It had been three months since the outreach in Tondo.
And more than three months since the rooftop — that conversation that tore her open and stitched her back together all in one breath.
Since then, life didn't pause. It didn't offer clarity.
But it gave Mikha what she needed: space — to think, to rebuild, to move.
And she had moved.
Not perfectly. Not without pain.
But forward, all the same.
The first few weeks were the hardest.
The days stretched on long and quiet. No texts. No "how are you's." Just the ghost of Aiah's last words echoing in her head.
"It took for you to lose me before you got your shit together. Do you know how much that hurts?"
That haunted her.
So she let it guide her, not in guilt, but in accountability.
She kept going to therapy. Not just to "feel better," but to understand herself.
Her patterns. Her defensiveness. Her need to shut down when things got hard.
She learned how silence, which she once saw as control, could be cruelty in disguise.
And she started learning how to stay ,not just physically, but emotionally, even when things got uncomfortable.
"How do I keep showing up for people," she told her therapist once, "when I spent years struggling to show up for myself?"
It was slow, but week by week, she built structure into her life.
Real boundaries. Morning routines. Breaks in between work. Actual sleep.
She even picked up a weekend ceramics class — something tactile to get her out of her head and into her hands.
She kept journaling. She wrote to Aiah sometimes — letters she'd never send — about the day, something Haru did, or a book that reminded her of a conversation they'd had in the past.
And she stayed sober, as much as possible.
No more cigarettes. The vape occasionally made a reappearance, but never in stress. And as for alcohol? She kept it social and controlled.
No more nights blacking out because it hurt too much to feel.
/
When she first heard about Aiah actually dating Daniel, it was through Stacey.
In passing. At brunch.
"I think Aiah's kinda seeing that Daniel guy now."
Mikha had just taken a sip of her coffee, and the bitter taste clung to her tongue a little longer than usual.
She didn't ask questions.
Didn't dig.
Didn't let her face fall.
But that night, she lay in bed staring at her ceiling for an hour.
She wasn't angry.
Not even jealous, really.
Just... sad.
Because that was someone else hearing about Aiah's day.
Someone else sending her good morning texts, or asking her how her meeting went.
Someone else who got to laugh at the jokes Mikha used to make.
Someone else who didn't have to carry the weight of everything that happened before.
But she knew Aiah had the right to move forward.
Mikha had no claim.
Just history.
And maybe a heart that hadn't quite figured out how to let go — or if it even wanted to.
Still, she didn't spiral. Not this time.
She stayed grounded.
Stayed in her lane.
She didn't message Aiah. Didn't corner her at any gatherings.
She just kept showing up — for herself.
/
They still saw each other, but only in groups.
Birthday dinners. Game nights. Maloi's plant-repotting party, where Aiah showed up late, and Mikha made a point to already be on her way out.
