Two weeks had passed since Mikha had sent the birthday message, and she'd almost convinced herself that Aiah's silence was the answer. She told herself to stop hoping, stop waiting for a reply that might never come.
But when her phone buzzed late that evening, and she saw Aiah's name light up her screen, Mikha's heart nearly stopped.
The message was brief. Formal. Detached.
"Thank you, Mikha. Hope you're keeping well."
Mikha stared at the screen, her thumb trembling as she reread the words. The politeness of it stung more than if Aiah had ignored her completely. Where was the warmth? The soft affection Aiah always used to text her with? It had only been six months, but Mikha felt the chasm between them like an ocean too wide to cross.
The two sentences were enough to make her chest tighten, her eyes burn with tears. She blinked hard, but it was no use. A sob caught in her throat as she clutched the phone to her chest, the weight of everything she'd lost crashing down on her all over again.
She missed her. God, she missed her so much.
After a few minutes, Mikha managed to pull herself together enough to sit upright, staring at the screen once again. Her thumb hovered over the keyboard. She knew she shouldn't respond—not while she was in this state. Not when her heart was still so raw.
But Maloi's voice echoed in her mind: "She's back in Manila."
Mikha's pulse quickened. Aiah was here. Somewhere in the same city. So close, yet still feeling impossibly far away.
Mikha swallowed hard, her mind racing. Maybe this was her chance. Not to beg for reconciliation—she knew she wasn't ready for that, and Aiah likely wasn't either—but for closure. For an honest conversation. For something to untangle the knot in her chest that had been tightening ever since they parted ways.
Her thumb hovered over the keyboard. She hesitated, fear creeping into her thoughts. What if Aiah didn't want to see her? What if her message would only make things worse?
But the memory of the "To Be Returned" box sitting neatly in her living room came to mind. She couldn't keep living in limbo, holding onto things that no longer belonged to her. If this was going to hurt, then so be it. But she couldn't keep avoiding the truth.
Taking a deep breath, Mikha typed:
"Hi, A. Thank you for your reply. Maloi mentioned you're back in Manila. I wanted to ask if you'd have time to meet up, even just for a quick coffee. I packed up your things and would like to return them to you. But if you're not comfortable, I understand."
Her thumb hovered over the send button, her heart pounding in her ears. Was this a mistake? Should she wait? Should she let Maloi handle it instead?
But something inside her—the part of her that had spent two weeks cleaning, sorting, and trying to move forward—pushed her to press send before she could talk herself out of it.
The message disappeared from her screen, leaving her staring at the empty thread, her chest tight with anticipation and dread.
She set the phone down quickly, pacing her small apartment as she tried to keep the worst-case scenarios from spiraling in her mind. Maybe Aiah wouldn't reply. Maybe Aiah would say no. Maybe this was the closure Mikha was asking for, a definitive end to any connection they had left.
But as the minutes stretched into an hour, Mikha couldn't help but hope—fragile, reckless hope—that Aiah might still have something to say.
/
Aiah sat on the edge of her bed, freshly showered, her damp hair tied into a loose braid. Her room was still full of the half-unpacked mess from her trip—clothes spilling out of her suitcase, souvenirs scattered on her desk. She'd meant to put everything away that morning, but the familiar heaviness in her chest had kept her rooted to her bed most of the day.
