The elevator was silent except for the faint hum of machinery that wasn't doing its job. Mikha leaned against one wall, arms crossed, her head tipped back as she stared at the ceiling. Aiah stood on the opposite side, her arms wrapped around herself, half-heartedly pressing buttons on the elevator panel again—useless, she knew, but it gave her hands something to do.
"Kasalanan mo 'to," Mikha muttered, breaking the silence.
Aiah shot her a look. "Excuse me? Ako pa talaga?"
"Kung hindi mo ako sinundan—"
"Ako pa talaga," Aiah cut in, crossing her arms now. "Ikaw itong mahilig tumakbo palabas ng mga room. Kailan pa naging kasalanan ko na I care kung okay ka?"
Mikha opened her mouth to reply, but the words didn't come. Instead, she let out an exasperated sigh and pushed off the wall, pacing in the small space like a caged tiger. The elevator wasn't big enough for all the tension in the air, the weight of what hadn't been said between them in years. Aiah felt it pressing on her chest, suffocating and familiar.
As Mikha walked back and forth, muttering something under her breath, Aiah caught herself staring. It was like her brain wouldn't let her look away. Mikha still carried herself with the same sharpness, the same presence, the same stubborn fire that had made her impossible to ignore back then.
Back then.
Aiah closed her eyes for a moment, and just like that, the memory rushed in.
/
Flashback
Aiah hadn't even wanted to cover the game. Sports wasn't her beat—she was more comfortable writing think pieces, opinion columns, or the occasional features about student activism. But the actual sports editor had gotten sick, and somehow the job had fallen to her.
"Paano ba 'to," she muttered to herself, clutching her notebook as she lingered near the sidelines of the gym. The air was electric, buzzing with the excitement of the crowd as the university volleyball team took their positions on the court.
She didn't know much about volleyball beyond the basics, but even she had heard about Mikha Lim. Everyone had. The star player. The prodigy. The one who could spike the ball with enough force to rattle the opposing team and enough charisma to charm anyone in the bleachers.
And, as if on cue, there she was.
Mikha stepped onto the court, her red hair pulled into a messy ponytail, the team jersey fitting her like it was made for her alone. She was laughing at something one of her teammates said, and it was the kind of laugh that felt like it was meant to echo. Even from across the gym, Mikha's energy was magnetic, pulling eyes toward her like a gravitational force.
Aiah tried not to stare. She really did. But when Mikha scored the final point with a devastating spike that left the other team scrambling, she couldn't help the small thrill that shot through her.
By the time the game was over and the crowd was on its feet, Aiah had resigned herself to the fact that she needed to talk to Mikha. It was part of the job, after all.
She waited by the court, shifting nervously on her feet as the players high-fived, hugged, and celebrated. When Mikha finally stepped off the court, her hair sticking to her forehead from sweat and her jersey rumpled, Aiah cleared her throat and stepped forward.
"Uh, Mikha Lim?"
Mikha turned to her, a towel draped around her neck. Her expression shifted from exhaustion to curiosity in a heartbeat, her features softening as she looked Aiah up and down. "Yeah? Ano 'yon?"
