The sun climbed higher, indifferent.
The island moved on.
And so did they—as if nothing had happened.
As if Mikha hadn't bared something raw beneath the moonlight.
As if Aiah hadn't stood there, heart in her throat, wondering what would happen if she let it all come undone.
Instead, they woke up and put on their usual masks.
The group spent the day in a string of light, photo-ready moments:
lounging by the pool with fruit juice and loud speakers, sunburned but laughing, taking turns posing for Gwen's camera ("Isa pa, girl, look dito, serious face tapos smile na parang nabayaran ka na.")
Aiah was still composed. Still quiet. Still... watching.
But when she looked at Mikha now, she made sure to keep her expression unreadable.
And Mikha—well.
She matched her energy with practiced ease.
She was loud, teasing again, throwing Sheena into the pool, flirting with the bartender Maloi had somehow convinced to serve them overpriced rum drinks.
No one could tell the difference.
Except maybe Colet, who had clocked everything before breakfast and had said nothing—but watched everything.
They were back to their old rhythm.
The sniping.
The sarcasm.
The safe space between enemies pretending that tension wasn't once again tangled around their ribs.
⸻
Late in the afternoon, while everyone was scattered—some down by the beach again, others napping indoors—Mikha passed by Aiah by the outdoor shower, a towel slung over her shoulder.
She paused just enough to glance sideways.
"Wow. Back to the icy stares, huh?" she said casually.
Aiah didn't look up. "Wala namang nagbago."
Mikha gave a tight smile. "Right."
A beat.
"I mean," Aiah added, still not meeting her gaze, "nothing important, anyway."
And that was it.
No spark.
No edge.
Just flat. Distant. Dismissive.
Like last night hadn't happened.
Like she hadn't stood in front of Mikha and said I didn't want to be a story and watched her break open like the tide on the rocks.
Mikha walked away first this time.
She wasn't used to this version of Aiah—the one that didn't fight back, didn't bite, didn't bother.
And it got under her skin more than the tension ever had.
⸻
That evening, when everyone gathered around the table for dinner—family-style grilled seafood and cold rice—Stacey raised her glass for a toast.
"To old friends, bad decisions, and island memories we'll pretend never happened!"
The group whooped, glasses clinked, someone yelled "CHEERS TO DENIAL!"
Aiah laughed with them.
Mikha did too.
But their eyes never met.
/
The sun had long slipped behind the sea, leaving only a deep orange bruise on the horizon as the group climbed into tricycles and headed toward the local bar—a beachfront dive with twinkling lights, cheap drinks, and music just loud enough to vibrate through the bones of your ribs.
It was Maloi's last request:
"One last island hurrah. Let's get stupid drunk."
And no one dared argue with the birthday girl.
