Mikha sat at a corner table near the window, nursing a bottle of beer. She'd arrived thirty minutes early—too early, really—and had already gone through the full spectrum of self-doubt while waiting. The dim lighting of the bar gave the place a cozy, intimate feel, but Mikha's nerves were anything but relaxed.
Her eyes flicked to the clock on her phone again. 7:59 PM.
She took another swig of beer, trying to calm herself down. She'd spent all day thinking about what to say, how to apologize without sounding like a broken record, how to make Aiah feel comfortable without coming on too strong. The worst part? She wasn't even sure if this meeting would go anywhere.
It could just be Aiah giving her the chance to say her piece before disappearing for good.
She's probably doing this out of politeness, Mikha thought, setting the beer bottle down a little too hard on the table.
She glanced back at the door for what felt like the hundredth time. Her foot tapped the floor anxiously, her leg bouncing under the table.
8:00 PM.
Mikha exhaled slowly, adjusting her shirt and wiping her palms on her jeans. Any second now.
But then another minute passed. And another.
By 8:15, Mikha was halfway through her first beer, and her stomach was twisting itself into knots. Her mind raced with a thousand possibilities. What if she's not coming? What if she changed her mind? What if she's sitting outside, trying to decide whether to just leave?
The bar door chimed, and Mikha's head snapped up so quickly she almost gave herself whiplash.
It was Aiah.
She stepped inside, pausing by the door as she scanned the room. Her outfit was simple—a pair of black cargo trousers, an oversized oxford shirt layered over a white tank top. Her hair was pulled into a low bun, a pair of thin-rimmed glasses perched on her nose.
She looked every bit as beautiful as she did effortless.
Mikha's breath caught in her throat. Aiah's presence seemed to fill the room without her even trying. She had this calm, quiet confidence about her, the kind that made Mikha's nerves kick into overdrive.
Aiah's gaze landed on her, and for a moment, their eyes met. Mikha felt her stomach flip as Aiah gave a small nod and made her way over.
"Hi," Aiah said as she reached the table, her tone neutral but not unkind.
"Hey," Mikha said, standing awkwardly before realizing she didn't know whether to shake Aiah's hand or offer a hug or just... stay put. She settled for gesturing to the seat across from her. "Uh, thanks for coming."
Aiah slid into the chair, setting her bag down beside her. "Well, you did say isa lang," she said with a faint smile, though her tone was edged with caution.
Mikha tried to smile back, but her nerves got the better of her. "Yeah. Just one. I promise."
Aiah glanced at the beer bottle in front of Mikha. "Started without me?"
"Oh, uh—" Mikha scrambled, lifting the bottle and holding it up like a shield. "I just—got here early. Didn't want to be late. At all. Ever. I mean, not that I usually am, but—" She cut herself off, realizing she was rambling. "Sorry. I'm nervous."
Aiah's lips twitched, the barest hint of amusement breaking through her composed exterior. "I can tell."
Mikha exhaled, leaning back in her chair. "Right. Well, I promise I'm usually less of a mess than this."
