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Mornings come softly to the farmhouse in Bukidnon.
Mist rests over the fields like a thin blanket, and the mountains in the distance look half-asleep, their shapes gentle and blue in the early light. The air smells of damp soil, grass, and the faint sweetness of coffee drifting from the kitchen window.
Inside the house, Mikha is already awake.
She stands barefoot on the cool wooden floor, tying her hair into a loose ponytail with one hand while the other steadies a kettle over the stove, glasses slipping on the tip of her nose. The flame flickers low and steady. She watches the water like it’s something alive, like it deserves patience.
“Water boils faster at higher altitudes,” she murmurs to no one, voice still rough from sleep. “Less air pressure.”
She smiles to herself, amused. Random facts, she thinks. Like sugar packets for the day.
Behind her, the bedroom door creaks.
Aiah appears in the doorway, wrapped in Mikha’s oversized hoodie, sleeves swallowing her hands. Her hair is still messy from sleep, falling into her eyes. She doesn’t speak right away. She just leans against the doorframe and watches Mikha move around the kitchen like she belongs to the morning.
Tubby trots out from behind Aiah’s legs, her tiny paws clicking softly on the wood. Her black-and-white spots look like spilled ink across her fur. She pauses, ears twitching, and then makes a straight line for Mikha’s abandoned socks near the chair.
“Tubby,” Aiah says gently, voice still thick with sleep. “Don’t you dare.”
Tubby freezes. She looks at her. She looks at the socks. She chooses chaos anyway.
She grabs one sock and runs.
Mikha turns just in time to see the blur of fur and fabric disappear under the table.
“Not again,” she laughs, leaning down to peer into the shadows. “You have a whole toy basket. Why is it always my socks?”
Tubby growls softly, not in anger but in triumph.
Aiah crosses the room slowly, her steps quiet. She crouches beside Mikha, their shoulders touching. “She likes the smell,” she says. “Comfort.”
Mikha glances at her, eyes warm. “So I smell comforting?”
Aiah doesn’t answer right away. She reaches under the table, calm and patient, and Tubby immediately rolls onto her back, surrendering the sock like a peace offering.
“Yes,” Aiah says simply.
Mikha looks away first.
Outside, the farm is waking up.
The ducks chatter near their small pond, their voices sharp and opinionated. Chickens scratch at the dirt, clucking as if exchanging the latest gossip. The goats linger by the fence, eyes following the house with mild judgment, clearly convinced breakfast is overdue. In the meadow beyond, Skye, a sleek chestnut horse, flicks her tail and nuzzles the grass, seemingly amused by the commotion of her smaller companions.
Mikha steps onto the porch with a metal pail of feed in one hand. The boards creak under her weight. The cool air brushes her face, carrying the sounds of morning.
She inhales deeply.
“I love this,” she says softly, to the land, to the sky, to the life they have built.
Behind her, Aiah appears with Tubby tucked in her arms like a spoiled child. Tubby’s eyes are wide as she spots the ducks.
The ducks spot her too.
They waddle closer, curious.
Tubby panics.
She buries her face into Aiah’s hoodie.
Mikha laughs, the sound bright and unguarded. “She’s bigger than them.”
“She doesn’t know that,” Aiah replies, rubbing Tubby’s back. “In her heart, she is small and fragile.”
“That’s because you treat her like a princess.”
“She is a princess.”
The ducks lose interest and wander off. Tubby peeks out cautiously, dignity slightly wounded.
Mikha moves across the yard, scattering feed with practiced ease. The chickens rush toward her feet in a flurry of feathers and soft chaos. One goat lets out a loud, demanding bleat.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” she says. “You act like I’ve never fed you before.”
Aiah watches from the porch, her gaze steady and quiet. There is something about the way Mikha moves here—sure, gentle, present—that makes the world feel settled.
This life fits her.
The thought comes to Aiah without effort. It simply exists, like the mountains, like the morning.
Later, the café opens.
It’s small, built just outside the farm lot, with wide windows and hand-painted signs. The name—Corta Café—is written in soft yellow letters above the door.
Inside, the air smells of ground beans, warm milk, and wood polish. Sunlight spills across the counter, catching in glass jars filled with sugar and homemade cookies.
Mikha stands behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, measuring beans with careful hands. She treats every cup like it matters, like someone’s day might depend on it.
Aiah sits by the window with a notebook open in front of her. The page is blank.
She taps her pen against the paper. Once. Twice. Then she stops.
Outside, the ducks pass by in a loose line. Tubby, safely inside, watches them through the glass with deep suspicion.
“You know,” Mikha says without looking up, “octopuses have three hearts.”
Aiah lifts her eyes. “Why do you know that at eight in the morning?”
“It’s important information.”
“For what?”
“In case an octopus comes into the café and orders coffee. I need to understand its emotional capacity.”
Aiah stares at her.
Then she laughs—a quiet laugh, soft and surprised, like it escaped before she could stop it. For the years she’s known Mikha, the woman never runs out of things to say. And she loves that, more than she’ll ever admit.
Mikha looks up, pleased, like she has just completed an important task.
By afternoon, the sun is high and warm.
Aiah walks the edge of the field with Tubby trotting beside her, her small legs working hard to keep up. She stays close, occasionally glancing back at the house as if to confirm it’s still there.
The grass brushes against her calves. The air hums with insects. Somewhere, a goat bleats in complaint.
She pauses near the fence and looks out over the land—the garden beds, the pond, the café, the house with its open windows and curtains moving in the breeze.
For a long time, she thought she had lost her words.
They used to come easily, like rain. Now they sit somewhere just out of reach, like clouds that refuse to break.
Tubby presses against her ankle.
“I know,” she murmurs, crouching to scratch behind her ears. “We’re trying.”
She licks her chin in agreement.
From the distance, she hears Mikha’s voice—faint, singing to herself as she works. The melody is simple, unfinished, carried by the wind like something still becoming.
Aiah closes her eyes and listens.
The song is raw. The words blur. The tune wanders.
But it’s real.
And for the first time in a long while, Aiah feels a sentence forming—not on paper, not yet, but somewhere deeper. A small, steady beginning.
She opens her eyes and looks toward home.
The next afternoon settles into a slow, golden quiet.
Clouds drift lazily over the Bukidnon sky, and the air holds that gentle warmth that makes everything feel softer—the grass, the wooden steps of the porch, the sound of distant animals moving through their routines.
Inside the café, the last customer has just left.
Mikha flips the sign on the door to Closed and stretches her arms above her head. Her back pops softly. She lets out a long breath, like she has been holding the day inside her lungs and is only now letting it go.
Aiah watches from her usual seat by the window, a cup of coffee untouched in front of her. The notebook is open again. Still blank.
But she’s not looking at the page.
She’s looking at Mikha.
There’s flour on Mikha’s cheek from the bread she tried baking that morning. Her bun has loosened, strands of hair falling around her face. She hums under her breath as she wipes the counter, unaware of the way Aiah’s gaze lingers—not heavy, not demanding, just quiet and full.
Mikha is softness in motion, warmth threaded through each small gesture, gentle in all the right places. She is strength worn gracefully, the woman who had weathered storms without losing her light. The woman who once called Aiah the universe’s “apology” for everything she endured, and yet the same woman the universe had handed over so easily, like a love letter written by the cosmos.
“What?” Mikha asks without turning.
“You always know when I’m staring.”
“You stare loudly.”
Aiah smiles faintly. “Is that another random fact?”
“Yes. Proven by science. Very reliable.”
Aiah looks down at her cup to hide the warmth rising to her face.
Later, they close the café together and walk back to the farmhouse. Tubby greets them at the door like they have been gone for years instead of hours, spinning in tight circles, barking at a pitch too high for her size.
“Did you guard the house?” Mikha asks, crouching to rub her belly.
Tubby sneezes.
“Good job,” she says seriously.
Evening begins to gather around them. The sky shifts into soft shades of orange and pink, the mountains turning into dark silhouettes. The ducks settle near the pond. The chickens quiet down. The goats chew slowly, Skye lets out a soft neigh, their day winding to a close.
Inside, the house fills with the smell of garlic and onions as Mikha cooks. Aiah sits at the small wooden table, elbows resting on the surface, watching her.
“You’re staring again,” Mikha says.
“You’re cooking loudly.”
Mikha laughs. “Touché.”
They eat with the windows open, letting the cool air drift through the room. Tubby sits between them, hopeful and dramatic, sighing whenever no food falls her way.
After dinner, the world outside turns deep blue.
Crickets begin their steady song. The wind moves through the grass in long, slow breaths. The farmhouse feels wrapped in quiet.
Mikha disappears into the bedroom and returns with her old guitar—the wood worn smooth where her arm rests, the strings slightly dull but still warm in tone. She sits on the edge of the couch, adjusting the tuning pegs with careful twists.
Aiah looks up, surprised. “You haven’t played that in a while.”
“I know.”
Her fingers hover over the strings, uncertain for a moment. Then she glances at Aiah, something shy and vulnerable in her eyes—a rare thing for someone who usually moves through the world with gentle confidence.
“Do you still remember the song that you liked so much?” Mikha asks. “The one I wrote before we met?”
Aiah’s chest tightens slightly. She nods. “You said it didn’t make sense back then.”
“It didn’t,” Mikha admits. “It felt unfinished. Like it was waiting for something.”
Tubby jumps onto the couch beside her and curls into a small, protective loaf. She watches the guitar with suspicion.
Mikha strums once. The sound is soft, a little rough, but steady.
The first notes fill the room, simple and honest.
Aiah feels them before she understands them.
Mikha’s voice follows—gentle, low, carrying the weight of something that has been held for a long time.
Sa pagdilat ng aking mga mata, nariyan ka na.
Sinta, sa iyong mga mata ay nakita, pag-ibig na pang habang buhay.
Sinta, ikaw lang ang patutunguhan, ikaw na ang aking tahanan.
Her voice trembles slightly on the last line, but she doesn’t stop.
The melody isn’t perfect. It bends in places, pauses where her breath catches. But it’s full of years, of waiting, of quiet hope she once carried without knowing why.
Aiah’s hands tighten around the edge of the table.
She remembers the first time Mikha sent her the demo for it—just a file attachment in her inbox hoping to ease the sadness Aiah was feeling. Mikha had laughed then, embarrassed, saying it’s probably just a love song with no one to belong to.
Now, it fills the small farmhouse like it has always lived there.
Mikha finishes the last chord and lets it fade into the quiet.
Neither of them speaks right away.
The crickets continue their steady rhythm outside. A goat shifts in the distance. The world doesn’t rush them.
Finally, Mikha looks up.
“I think,” she says softly, “the song found its meaning.”
Aiah swallows. “When?”
Mikha’s fingers trace the edge of the guitar, slow and thoughtful. “When you walked into my life and everything that felt like guessing… stopped feeling like guessing.”
Her gaze lifts, steady and open.
“It was always you,” she says. “I just didn’t know your name yet.”
The words land gently, but they carry the weight of truth.
Aiah feels something inside her chest loosen—something she has been holding without realizing it. Her eyes sting, and she laughs softly, embarrassed by the tears that slip free anyway.
“You wrote that before we met,” she says.
“I did.”
“And now you’re saying it was about me.”
Mikha shrugs, small and shy. “Some things take time to arrive.”
Tubby chooses that moment to bark at nothing, as if to break the intensity. She then sneezes and curls tighter into Mikha’s side.
They both laugh, the sound warm and relieved.
Later that night, the farmhouse is quiet except for the soft chorus of crickets and the distant rustle of wind through the fields.
Moonlight spills through the window, pale and gentle, painting the room in shades of silver and shadow. The world outside feels far away, as if the night itself has drawn a circle around the house and decided to keep it safe.
Aiah lies on her side, facing Mikha.
Mikha’s hair has been freed from its bun, dark strands spread across the pillow. Her face is softer in sleep, the small lines of worry gone, replaced by something open and unguarded.
Aiah reaches out, hesitates, then brushes a strand of hair away from Mikha’s cheek.
Mikha’s eyes open.
They stay like that for a moment—looking at each other in the quiet, neither surprised to find the other awake.
“You’re staring again,” Mikha whispers.
“You exist loudly,” Aiah murmurs.
A small smile forms on Mikha’s lips.
The air between them feels warm, close, alive with the kind of silence that’s not empty but full of shared breath, of years of becoming, of the quiet certainty that they have found something real.
Mikha lifts a hand and traces the line of Aiah’s jaw with her fingertips, slow and careful, as if memorizing something she already knows by heart.
Mikha’s gaze searches Aiah’s face—not with doubt, but with that familiar vulnerability she rarely shows to anyone else. It’s the same look she has when she plays an unfinished song, when she offers something fragile and hopes it will be held gently.
Her fingers curl slightly in the fabric of Aiah’s sleeve.
“You still want me like this?” she asks, voice barely above a breath.
There’s no performance in the question. No dramatics. Only truth, the kind that comes from someone who feels deeply and dares to ask anyway.
Aiah doesn’t look away.
She moves closer, until their foreheads rest together, until their breaths mingle in the small space between them.
“I will always want you like this,” she says, steady and sure.
Not louder. Not grand. Just certain.
Something in Mikha’s expression loosens—a quiet release, like a knot untied after being pulled too tight for too long.
She closes the distance between them.
The kiss is slow, unhurried, like they have all the time in the world. It’s not about urgency, it’s about recognition—the feeling of coming home to a place that has been waiting for you.
Aiah’s hand finds Mikha’s, their fingers threading together naturally, like they have practiced this in a hundred lifetimes. Mikha’s thumb traces slow circles against Aiah’s skin, grounding, present.
Outside, the wind moves through the grass in long, steady breaths.
Inside, the room holds warmth.
They draw closer, not with desperation, but with trust—the kind built in quiet mornings, shared work, laughter over stolen socks, songs that take years to find their meaning.
Mikha rests her forehead against Aiah’s shoulder, her voice a soft murmur against skin. “You feel like peace.”
Aiah presses a kiss into her hair. “You feel like home.”
They move together beneath the blanket, the world narrowing to warmth, to heartbeat, to the simple miracle of being held and holding back. No rush. No fear. Only the steady unfolding of two lives that have chosen each other, again and again.
Time passes, the night deepening into stillness.
At some point, Tubby lifts her head from her bed near the door, squints at the bed as if judging the situation, then sighs dramatically and flops back down.
Their breathing slows, finding the same rhythm. Aiah’s hand rests over Mikha’s heart. Mikah’s fingers are tangled in the fabric of Aiah’s shirt.
No words are needed now.
Outside, the farmhouse stands quiet and full, a home built of love and ordinary magic. Inside, two hearts beat steady, tethered to each other in a way that feels infinite.
Morning arrives quietly, as if careful not to disturb what the night has made sacred.
The first light slips through the curtains in thin, golden threads, brushing the floorboards, the edge of the bed, the curve of Mikha’s shoulder. The farmhouse wakes in layers—the distant call of a rooster, the creak of wood stretching into the day, the soft rustle of leaves outside the window.
Aiah’s eyes open.
For a moment, she doesn’t move. She watches the slow rise and fall of Mikha’s breathing, the way sleep still lingers in the softness of her mouth, the way her hand remains loosely curled in the fabric of Aiah’s shirt, even in dreams.
February 14th.
The thought settles warmly in her chest.
Carefully, gently, she eases her hand free. Mikha stirs but doesn’t wake, only turning slightly, as if reaching for warmth that still lingers in the sheets.
Tubby lifts her head as Aiah sits up, tail thumping once against the floor in quiet acknowledgment. Aiah presses a finger to her lips with a conspiratorial smile. Tubby huffs, unimpressed but compliant, lowering her head again with a sigh that suggests she is tolerating human sentimentality before breakfast.
The floor is cool beneath Aiah’s feet. She pulls on a hoodie and steps outside.
The morning air is crisp, carrying the scent of damp soil and sun-warmed grass waiting its turn. Their garden stretches beside the farmhouse, humble and loved—rows of herbs, stubborn tomatoes, and, at the far edge, a cluster of sunflowers lifting their bright faces toward the newborn light.
Aiah walks to them slowly, as if approaching something sacred.
She chooses them with care—not the tallest, not the most perfect, but the ones that lean toward each other, petals slightly uneven, stems strong and stubborn. She gathers a small handful, cradling them in her arms like something alive.
Back inside, she finds the kraft paper she has kept tucked away for days like this. The edges are a little worn, the fold lines soft from being opened and refolded in quiet anticipation.
Her fingers move with gentle focus, arranging the stems, adjusting the angles, tying the bouquet with twine pulled from the kitchen drawer. It’s imperfect. One flower sits higher than the others. Another tilts outward, unruly and bright.
It is, she thinks, exactly right.
She places the bouquet on her pillow beside Mikha, then hesitates, retrieving the folded letter she has written and rewritten in the hush of previous nights. She tucks it beneath the twine, where it will be seen before the flowers are even lifted.
Mikha stirs as Aiah settles back beside her, careful not to wake her yet. The room holds that fragile hour between sleep and day, when everything feels possible and nothing has asked anything of them.
When Mikha’s eyes finally open, they land first on the sunflowers.
Confusion flickers, then recognition, then something softer—something that makes her reach for the bouquet as if it might disappear if she moves too quickly.
The letter slips free into her lap.
She reads.
My dearest,
Sometimes I look at you looking at me and wonder what you are seeing, or if you like what you are seeing at all. Oftentimes I worry that you don’t, but then your eyes soften like I’m your favorite story unfolding again, and you hold my hand like you are holding a piece of home you don’t want to let go of. That’s when I realize that I don’t need to understand it, just believe that whatever you see, it’s something you’ve decided to love.
My love, you make it so safe to land in your arms. I may not know how birds feel in the open air, but I imagine it feels like this—light and freeing, suspended in something bigger than fear. Being with you feels like I can loosen the grip I’ve had on myself. Like I don’t have to brace for impact. Like I don’t have to shrink.
There are parts of me that are still learning how to be loved. Parts that flinch. Parts that question. Parts that whisper, are you sure? And yet, you stay. You stay with a gentleness that undoes me. You stay in a way that feels patient, not forced. Certain, not loud.
I don’t think you always realize what that does to me.
You make me want to be braver with my heart. You make me want to believe that maybe I am as worthy as you look at me like I am. And if I am being honest, that scares me a little — because loving you feels like standing at the edge of something vast and beautiful and not knowing how deep it goes. But I would rather be scared in something real than safe in something shallow.
I don’t know if I will ever fully understand what you see when you look at me like that. But I hope you know what I see when I look at you.
I see home. I see warmth. I see the bravest woman who’s always choosing me. I see the safest place my heart has ever known.
And I am so grateful that it’s you.
Forever yours.
The farmhouse remains quiet, but the silence is different now—full, luminous, like the pause between heartbeats when you realize you are exactly where you are meant to be.
Aiah watches her, not searching for a reaction, only present.
When Mikha finishes, her fingers linger on the page. She looks up, eyes bright in a way that has nothing to do with tears and everything to do with being seen.
“You picked these,” she says softly.
“They were already facing the right direction,” Aiah replies.
Mikha laughs—a small, disbelieving sound—and leans forward, pressing a kiss to Aiah’s lips. The bouquet rests between them, petals brushing their wrists.
Outside, the sun rises higher, spilling gold across the fields. The light finds the sunflowers in the garden, their faces turning, as they always do—toward warmth.
Inside, in the quiet farmhouse that has learned the shape of their love, Aiah and Mikha sit close, knees touching, hands intertwined.
Like the flowers in their field, they turn—again and again, without thinking—toward the light in each other.
And in that turning, there is a life—calm, safe, and soft.