Anthologies {MIKHAIAH AU}

please please please pt 3

Mikha wasn't used to this.

She wasn't used to the silence, the deafening void where Aiah's laughter, teasing texts, and warm voice used to be. It had been three days since the fight, three days since she'd left Aiah's apartment with her walls cracked open, and for the first time since they started whatever it was they had, it was Aiah who was pulling away.

Mikha had always thought she was good at handling distance. It was her thing, after all. She was the one who didn't text back right away, the one who could disappear for a couple of days without batting an eye. But now? Now, the radio silence from Aiah was slowly, steadily driving her insane.

The first day, she'd told herself to give it space. Aiah had said she needed time to think, and Mikha was determined to respect that, even though every instinct in her body screamed at her to call, to show up, to fix it.

By the second day, she cracked.

Mikha sent a tentative, casual text:

Hey. You okay?

No response.

Later that evening, she tried again:

Aiah, can we talk? Please?

Still nothing.

By the third day, she had called twice. The first time, she stared at her phone for ten minutes before finally dialing, her heart pounding as it rang endlessly until it went to voicemail. The second time, she tried again, only for it to go straight to voicemail this time.

The bitter taste of rejection sat heavy in her chest.

It wasn't until the end of the third day, as she stared at the unread texts and unanswered calls, that Mikha realized she didn't know what to do with herself anymore. The thought of Aiah slipping through her fingers, of them ending like this, left her stomach twisted in knots she couldn't untangle.

She couldn't let that happen. Not with Aiah. Not with her.

The next day, Mikha found herself standing in front of a mirror, barely recognizing the person staring back at her.

Her reflection was a mixture of nerves and frustration, her red hair loosely tied back, her leather jacket thrown over a clean white shirt that, for once, wasn't rumpled or carelessly thrown on. In her hand was a small bouquet of yellow tulips—Aiah's favorite. She knew because Aiah had mentioned it once in passing, talking about how her mom used to buy them for her on her birthday.

In her jacket pocket was a folded piece of paper, the edges slightly crumpled from where she'd gripped it too tightly. It was an apology letter—a real one. Mikha had spent hours writing it the night before, trying to piece together the right words to say.

She felt ridiculous, standing there with flowers in hand and a note in her pocket like some lovestruck idiot. She was Mikha Lim. She didn't do this. She didn't grovel. She didn't beg.

But this wasn't just anyone.

It was Aiah.

The perfect, living embodiment of Mama Mary herself. Sweet, kind, infinitely patient Aiah, who always smiled at Mikha like she saw something worth sticking around for, even when Mikha didn't see it herself.

Mikha glanced at her reflection again, narrowing her eyes. "Pull yourself together, Lim," she muttered under her breath. "This is Aiah. You can't screw this up."

The walk to Aiah's apartment felt longer than it ever had before. Every step was weighed down by doubt and nerves, her fingers tightening around the bouquet as she rehearsed her apology in her head for the hundredth time.