They left the villa just after lunch, no itinerary, no reservations, just an old tricycle-for-hire that Aiah flagged down like muscle memory and a promise to get lost somewhere new.
Mikha, in linen shorts and designer sunglasses, looked more like a fashion editorial than someone about to spend the afternoon bumping along gravel roads. But she didn't complain, not once. Not even when they hit potholes. Not even when the trike broke down for a solid ten minutes and the driver asked them to push.
Aiah, laughing breathless beside her, had never loved her more.
They ended up in a sleepy little seaside town just thirty minutes south, one of those places not quite marked on tourist maps. Old men played chess on crates. The kids stared at Mikha like she'd descended from the cover of a magazine. The sari-sari store sold halo-halo in old yogurt cups, and the beach was quiet. It was nothing but sand, sea, and a line of coconut trees.
Aiah led Mikha down a narrow path between rocks until they reached a small, raised hut by the shoreline. A few locals nodded to her, familiar, welcoming. She had arranged it quietly before they left—a small kamayan dinner for two. No chairs, just a woven mat, banana leaves, and food laid out like art: grilled pusit, tinapang bangus, salted eggs, ensaladang mangga, garlic rice, and buko juice in mismatched mugs.
Mikha looked around, visibly impressed. "You did this?"
Aiah shrugged, trying not to look too proud. "Maybe. I have my ways."
They sat cross-legged under the shade, the sea humming just beyond their feet. The breeze smelled like fish, salt, and flame.
"Okay," Aiah said, rolling up her sleeves. "Time to eat."
Mikha hesitated, looking down at the spread. "Where's the fork?"
Aiah grinned. "Kamayan, Mikhs. No utensils. Just hands."
Mikha raised a brow. "Like... just hands?"
"Like Filipino style," Aiah corrected, already digging into the rice with practiced ease.
Mikha watched her for a second, then scooped a bit of fish with her fingers, delicately placing it over rice like she was assembling fine sushi.
Aiah snorted.
"Mikha, do you even know how to eat with your hands?"
Mikha looked up, wiggling her eyebrows. "Shouldn't you know the answer to that by now?"
Aiah choked on her rice.
"Mikha Lim!"
Mikha smirked. "I've had practice."
"You're unbelievable."
"You're impressed."
"Kain ka na lang, dali." Aiah threw a slice of salted egg at her.
They both dissolved into laughter.
⸻
The food was simple but rich with flavor, smoky, tangy, full of the kind of soul you couldn't cook in an air-conditioned kitchen. They ate with their fingers sticky, their cheeks flushed, and the sun slowly melting into gold.
After a while, Aiah leaned back on her hands, full and content, watching the tide roll in.
"I used to dream about days like this," she said softly. "Back when I was working double shifts and didn't even know if I'd make it back to school."
Mikha looked at her, quiet.
"I never let myself want this kind of happiness," Aiah added. "It felt... too far. Too expensive. Too fragile."
