDIOT!”

“I SAW THE OPENING!”

“YOU WERE THE OPENING FOR FAILURE!”

Mikha stole the ball cleanly from someone twice her size.

The entire field erupted.

“AY!”

“Nasty!”

“Holy shit!”

Theo clutched his chest dramatically from the sidelines.

“Coach, Cruz is violating human rights again!”

“She stole the ball, not your kidneys,” Coach answered without emotion.

“She stole my dignity!”

“That was already missing.” Mikha laughed breathlessly while backing away from Theo.

And there it was again. That sharp, irritating thing in my chest every time he made her laugh too easily.

I frowned slightly.

Interesting.

I disliked this feeling.

Not because it hurt.

Because it lacked logic.

I trusted Mikha. Completely. Which meant jealousy served no functional purpose. Then why was I tracking Theo’s movements unconsciously? Why was I aware of how often he touched her shoulder? Why did it irritate me when Mikha leaned into him laughing?

This was inefficient emotional behavior.

I hated inefficiency.

“Aiah,” Chesca said carefully, like speaking to a dangerous animal. “You know normal people would just admit they’re jealous.”

“I’m not.”

Theo tackled someone accidentally.

Everyone screamed.

Mikha laughed again.

My jaw tightened.

Diane nearly fell off the bleachers.

“Jesus Christ.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re looking at Theo like you’re preparing a legal case.”

“He lacks boundaries.”

“AH,” Diane pointed aggressively. “THERE IT IS.”

“I am objectively correct.”

“You sound like a jealous lawyer.”

“I sound observant.”

“No,” Chesca corrected. “You sound territorial.”

I opened my mouth to argue.

Then stopped.

Because across the field, Theo suddenly grabbed both of Mikha’s cheeks dramatically while yelling something directly into her face.

The world paused briefly.

Mikha swatted him away immediately, laughing. But the damage was already done. Something hot climbed unexpectedly up my spine.

Not anger exactly.

Something stranger.

Possessiveness.

I blinked once.

Oh.

Oh, that was new.

Diane saw my expression immediately and made a noise so loud several people nearby turned around.

“OH MY GOD.”

“Lower your voice.”

“She wants to kill him.”

“I do not.”

“She absolutely does.”

I crossed my arms tightly.

The sun dipped lower behind the buildings surrounding the field, turning everything warmer. Orange light stretched across the grass. Shadows lengthened beneath the players’ feet.

And right in the middle of it all, Mikha looked unbearably alive.

Hair messy.
Face flushed.
Laugh too loud.
Entire existence impossible to ignore.

Theo suddenly pointed toward the bleachers.

Toward me.

Then made an exaggerated kissing face.

The entire team LOST their minds.

“Ohhhhhhhhh!”

“Ledesma!”

“Mikha may bantay!”

“Takot ka na bro!”

Mikha froze.

Actually froze.

Then slowly turned toward me with the expression of someone realizing death had arrived personally.

“Oh my God,” she groaned loudly, covering her face.

Theo was nearly collapsing from laughter.

“Smile naman dyan, Ledesma!”

I stared at him blankly.

Theo immediately pointed harder.

“Dude terrifying talaga!”

“Yes,” I answered calmly.

The team screamed louder. Mikha looked like she wanted the earth to consume her immediately which, unexpectedly, I found adorable.

Diane physically grabbed my arm.

“YOU SMILED.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely smiled.”

“I was being polite.”

“You were flirting.”

“I don’t flirt.”

Chesca snorted.

“Tell that to your entire face right now.”

I ignored them. Mostly because Mikha was still refusing to look toward the bleachers anymore.

Interesting. Embarrassed Mikha was surprisingly entertaining.

Practice continued or rather, chaos continued with occasional soccer involved. At some point Theo tripped over a cone dramatically. Another player launched a sports drink across the field accidentally. Someone stole fries from someone else’s bag near the benches which somehow escalated into yelling.

And throughout all of it, Mikha remained bright.
Loud.
Happy.

The kind of happy that softened something inside me every single time I saw it.

The whistle blew again for break.

Players scattered toward the benches immediately. And almost instantly, Mikha looked toward me.

Then smiled.

Then jogged over.

Fast enough that loose strands of hair escaped fully from her ponytail now, bouncing around her face while she ran.

The sunlight caught against the sweat along her neck and collarbone.

My heartbeat did something inconvenient.

Again.

“She’s coming over,” Diane whispered dramatically.

“I can see that.”

“You look nervous.”

“I’m sitting.”

“You’re sitting nervously.”

Mikha reached the bleachers slightly out of breath.

Close up, she looked even warmer somehow.

Cheeks flushed.
Eyes bright.
Breathing uneven from running.

Pretty. Dangerously pretty. God I am so whipped.

“Hi,” she said softly.

Just one word. But somehow it felt quieter than the entire noisy field behind her.

“Hello.”

“You’ve been here long?”

“Forty-three minutes.”

Her grin widened instantly.

“You counted?”

“Yes.”

“That’s kinda cute.”

“It’s called time awareness.”

“Uhum.”

Without asking permission, she reached over and stole my bottled water. I watched her tilt her head back while drinking from it. The movement of her throat. The way sunlight caught against the water droplets near her jaw. 

I looked away immediately.

Too late probably.

Diane saw everything.

Again.

“Oh my God,” she whispered. “I feel single.”

“You ARE single,” Chesca replied.

“Not the point.”

Mikha lowered the bottle and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand casually.

“You studying?”

“I attempted to.”

“Attempted?”

“Theo is loud.”

“I HEARD THAT!” Theo yelled from across the field immediately.

“GOOD,” I answered.

The team exploded into laughter again. Mikha blinked once. Then looked between us suspiciously.

“What happened while I was practicing?”

“Aiah wants to murder Theo,” Diane answered immediately.

“DIANE.”

“What? Honesty matters.”

Mikha stared at me. Then slowly smiled. Not teasing yet but something softer first.

“You got jealous?”

“No.”

“You did.”

“I did not.”

“You did,” she repeated, sounding weirdly delighted about it.

I crossed my arms tighter. Mikha physically bit her lip trying not to laugh which only made her shoulders shake harder.

“Oh my God,” she whispered. “You were jealous.”

“I was observant.”

“You hated Theo.”

“I dislike him regularly.”

“You looked ready to file a restraining order.”

“That’s dramatic.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“No, Theo is dramatic.”

“That’s fair actually.”

I should have been irritated. Instead I found myself watching the way sunlight hit her eyes while she laughed. Watching the tiny crease near her nose appear every time she smiled too hard. Watching the way her entire body leaned unconsciously toward mine while we talked. Then suddenly she stepped one bleacher higher.

Closer.

Too close.

The noisy field blurred strangely behind her.

“I think jealous Aiah is cute,” she whispered.

“I’m not jealous.”

“Uhum.”

“No.”

“Uhum.”

“You’re annoying.”

“You like me.”

Unfortunately true.

Before I could answer, she reached forward absentmindedly and poked my cheek.

Everything stopped.

The field. The noise. My breathing.

Mikha froze instantly too. Her eyes widened. Slowly, very slowly, she pulled her hand back.

“Oh.”

Diane inhaled so sharply she nearly died.

Chesca slapped both hands over her mouth.

Theo saw everything from across the field.

Naturally.

“UY MAY LANDIAN!”

The entire team screamed again.

Mikha covered her face immediately.

“OH MY GOD.”

I remained completely still. Not because I was calm. Because my brain had temporarily stopped functioning.

She touched my face.

In public.

And somehow the only coherent thought my body produced was… Do that again.

“Oh my God,” Mikha repeated into her hands. “I’m transferring schools.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“I touched your cheek!”

“Yes.”

“In public!”

“That appears accurate.”

“You hate PDA!”

“I dislike unnecessary PDA.”

Mikha lowered her hands slowly. Then narrowed her eyes.

“So there are necessary ones?”

Diane screamed. Actually screamed.

“I CAN’T WATCH THIS ANYMORE.”

Three weeks into the relationship, I developed a dangerous misconception.

I started believing I understood Mikha Cruz completely.

Not entirely, obviously. That would have been impossible. Mikha contained contradictions even she did not fully understand yet. She could turn entire rooms brighter with sheer force of personality, then quietly overthink one careless sentence for hours afterward. She could survive difficult things laughing and still cry over animated movies without shame. She was reckless emotionally in ways that should have terrified me and strangely didn’t.

But I began believing I understood the important parts.

I understood that she hated silence after arguments because silence reminded her too much of rejection.

I understood that she became louder whenever she felt nervous.

I understood that she celebrated tiny things because she believed happiness should be acknowledged while it existed instead of postponed for some hypothetical perfect future.

I understood that she loved openly.

Without strategy.
Without calculation.
Without the instinctive restraint I had spent years building into myself.

And somewhere between our routines and our conversations and the terrifying ease of becoming part of each other’s daily lives, I made the mistake of assuming understanding automatically meant compatibility.

It did not.

Compatibility, I would later realize, required translation.

And I had not yet learned Mikha’s language fully.

The problem was that our relationship had become comfortable too quickly.

Dangerously comfortable.

Not boring.

Never boring.

Mikha made boredom physically impossible.

But we had settled into habits now. Small ones. Quiet ones. The kind people formed unconsciously when they stopped wondering whether another person would stay.

Every morning, she waited for me near the steps outside Bellarmine.

Every afternoon, I walked her to training even when my route technically went the opposite direction.

She stole my drinks without asking.

I fixed her lanyard without thinking.

She held my hand beneath tables whenever she noticed I was getting overwhelmed in crowded places.

I started carrying extra candy in my bag because she always forgot to eat properly during long school days.

She started bringing coffee for me automatically before morning classes.

Neither of us discussed these things aloud anymore.

They simply existed.

Like breathing.

Like routine.

Like certainty slowly disguising itself as ordinary life.

And maybe that was why I missed the warning signs completely.

Friday started normally enough.

The morning air outside Ateneo still carried traces of rain from the night before. The pathways were damp beneath scattered leaves while students crossed campus half-awake with coffee cups clutched like survival equipment.

Mikha waited near the base of the stairs outside Bellarmine wearing one of her oversized Ateneo hoodies, sleeves pushed carelessly past her wrists.

The second she saw me, her entire face lit up.

That still affected me more than it should have.

“Good morning, babe.”

The word came easily from her now.

Natural.

Comfortable.

Like she had already decided I belonged there permanently.

“Good morning.”

She walked beside me immediately, shoulder bumping mine lightly while we moved through campus together.

“You slept late again.”

I glanced at her.

“You texted me at one-thirty in the morning.”

“Lambing yun.”

“That was not lambing. That was emotional terrorism.”

Mikha gasped dramatically.

“I said I missed you.”

“You sent eleven messages.”

“You replied to nine.”

I frowned slightly.

“That is not the point.”

“It kinda is.”

Unfortunately true.

Beside us, Diane made a gagging noise loud enough for nearby students to turn around.

“This relationship has made both of you unbearable.”

“Correction,” Chesca added while adjusting her tote bag. “They were already unbearable separately. Now they’ve combined.”

“I can hear both of you.”

“That’s intentional,” Diane replied brightly.

Mikha laughed beside me, warm and effortless in the cool morning air.

Then without warning, she slipped her hand into mine while we crossed the pathway toward SEC. My fingers tightened automatically around hers.

No hesitation anymore.

That realization startled me quietly. Because there had been a time when public affection felt impossible to me. Now holding Mikha’s hand in the middle of campus had somehow become instinct.

Dangerous. Very dangerous.

Mikha noticed me noticing.

Of course she did.

Her smile softened immediately.

“You okay?”

“Yes.”

“You got quiet.”

“I was thinking.”

“Scary.”

“I regret liking you.”

“No you don’t.”

Unfortunately true again.

She squeezed my hand once before letting go briefly to adjust her backpack. The movement exposed the edge of something blue sticking out from one of the side pockets.

Ribbon.

Interesting.

I looked at it briefly.

Then at her.

Mikha immediately shoved the pocket closed.

Too quickly.

Suspicious.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“That answer was unconvincing.”

“You’re unconvincing.”

“That sentence does not structurally make sense.”

“It emotionally makes sense.”

“That is not how sentences work.”

“To you.”

Diane pointed aggressively behind us.

“See? This is why they work. One speaks in legal documents. The other speaks in vibes.”

“I speak normally,” Mikha argued.

“You once described Aiah as emotionally premium.”

“She is emotionally premium.”

“That phrase still makes no sense,” I informed her.

“It does in my heart.”

I should have responded logically.

Instead I looked away because my face had started warming again.

Mikha noticed immediately.

Her grin widened.

“Cute.”

“You are disruptive before eight in the morning.”

“You like it though.”

Again: unfortunately true.

The rest of the morning passed in its usual rhythm.

Classes.
Notes.
Quiet touches beneath desks.
Mikha passing folded paper messages during lectures whenever she got bored.

At lunch, she stole food from my tray while smiling innocently.

At one point she rested her chin against my shoulder while complaining dramatically about one of her professors.

Later she made me hold her hoodie because it’s hot. All of it felt normal now.

That was the dangerous part.

How quickly extraordinary things became routine when repeated often enough.

Which was perhaps why I overlooked Friday entirely.

The first actual warning should have happened during our free period inside Rizal Library.

We sat near the windows where afternoon sunlight stretched long across the wooden tables while quiet murmurs floated softly through the air around us.

Students filled nearly every corner of the library now because midterms were approaching.

Pages turning.

Laptop keyboards clicking.

Whispered panic about deadlines.

Outside the windows, Ateneo glowed warm beneath late afternoon sunlight.

Mikha sat across from me pretending to study.

Pretending badly.

Because every few minutes, she looked up from her notebook like she wanted to say something.

Then stopped.

Then smiled to herself.

Then looked back down again.

Interesting.

“What?”

She blinked.

“What what?”

“You keep staring at me.”

“I have eyes.”

“That is not an explanation.”

“You’re pretty.”

My brain paused briefly.

Annoying.

“I am reading.”

“You can read while being pretty.”

“That sentence was unnecessary.”

“So are stars but we keep them.”

I stared at her. Mikha grinned triumphantly before returning to her notebook.

A few minutes passed quietly again.

Then casually, without looking up, she asked:

“So…”

I hummed absently while highlighting a paragraph.

“What time matatapos org meeting mo Friday?”

I paused briefly.

“Probably seven.”

“Late?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

“You keep saying okay suspiciously.”

“Wow. Grabe trust issues.”

“You are hiding something.”

“I’m literally studying.”

“You drew another cat wearing sunglasses.”

“It’s academic support.”

I narrowed my eyes slightly.

Across from me, Mikha bit back another smile.

I should have pushed further.

Should have noticed the excitement practically vibrating underneath her calm expression.

But I didn’t.

Because my brain categorized Mikha’s happiness as constant now.

Normal.

Permanent.

And maybe that was my first mistake.

By Friday morning, I was already exhausted.

One professor moved a major submission earlier than scheduled. Debate training extended longer than expected because one of the opposing teams kept interrupting during mock arguments. Then immediately afterward, one of the org officers cornered me outside the meeting room to discuss sponsorship concerns for an upcoming event.

By six-thirty, my head already hurt.

By seven, I was still trapped in discussion.

By seven-fifteen, the hallway outside the org room had mostly emptied while fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead.

I rubbed briefly at my temple before checking my phone.

Three unread messages from Mikha.

Mikha Cruz
6:48 PM
done na kayo?

Mikha Cruz
7:01 PM
still alive ka pa ba ms. ledesma?

Mikha Cruz
7:09 PM
🙂

I frowned slightly at the last message.

Interesting.

Before I could respond, another notification appeared.

Mikha Cruz
7:18 PM
im outside SEC hehe

Outside SEC?

Why?

I typed while walking toward the stairs.

Me: Why are you outside SEC?

Typing…

Stopped.

Typing again.

Then finally:

Mikha Cruz
nothing 🙂

Something about that response unsettled me faintly.

But before I could process why, my phone started ringing.

“Mikha.”

“Hi.”

Her voice sounded softer tonight somehow.

Not sad. Just quieter around the edges.

“Why are you outside SEC?”

Silence. Then lightly:

“Wanted to see you.”

Something tightened faintly inside my chest.

Annoyingly.

“I’m heading there now.”

“Okay.”

The line ended shortly after.

The evening air outside felt cooler now, carrying faint traces of distant rain while campus lights cast soft yellow glows across the pathways.

Students crossed between buildings laughing loudly with friends while music drifted faintly from somewhere near Gonzaga.

I spotted Mikha almost immediately near the benches outside SEC.

And the first thing I noticed was the paper bag beside her.

Small, white with a blue ribbon tied carefully around it.

My steps slowed slightly.

Interesting.

Mikha looked up the second she saw me approaching. Then smiled warmly. But there was something restrained beneath it tonight. Something I could not identify immediately.

“You waited long?”

“A little.”

“You should’ve told me earlier.”

“It’s okay.”

She stood up slowly, adjusting her backpack strap before picking up the paper bag carefully.

“What’s that?”

Her smile widened slightly.

“Nothing important.”

That answer landed strangely. Because Mikha usually announced surprises immediately.

I frowned faintly.

“Mikha.”

“Hm?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

Too fast.

Too automatic.

I knew that tone already. Not enough to understand it completely. But enough to recognize concealment.

Then she handed me the paper bag carefully.

“Here.”

I took it slowly. Inside was a small chocolate cake. Tiny. Probably from one of the cafes near campus.

Simple white icing.

And written slightly unevenly in blue frosting were the words:

Happy 1st Monthsary Babe 💙

The world paused briefly.

Not literally.

Students still crossed campus around us. Someone laughed loudly somewhere near the pathways. Music still drifted faintly through the evening air.

But my brain stopped moving for one clean second.

Oh.

Oh.

Today.

I looked up slowly.

“Mikha…”

She laughed softly while rubbing the back of her neck awkwardly.

“I know it’s kinda corny.”

“No, I just—”

“You forgot.”

Not accusing. That was what made it worse.

“I’ve been busy today.”

“I know.”

“You should’ve reminded me.”

Her smile faltered slightly.

“I wanted you to remember.”

Something shifted uncomfortably inside my chest.

I looked back down at the tiny cake.

One month.

Logically speaking, it was not significant. And yet somehow Mikha had treated it like something precious enough to celebrate.

I looked back up.

“It’s been one month, Mikha.”

She blinked once.

“Exactly.”

I adjusted my grip slightly on the paper bag.

“That’s not exactly a milestone.”

The second the words left my mouth, something changed in her face. Not dramatically. Most people would not have noticed it.

But I did.

Because the warmth in her expression withdrew slightly.

Quietly.

Like a light dimming.

“Maybe not for you,” she said softly.

Something inside my stomach tightened.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“No, it’s okay.”

“Mikha.”

“You’re right naman.”

The way she said it unsettled me immediately.

Not angry.

Not emotional.

Just smaller somehow. Like she suddenly regretted caring out loud. 

I disliked that feeling instantly.

“You’re overthinking this.”

She laughed softly.

“Maybe.”

The sound hit wrong. I looked at her more carefully now. Really looked. And suddenly details started rearranging themselves into meaning.

The slightly nicer outfit.

The way her hair had clearly been fixed earlier.

The ribbon tied carefully around the box.

Preparation.

Anticipation.

Excitement.

All of it sitting quietly between us now. And without realizing it, I had stepped directly on top of it.

“I just don’t understand celebrating every month,” I admitted honestly. “It feels excessive.”

Mikha nodded slowly.

“Okay.”

“I’m not saying we shouldn’t celebrate important things.”

“Uhum.”

“But one month—”

“It makes me happy, Aiah.”

The interruption was gentle.

Soft.

And somehow that made it hurt more.

I stopped speaking.

Students passed nearby beneath the warm evening lights while distant laughter echoed softly through campus.

Mikha looked away briefly toward the pathways ahead.

“You know,” she said quietly, “I don’t even care about expensive dates or anything.”

I stayed silent.

“I just…” She laughed weakly. “I like celebrating little things.”

Something tightened deeper inside my chest now.

“You’re making this bigger than it is.”

She nodded immediately.

“Yeah.”

But her voice sounded quieter now.

Withdrawn.

And suddenly I realized this was no longer about the monthsary itself. It was about feeling embarrassed for valuing it. That realization unsettled me unexpectedly.

“I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I’m not upset.”

“You clearly are.”

“No.” She smiled again, but this time it looked tired around the edges. “I think nahiya lang ako konti.”

The words landed harder than I expected.

Embarrassed.

Mikha felt embarrassed. Because I made her feel childish for caring.

“I didn’t say it was stupid.”

“You kinda did.”

“I said it wasn’t a milestone.”

“Exactly.”

“That’s different.”

“Not really.”

Silence settled between us.

Not hostile but that somehow made it worse.

If she had gotten angry, I would have understood what to do. If she had yelled, I could have defended myself logically. But this quiet disappointment felt impossible to argue against.

Because it wasn’t dramatic enough to fight. Just painful enough to linger.

I looked down again at the tiny cake inside the paper bag.

Blue frosting slightly uneven. Probably customized carefully. And suddenly I imagined Mikha standing inside some café earlier deciding which cake looked nicest while waiting excitedly for tonight.

The image settled heavily inside my chest.

“I forgot,” I admitted quietly.

“I know.”

“I’ve had a lot going on today.”

“I know.”

The repeated answer made me feel worse somehow. Because she understood and understanding always felt heavier than anger.

“I’m trying here.”

Mikha’s expression softened immediately at that.

“I know you are.”

There it was again.

That gentleness.

Even now. Even when hurt, she was still trying to make this easier for me which meant she was comforting me even though I was the one who hurt her.

Something inside me twisted uncomfortably.

“I just don’t naturally think about things like this,” I admitted.

“Like what?”

“Sentimental dates.”

She smiled faintly.

“That’s okay.”

“No,” I said honestly. “Clearly it isn’t.”

Mikha looked at me quietly for a moment.

Then finally asked very softly:

“Can I ask you something?”

“Yes.”

“If I didn’t prepare anything tonight…” She hesitated briefly. “Would you have remembered?”

The silence after that question felt enormous.

Because the answer was no.

And we both knew it immediately.

The walk home afterward felt quieter than usual. It would have been easier if it was awkward. Because awkwardness could be solved. Explained. Repaired quickly.

But this felt different. Like something invisible had shifted slightly out of place between them.

Mikha still walked beside me beneath the dim campus lights. Still bumped her shoulder lightly against mine whenever the pathway narrowed too much. Still smiled whenever she spoke. But the warmth carried restraint now. Subtle enough that most people probably would not have noticed it.

I noticed immediately. And I hated that I noticed immediately.

The evening air felt cooler after the earlier rain, carrying the faint smell of wet pavement and distant car smoke from Katipunan. Students passed us occasionally in loud groups, laughing too hard at jokes I could barely hear while jeepneys moved noisily beyond the gates.

Beside me, Mikha adjusted the strap of her backpack higher onto her shoulder.

Then smiled at me again.

Softly. Politely. Wrong.

Because something about it felt careful now.

Not cold. Not angry. Just… careful.

Like she had unconsciously pulled a small part of herself back after realizing I had not received it the way she hoped.

The realization sat heavily in my chest the entire walk.

The tiny cake box remained inside my hands awkwardly, the blue ribbon slightly crumpled now from how tightly I’d been holding it.

And somehow that made everything worse.

Because the cake itself was small.

Simple.

Cheap probably.

But suddenly all I could think about was the effort behind it.

Mikha standing inside some cafe earlier trying to decide which design looked nicest.

Choosing blue frosting because I liked blue.

Waiting outside the SEC longer than necessary because she wanted to surprise me properly.

Getting excited over something I accidentally dismissed within seconds.

I swallowed quietly.

Beside me, Mikha started talking about Theo again.

Something about soccer practice. Some story involving Coach Ramirez yelling at half the team for being late. Normally she would have been animated while telling it.

Loud. Dramatic. Using her hands too much while laughing halfway through her own sentences.

Tonight she still smiled. Still joked. But something underneath it felt dimmer now. And for the first time since we started dating, I realized something deeply uncomfortable.

Love was not just about sincerity. Not always about intention. Sometimes you could genuinely care about someone and still wound them accidentally simply because you loved differently.

That possibility unsettled me more than conflict ever could.

Because I had not meant to hurt her.

Not even slightly.

But I still did.

And somehow the fact that it happened unintentionally made it worse instead of better.

We reached the gate near Katipunan slower than usual. Cars passed beyond the streets in streaks of white and red lights while distant conversations blended into the humid night air around us.

Mikha stopped walking briefly.

“Text me when you’re inside okay?”

I looked at her.

The campus lights softened the edges of her face while the wind moved loose strands of hair gently across her cheeks.

Beautiful. Still beautiful. Still looking at me with softness I did not fully deserve tonight.

“Okay.”

She smiled again. That careful smile. Then lightly:

“Happy monthsary pa rin, babe.”

The words hurt unexpectedly because despite everything, she still wanted tonight to end gently for me. Even after I ruined it for her.

And suddenly I realized something terrifying. I did not know how to love someone like Mikha Cruz yet.

But I already knew I wanted to learn.

The next day, Mikha still waited for me.

That should have comforted me.

In theory, it did.

She was there at the base of the Bellarmine steps when I arrived on campus, her backpack slung over one shoulder, hair slightly damp from the morning humidity, coffee in one hand and her phone in the other. The sky above Ateneo was pale blue after a night of rain, the pathways still dark in certain places where puddles had not fully dried. Students moved around us in their usual morning rhythm, half-awake and already tired, clutching coffee, reviewers, and the quiet despair of academic responsibility.

Mikha looked up when she saw me.

And she smiled.

“Good morning.”

Not babe.

Not girlfriend.

Not some exaggerated greeting designed to embarrass me before eight in the morning.

Just good morning.

Soft.

Careful.

Polite.

Wrong.

I looked at her for half a second too long.

“Good morning.”

She handed me the coffee.

“I got your usual.”

“Thank you.”

“No problem.”

No teasing about how I would die without caffeine.

No dramatic commentary about girlfriend duties.

No proud little grin after remembering my order correctly.

Just no problem.

The phrase sat between us like something borrowed from strangers.

I took the cup carefully.

Her fingers did not brush mine.

That was the first thing I noticed.

The second was that she had tied her own shoelaces properly.

Both knots were neat.

Centered.

Functional.

No ridiculous loops. No uneven tension. No obvious excuse for me to crouch down and fix them while Diane pretended to suffer a public emotional breakdown behind us.

Mikha Cruz had tied her shoes correctly.

I hated that this bothered me.

“You fixed your laces,” I said before I could stop myself.

She glanced down, then laughed lightly.

“Yeah. Para hindi ka na maabala.”

There it was.

Not so you won’t scold me.

Not so you won’t kneel in public and ruin my life again.

Not even the usual teasing version of herself that would have turned the sentence into something warm and impossible.

So I would not be bothered.

Something unpleasant moved through my chest.

“You were never a bother.”

She looked at me immediately. For one brief second, the old Mikha appeared there. Startled. Hopeful. Soft in a way that felt dangerously young then she smiled again and looked away.

“I know.”

But she said it too quickly and I knew she did not fully believe it.

The morning continued like that.

Almost normal.

Almost enough.

She still walked beside me. Still saved me a seat during class. Still leaned close when whispering about the professor’s haircut, which she claimed looked like “emotional damage with gel.” She still laughed when Diane tripped over an invisible obstacle and blamed negative energy from midterms.

But she no longer stole my water bottle.

She asked first.

She no longer leaned her chin on my shoulder during breaks.

She hovered close, then seemed to remember something and sat back.

When I opened a pack of candy, she glanced at it once, smiled, and looked away.

I held one out to her.

She blinked.

“You sure?”

The question entered me quietly then stayed. I stared at the candy between my fingers.

“Yes.”

She took it gently.

“Thanks.”

Again.

Thanks.

Not finally.

Not see, girlfriend property.

Not a victorious little smile like she had won something by being loved.

Just thanks.

She still smiled when I looked at her.

But something about her felt quieter now.

Smaller around the edges.

Like she had unconsciously started making herself easier to handle.

And the worst part was that I noticed immediately.

The realization followed me the entire morning like something heavy lodged beneath my ribs.

Because Mikha had always occupied spaces fully. Loudly. Warmly. Without hesitation.

She stole fries directly off my tray while maintaining eye contact like she was asserting dominance. She interrupted my studying just to show me dogs she found online that “looked emotionally unemployed.” She leaned against me naturally whenever we sat beside each other long enough. She touched my sleeves absently while talking. Tugged lightly at my fingers beneath tables. Rested her chin on my shoulder during breaks between classes like my body had already become somewhere she belonged.

Now she asked permission before touching things that used to feel naturally shared between us.

That hurt more than I expected.

The cafeteria was crowded when we arrived. Noon sunlight filtered through the wide windows, washing the entire space in warm yellow light while students filled nearly every table. The air smelled like rice, frying oil, sweet banana ketchup, and coffee strong enough to resurrect the academically dead. Somewhere near the drinks section, someone was laughing too loudly while trays clattered endlessly against metal counters behind the food stalls.

The entire place felt alive in the messy, noisy way Ateneo always did during lunch hour.

Mikha walked beside me while adjusting the sleeves of her hoodie higher up her arms. A few loose strands of hair kept falling against her face because she had tied her ponytail too quickly this morning.

Normally, I would have fixed it already.

The realization arrived before the action did.

And by the time my fingers almost moved, she had already tucked the strands behind her own ear.

Theo spotted us immediately from across the cafeteria.

“Hoy!” he yelled while waving aggressively from one of the tables near the windows. “Cruz! Emergency!”

Mikha laughed softly under her breath.

“Your boyfriend again.”

“That man is a public disturbance.”

“Yet somehow you keep surviving him.”

“Barely.”

Theo waved harder.

“Bilisan mo! This is life or death!”

“Dying ka na naman?” Mikha yelled back.

“Yes!”

“Deserve.”

The table around him burst into laughter.

For one brief second, I saw the old version of her again.

Easy. Bright. Effortless.

Then she looked at me.

And something shifted.

“You mind if I go there muna?” she asked carefully.

Carefully.

The word settled unpleasantly in my chest.

Before yesterday, Mikha would have simply kissed my cheek dramatically in front of everyone, announced “balik ako babe wait mo ko,” then disappeared toward Theo without waiting for approval.

Now she asked like she was uncertain about occupying too much space in my day.

I hated that instantly.

“Yes,” I answered. “Of course.”

“You sure?”

There it was again. That question. As if my affection had suddenly become conditional enough to double-check.

I looked at her for half a second too long.

“Yes, Mikha.”

Her expression softened briefly with relief.

“Okay. I’ll just be quick.”

Then she walked toward Theo’s table.

Not ran.

Not bounced dramatically across the cafeteria while yelling before even reaching them.

She simply walked.

And somehow that tiny difference unsettled me more than it should have.

I stood there holding my tray while watching her sit down beside Theo. He immediately shoved what looked like a badly wrapped sandwich toward her face while speaking with exaggerated emotional distress. One of the other teammates nearly choked laughing.

Mikha smiled.

But even from this distance, I noticed something different about it.

She laughed quieter now.

Smaller.

Contained in ways she never used to be.

The realization sat heavily inside me while I walked toward our usual table alone.

I placed my tray down slowly and sat near the edge closest to the windows. The cafeteria noise blurred softly around me while sunlight stretched across the surface of the table in warm rectangles.

Rice, sisig, a bottle of water, and one piece of turon sitting beside my tray because I had bought it automatically without thinking. Mikha liked Aling Nena’s turon specifically because the edges stayed crisp even after cooling down.

I stared at it.

Then toward her.

Theo was speaking dramatically with his hands while the entire table laughed again. Mikha smiled at the right moments. Nodded. Responded. Participated.

But she was holding herself differently now.

As if she had become aware of her own volume.

As if someone had taught her she might be too much if she occupied space too freely.

My stomach tightened.

I had not said those words directly. But yesterday I had looked at her excitement and called it excessive.

Different sentence. Same wound.

“Aiah, anak.”

I looked up immediately.

Aling Nena stood beside the table with one hand resting against her hip and the other holding the small towel she always carried over her shoulder. Her apron had a faint flour stain near the pocket and her reading glasses rested low against her nose while she studied me carefully.

Her eyes moved from my untouched food to my face. Then toward Mikha across the cafeteria.

Then back to me again.

And somehow, within five seconds, she already knew enough to sigh deeply.

“Ay LQ,” she muttered.

I straightened slightly in my seat.

“Hi.”

“Hi ka diyan.” She pulled the chair across from me without asking permission and sat down heavily. “Bat hindi ka kumakain?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Hindi ka gutom o hindi ka mapakali?”

I blinked once. There was no accusation in her tone. No mockery either.

Just quiet certainty. Like she had seen this exact kind of sadness before. Many times.

“I’m fine,” I answered automatically.

Aling Nena clicked her tongue softly.

“Naku. Kapag ganyan ang sagot, ibig sabihin hindi fine.”

I looked down at my tray, the sisig had already stopped steaming.

Across the cafeteria, Mikha laughed softly at something Theo said. Again, the sound reached me quieter than usual.

Aling Nena followed my gaze. Then sighed again.

“Hindi rin kumakain yung isa doon.”

I looked back at her.

“Anong nangyari nak?”

“Nothing.”

She stared at me flatly.

“Aiah,” she said slowly, “ilang taon na akong nagtatrabaho dito. Nakakita na ako ng estudyanteng bagsak sa thesis, umiiyak dahil iniwan ng jowa, walang pambayad ng tuition, at nawalan ng scholar. Huwag mo akong niloloko.”

Despite everything tightening painfully inside my chest, a laugh nearly escaped me. Almost.

Aling Nena noticed immediately.

“Ayan,” she said softly. “Huminga ka rin.”

I swallowed quietly.

The cafeteria suddenly felt warmer than before. More crowded. More alive. And strangely enough, sitting across from Aling Nena felt safer than sitting alone with my own thoughts.

“My girlfriend is upset with me,” I admitted finally.

“Hmm.” Aling Nena nodded once like she had already concluded that ten minutes ago. “At anong ginawa mo?”

I hesitated.

Because logically, explaining my relationship problems to a stranger made absolutely no sense.

But Aling Nena did not feel like a stranger.

She felt like someone’s mother. Not mine. Never mine. My mother would have approached this differently.

She would have asked what happened with the detached calmness of someone assessing damage control. She would have listened quietly, then explained what I should have done better in clipped, efficient sentences.

Feelings in our house were things managed carefully. Contained neatly. Never indulged too much.

But Aling Nena simply sat there waiting patiently while students moved noisily around us beneath the afternoon light.

“It was our first monthsary yesterday,” I said quietly.

Her eyes widened immediately.

“Ay! Monthsary niyo? Happy monthsary anak!”

I blinked.

“You know what that is?”

She looked offended instantly.

“Aba syempre. Akala mo ba ipinanganak akong matanda?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“May jowa rin ako noon, hija.” She lifted her chin proudly. “At marami ring nanligaw sakin dati.”

I found myself staring at her.

She laughed loudly.

“Oo! Huwag ka tumingin ng ganyan. Maganda ako noon.”

“You’re still pretty.”

“Correct answer.”

A small smile escaped me before I could stop it. Then her expression softened again.

“So,” she said gently, “ano nangyari?”

I looked down at the tiny piece of turon beside my tray.

“She waited for me outside SEC after my org meeting.” I paused briefly. “She bought a cake.”

“Ay sweet naman.”

“I forgot.”

The smile faded from Aling Nena’s face immediately.

It was not judgmental. Just understanding.

“Ay.”

“I had debate training and meetings. I genuinely forgot.”

“Ayun lang.”

“And when she showed me the cake…” I swallowed quietly. “I told her one month wasn’t exactly a milestone.”

Aling Nena closed her eyes briefly. Then she rubbed one hand against her forehead like she was asking God personally for patience with emotionally incompetent college students.

“Aiah.”

“I know.”

“No,” she said softly. “Hindi mo pa alam.”

The sentence settled heavily between us.

Across the cafeteria, Mikha finally picked up her spoon after barely touching her food for several minutes.

I noticed immediately. Of course I noticed.

Aling Nena saw me noticing.

“Hmmm,” she hummed knowingly.

Something uncomfortable tightened deeper inside my chest.

“I didn’t mean to hurt her.”

“Alam ko.”

The answer came too quickly.

Too gently.

And somehow that almost hurt more.

Because my mother would have corrected me first before comforting me. Aling Nena comforted me before correction even entered the room. That difference unsettled me quietly.

She folded her arms loosely across her chest before speaking again.

“Alam mo,” she said, voice softer now, “may mga taong hindi sanay sumaya.”

I looked up slowly.

“Hindi dahil ayaw nila. Hindi dahil malungkot silang tao.” Her eyes drifted briefly toward the crowded cafeteria around us. “Minsan kasi lumaki silang kailangang laging handa. Laging matibay. Laging may plano.”

My throat tightened unexpectedly.

My mother’s voice echoed faintly somewhere in the back of my mind.

Prepare properly, Aiah.

Control your emotions.

Do not exaggerate small things.

Small things. That phrase suddenly sounded ugly.

“Kapag ganyan ka lumaki,” Aling Nena continued gently, “nakakalimutan mong pwedeng maging importante yung maliliit na bagay.”

I stared at her quietly.

“Pero may mga tao rin,” she said, “na kabaliktaran.”

Mikha. I knew immediately. Bright, loud Mikha who celebrated surviving difficult weeks with fishballs outside campus.

Mikha who bought milk tea because we passed surprise recitations.

Mikha who stopped walking sometimes just to admire sunsets like they personally mattered.

“Minsan kasi,” Aling Nena said softly, “alam nila gaano kabilis magbago ang buhay.”

Something shifted painfully inside my chest. Because suddenly I understood it differently.

Mikha celebrated little things because she believed little things deserved saving before they disappeared while I kept postponing emotional importance toward some larger future achievement.

Some bigger milestone.

Some permanent certainty.

“Hindi naman importante yung one month lang,” Aling Nena continued. “Ang importante dun, masaya siyang umabot kayo doon. Aba 231 days yang suntok sa buwan na naghintay sayo.”

I looked down slowly at my untouched tray again.

The cafeteria noise blurred faintly around me.

Students laughing.
Trays clattering.
Someone yelling near the drinks section.

All of it suddenly felt distant.

“She looked embarrassed,” I admitted quietly.

Aling Nena’s face softened instantly.

“Ayun ang masakit.”

I swallowed.

“She said I made her feel stupid for caring.”

“Nasaktan mo pride ng taong excited lang naman magmahal.”

The sentence entered me carefully. Then stayed there. That was exactly who Mikha was.

She loved with excitement.
With enthusiasm.
With softness she never tried to hide.

And yesterday, I made that softness feel childish.

Not intentionally. But impact existed whether intention agreed with it or not.

Aling Nena leaned slightly closer now.

“Huwag mo sana maliitin ang isang bagay na napakahalaga para sa isang tao.”

I looked at her immediately.

“Maaaring maliit o corny para sayo,” she continued gently, “pero napakalaking bagay pala nun para sa kanya.”

The words settled somewhere deep enough to hurt.

Because she was right. I measured worth by scale.

By significance.
By permanence.
By practicality.

Meanwhile Mikha measured things emotionally.

How they felt.
How they mattered.
How they made people feel remembered.

“Hindi rin naman masama pagbigyan yung taong mahal mo kung yun ang ikakasaya niya,” Aling Nena said softly. “May kanya-kanya tayong paraan para sumaya.”

My chest tightened painfully. Because suddenly the entire conflict felt horribly simple.

Mikha had not been asking for something expensive.

Not grand.

Not difficult.

She had only wanted me to meet her inside something small that mattered emotionally to her.

And I failed. Not because I didn’t love her but because I loved differently.

That realization terrified me more than anger would have because anger could be resolved quickly. But differences like this? Differences like this could quietly destroy people if left untranslated long enough.

Aling Nena sighed softly.

“Sa relasyon, anak, hindi pwedeng isa lang lagi ang nasusunod. Dalawa kayo.” She smiled gently. “Kaya nga kayo magkasama para pasayahin ang isa’t isa.”

I looked toward Mikha again. She glanced at me at the exact same moment.

And immediately smiled.

Softly.

Carefully.

Like she was trying not to overwhelm me with too much warmth anymore.

The sight hurt unexpectedly.

Because I realized then that I did not want the careful version of Mikha.

I wanted the loud one back.

The messy one.
The clingy one.
The one who stole my fries and occupied my space like she belonged there without hesitation.

I wanted the version of her that felt safe loving me loudly and somehow that realization cracked something open quietly inside my chest.

“I don’t know how to fix it,” I admitted.

Aling Nena laughed softly.

“Naku. Akala niyo kasi lagi kailangan grand gesture.” She shook her head. “Hindi naman lahat nadadaan sa malaking speech.”

“Then what do I do?”

She pointed toward the extra piece of turon beside my tray.

“Dalhin mo.”

I stared at the turon. Then at her.

“She might not want it from me.”

Aling Nena gave me such a deeply unimpressed look that I almost straightened instinctively.

“Aiah,” she said slowly, “mahal ka nun. Nasaktan lang.”

She’s not angry.

Hurt.

The distinction settled heavily inside me.

Aling Nena stood up slowly from the chair and adjusted the towel over her shoulder again. Then before leaving, she looked at me one last time.

“At saka,” she added casually, “kapag bumili ka ng cake, huwag masyadong sosyal. Ang mahalaga ay yung intention mong ibigay sa kanya.”

I stared at her. Then she walked away before I could respond.

I sat there for several seconds staring at the turon in front of me while the cafeteria continued moving noisily around me.

And for the first time since yesterday, I finally understood the real problem.

It had never been about one month.

It was about Mikha offering me joy openly and me treating it like something that needed justification before being allowed to matter.

The rest of the afternoon passed more gently after lunch, though I continued noticing every small hesitation Mikha carried around me now.

She still laughed with Theo and the others. Still walked beside me between classes. Still smiled whenever our eyes met across crowded hallways. But every now and then, she would stop herself halfway through doing something that used to come naturally to her.

Once, while we were walking past SEC, she reached toward my sleeve absentmindedly like she always did whenever she wanted my attention.

Then she caught herself.

Her hand dropped back to her side immediately.

The movement lasted less than two seconds.

I noticed it anyway.

Another time, during our free period near Gonzaga, she opened a pack of chips between us and looked at me first before taking one from my side automatically.

Before Friday, she would have stolen half the bag without remorse.

Now she asked quietly, “Pwede?”

The question sat heavily in my chest for the rest of the day.

Because now that I understood it, I could not stop seeing it.

Mikha was adjusting herself around me.

Softening certain instincts. Making herself smaller in places where she thought she might overwhelm me. Trying to become easier to love.

And the terrifying thing was that she was doing it gently.

Lovingly.

Like she genuinely believed she was helping me breathe easier this way.

The realization followed me through the entire weekend.

Saturday morning, I found myself staring at the tiny cake box still sitting untouched on my desk longer than necessary. Sunlight filtered softly through my bedroom curtains while the blue ribbon rested loosely against the slightly crumpled cardboard from Friday night.

The frosting had smudged near one corner during the walk home.

I noticed that immediately too.

Because suddenly I could picture every part of it clearly now.

Mikha standing inside some cafe trying to decide which cake looked nicest.

Choosing blue frosting because I liked blue.

Probably smiling to herself while waiting outside SEC with that tiny paper bag sitting beside her.

And then me arriving late only to look at all that effort and tell her it was not exactly a milestone.

I leaned back slowly against my chair and closed my eyes briefly.

Then Aling Nena’s voice returned to me again.

Hindi lahat ng bagay kailangan gusto mo rin bago mo ibigay.

Not everything needed to matter to me first before I treated it carefully.

That thought unsettled me more deeply than I expected.

Because for most of my life, importance had always been measured through permanence.

Through scale.

Through practicality.

Things mattered when they were significant enough to deserve attention.

Achievements mattered.

Reputation mattered.

The future mattered.

No one in my house celebrated surviving a difficult week.

No one bought cake because life felt soft for one month.

Meanwhile Mikha loved differently.

Mikha celebrated little things because she understood how quickly life could change.

She loved moments before checking whether they would last.

And somewhere between Friday night and Sunday evening, I realized something that terrified me quietly.

I did not want careful Mikha.

I want the free version of Mikha that does whatever makes her happy.

I wanted the version of her that loved me loudly without second-guessing herself first.

By the time I walked out of the cake shop, I had already learned several things about love.

First, it required compromise.

Second, it required humility.

Third, and most unfortunately, it required customer service interactions I had not emotionally prepared for.

Which was how I somehow found myself standing outside a party supply store near Katipunan on Monday afternoon staring at silver balloons with the kind of dread usually reserved for public humiliation.

I hated every second of it already.

The cake box sat carefully in my left hand, white and square, with a small blue ribbon tied around it by a cashier who had smiled at me too knowingly after I said the word monthsary. It was not a large cake. That would have been unnecessary. It was chocolate, because Mikha liked chocolate even though she always claimed she was “not picky” and then proceeded to have extremely specific opinions about frosting texture. It had white icing, blue lettering, and tiny chocolate curls along the edges.

Happy 1st Monthsary 💙

I had stared at the sample writing for thirty seconds before approving it.

The words still felt foreign in my mouth and ridiculous in writing.

But Mikha would like it.

That was the point.

That had to be the point.

I stood outside the shop for a moment beneath the late afternoon heat while people moved past me along Katipunan, cars crawling through traffic, jeepneys stopping too abruptly near the curb, students walking in groups with iced coffee and gossip. The sky had begun turning gold at the edges, the kind of warm light Mikha always noticed first.

I adjusted my grip around the cake box and inhaled once.

This was already embarrassing, but manageable.

Then I remembered the balloon.

The party supply store was only three establishments away.

I considered not going.

For approximately two seconds.

Then Aling Nena’s voice appeared in my head with terrifying clarity.

Hindi lahat ng bagay kailangan gusto mo rin bago mo ibigay.

I exhaled.

Then walked.

The bell above the party supply store door chimed when I entered, and immediately I was assaulted by colors.

Everywhere.

Pink streamers. Gold number balloons. Plastic banners. Stuffed bears holding fake roses. Glittered signs with fonts so cheerful they felt aggressive. Somewhere near the back, a small child was crying because someone had apparently denied him a balloon shaped like a dinosaur. His mother looked exhausted enough to understand politics better than most senators.

A saleslady behind the counter looked up and smiled.

“Ma’am, anong occasion po?”

I tightened my hold on the cake box.

“Monthsary.”

The word left my mouth with the grace of a legal confession under duress.

Her smile widened.

“Ay, nakakakilig naman!”

I immediately regretted every life decision that brought me there.

She led me toward the balloon section with the kind of enthusiasm I usually associated with freshmen during OrSem. There were too many options. Red hearts. Pink hearts. Gold stars. Something shaped like a bear. One that said I LOVE YOU in letters large enough to be seen from space.

I rejected that immediately.

Finally, she held up a silver balloon that said HAPPY MONTHSARY in large shiny letters, surrounded by tiny printed hearts that looked like they had been designed by someone who believed subtlety was illegal.

“This one po, bagay. Elegant.”

I stared at it.

Elegant was not the word I would have used.

It was bright. Reflective. Slightly tacky. The kind of balloon that announced itself before the person carrying it even entered a room.

Mikha would laugh.

The thought came so quickly that it decided for me.

“That one,” I said.

The saleslady inflated it with helium while humming to herself, and I stood there like a person watching the last remains of her reputation float toward the ceiling. When she tied a silver ribbon around the balloon and handed it to me, it immediately tilted sideways.

I stared at it.

The balloon stared back with all its shiny, unforgiving cheer.

“May weight po siya,” the saleslady said, tying a small plastic weight to the ribbon. “Para hindi lilipad.”

Unfortunately, that did not solve the problem of me wanting to disappear.

I paid quickly.

“Happy monthsary po sa inyo,” she said.

“Thank you.”

The second I stepped outside, the wind caught the balloon.

It jerked violently to the side, smacked lightly against my shoulder, and produced a faint squeak.

I stopped walking.

The balloon squeaked again.

A group of students passing by glanced at me, then at the balloon, then back at me.

One of them whispered, badly, “Si Aiah Ledesma ba yun?”

I walked faster.

The balloon followed.

Obviously.

Every few steps, it bumped into my hair, my shoulder, or the side of my face. The cake box required balance. The ribbon kept trying to wrap itself around my wrist. The small plastic balloon weight swung against my thigh like a metronome counting down toward public humiliation.

By the time I entered campus, I had become a moving announcement.

People looked.

Of course they looked.

I was Aiah Ledesma, walking through Ateneo with a cake box and a silver balloon squeaking beside my head like an emotionally unstable companion.

Two freshmen near the walkway stopped mid-conversation.

One of them whispered, “Oh my God.”

The other whispered, “For Mikha?”

I continued walking.

Dignity, I had learned, was not lost all at once.

Sometimes it left gradually, step by step, while a balloon declared HAPPY MONTHSARY above your shoulder in reflective silver letters.

The soccer field came into view just as practice was entering what sounded like its most chaotic stage.

I heard them before I saw them.

Coach Ramirez shouting.

Cleats hitting grass.

Theo yelling something about betrayal.

Someone laughing so loudly it echoed across the open field.

The late afternoon sun had turned everything gold. The grass looked almost too green beneath the light, each blade catching warmth as the wind moved over the field. The goalposts stood white and bright against the sky. Students sat scattered along the bleachers, some studying, most pretending to study while watching practice.

And then there was Mikha.

She was near midfield, chasing the ball with that terrifying focus she always had when she played. Her ponytail swung behind her. Sweat darkened the collar of her jersey. Her cheeks were flushed from running, and every time she pivoted, sunlight caught along the line of her jaw and the bare skin of her arms.

For a moment, I forgot the balloon.

For a moment, I forgot myself.

Then the balloon squeaked aggressively against my ear.

I closed my eyes.

Right.

I walked toward the field.

The first person to notice was not Mikha.

Unfortunately, it was Theo.

He was standing near the sidelines drinking water when his eyes landed on me. His entire body froze. The bottle remained halfway to his mouth. Water dripped onto his shirt.

Then his expression changed slowly.

Horrifically.

“OH MY GOD.”

I stopped.

Theo pointed.

Not subtly.

Not politely.

He pointed like he had discovered fire.

“DUDE!”

Several players turned.

Then more.

Then almost all of them.

The ball rolled unattended across the grass.

Coach Ramirez blew his whistle.

“Why did everyone stop?”

Theo did not lower his hand.

“Coach.”

“What?”

Theo’s voice cracked with pure joy.

“Snob Queen has a balloon.”

The field erupted.

Not into laughter immediately.

First, silence.

Complete silence.

The kind that arrived before explosions.

Twenty or so athletes stared at me like I had descended from the heavens holding prophecy and baked goods.

The balloon tilted sideways.

Then squeaked.

That was when the laughter started.

Loud, uncontrollable, merciless.

Someone collapsed onto the grass. Someone slapped a teammate’s arm repeatedly. One player yelled, “No way!” like I had broken a national record.

Coach Ramirez turned toward me.

He looked at the cake.

Then the balloon.

Then my face.

Then he pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose.

“Training is cursed today,” he muttered.

From somewhere near the bleachers, Diane screamed.

“OH MY GOD SHE DID IT!”

I did not know where she had come from.

I suspected she sensed emotional disasters from a distance.

Chesca appeared beside her two seconds later, clutching a notebook like she had been waiting her whole life for this.

“THE BALLOON,” Chesca yelled. “THE BALLOON IS REAL.”

I stood at the edge of the field, holding the cake box and the balloon, and realized with absolute clarity that no amount of academic achievement could save me from this moment.

Then Mikha looked up.

Everything changed.

The laughter did not disappear. The soccer field did not become quiet. Theo did not stop making sounds like he was dying from happiness somewhere behind her.

But for me, the world narrowed anyway.

Mikha stood near midfield, breathless and still, the soccer ball forgotten near her feet. Her eyes moved from my face to the balloon, then to the cake box, then back to me. Her lips parted slightly. The wind pushed loose strands of hair across her cheek. For one suspended second, she looked so startled that my chest hurt.

Not amused.

Not teasing.

Just completely, openly stunned.

Then her face softened.

That was the part that made every horrible second worth it.

Her expression changed slowly, like sunrise finding a room. The carefulness I had been seeing since Friday loosened all at once. Something bright returned to her eyes before she could stop it.

And then she ran.

Straight toward me.

Fast.

So fast that several teammates started yelling.

“CRUZ!”

“HOY MAY DRAMA!”

“RUNNING SCENE!”

Theo screamed, “GO GET YOUR GIRL!”

Coach Ramirez blew his whistle once, then apparently gave up on authority.

Mikha crossed the field like I was the only thing she could see.

The sight hit me so sharply that I nearly forgot to breathe.

Her cleats tore lightly through the grass. Her ponytail bounced behind her. Her face was flushed and wide open, all shock and happiness and disbelief, and for one dangerous moment I understood why people wrote poems about being chosen.

Because Mikha Cruz was running toward me in front of everyone.

And I was standing there with the most ridiculous balloon in Katipunan, realizing I would humiliate myself again if it made her look at me like that.

She stopped in front of me slightly breathless.

For half a second, neither of us spoke.

The balloon drifted between us.

Mikha stared at it.

Then at me.

Then at the cake.

Then back at me again.

“Ano ‘to?”

“I believe,” I said carefully, “it is a monthsary celebration.”

Behind her, Theo screamed into both hands.

Mikha blinked.

“You hate monthsaries.”

“I do.”

“You said they’re corny.”

“I still believe that.”

“You said one month isn’t a milestone.”

“I did.”

Her brows pulled together, and I saw the old caution beginning to return.

It hurt immediately.

So I spoke before it could settle.

“I was wrong to say it that way.”

Mikha went still.

The field quieted slightly.

Not completely, because Theo existed, but enough.

I looked down at the cake box briefly, then back at her.

“I still do not understand monthsaries naturally,” I admitted. “I don’t think I ever would have thought about celebrating one month on my own.”

Her lips parted.

I continued before pride could save me from honesty.

“But you do. And I should not have treated something important to you like it needed to be important to me first before it deserved respect.”

Mikha’s expression shifted.

Softened.

Dangerously.

The balloon squeaked again.

I ignored it with discipline.

“I may not like monthsaries,” I said quietly, “but I like you. And I can learn the little things that make you happy.”

For once, Mikha said nothing.

That was concerning.

Mikha Cruz usually had an answer before questions finished forming.

Now she stood in front of me with her mouth slightly open, cheeks flushed, eyes bright beneath the late afternoon sun.

Then, slowly, she crossed her arms.

And pouted.

I stared at her.

“You cannot be serious.”

“Baka napipilitan ka lang,” she said.

The entire team made wounded noises behind her.

I looked at the balloon.

Then at the cake.

Then back at her.

“Mikha, I am standing in the middle of your soccer field holding a shiny silver balloon that has physically attacked me seven times since Katipunan. Do I look like someone who was forced?”

Her lips twitched.

She fought it.

Bravely.

Unsuccessfully.

“Malay ko.”

“You think someone coerced me into public humiliation?”

“Baka.”

“With what leverage?”

“Love.”

The word landed between us before either of us could defend against it.

Mikha realized what she said half a second too late.

Her pout faltered.

Mine did not exist, because I did not pout, but something inside me moved.

Theo yelled, “AYIEEE!”

Coach Ramirez yelled back, “THEO SHUT UP OR RUN LAPS!”

“Worth it, Coach!”

Mikha looked away, cheeks pinker now.

I watched her.

She was trying so hard to look upset.

Trying so hard to hold onto the right to be hurt.

And she had that right.

But happiness kept betraying her.

It softened her mouth. Brightened her eyes. Lifted the edge of her expression every few seconds before she forced it down again.

She was adorable.

Devastatingly.

Embarrassingly.

I was completely lost.

Usually, this kind of behavior would irritate me. The unnecessary pouting. The theatrical stubbornness. The refusal to accept a sincere gesture without turning it into a performance.

But this was Mikha Cruz.

Which apparently changed the rules of everything.

“So ano nga ‘to?” she asked, still pouting.

“A monthsary celebration.”

“Ayoko ng pilit.”

“I am not being forced.”

“Eh diba ayaw mo nga?”

“It is not important whether I like it.”

Her eyes flicked to mine.

“It’s important to me if you like it.”

“That is precisely the problem,” I said.

She frowned slightly.

I took one breath.

“I thought that because I did not value it the same way, it had less value. That was unfair.”

The words felt strange in my mouth.

Not because they were untrue.

Because admitting them publicly, in the middle of a soccer field, with half the athletic population of Ateneo waiting for my emotional downfall, was an experience I would not recommend.

But Mikha was listening.

Really listening.

So I continued.

“You like celebrating little things. I don’t naturally do that. But I can learn. I want to learn.”

Her pout weakened dramatically.

I noticed.

She noticed me noticing.

So naturally, she pouted harder.

“Baka sinasabi mo lang ‘yan.”

“I am not.”

“Baka ayaw mo talaga.”

“I already said I don’t like monthsaries.”

“Aiah.”

“What?”

“Hindi ka talaga marunong manuyo.”

Behind her, Diane shouted, “TRUE!”

I looked toward the bleachers.

“Diane, this is a private conversation.”

“You’re in the middle of a field!”

Chesca yelled, “With a balloon!”

The balloon squeaked in agreement.

I looked back at Mikha.

She was trying not to laugh again.

“You’re enjoying this,” I said.

“A little.”

“You were upset two seconds ago.”

“I’m multifaceted.”

“That is exhausting.”

“You like me.”

Unfortunately, as always, true.

Mikha stepped closer and looked down at the cake box.

“What flavor?”

“Chocolate.”

Her eyes softened again.

“With?”

“Chocolate curls. Not sprinkles. You dislike sprinkles because you said they taste like decorative disappointment.”

Her pout disappeared for half a second.

Then returned weakly.

“You remembered.”

“Of course I remembered.”

She looked up at me.

The field noise thinned again around the edges.

For a moment, her face changed in a way that made my throat feel tight. Like remembering sprinkles mattered more than the balloon. Like being known in small ways reached places grand gestures could not.

Then she ruined it.

“One month na tayong magjowa,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “Pero Mikha pa rin tawag mo sa’kin.”

I blinked.

“That is your name.”

Theo wheezed behind her.

Mikha placed both hands on her hips.

“Wala man lang sweetness.”

“You have cake.”

“Not that kind.”

“And chocolates.”

“Aiah.”

“And a balloon.”

“The balloon looks traumatized.”

“So do I.”

She finally laughed.

Full and bright.

The whole field seemed to move with it.

My chest loosened immediately.

God.

There she was.

My Mikha.

Loud again.

Warm again.

Looking at me like she was seconds away from forgiving me but still wanted to extract maximum emotional compensation first.

“Para tayong classmates,” she complained. “Mikha. Aiah. Very formal. Ano ‘to? Group project?”

“We have kissed.”

Theo screamed so loudly someone dropped a water bottle.

Mikha froze.

I froze.

The soccer field exploded.

Diane fell onto Chesca. Chesca looked like she needed a chair. Coach Ramirez turned around and walked three steps away from us, as if physically removing himself from youth romance would preserve his dignity.

Mikha’s eyes widened.

Mikha’s eyes widened.

I felt my face heat.

Violently.

“Not on the lips but that was not meant for public distribution.”

Mikha pressed both hands to her cheeks.

“Aiah.”

“No.”

“You just said that.”

“I am aware.”

“In front of my team.”

“Yes.”

“You’re so bad at this.”

“I’m attempting emotional transparency under hostile conditions.”

She burst out laughing again, and this time I could not stop the corner of my mouth from moving.

Then Mikha noticed.

Of course she noticed.

Her eyes brightened.

“Uy.”

“No.”

“You smiled.”

“I did not.”

“You did.”

“It was a facial irregularity.”

“Because of me.”

“Unfortunately.”

She stepped even closer.

The balloon shifted between us again, and she pushed it gently aside with one finger.

The gesture made the silver surface spin slightly, flashing HAPPY ANNIVERSARY toward the entire field like a witness.

Mikha lowered her voice, but not enough.

“So ano gusto mong tawag ko sa’yo? Babe? Baby? Love?”

“No.”

“Sweetheart?”

“No.”

“Mahal?”

My brain stopped.

Briefly.

Mikha saw it.

Her smile became lethal.

“Oh.”

“No.”

“You paused.”

“I did not.”

“You like mahal?”

“I object to this line of questioning.”

“Noted.”

“That means stop.”

“That means I found evidence.”

I closed my eyes briefly.

“Mikha.”

She was smiling so widely now that any attempt at pouting had completely failed.

“Fine. Ako nalang. What will you call me?”

“Mikha.”

She groaned dramatically.

“Aiah!”

“That is your name.”

“One month na tayo. Kahit konting lambing man lang.”

“You are impossible.”

“You love me.”

The sentence slipped out lightly, almost teasingly.

But the moment it reached the air, both of us heard the weight beneath it.

Mikha’s smile softened.

My heartbeat changed.

I had not said those words yet.

Not directly.

Not cleanly.

Neither had she, not exactly.

We had danced around them with gestures and almosts and mine and girlfriend and warmth held beneath tables. But love, spoken plainly, still stood somewhere ahead of us like a door neither of us had fully opened.

Mikha seemed to realize that too.

Her voice softened when she added, “Diba?”

I looked at her.

The sunlight caught in her eyes.

The field stretched around us.

Everyone was still watching, but suddenly their attention mattered less than the girl standing in front of me, pretending to demand a nickname when all she was really asking was whether my softness had a place for her.

I swallowed quietly.

Then said the safest truth I could manage.

“You are very difficult not to.”

Mikha stopped breathing.

So did half the field.

Then Diane screamed into Chesca’s shoulder.

Mikha stared at me like I had reached inside her and pressed directly against something tender.

“That’s not an answer,” she whispered.

“It is the only one I can give right now.”

She studied me for another long second.

Then nodded.

Small.

Understanding.

Too understanding.

I hated how gentle she was with my limits.

So I tried again.

“You are,” I said carefully, “such a baby.”

The field went silent.

Mikha froze.

Then slowly, dangerously, her eyes narrowed with pure mischief.

I realized my mistake immediately.

“No.”

She stepped closer.

“Baby?”

“No.”

“I’m your baby?”

“That is not what I said.”

“You said I’m a baby.”

“I said you are such a baby. That indicates behavior, not title.”

“Behaviorally baby.”

“No.”

“Emotionally baby.”

“Stop.”

“Romantically baby?”

“Oh God.”

Theo fell backward onto the grass.

Mikha’s grin widened to an impossible degree.

“Baby pala gusto mo ah.”

“I do not.”

“Okay lang naman sakin, babe.”

“Stop saying babe like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you are committing psychological warfare.”

She laughed, delighted.

“I’m your baby.”

“No.”

“I am Aiah Ledesma’s baby.”

“You are about to become single.”

“On our monthsary?”

I stared at her.

She smiled sweetly.

“You can’t walk out now. Magcecelebrate pa tayo.”

I considered walking out.

The balloon squeaked.

Mikha laughed again, softer this time, then reached for the cake box carefully.

I let her take it.

Her fingers brushed mine as she did.

Barely.

But enough.

She looked down at the cake through the clear window on top of the box. When she read the writing, her entire face changed.

Happy 1st Monthsary💙

For once, she had no joke ready.

Her thumb brushed lightly against the edge of the box.

She looked up at me, eyes bright.

“Kilig ako.”

I looked away immediately.

“I assumed that was the objective.”

She laughed softly.

Then, without warning, she stepped forward and hugged me.

Carefully at first.

Like she was still giving me the chance to step back.

I did not.

Her arms came around my waist, warm and slightly damp from practice, and her forehead settled briefly against my shoulder. The cake box pressed awkwardly between us until she shifted it to the side. The balloon floated above us like an intrusive witness.

I stood still for half a second.

Then slowly, with more courage than I expected from myself, I lifted one hand and placed it against her back.

The field exploded again.

I ignored them.

Because Mikha exhaled against me like something inside her had finally unclenched.

And that mattered more.

“I’m sorry,” I said quietly, low enough this time that only she could hear.

Her arms tightened slightly.

“I know.”

“I didn’t understand.”

“I know.”

“I want to.”

She pulled back just enough to look at me.

Her eyes were softer now.

Less careful.

Still a little hurt around the edges, but open again.

That felt like mercy.

“You really bought a balloon,” she whispered.

“I regret it.”

“No you don’t.”

“I do.”

“You don’t.”

“I deeply do.”

She smiled.

“But you did it anyway.”

I looked at her.

“Yes.”

Her smile trembled faintly.

Then she glanced back at the field, where the entire team was pretending not to stare while staring openly.

“Can we get out of here before Theo creates a commemorative chant?”

Too late.

Theo had already cupped both hands around his mouth.

“MONTH-SA-RY! MONTH-SA-RY!”

Several teammates joined immediately.

Coach Ramirez shouted, “If you chant one more time, everyone runs ten laps!”

The chant stopped.

Mikha laughed and grabbed my hand.

The movement was sudden.

Natural.

No hesitation this time.

My chest loosened.

“There,” I thought quietly.

There she was.

She tugged me toward the side of the field, still holding the cake box in one hand and my hand in the other. The balloon trailed behind us, bobbing ridiculously over my shoulder while Diane and Chesca followed at a distance making noises no human should produce in public.

“Mikha,” I said.

“Hm?”

“Where are we going?”

She looked back at me, smiling.

“To celebrate.”

“I was thinking dinner.”

“Of course you were.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you look like someone who would apologize with a reservation.”

“That is practical.”

“That is very you.”

“Is that bad?”

“No.” Her smile softened. “But I want something simple.”

We stopped beneath one of the trees near the far side of the field, where the grass dipped slightly and the noise from practice became softer. The late afternoon light filtered through the leaves above us, scattering gold over the ground. A faint breeze moved through the branches, enough to make the balloon tilt again like it was eavesdropping.

Mikha sat first, cross-legged on the grass, setting the cake carefully between us.

I hesitated.

She looked up.

“You can sit, Aiah. Grass won’t eat you.”

“That has not been scientifically confirmed.”

She laughed and patted the space beside her.

“Sit with me.”

So I did.

Carefully.

The grass was warm beneath my palms. The air smelled like earth, sweat, and sugar from the cake once Mikha opened the box. The balloon’s ribbon tangled near my wrist again, and Mikha laughed while helping untie it.

“You and this balloon are enemies,” she said.

“It started it.”

“Poor balloon.”

“It has assaulted me repeatedly.”

“It witnessed your growth.”

“I hate it.”

She leaned closer, eyes shining.

“But you bought it for me.”

I looked at her.

“Yes.”

She smiled down at the cake.

For a while, we ate quietly with plastic forks from the cake shop. Mikha took the first bite and closed her eyes dramatically.

“Okay. Fine. Masarap.”

“I know.”

“Yabang.”

“I chose correctly.”

“You chose chocolate.”

“You are predictable.”

“Excuse me. I am mysterious.”

“You cried over a dog food commercial.”

“That dog had dreams.”

I laughed before I could stop myself.

Mikha froze.

Then slowly turned toward me.

“You laughed.”

“No.”

“You did.”

“I made a sound.”

“A happy sound.”

“I have allergies.”

“To joy?”

“To you.”

She smiled like that was the best answer I could have given.

For a moment, everything felt young.

Ridiculously young.

The kind of young that sat under trees after practice eating cake with plastic forks, while a tacky balloon bobbed above them and the future still looked like something far away enough to pretend harmless.

Mikha leaned back on her hands and looked toward the sky through the leaves.

“Do you ever think about the future?”

“Yes.”

She laughed softly.

“Of course you do.”

“I plan ahead.”

“No, I mean…” She tilted her head. “Do you ever think about what happens if life doesn’t follow your plans?”

I frowned slightly.

“Then you adjust the plan.”

“Just like that?”

“Yes.”

“Talaga? You think that’s how life works?”

I looked at her.

“How else would it work?”

She stared toward the field, expression softer now, thoughtful.

“I don’t know. I just think sometimes life throws things at you that you can’t prepare for. Sometimes it breaks things. People. Plans. Dreams. And kahit anong ayos mo, kahit gaano ka kahanda, everything can change in one second.”

The words felt too heavy for our small celebration.

Too real.

I looked at her carefully.

Mikha still watched the field, where practice had resumed in the distance. Her teammates moved like figures in gold light, shouting and laughing beneath the fading sky.

“You can prepare for uncertainty,” I said. “You create multiple strategies. If one fails, you use another.”

She smiled faintly.

“That sounds very Aiah.”

“It is reasonable.”

“It is,” she said. “But sometimes, akala mo ready ka mawala ang isang bagay because you think you can replace it. Then when it’s gone, doon mo lang mare-realize na hindi pala.”

I went still.

Mikha looked back at me then.

Her face was open in a way that made the air feel quieter.

“There are just things that are irreplaceable.”

My instinct answered before my heart did.

“Everything is quantifiable, Mikha. If you understand value properly, then everything can be replaced or compensated for.”

She looked at me for a long second.

Then smiled.

Not teasing.

Not correcting harshly.

Just gently.

Like she knew I was wrong and loved me anyway.

“That’s where you’re wrong, Aiah.”

I frowned.

“Because you are irreplaceable.”

The words entered me quietly.

Then ruined me.

I stared at her.

No immediate response came.

That almost never happened.

Mikha reached out slowly and touched my cheek.

Her fingers were warm, careful, still faintly smelling like chocolate.

“If there’s one thing I’m sure I would fight for no matter what life throws at me,” she said softly, “it’s to have you. Come what may, you’re the one I want to be with.”

The field noise faded behind her.

The balloon drifted above us.

The future, for one frightening second, felt enormous.

I had spent most of my life believing permanence was built through control.

Through preparation.
Through discipline.
Through plans strong enough to withstand uncertainty.

But Mikha was looking at me like love was not a guarantee against loss.

It was the decision to choose anyway.

“Is that okay with you?” she asked.

I swallowed.

“Come what may?”

She smiled.

“Yes. Come what may, it will always be you, babe.”

Babe.

This time, the word did not embarrass me.

It found a place inside my chest and stayed there.

We sat quietly after that, the cake between us, the grass warm beneath our legs, the sun lowering slowly beyond the field. Mikha’s hand slipped away from my cheek, but the warmth remained.

Eventually, she started packing the cake box.

“We should go,” she said softly. “Before Diane writes a thesis about us.”

I nodded.

She stood first and reached down for my hand.

I took it.

But before she could pull me up fully, I tightened my fingers around hers and made her look at me.

Mikha paused.

The words were already there.

Terrifying.

Small.

Mine to choose.

I looked at her and let every feeling I did not yet know how to say properly reach my face.

Then I said quietly:

“Come what may, baby.”

Mikha stopped breathing.

The balloon squeaked above us.

And for once, I did not hate the sound.