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Chapter Text

The playground smelled of dust and sunlight, the air alive with children’s shouts. Rubber slippers slapped against the pavement, and the metal monkey bars burned warm under the afternoon heat.

But by the monkey bars, Sheena stood small, clutching her worn lunchbox like it was a shield. Its stickers were peeling, edges rusted. Her knuckles whitened around the handle.

Two older kids circled her like hyenas, grins sharp and merciless.

“Ang jologs naman ng gamit mo,” one sneered, jabbing a finger at the faded cartoon sticker on her box.

The other leaned closer, his voice mocking, dragging every syllable.

“Tsaka yung accent mo—ang weird pakinggan. Parang taga-probinsiya.”

Sheena’s throat tightened. She tried to keep her chin up, shoulders squared the way her mama always told her. But her lips trembled, betraying her.

Her hands shook against the lunchbox. Her eyes darted around, hoping someone—anyone—would notice.

“Tigilan n’yo nga ako…” she muttered, her voice breaking halfway, barely loud enough to rise above the shrieks of the swings nearby.

The boys only laughed louder. One of them swiped at the lunchbox, as if daring to snatch it away.

Sheena hugged it closer to her chest, small arms trembling against their jeers, the playground noise fading until all she could hear was their laughter.

Before the words could settle, another voice cut through—sharp, annoyed, unafraid.

“Hoy! Back off, losers. Don’t touch her.”

Mikha marched forward, scowling as if she had been personally inconvenienced. Her polo was half-untucked, one knee dirt-stained from running, but she carried herself with the confidence of someone twice her size.

The bullies turned. Their smirks faltered.

“Ano ba, Mikha,” one boy said, forcing a laugh. “Kakampi mo ’to?”

“Yeah, duh.” Mikha crossed her arms, rolling her eyes so hard it was almost theatrical. Her English came out sharp and clipped, dripping with irritation. “You guys are like, so pathetic. Picking on her just ‘cause she’s different? Get a life.”

The older kids exchanged looks, their earlier bravado cracking. A muttered curse, a half-hearted shove at each other, and then—they stalked off, defeated, their laughter fading into the noise of the playground.

For a moment, the air cleared. The world felt still again.

Sheena blinked at the girl standing in front of her, wide-eyed. “...Salamat, Mikha.”

Mikha shrugged, as if it had cost her nothing, even though her little fists were still clenched.

“Whatever. They’re, like, losers. Don’t mind them.”

Sheena shifted, clutching her lunchbox tighter, but her lips curved in the faintest smile.

“Hindi ko alam na kilala mo ako…”

“Of course I do,” Mikha said, huffing. Then she straightened her shoulders, suddenly remembering her manners. She jabbed a thumb at herself with a practiced, almost smug tilt of her chin.

“I’m Mikha. Mikha Lim.”

The name carried weight, like she expected Sheena to already know it.

Sheena’s smile warmed, shy but sincere.

“Sheena po. Sheena Catacutan.”

Mikha nodded briskly, though her ears flushed pink under the sun.

“Okay, Sheena. From now on, you don’t let those losers bother you, ha? Kasi—” she lifted her chin, grumpy but proud—“you’re, like, with me.”

The words landed heavy in Sheena’s chest, strange and comforting all at once. For the first time that afternoon, the lunchbox didn’t feel so heavy in her hands.

The bell rang, scattering children across the yard. But for Sheena, that day lingered like sunlight caught in her palms.

From then on, Mikha always seemed to be there.

When Sheena’s shoelaces came undone, Mikha crouched without asking, fumbling with the knots even though she barely knew herself.

“Stop moving, okay? I’m, like, fixing it.”

When Sheena forgot her snacks, Mikha split her own biscuits in half, sliding the bigger piece across the table with a grumble.

“Don’t make it a habit, ha. I’m not, like, your food supplier.”

But her eyes softened each time Sheena’s smile lit up in return.

They started walking home together, side by side, their strides uneven but steady. Mikha’s voice filled the air with complaints—about the heat, about her heavy bag, about anything—but she never left Sheena’s side.

One afternoon, Sheena tugged at her sleeve.

“Bakit ba gusto mong kasama ako lagi, Mikhs?”

The nickname slipped out, soft and playful, like it had been waiting in Sheena’s mouth all along.

Mikha froze for half a second. No one had ever called her that before. Not her yaya, not her classmates, not even her parents.

Sheena didn’t seem to notice the weight of it—she just smiled, swinging her lunchbox like it was the most natural thing.

Mikha scoffed, flicking her ponytail back, trying to hide the way her ears had turned pink.

“Because, duh. You’re my best friend now. Obviously.”

The words rolled out so naturally, like she had already decided for both of them.

And Sheena—after a moment of surprise—beamed, as if someone had handed her the sun.

“Best friend,” she repeated softly, testing the shape of it. “Sige, Mikhs. Best friends nga tayo.”

Mikha looked away quickly, pretending to be annoyed. But inside, she was glowing. Mikhs.

It was silly, just a shorter name. Yet it felt different when Sheena said it—like it belonged to her, and only her.

For Mikha, the feeling that followed was… strange. Warm. Like her chest had swelled with something she couldn’t quite explain. It made her cheeks burn and her voice stumble, so she masked it with more complaints and eye rolls.

At her age, she didn’t know words like crush or love. All she knew was that the world seemed brighter when Sheena laughed, that her pulse jumped whenever Sheena looked at her with those bright, trusting eyes.

She only knew one thing for sure: she wanted to stay by Sheena’s side, always.

And so—without meaning to—they became inseparable. Two halves orbiting the same playground, their names often called together like they were one.

Best friends. At least, that’s what everyone said.

And that’s what Mikha told herself, too… even if the fuzzy, unnamable feeling inside her whispered something else.

The sun was sinking low, spilling orange light across Sheena’s porch. A small table between them was cluttered with notebooks and half-erased math problems, eraser dust scattered like crumbs. The air smelled faintly of sampaguita and chalk.

Sheena tapped her pencil against her cheek, squinting at a stubborn equation.

“Ang hirap naman nito… parang ayoko na.”

Mikha leaned over, her brows knitting as she scanned the page. She sighed, exasperated.

“Shee, it’s literally so easy. Look, you just divide it, tapos cancel this part. Duh.”

Sheena wrinkled her nose, twirling the pencil between her fingers.

“Eh ikaw na matalino.”

A small laugh escaped her, soft and unbothered. She bent her head again, copying the solution into her notebook. Her handwriting trailed in messy, loopy lines, numbers tumbling into each other.

Mikha rolled her eyes, but the corner of her lips twitched like she was fighting a smile.

“You don’t even, like, try to make it neat, no? Parang chicken scratch.”

Sheena giggled, not even looking up.

“Basta naiintindihan ko, okay na ’yun.”

Mikha scoffed, sinking back into her chair, but her gaze lingered. She tried to focus her attention on her own notebook, tapping her pen against the margin.

It didn’t work.

Her eyes kept sliding back—to the curve of Sheena’s grin, to the way strands of hair slipped loose and glowed under the orange light, to the tiny furrow in her brows when she was serious.

Mikha’s throat tightened. She jerked her gaze away, cheeks heating for no reason she could explain.

Why does my chest feel so… tight?

She grumbled under her breath, loud enough for Sheena to hear.

“You’re so kulit, you know that? Parang you don’t even care.”

Sheena finally glanced up, blinking at her, lips quirking.

“Care about what?”

Mikha flinched, caught off guard. She fumbled with her pen, pretending to underline something random on the page.

“Wala. Nothing. Just… math. Obviously.”

Sheena’s smile softened, eyes glinting with mischief as if she knew Mikha was lying.

“Sus. Grabe ka, Mikhs. Lagi ka nalang galit.”

“I’m not galit!” Mikha snapped too quickly, glaring at her own notebook like it had personally offended her. “I’m just… irritated lang kasi you don’t listen. That’s all.”

But Sheena only laughed again, the sound light and ringing, carrying into the orange-tinted air.

Mikha felt that strange pull in her chest tighten, unnameable and warm, like the sun itself had settled beneath her ribs.

“Hoy,” Sheena’s voice pulled her back.

Mikha blinked, caught in the middle of staring.

“Bakit nakatingin ka sa’kin? May dumi ba sa mukha ko?”

Mikha snapped upright, pen clattering against her notebook. Her scowl came out sharper than she intended.

“What? No! Like, don’t flatter yourself. I was just—checking kung tama yung sinusulat mo.”

Sheena chuckled, the sound light and unbothered, as if Mikha’s grumpiness had long since become her favorite thing. She shook her head, hair bouncing loose in the evening glow.

“Lagi ka na lang ganyan. Parang bantay.”

Mikha crossed her arms, rolling her eyes in an exaggerated huff, trying to bury the heat crawling up her neck.

“Yeah, well, someone’s gotta watch you. You’d totally fail without me.”

Her voice dropped lower, muttered like she was scolding herself more than Sheena. She hunched over her notebook, pretending to write, hoping Sheena wouldn’t notice the way her hand trembled just a little.

But Sheena noticed everything.

Her lips curved into a smile, soft and knowing, though she didn’t push. She just let the silence breathe between them for a moment, filled only with the scratch of pencil on paper and the cicadas singing outside.

Finally, she leaned her chin on her palm, eyes still on Mikha.

“Alam mo, kahit ang sungit-sungit mo… ang saya kapag nandiyan ka.”

Mikha’s pen stilled. Her cheeks burned hot, so she ducked her head even lower, grumbling like it was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard.

“Ugh. You’re so dramatic, Shee. Like, stop saying weird stuff.”

Sheena laughed again, warm and easy, carrying into the dimming light. To her, Mikha was just being Mikha—protective, bossy, impossible. A comfort she didn’t even think to question.

But Mikha—she pressed her lips together, trying to squash the strange ache blooming in her chest.

She didn’t have the word yet for what it was. All she knew was that every time Sheena smiled like that, it felt both like a victory and a wound.

Mikha kept her head down, pretending to scribble in her notebook. Her ears still burned from Sheena’s words, and the only thing louder than the cicadas outside was her own heartbeat.

Sheena tilted her head, watching her with a grin that only grew wider the longer Mikha tried to hide.

“Ang sungit mo talaga,” Sheena teased, pencil tapping idly against the table. “Parang lolo.”

Mikha’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing.

“Excuse me? Lolo agad? Hello, I’m literally, like, younger-looking than you. People even say I could pass for—”

Before she could finish her rant, Sheena suddenly reached across the table and poked her cheek.

“Boop.”

Mikha froze.

Then she jerked back, scowling furiously, hand flying to her face as if Sheena had committed a crime.

“What the—Shee! Don’t do that! Like, I have personal space, okay?”

Sheena laughed so hard her pencil rolled off the table. She clutched her stomach, eyes crinkling with mischief.

“Grabe ka, Mikhs. Ang cute mo kasi magalit.”

Mikha sputtered, cheeks blazing.

“Cute?! Shee, I’m intimidating. Like, very! People are scared of me, duh.”

Still grinning, Sheena leaned closer, resting her chin on Mikha’s shoulder without warning.

Mikha went rigid. Her pen slipped from her fingers, clattering onto the notebook. She stared straight ahead like the porch railings had suddenly become fascinating.

“Shee…” her voice came out tight, almost a whisper. “What are you doing?”

“Wala lang,” Sheena said softly, still smiling. “Pagod na ako mag-solve. Pwede bang pahinga muna… dito?”

Mikha’s throat went dry. She wanted to shrug it off, to roll her eyes, to make some sarcastic remark.

But she didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Her chest felt like it was filled with sunlight and static all at once, the warmth of Sheena’s weight seeping right through her.

“…Fine,” Mikha muttered finally, trying to sound annoyed, though her voice cracked just a little. “Pero, don't get used to it, okay? I’m not, like, a human pillow.”

Sheena only giggled, closing her eyes, her cheek pressed to Mikha’s shoulder.

“Sure ka d’yan, Mikhs?”

Mikha rolled her eyes skyward, but the corners of her lips betrayed her—curling into the smallest, softest smile.

Sheena stayed tucked against her shoulder, humming softly under her breath as if the world outside that porch didn’t exist. The scent of sampaguita drifted on the evening air, wrapping them in something tender, something fragile.

For once, Mikha didn’t push her away. She let the silence stretch, her chest rising and falling in sync with Sheena’s.

The notebooks lay forgotten between them, the stubborn math problems fading into the background. All that remained was the fading orange glow, the cicadas’ song, and the steady warmth of Sheena against her.

Mikha didn’t have a word for it yet. She only knew she never wanted it to end.

The gym buzzed with noise, sneakers squeaking against polished wood, the echo of whistles bouncing off the walls.

Mikha stood at the center, hair pulled back in a sharp ponytail, jersey clinging to her shoulders. She bent her knees, sprang up, and spiked the ball clean over the net.

It hit the floor before the other team could even react.

The crowd erupted.

“Grabe, ang galing ni Mikha!”

“Crush ko talaga ’yun, swear.”

Mikha landed lightly, chest heaving. She brushed sweat from her forehead, lips tugging into a lopsided smirk.

Near the bleachers, Sheena clapped—half-hearted, almost hesitant. She was still in her own practice clothes, a dance bag slung on one shoulder. Compared to the roar of the crowd, her applause sounded paper-thin, swallowed up by the noise.

She tried to smile, but it wavered, just a little.

When the whistle blew and the game ended, Mikha was swallowed by a flock of girls.

They crowded around her, eyes bright, cheeks pink, tugging at her arm like she was some prize to be claimed.

“Ang galing mo kanina!”

“Mikha, turuan mo naman ako mag-serve!”

“Picture tayo, please?”

Mikha tossed her towel around her neck, smirking. She raised her hands as if to push them back, though not too hard.

“Yeah, yeah, sure. Chill, guys. Like, one at a time, okay? Don’t all attack me.”

The girls squealed even louder, delighted at her mock irritation, leaning closer.

From where she stood, Sheena’s throat tightened.

She watched Mikha laugh, her voice dripping with that lazy confidence, her ponytail swishing as girls clung to her like ivy.

For a moment, Sheena hugged her bag tighter. The straps dug into her shoulder, grounding her against the sudden, sharp ache in her chest.

She tried to tell herself it was fine. Mikha was Mikha—bossy, magnetic, impossible not to notice. Of course people would crowd around her.

Still… when Mikha didn’t immediately glance her way, when she didn’t even seem to notice Sheena by the bleachers—her smile faltered.

And for the first time, Sheena wondered if she was being left behind.

From across the court, Sheena tightened her grip on her bag strap.

Her heart stung in a way she didn’t want to name.

She told herself it was silly—just the noise of the gym, the crowd, the way Mikha was glowing under the lights. But when the laughter of the girls around Mikha rang in her ears, something inside her twisted.

Later, at her dance rehearsal, Sheena spun and leapt with a brightness that caught everyone’s eye. Her arms stretched wide, her movements fluid, the floor seeming to carry her instead of weighing her down.

“Ang galing mo, Sheena!”

“Parang ang dali lang sayo!”

She smiled at the praise, cheeks flushed from exertion.

But even as she laughed and bowed her head, her gaze flickered toward the empty doorway.

Wondering.

Hoping.

Would Mikha ever peek in? Just once? The way Sheena always found herself sneaking glances across the court whenever it was Mikha’s turn to shine?

When practice ended, her friends clustered around her, playful and proud.

“Star ka na talaga ng batch natin, Shee.”

“Sigurado ako ikaw na i-highlight sa recital.”

She laughed with them, tossing her hair back, nudging their shoulders in return.

“Ewan ko sa inyo, puro kayo bola.”

Her voice was light. But the sound of her laughter felt thin in her own ears, like paper stretched too far.

Because when the clapping faded, when the mirrors only reflected her own tired face, there was no roar of the crowd. No Mikha watching from the sidelines.

The image that lingered wasn’t her own reflection at all.

It was Mikha—surrounded, adored, unreachable.

Sheena pressed her lips together, the corners trembling as a quiet spark flickered somewhere deep inside.

Bakit ako naiinis?

Dati naman… ako lang lagi ang nakapaligid kay Mikhs.

The thought sank into her chest like a weight. For the first time, Sheena wondered if what she wanted was more than just her best friend’s attention.

Sheena sat on the wooden floor as the others packed up, tugging absently at the laces of her sneakers. Her reflection in the mirror stared back at her—sweat-damp hair, flushed cheeks, the faint curve of a smile that wouldn’t quite settle.

Hindi pwede, she scolded herself silently. Best friend mo lang siya, Shee. Wala nang iba. Wag ka ngang OA.

She tied the knot on her sneaker too tight, wincing as it dug against her ankle. With a soft laugh, she shook her head, pretending to herself that it was nothing, just tiredness, just the heat of the room.

Her friends called a quick goodbye, their voices fading down the hall. Sheena stayed behind for a moment longer, hugging her knees and resting her chin there, staring at the empty doorway.

“Hay nako,” she whispered under her breath, forcing another smile. “Wala ’to. Bukas, okay na ’ko.”

She gathered her things, slinging the dance bag onto her shoulder.

But as she flicked the lights off and stepped out, that spark of jealousy refused to go out—glowing faint and stubborn, like an ember hidden under ash.

The dance studio pulsed with music, bass thumping through the speakers, mirrors throwing back every movement in sharp, gleaming fragments. Sneakers squeaked against polished wood, sweat-slicked faces glowed under fluorescent lights.

At the center, Sheena twirled, hair whipping as her laughter rose above the rhythm—bright, unshaken, impossible to ignore.

Beside her was someone new.

Gwen.

She was a transferee, only weeks into the semester, but already she carried herself like she belonged. Her moves were crisp, precise, a sharpness that drew eyes without her even trying. There was something easy about her charm, the kind that slipped into a room and filled it without permission.

“Ang galing mo, Sheena!” Gwen grinned wide as the music paused, catching Sheena’s wrist mid-step before she stumbled. Her voice rang confident, teasing, a little too smooth.

“Parang ikaw pa nagtuturo dito.”

Sheena laughed, cheeks warm, brushing a strand of damp hair from her face.

“Grabe ka, Gwen. Hindi ah. Ang kulit mo lang kasi sumasabay ka agad.”

Gwen chuckled, tossing her head back, sweat-dark hair bouncing.

“Eh paano, ang dali mong sundan. Saka—” She let go of Sheena’s wrist only to tap her shoulder lightly. “Kung ikaw ang partner ko, parang walang mali, diba?”

Sheena blinked at that, caught off guard, then burst into another laugh, unguarded and ringing.

“Loko ka talaga.”

Their laughter tangled easily, bouncing from mirrored wall to mirrored wall. Sheena leaned into Gwen’s orbit without even realizing it, pulled by that easy confidence, the way Gwen’s energy matched her brightness beat for beat.

Around them, their classmates clapped at the end of the run, some whistling at the pair.

And for the first time, Sheena wasn’t just the one people were watching—she was being watched with someone.

From the hallway window, Mikha leaned against the frame, fresh from volleyball practice, bag slung carelessly on one shoulder. Her hair was still damp with sweat, jersey sticking to her back.

She had stopped here on instinct, telling herself it was just because Sheena’s class was ending soon. Just a coincidence.

But what she saw made her chest tighten.

Sheena’s laugh—bright, unguarded, the kind that rang like music.

Gwen’s hand—lingering a second too long on Sheena’s arm as they caught their breath.

The closeness—too easy, like they’d known each other for years instead of weeks.

Mikha’s stomach burned hot. Her jaw clenched, molars grinding until she thought she’d crack one.

Ano ba ’to.

She shifted her weight against the frame, fingers drumming restlessly against the strap of her bag. Every sound from inside the studio felt louder, sharper—the squeak of sneakers, the ripple of laughter, Gwen’s voice slipping too close to Sheena’s ear.

“Ugh,” Mikha muttered, rolling her eyes hard enough to sting. “Seriously? Like, ang bilis naman. Kakatransfer lang niya tapos… ayan na agad. Wow, Shee. Great taste.”

Her lips twisted into a smirk that didn’t reach her eyes.

She wanted to storm in, toss some sarcastic line, drag Sheena out by the wrist with whatever dumb excuse came to mind—“Let’s go eat, I’m starving” or “Mom’s waiting, duh.”

But her feet stayed rooted to the ground.

So instead, she pushed a hand through her damp hair, scoffed under her breath, and said quietly—like it would hurt less if she kept it low—

“Whatever, Shee. Do your thing.”

She shoved her free hand into her pocket, shoulders hunching as if that would shield her from the sight.

But even as she turned away from the window, the image clung stubbornly: Sheena’s laughter, Gwen’s hand, the orbit Sheena leaned into so easily.

Later, when they finally walked home together, Sheena skipped a little on the sidewalk, her bag bouncing against her hip. Her voice was bright, tumbling fast, filling the quiet the way it always did.

“Si Gwen kasi, ang bilis sumayaw. Parang ang dali sa kanya lahat ng steps. Nakakatuwa, Mikhs. Kahit bagong transfer lang siya, parang ang dali niyang makasabay.”

Mikha adjusted the strap of her volleyball bag, hands shoved deep into her pockets. She stared straight ahead, expression unreadable.

“Cool,” she muttered flatly. “Good for you, then.”

Sheena slowed, brows knitting as she glanced at her.

“Ano ba ’yan, ang sungit mo.”

Mikha shrugged, forcing her tone casual, her eyes fixed on the pavement.

“I’m just tired, okay? Practice was, like, super draining. We had suicides today, and my coach is literally crazy.”

Sheena tilted her head, unconvinced. She nudged Mikha’s arm lightly with her elbow.

“Eh usually kahit pagod ka, daldal ka pa rin. Ngayon ang tahimik mo.”

Mikha exhaled sharply through her nose, jaw tightening.

“Well, excuse me for not being, like, sunshine and rainbows all the time. Not all of us can be Sheena the Dancing Queen, di ba?”

Sheena laughed, the sound bubbling out despite herself.

“Hay nako, ikaw talaga. Pero seryoso, ang saya kasi may partner na ako ngayon. Si Gwen—ang galing niyang humabol. Tapos sobrang kulit niya, grabe, nakakatawa siya kahit nagkaka-palpak kami.”

Mikha’s shoulders stiffened at the name, though her lips curled into a thin smirk she didn’t mean.

“Wow. Sounds like you had, like, the time of your life. Congrats, Shee. You found your soulmate or whatever.”

Sheena stopped walking, staring at her with wide eyes.

“Uy, ano ka ba. Joke lang ’yon. Ikaw pa rin best friend ko, noh.”

Mikha’s chest tightened at the words—best friend—but she only rolled her eyes, tugging her bag higher on her shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah. Best friends forever. Whatever.”

They started walking again, the silence heavy between them until Sheena giggled and tried to change the subject. Mikha forced a laugh, but it came out clipped, brittle.

They still met, still walked home together, still shared fishballs and teased each other over homework.

But under every laugh and every careless brush of shoulders, there was an invisible thread stretched thin between them, pulled taut by everything they weren’t saying.

The months blurred into bus rides, rehearsals, and late-night study sessions.

Mikha’s name appeared more often in tournament flyers and the sports section of the school paper than in Sheena’s inbox. Photos of her spiking, arms raised in victory, plastered the bulletin board by the gym. Sheena’s face, meanwhile, shone from glossy dance posters tacked to hallway walls, her smile dazzling under stage lights, eyes catching the spotlight instead of Mikha’s.

They still texted—sometimes.

Shee, u there?

The reply came an hour later.

Busy pa sa practice, Mikhs. Ikaw?

Mikha rubbed her temples, thumbs flying across the screen.

Yeah same. Sobrang daming drills.

There were long pauses between bubbles. Hours stretched, sometimes the whole evening, until Sheena’s reply appeared the next morning.

Sorry, nakatulog na ako kagabi. Good luck sa game mo today!

Calls, once nightly rituals filled with laughter and half-baked homework answers, began to ring into nothing.

One, two, three tones. Then voicemail.

“Hey, uh, Shee, it’s me. Just… wanted to talk, I guess. Call me back?”

But the return call never came.

Mikha told herself she was too tired to care, burying the ache under volleyball drills and endless laps around the court. Sheena convinced herself it was normal—lahat naman busy, she whispered—pressing her phone tighter under her pillow when silence answered her back.

And so they drifted, not with a bang, but with the quiet erosion of everything they weren’t saying.

When they did manage to meet—over fishball stands or in the corner of the library—the air was different. Not cold, not angry, just… hollow.

The kind of silence that pressed in between words, heavy and unfamiliar.

Sheena twirled her straw in her drink, eyes cast down, the ice clinking softly.

“Sobrang dami kong rehearsals, Mikhs. Hindi ko na alam kung saan ako kukuha ng oras.”

Mikha leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, her frown deepening as if she could hide the ache in her chest behind it.

“Yeah, well, same. Coach is literally killing us. Like, if I miss one more training, I’m dead.”

Sheena’s lips curved into a weak smile, but it never reached her eyes.

“At least ikaw… may team ka na sumasalo sa’yo. Ako, parang… kailangan ko mag-shine mag-isa.”

Mikha shifted, the chair creaking under her weight. She looked away, jaw tight.

“You’re not alone, Shee. You have… like, a whole dance crew with you.”

“Hindi pareho, Mikhs.” Sheena’s voice was soft, but steady. “Kasi kahit surrounded nila ako, minsan pakiramdam ko wala ka na. Iba pa rin yung andyan ka eh”

That landed between them like a stone.

Mikha’s throat worked, but no words came out. She wanted to say I’m still here, I’m trying, but it felt too fragile, too dangerous. Instead, she shoved another fishball onto her stick, dipping it too hard into the sauce.

“Whatever, Shee. You’re overthinking,” she muttered, her tone sharp enough to cover the tremor underneath.

Sheena’s gaze lingered on her for a moment, searching, but she let it go. She popped a fishball into her mouth and leaned back, the silence stretching long again.

Two girls sitting side by side, so close they could touch, yet carrying the weight of miles between them.

Silence stretched between them.

Once upon a time, they would’ve filled it with laughter, inside jokes, the kind of nonsense only they understood. Now, it just sat heavy, making every sip of soda taste flat.

Sheena glanced up, trying to soften the weight between them with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“At least… nandito ka pa rin.”

Mikha’s chest tightened, the words sinking deeper than she wanted them to. She forced a shrug, leaning back in her chair like it was no big deal.

“Uh, duh. Where else would I be, diba? Like, I literally live in this school na. Court, classroom, rinse, repeat.”

Sheena huffed a laugh, but it was thin, almost fragile.

“Busy ka nga palagi. Minsan parang… ‘yung katawan mo nandito, pero yung utak mo, nasa ibang lugar.”

Mikha tapped her fingers against her cup, eyes flicking away.

“Eh ikaw din naman, ha. Ever since naging Miss Dance Star ka, it’s like, hello? I need to schedule pa a meeting just to see you.”

Sheena’s brow furrowed, guilt flashing across her face.

“Hindi ko naman ginusto ‘to, Mikhs. Ang bilis lang ng lahat. Rehearsals, shows, competitions—”

“Yeah, well, same here,” Mikha cut in, her voice sharper than she intended. “Coach legit told me na if I skip one more training, I might as well quit. So, like, sorry if I’m not around twenty-four-seven.”

The words hung between them, harsher than the silence they tried to escape.

Sheena fiddled with her straw again, her tone quieter.

“Hindi ko hinihingi na palagi ka nandito. Gusto ko lang maramdaman na… kahit busy ka, andyan ka pa rin.”

Mikha swallowed hard, jaw tightening. She wanted to say I am, I always am, but the words tangled on her tongue. Instead, she forced out a scoff, slumping deeper into her chair.

“Grabe ka, Shee. Drama much? I’m here right now, diba? Isn’t that enough?”

And though the corners of Sheena’s lips curved up in another half-smile, the hollowness stayed.

Because the truth was, they were both there less and less—present in body, absent in spirit. And though neither dared to say it, both felt the quiet loneliness creeping in, disguised neatly as busyness.

The bass of the speakers rattled the mirrors in the dance studio.

Sheena spun with her group, sweat glistening on her brow, her laughter half-forced but steady. She moved like she was trying to convince herself she still loved it, that the exhaustion was worth it.

From the sidelines, Gwen clapped along, voice bright.

“Go Sheena! Ikaw na talaga!”

Sheena’s smile widened at the cheer, but her eyes flickered—just for a second—toward the door. Toward the emptiness she had gotten used to.

And then it slammed open.

Mikha stood there, breathless from running, her hair damp with sweat, volleyball bag slung carelessly over one shoulder. Her jersey clung to her frame, the smell of resin and gym floor clinging to her skin.

“Shee.”

Her voice cut through the music, sharp but low, like she was trying to keep it steady and failing.

“We need to talk.”

The music faltered as one of the dancers fumbled, the beat losing its rhythm. Gwen blinked, glancing between Sheena and Mikha, sensing the sudden shift in air.

Sheena’s chest tightened, her steps slowing until she stopped completely.

“Mikha… what are you even doing here? May training ka pa, diba?”

Mikha swallowed hard, shifting the strap of her bag as if it was choking her.

“Yeah, well… I left early. Coach can kill me later.”

The words came out half a joke, but her eyes—dark, restless—stayed locked on Sheena. She didn’t care if the whole team saw. Didn’t care if Gwen was smirking from the side.

Because all week, guilt had been eating her alive.

The way she brushed off Sheena at the fishball stand. The way she rolled her eyes when Sheena tried to reach out. The way she pretended she didn’t care.

But she did. She cared so much it burned.

“Shee…” Mikha’s voice cracked softer now, almost drowned out by the hum of the speakers still buzzing faintly. “Can we… Please, just talk? Kahit saglit lang.”

The dancers exchanged looks, the kind of quick, knowing glances that said they were intruding on something personal. Gwen crossed her arms, raising a brow at Mikha like she was waiting for Sheena’s choice.

Sheena froze mid-step, the bass still pounding against the studio mirrors.

Her friends slowed to a stop one by one, eyes darting between her and Mikha. The air grew heavy with curiosity, whispers barely muffled beneath the music.

Heat rushed to Sheena’s cheeks—half from the sweat clinging to her skin, half from the image in her head she couldn’t shake. The memory of other girls crowding Mikha after games. The way they tugged at her arm, leaned close, laughed too loudly, like they had some claim to her.

Bakit ngayon? Bakit dito?

“Mikhs, huwag ngayon.” Sheena waved her off, her voice tight, a smile stretched too thin for her classmates’ sake.

“May practice pa kami. Mamaya nalang.”

But Mikha took a step forward, her sneakers squeaking against the polished floor.

Her jaw set, eyes flashing with something between desperation and irritation.

“No. Like, ngayon, Shee. We need to talk. Seriously.”

The sharpness of it made Sheena’s chest prickle. Embarrassment twisted into something darker, sharper, bitter.

“Ano ba, Mikhs?” Her voice cracked higher than she meant, words spilling faster now. “Ang dami mo ngang oras sa mga fans mo sa volleyball, pero sa’kin—”

She sucked in a shaky breath, her fists curling at her sides.

“Ngayon ka lang nagmamadali? Huwag mo akong istorbohin, please.”

The words landed like a spike.

Mikha flinched. For a heartbeat, she looked less like the confident captain everyone adored and more like a girl punched in the stomach. Her shoulders stiffened, her grip on the strap of her bag tightening until her knuckles paled.

Her chest thudded too hard, each beat tangled with exhaustion, jealousy, and the gnawing guilt she’d carried all week.

Sheena didn’t let herself look back. She forced her legs to move, spinning on her heel, her voice steady but her throat raw.

“Sige na. Balik tayo sa formation.”

Her friends shuffled uneasily, some biting back whispers, some exchanging wide-eyed glances. The music blared on, but the rhythm felt broken, off-beat.

Mikha stayed rooted by the door, staring at Sheena’s back, every muscle in her body screaming to say something—anything—before the space between them grew even wider.

But then Mikha’s voice cracked through the room, louder than the music.

“Goddamnit, Sheena, I can’t take this distance anymore!”

The shout bounced against the mirrors, reverberating through the studio until even the speakers seemed to falter.

Everyone froze.

The dancers exchanged bewildered glances, unsure whether to laugh it off or step back. A few shifted from one foot to the other, sneakers squeaking faintly against the floor.

Sheena’s heart lurched violently in her chest, the sound of Mikha’s words ringing louder than the bass ever could.

Gwen, wide-eyed, opened her mouth as if to break the tension, but Sheena quickly raised her hand.

“Guys… sige, break muna. Balik kayo mamaya.”

Her voice was steady, but her hands trembled as they brushed sweat from her forehead.

Relieved for an excuse to leave, her friends moved toward the door. One by one, they slipped out, their chatter muffled, their curious stares lingering until the last moment.

The door clicked shut.

And then—silence.

No music. No whispers. Only the faint hum of the studio lights and the uneven rhythm of two heartbeats.

Mikha stood by the door, trembling, her chest heaving with each shallow breath. Sweat dripped from her temple, trailing down the edge of her jaw. She looked furious, but beneath it was something more fragile—like her anger was the only thing holding her together.

Sheena stayed rooted to her spot in the middle of the room, her brightness dimmed. Anger, confusion, and something softer flickered in her eyes, all fighting for space.

Finally, she spoke, her voice low, almost afraid to break the silence again.

“Mikhs… bakit ka ba ganyan?”

Mikha pressed her lips together, her bag slipping from her shoulder to the floor with a dull thud.

“Because—” Her voice cracked, too raw, too human. “Because I don’t know how to pretend anymore.”

Sheena folded her arms tight across her chest, like a shield. Her breath came shallow, her eyes glinting with something caught between anger and hurt.

“Eh ano bang problema mo, Mikhs?” Her voice cracked but stayed sharp, defensive. “Ang dami mong babae, ang dami mong tumatawag ng pangalan mo sa games, tapos ako pa yung pinapansin mo ngayon? Bakit ako?”

The words landed like stones between them. Mikha’s jaw clenched, her fingers flexing helplessly at her sides. For a second she tried to steady her breathing, tried to pull her old mask back on—grumpy, aloof, conyo cool.

“Like, seriously, Shee…” Her voice wavered, the drawl collapsing. “You really think I care about them? All those girls?”

Sheena’s brows furrowed. She opened her mouth, but Mikha’s voice rose before she could speak again.

“Putangina, Sheena, I don’t care about them!”

The sound echoed off the mirrors, raw and jagged. Mikha’s mask cracked clean through, her words tumbling out in a rush.

“Ikaw lang, okay? Ikaw lang ever since!” She stepped forward, fists clenched, her accent sliding as her heart overpowered her practiced cool. “Ever since we were kids—ikaw yung gusto ko, ikaw yung mahal ko!”

Sheena blinked, her lips parting, the weight of the confession hanging heavy between them.

Mikha’s chest heaved. She dragged a trembling hand through her damp hair, her bag lying forgotten at her feet.

“Kaya ko bang makita ka kay Gwen? Hindi!” Her voice cracked again, desperate. “Kaya ko bang mawala ka sakin? Hindi!”

Another step forward, her eyes shining, angry and terrified all at once.

“Sawa na ako sa distance, Shee. Mahal kita, tangina.”

The studio swallowed her words, leaving nothing but the sound of their uneven breathing.

Sheena’s fingers twitched against her arms, her shield faltering. The hurt, the jealousy, the years of slow drift between them—all of it swirled under her skin, but she stood frozen, staring at Mikha as if seeing her for the first time.

Mikha stayed there, trembling, every ounce of conyo grumpiness gone—just a girl who had finally stopped hiding.

Sheena froze, as if the ground tilted under her feet.

Her lips parted. Her eyes widened. The heat of anger drained from her face, leaving only disbelief.

The girl who always knew what to say, who always laughed the loudest—suddenly had no words.

“Hindi ‘yan totoo…” she whispered, barely audible. The sound of it was so small, so fragile, it hurt more than shouting ever could.

Mikha took a step closer. Her whole body trembled, her breath shaking like her lungs couldn’t hold it all in. Her eyes glistened, her jaw locked tight, her chest wide open, as though daring Sheena to strike it down.

“Oo, mahal kita!”

The words ripped out of her, unpolished, raw.

“Ever since nung nasa playground pa lang, Shee. Ever since I stood up for you.”

She swallowed hard, her voice cracking.

“Ever since hindi ko pa gets kung bakit ako nagagalit pag may umaagaw ng atensyon mo. Ever since forever!”

Her confession spilled into the studio, heavy, echoing against the mirrored walls like it couldn’t be contained.

For the first time, Sheena saw Mikha—not just the grumpy one, not just the protective one, not just the best friend who had always stood by her side.

But Mikha, stripped bare. Shaking. Breaking. Years of silence clawing their way into the open.

Sheena’s sunshine faltered into something muted, almost unrecognizable.

Her heart hammered in her chest, caught between two impossible beats—the old rhythm of friendship that had carried them this far, and the sudden, terrifying truth of love staring her in the face.

The room seemed to shrink around them, mirrors stretching the space but offering no escape.

Mikha stood there, chest heaving, her fists curled tight at her sides. Her eyes were fierce and wet, like she had just torn her own heart out and hurled it into the space between them, daring Sheena to see it.

Sheena’s breath hitched.

Her arms, once locked across her chest like armor, fell limply to her sides. The shield was gone.

Her sunshine—the easy laughter, the radiant glow that filled every room—dimmed under the unbearable weight of Mikha’s words.

Her throat tightened, her vision blurred. She blinked, but the tears welled anyway, a haze she couldn’t push back.

She swallowed hard, the lump lodged in her chest refusing to move.

“Mikhs…” she whispered, the sound breaking as it left her lips. Just her name, nothing more. The rest of her voice stayed trapped, trembling inside her ribcage.

Silence swallowed the word whole.

Mikha didn’t move. She didn’t even breathe. Every line of her body was taut, like a bowstring stretched too far, waiting to snap.

For the first time, there was no sarcasm on her tongue, no grumpy mutter to soften the air, no conyo bravado to hide behind.

Just rawness. Just the trembling honesty that radiated from her in waves.

The studio lights hummed overhead, the mirrors reflected back their stillness, and the world held its breath—balanced on the edge of one confession and one stunned silence.

Sheena’s lips parted, but nothing followed.

Her body screamed to move, to answer, to reach across the floor and bridge the aching distance. But fear pinned her in place. Disbelief tangled with the weight of years, pressing her still.

The silence thickened, loud enough to drown them both.

Two girls. Two hearts. Stripped bare at last, standing in the ruins of everything unsaid.

And for that fragile, suspended moment, nothing existed but the pounding of their hearts—louder than any music that had ever played in the studio.

Sheena’s breath broke. Her chest rose and fell, uneven, as tears slipped past her lashes.

“Mikhs…” she whispered again, but this time her voice wavered like a bridge about to collapse.

Mikha flinched at the sound, as though even her own name hurt. Her hands balled tighter, fingernails biting into her palms.

Sheena took a shaky step forward.

“Hindi ka nag-iisa,” she choked out, her words trembling with every suppressed feeling clawing its way free. “Hindi lang ikaw yung nahirapan.”

Mikha’s eyes widened, the tears spilling faster, her lip trembling as if her body couldn’t hold her together anymore.

Sheena pressed her fist against her mouth, sobbing once, raw and unguarded. Then the words burst out of her, jagged, broken—yet finally free.

“Mahal din kita, Mikhs. Matagal na. Tangina—matagal na matagal na.”

Her voice cracked, the admission shaking through the room.

Mikha staggered, as if the confession itself had struck her chest. Her tears fell freely now, messy, ungraceful, unstoppable.

“Then why, Shee?” Her voice broke mid-sentence, rough and desperate. “Bakit ang tagal nating tinago? Bakit ngayon lang?”

Sheena shook her head, the sobs making her shoulders tremble.

“Dahil natakot ako…” she admitted, each syllable heavier than the last. “Natakot ako na masira tayo, na mawala ka. Pero Mikhs—” Her voice splintered again. “Mas masakit palang hindi sabihin.”

They stood there, both crying, both trembling, years of suppressed emotions unraveling all at once.

For once, neither laughter nor grumpiness could cover it. No shields. No masks.

Just two girls, breaking open in the middle of an empty studio, finally admitting the truth they had carried too long.

Sheena’s sobs shook her shoulders, but before the sound could pull her apart, Mikha moved.

In one desperate step, she closed the distance, her arms wrapping tight around Sheena, crushing her against her chest like she’d disappear if she let go.

Sheena collapsed into the embrace instantly, burying her face into Mikha’s shoulder. Their tears mingled, dampening skin and fabric, their bodies trembling against each other as though finally—finally—they could stop holding back.

“I love you, Shee…” Mikha’s voice cracked, muffled against her hair. “I love you so much.”

Sheena clutched the back of her shirt, fingers curling like claws, afraid that loosening them even for a second would undo everything.

“I love you too, Mikhs. Tangina, I love you.” Her words came out between sobs, broken but true, the kind that left no space for doubt.

They repeated it over and over, like a mantra, like they were trying to make up for all the years it stayed locked inside. Each “I love you” wetter, messier, but steadier with every breath.

Mikha pulled back just enough to see her, their foreheads pressed together, tears still slipping freely down their cheeks.

Her voice was low, trembling, but firm with a promise.

“I won’t go near all the girls na lumalapit sakin sa volleyball games… for you, Shee. Please, don’t leave me.”

Sheena let out a breathless laugh through her tears, shaking her head.

“Good. Kasi kung hindi, babatuhin kita ng bola sa ulo sa next game mo.”

Mikha huffed, half a laugh, half a sob, and pressed her face against Sheena’s neck, clinging tighter.

And in that quiet, tear-stained studio, the tension that had bound them for years finally unraveled.

They stayed wrapped in each other, hearts pounding in sync, the weight of silence lifted at last.

Not just best friends. Not just almost.

But finally, a couple.

Chapter Text

When Gwen transferred to another school, she only wanted a quiet semester.

Nothing complicated. No drama, no new attachments—just a clean slate and silence.

New school, new faces, same invisible girl.

She’d learned how to blend in: eyes down, earphones in, don’t draw attention. But the universe—cruel, playful thing that it was—had other plans. Because the first time she saw her, the world tilted off its axis.

It was a humid Tuesday afternoon, the first week of dance class. The studio lights were dim, reflecting against the long mirrors. The air smelled of floor polish, sweat, and faint perfume—teenage chaos wrapped in rhythm.

Then came Sheena.

She didn’t just walk into the room—she burst in.

Laughing. Loud. Hair tied up in a messy ponytail that somehow made her look like she owned the place. Her voice carried over the music, teasing someone by the speaker, her energy filling the entire room.

When the beat dropped, Sheena moved like she’d been dancing before she could walk.

Her body spoke its own language—sharp, playful, alive. Every spin, every flick of her wrist had intention, had joy.

And Gwen, the quiet transfer student in the back row, forgot how to breathe.

She wasn’t supposed to notice anyone. But how could she not?

The teacher clapped once, calling for partners. Sheena turned, scanning the room, eyes landing on Gwen.

“Hoy, ikaw 'yung baguhan, ‘di ba?”

Her voice was warm, teasing.

Gwen froze, blinking up at her.

“Uh… oo,” she managed to say, voice small.

Sheena grinned, towel slung over her shoulder. “Relax ka lang. Dito, bawal ang nahihiya.”

Then she winked—just a quick, easy thing—but it landed right in the center of Gwen’s chest.

The room went back to noise and movement, but Gwen stood there, pulse racing, cheeks burning.

And that was it.

That was the beginning.

The quiet semester she wanted was gone.

Because from that moment on, everything started moving to Sheena’s rhythm.

From that day on, Gwen found herself orbiting around her—every turn, every beat, every burst of laughter that seemed to rearrange the air itself.

She watched Sheena move through the studio like she was sunlight—uncontainable, radiant, leaving warmth wherever she went. Gwen told herself she was just observing, just admiring the way Sheena’s sneakers squeaked against the wooden floor, the sway of her ponytail in rhythm, the quick flicker of her grin after every perfect turn.

But it wasn’t just admiration anymore.

It was something heavier. Something she carried in her chest like a secret song.

A crush, maybe. Or something deeper than she dared to name.

During breaks, Sheena would plop down beside her, legs crossed, towel draped over her neck.

“Pagod ka na ba? Parang ang tahimik mo naman lagi,” she’d say, teasing, voice soft but bright.

Gwen would chuckle faintly, trying not to stare. “Hindi lang talaga ako pala-imik minsan.”

“Hindi pwede ‘yan dito,” Sheena would grin, tapping her knee lightly. “Next time, ikaw mag-lead sa warm-up natin ha?”

“Ha? Ako?” Gwen laughed, nervous and flustered.

“Oo. Para naman makilala ka namin. Hindi ka pwedeng shadow lang, girl.”

The words landed too close to the truth.

Because Gwen was a shadow. And Sheena—she was everything the light wanted to touch.

So she hid it. She smiled when Sheena teased her, forced a laugh when their shoulders brushed, pretended the heat that crawled up her neck was just exhaustion.

Just friendship.

Just awe.

Just nothing.

But the lie cracked every time Sheena laughed with someone else, every time she wrapped an arm around another classmate’s shoulder, every time Gwen caught herself wishing—if only that were me.

And late at night, when the studio emptied and silence replaced the bass, Gwen stayed behind. The mirrors glowed faintly with ghosted movements, as though Sheena’s joy had been imprinted on the glass.

Gwen would press a hand to her chest, eyes blurring.

She didn’t understand why it hurt, why it felt like she was dancing against a tide she could never beat.

Because how do you stop your heart from choosing the one person it shouldn’t?

And worse—how do you keep pretending it hasn’t?

From outside the door, Gwen froze.

She had stepped out only a minute ago, still clutching her water bottle, planning to wait by the vending machine until Sheena finished talking to Mikha. She had even rehearsed what she wanted to say—how she’d finally ask Sheena out after weeks of tiptoeing around her feelings.

But then she heard it.

“Goddamnit, Sheena, I can’t take this distance anymore!”

Mikha’s voice tore through the walls like thunder. Gwen stiffened, the cold from the hallway tiles crawling up her legs. The laughter that once filled the studio was gone, replaced by a silence so heavy it made her throat ache.

Through the small glass pane on the door, she saw them.

Sheena—frozen mid-step, her face a storm of confusion—and Mikha, chest heaving, fury and desperation tangled together.

She should’ve walked away. Should’ve respected the privacy of whatever this was. But her hand stayed pressed against the cool glass, heart pounding with an ache she couldn’t name.

Inside, Sheena said something, her voice sharp, defensive—“Eh ano bang problema mo, Mikhs?”—and Gwen’s chest clenched.

Mikha’s answer came raw, shattering.

“Putangina, Sheena, I don’t care about them! Ikaw lang, okay? Ikaw lang ever since!”

Gwen’s breath caught.

Her fingers trembled against the doorframe. Each word cut through her, sharp and clear, slicing through the tender, unspoken hope she had been nursing for months.

Inside, Mikha’s confession poured out like a flood—years of love, jealousy, and longing finally breaking free. Gwen’s chest tightened with every syllable.

“Kaya ko bang makita ka kay Gwen? Hindi! Kaya ko bang mawala ka sakin? Hindi!”

She stumbled back as if struck. Her name.

It fell from Mikha’s mouth like a curse, like something she shouldn’t have been part of.

Her water bottle slipped from her hand and rolled down the corridor with a hollow clatter. But neither of them noticed—too lost in the storm she could only watch from the outside.

Gwen pressed her fist to her mouth, fighting the sob that rose.

She had thought she understood love—the quiet, patient kind that waited at the edges, that admired from afar. But this—this was love unrestrained, violent in its honesty, loud enough to make the walls shake.

And Sheena stood there, trembling, speechless, as Mikha’s words filled the air.

When Sheena finally whispered, “Mikhs…” in that soft, breaking way—Gwen’s heart gave up pretending.

She backed away slowly from the glass, the reflection of her own tear-streaked face blurring behind the fog of her breath. The hallway lights buzzed above her, too bright, too harsh.

She walked until she reached the end of the corridor, her pulse still echoing in her ears.

That was the day Gwen decided not to ask.

Not because she stopped loving Sheena—

but because she finally understood she never stood a chance.

Days passed—but for Gwen, it felt like watching the world through glass.

She tried to keep moving, tried to dance like nothing had changed. But everything had.

In the studio, she’d see them—Sheena and Mikha—side by side by the mirrors. Laughing. Whispering. Arguing in that way couples did when the fight was really just another way of saying I care.

“Uy, Gwen, okay ka lang ba?” one of her classmates asked during a break, tossing her a towel.

She caught it too late, blinking herself back to the present. “Ha? Oo naman,” she said, forcing a laugh. “Pagod lang.”

But the truth sat heavy under her ribs, pulsing with every beat of the music.

She watched Sheena tilt her head back and laugh at something Mikha said, the kind of laugh that came from deep in the chest. The kind of laugh Gwen used to imagine was hers to chase.

Their hands brushed.

Sheena didn’t pull away.

And Mikha smiled—softly, quietly, the kind of smile that said I found home.

Gwen turned away, pretending to fix her shoelace. Her chest ached so bad it was almost funny.

Later, when class ended, Sheena waved from across the room. “Gwen! Sama ka sa’min mag-merienda lang!”

For a heartbeat, Gwen wanted to say yes. To pretend she could still exist in the orbit of Sheena’s warmth without burning.

But Mikha appeared at Sheena’s side, slinging an arm casually over her shoulder, whispering something that made Sheena’s grin widen.

“Pass muna, may kailangan lang akong tapusin,” Gwen managed, voice tight but polite.

Sheena pouted, just a little. “Next time ha?”

Gwen smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Oo naman.”

When they left together, the studio felt cavernous. Too quiet. Too still. The mirrors threw back Gwen’s reflection—a dancer standing alone under harsh fluorescent light.

She pressed a hand to her chest, willing her heartbeat to slow.

She had no right to be jealous. No claim to be hurt. All she ever had was admiration, small and secret and unspoken.

Still, she couldn’t stop watching from afar—Sheena laughing with Mikha, arguing with Mikha, breathing in sync like two halves of the same rhythm.

She saw it all. The glances that lingered, the laughter that softened into something tender.

And Gwen knew.

Knew she was too late.

Knew her place was on the sidelines, clapping for a love that wasn’t hers.

Still, she loved her.

Even when it hurts.

Even when Sheena’s smile belonged to someone else.

Even when the music stopped, Gwen was left dancing alone.

Because Sheena wasn’t just a girl.

She was a rhythm Gwen could never unlearn—

a song her heart kept replaying,

long after the dance was over.