The ceiling fan hummed softly. Outside, the rain still fell in threads, just steady enough to blur the world into gray. Inside the room, everything felt slowed—suspended—as if even time was holding its breath.
Their hands were still touching, fingers barely laced together in the middle of the bed.
Aiah could feel the nervous energy radiating off Mikha. Not obvious, not explosive—just a quiet static underneath her skin, like a current trying not to short.
She turned her head slightly, not to look at Mikha, but to be closer.
"You're uncomfortable," she said gently. "Do you want to tell me what's going on in your head?"
Mikha's voice was soft, flat as ever—but there was tension under it.
"I feel... off."
"Too many new variables?"
"Yes. The room is unfamiliar. My checklist is disrupted. I keep thinking I forgot something, but I didn't. My brain doesn't like that."
Aiah nodded slowly, thumb brushing lightly against Mikha's.
"Want me to talk?" she offered. "It helps sometimes, right? Something for your mind to anchor on."
"Yes," Mikha said, immediate. "Talk."
So Aiah did.
About random things. Nonsense things. Her first commercial gig when she was fourteen. The most embarrassing fan encounter she'd ever had ("I accidentally called myself sexy on live TV with food in my teeth"). Her favorite scent in the world (freshly washed sheets and mangoes). How she used to cry at animal rescue videos but now only tears up when she watches documentaries about space.
Mikha said nothing. But she listened.
Her body slowly relaxed. Bit by bit. Muscle by muscle. Like someone letting go of armor they'd worn for too long.
The silence returned after Aiah ran out of anecdotes, but it wasn't heavy now. It was soft.
Still, Mikha's voice—when it came—was careful.
Measured.
"So," she said quietly, like she was gathering data, "are you attracted to women?"
Aiah didn't turn.
She stared at the ceiling for a second, then closed her eyes, lips pulling into a tiny smile.
"Yeah," she answered.
"Exclusively?"
"No. But... mostly." A beat. "I've dated guys before. Slept with them. Fell in love with one, even. But I always love the person above everything else."
Mikha's grip on her hand shifted slightly, almost imperceptible.
Aiah turned her head this time. "Why are you asking?"
"Because I need context," Mikha said. "For this. For you. For what's happening."
"You want to label it."
"I want to understand it."
Aiah reached out with her other hand and gently brushed a stray strand of hair from Mikha's forehead. The gesture made Mikha still completely, like her body wasn't sure how to process the softness.
"Well," Aiah murmured, "I think you're attracted to me."
Mikha was silent.
Then—
"I think so too."
Aiah smiled.
"And I think," Mikha added, more quietly now, "I'm scared of that."
