Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The midday sun bore down on the BINI University, casting dappled light through the age-old trees lining the cobblestone pathways. 

The grand facade of the Main Building stood tall against the clear blue sky, its intricate details a silent witness to the thousands of students who had walked its halls.

Aly moved with purpose, weaving through the crowd of students spilling out from their classes. 

She barely registered the snippets of conversation around her—laughter, complaints about upcoming exams, the occasional ringing of a phone. Her mind was too preoccupied with the numbers and schematics swimming in her head.

A thick stack of research papers was balanced in one arm, diagrams of prosthetic limb designs carefully arranged in a specific order. 

Her laptop bag weighed heavily on her shoulder, filled with notes, prototype sketches, and the relentless pursuit of perfection.

She was close to the Engineering Building when—

Boogsh!

A sudden impact sent her stumbling backward. The papers in her arms exploded into the air, floating down in slow motion before scattering across the pavement.

Aly clenched her jaw. “Ano ba—”

“Ay, shit—sorry!” a voice cut in, hurried and breathless.

Aly barely spared a glance at the person she had collided with as she crouched down to collect her papers. Her focus was on the mess in front of her, irritation bubbling under her skin. The last thing she needed was another delay.

The other girl knelt beside her, quickly gathering the loose sheets. A med student, judging by the scrubs under her white coat and the ID swinging around her neck. Her hair was tied up in a messy bun, a few strands falling loose over her forehead.

Aly was about to snatch the papers from her hands when the girl paused, flipping one over and skimming the contents.

“Prosthetic limb design?” she murmured, tilting her head in interest.

Aly huffed in frustration. “Oo. P’wede bang ‘wag mo nang basahin?”

Instead of listening, the girl’s brows furrowed as she scanned the diagrams. “Hmm… puro function ang focus.”

Aly snatched the paper from her grasp, glaring. “Kasi ‘yun ang mahalaga.”

The girl chuckled, shaking her head. “Hindi lang ‘yun.”

Aly narrowed her eyes. “Ano'ng ibig mong sabihin?”

The girl stood up, dusting off her scrubs, and crossed her arms. “People don’t just want to move; they want to feel human.”

Aly exhaled sharply through her nose, collecting the last of her papers and standing up. “Kaya nga gumagawa ako ng prosthetics—para makagalaw sila.”

The girl tilted her head, as if studying her. “E ano’ng pakiramdam ng isang taong gumamit ng gawa mo? Hindi lang naman katawan ang pinapagana mo, ‘di ba?”

Aly stilled. It was a simple question, but something about it unsettled her.

She had spent years perfecting calculations, optimizing mechanisms, ensuring efficiency. But she had never stopped to think about feeling .

The girl must have noticed the flicker of hesitation in Aly’s expression because a knowing smile tugged at her lips. With a slight shrug, she handed over the last paper.

“Well, good luck na lang sa ‘numbers and mechanics’ mo,” she said with a teasing lilt, stepping back.

Then, before Aly could form a retort, the girl turned around and walked away—her white coat billowing slightly in the breeze.

Aly watched her retreating figure, irritation simmering in her chest.

But so was something else.

A challenge.

And for reasons she couldn’t explain, she already knew this wasn’t the last time she’d see that girl.

Aly’s life had always been about structure. Growing up in a family where excellence was expected, she learned early on that success was a product of hard work, calculation, and control. 

Her father, an engineer, often spoke in numbers and equations, explaining how things worked, not why they mattered emotionally. 

She admired his logical approach to problem-solving and, over time, adopted the same mindset.

As a child, Aly would dismantle toys just to figure out how they functioned. The intricacies of a clock or the gears inside a bicycle fascinated her. Nothing was ever too complex if you understood the mechanics behind it.

By the time she was accepted into the University of Santo Tomas to pursue biomedical engineering, Aly had already decided that the world could be fixed with the right designs, with the right science. 

Prosthetics, in particular, fascinated her. 

Designing limbs that didn’t just replace missing parts, but enhanced movement, became her singular obsession.

She spent hours in the lab, meticulously working on prototypes, tweaking every detail to make them more efficient, more precise. 

She believed that in her world, solutions lay in numbers , in the perfect formula that would restore function and independence to those in need. 

The human heart wasn’t her concern. That was for others, those in the medical field.

Aly’s morning routine was a silent ritual. She arrived at the lab before the sun rose, the sterile smell of metal and plastic familiar as she ran her fingers over her latest creation. 

Her prosthetic designs sat neatly on her desk, each one a work of calculated perfection. There was comfort in the precision, in knowing that if she followed the steps correctly, the result would be as flawless as she intended.

Her friendships were few but reliable. She found solace in relationships that didn’t demand emotional depth—just mutual respect and understanding. 

After all, feelings were distractions. Feelings didn’t matter in her work.

Jaz’s approach to life couldn’t have been more different. From the moment she entered the University of Santo Tomas, she understood that her journey was as much about the human experience as it was about science. 

While others saw medicine as a series of problems to be solved, Jaz saw it as a way to connect with people, to truly help them.

Jaz’s childhood was filled with stories of her mother—a nurse who’d worked in the most underserved communities. 

Her mother’s patients weren’t just names on a chart; they were people with lives, dreams, and fears. 

Jaz would sit by her mother’s side in the evenings, hearing the stories of families waiting for treatments, of children praying for their loved ones. 

Those stories shaped Jaz into someone who didn’t just want to treat illness; she wanted to understand the soul behind it.

In her mind, medicine was an art. Yes, the body was a complex machine, but it needed care and understanding. 

Medicine wasn’t just about diagnosing the problem—it was about seeing the whole person.

Jaz’s daily routine was filled with the sounds of hospitals, the bustle of nurses, and the hum of machinery. But it wasn’t the equipment that held her focus; it was the patients. 

Every day, she spent hours in the wards, listening to stories, offering comfort, and sometimes, holding hands in moments of grief. 

There were times she would feel drained, when the weight of patient after patient would almost crush her, but she pushed forward.

Her friendships were built on shared experiences and shared emotions. She was the person everyone turned to for comfort, for advice, or simply a shoulder to cry on. 

Jaz gave her heart fully to everyone she met—because, for her, it was impossible to separate her humanity from the care she gave. If she couldn’t feel for someone, she couldn’t heal them.

While Aly lived in a world of mechanisms and blueprints, Jaz was immersed in the unpredictable, emotional world of medicine. 

The two rarely crossed paths, each absorbed in their own pursuits. Aly would walk through the halls of UST, headphones in, her mind already on the designs she was refining, while Jaz would rush between wards, pausing only to check in with a nurse or reassure a worried patient.

On paper, they couldn’t have been more different. 

Aly’s world was one of quiet, measured steps—her successes marked by the hum of a well-oiled machine. 

Jaz’s world, on the other hand, was loud, messy, and emotional, with every triumph and failure tied to a person’s life.

But despite their contrasting paths, they were both driven by the same fundamental desire: to make the world better, in their own way. Aly believed in engineering solutions—something tangible that could be touched, felt, and improved. 

Jaz believed in healing—something intangible that came from the heart, from understanding, from compassion.

The distance between them wasn’t just academic. It was philosophical, emotional, even personal. 

Aly couldn’t understand why Jaz cried for patients she hadn’t even known for a day, and Jaz couldn’t fathom how Aly would focus so single-mindedly on machines without considering the lives they would affect.

But fate, or perhaps something else, would soon bring them together. 

And in the moments that followed, they would find that maybe—just maybe—there was a place for both the heart and the machine.

Aly was in the middle of adjusting the pressure settings on her prosthetic arm prototype when the door to the lab creaked open. 

She didn’t look up. 

The lab was a quiet place, her sanctuary of sorts, where the world could be reduced to numbers, formulas, and the precise motions of her hands. 

It was where she could lose herself in the beauty of logic.

But then, she heard a voice—a warm, melodic tone that cut through the hum of machines like a breeze.

“Hi po! I’m Jaz Mercado,” the voice introduced itself, bright and cheerful.

Aly froze, her fingers stilling on the prosthetic’s controls.

“Jaz Mercado?” she whispered under her breath. Her eyes flickered to the entrance. 

Sure enough, a group of medical students filed into the room, and there, standing in the center, was Jaz—the same girl who had made a passing remark about feeling and humanity the last time they’d crossed paths.

Jaz was all smiles as she greeted the staff and patients gathered for the prosthetic trials. 

There was something different about her. She didn’t seem at all out of place here, despite this being the realm of engineers, not doctors. 

Her enthusiasm was palpable, as though she was eager to learn, to help.

Aly couldn’t stop herself from watching her as Jaz bent down to speak with an elderly patient sitting in a chair, ready to test a new prosthetic hand.

"Okay, Tito, let’s try this one more time," Jaz said, her voice low and calming, her smile wide but gentle. 

"Gently lang, ha? I know you can do this."

Aly shifted uncomfortably. She wasn’t used to seeing patients treated like this, so tenderly. She watched as Jaz helped the man position his fingers around the prosthetic hand.

"Don’t worry, we’re just getting started. You’re doing great, Tito," Jaz continued, her hands guiding the patient’s fingers with a soft touch.

Aly’s gaze lingered, even as she tried to refocus on her own work. 

She found herself intrigued—something about the way Jaz interacted with the elderly man was... different. 

The way she encouraged him, the warmth in her voice—it wasn’t just about getting the prosthetic to function. 

Jaz was trying to make the patient feel something.

Aly took a slow breath, pushing the thought away. She had no time for such distractions. Feelings didn’t belong here. 

This wasn’t about connecting with a patient on an emotional level. It was about making sure the prosthetic was designed perfectly so that the person could move .

But as she adjusted the angle of the prosthetic's wrist joint, she couldn’t help but glance over again.

Jaz was still talking to Tito, her words soft, coaxing. “Huwag kang mag-alala. Ang katawan mo at ang prosthetic na ito, magka-team kayo. Trust me, makakaya mo ‘yan.”

Aly watched as the elderly man’s hands slowly steadied, the prosthetic moving smoothly with the patient’s grip. He looked up at Jaz with a surprised, grateful smile.

"Ang galing, Tito!" Jaz exclaimed, clapping her hands together in celebration. "You did it!"

Aly felt a strange tightness in her chest. She couldn’t deny it—there was something undeniably powerful in the way Jaz made that patient feel seen, human . 

It wasn’t just about the mechanics of the prosthetic—it was about the connection, the trust, and the emotional bond that Jaz had so easily formed.

The sound of her name snapped her from her thoughts.

"Aly, right?" Jaz called out, her voice carrying across the room as she turned her head towards her.

Aly blinked, feeling her cheeks flush slightly. "Ah, yeah, Aly."

Jaz smiled brightly, her eyes twinkling. "Cool, I’m assigned here for a few weeks to work with your team," she said, taking a few steps toward her. 

“You think we can get along? I mean, I’m sure we can make this work, right?”

Aly wasn’t sure if Jaz was being playful or serious. Her tone was light, almost teasing. 

But there was something in the way she said it that made Aly feel... uneasy. 

It wasn’t the question itself—it was the challenge behind it. Jaz was always so sure of herself, so at ease with the unpredictability of life.

"Uh... sure," Aly replied, straightening up. She didn’t know how to respond to that. 

"I’m just... here to get the designs right."

Jaz’s smile only grew wider. "I’m sure you are." She shrugged casually, leaning slightly against the lab counter. 

"But, you know, it’s not all about the numbers, Aly. Sometimes it’s about... the people we help. The ones who wear your designs. The ones who need more than just function ."

Aly felt her heart beat a little faster, but she pushed it down. "I know what I’m doing," she replied firmly. 

"And I believe in my work."

Jaz raised an eyebrow but didn’t push further. Instead, she looked at the elderly man, who had begun to test the prosthetic on his own now. 

She smiled.

“Good work,” Jaz said to him. “You’re doing great.”

Aly watched her for a moment, a spark of irritation flashing within her. 

She’s too soft, Aly thought. Too emotional.  

But then, her gaze lingered on the elderly man’s face. His smile was wide, genuine—a look of pride that Aly had never seen on her patients, at least not in this lab.

She shifted uncomfortably.

“Okay, I guess we’ll... work together then.” Aly’s words were reluctant, unsure.

Jaz’s smile softened, her eyes kind. “I’m sure we’ll learn a lot from each other, Aly. You’ve got your numbers, and I’ve got... this,” she said, tapping her chest lightly. 

“Together, maybe we can make something better.”

Aly didn’t have a response. She couldn’t. She just watched as Jaz moved on to another patient, her presence a force of nature in the lab, and for the first time, Aly wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.

But she would find out soon enough.

It had been a few weeks since Jaz had joined the team, and tensions had been steadily rising between her and Aly. 

Their worlds were so different, and every project felt like another opportunity to clash. 

But today, the disagreement had hit a breaking point.

The prosthetic arm prototype that Aly had been working on for weeks had just gone through its first round of trials, and to her frustration, it hadn’t performed as expected. 

The response wasn’t as smooth as she had calculated. 

She leaned over the design, gritting her teeth in frustration, trying to pinpoint where things had gone wrong. 

Her mind was racing with equations, calculations, and mechanical possibilities.

Across the room, Jaz was talking to one of the patients, her voice soft and reassuring as she explained how the prosthetic would work. 

Aly’s patience wore thinner with each second she saw Jaz laughing and chatting with the patient as though it were a casual conversation rather than a clinical trial.

Unable to hold back any longer, Aly stood up, her voice sharp. “Jaz, can you just... focus? We’re testing a prosthetic here. This isn’t therapy. It’s science.”

Jaz looked up, startled for a moment, before her gaze softened. She didn’t seem annoyed, but she did pause for a second, processing Aly’s tone.

“What’s the problem, Aly?” she asked, stepping toward her, her voice calm despite the tension building in the air. 

“We’ve been testing for hours. You’re getting frustrated, but these people need more than just the right measurements. They need care. They need confidence.”

Aly rolled her eyes, clearly exasperated. “Confidence? What are you talking about? We can’t just ‘give them confidence’ with feelings . I’ve put in months of calculations to make sure the mechanics are perfect. If it doesn’t work, it’s the design that's the problem, not some emotional boost you think will make it better.”

Jaz took a step closer, her posture still relaxed but her tone firm. 

“And you think equations will solve everything? This isn’t just about the parts fitting together, Aly. It’s about the person who’s wearing it. If they don’t trust the device or themselves, the technology means nothing.”

Aly’s chest tightened at the challenge, the last threads of her composure fraying. 

“You think emotions fix everything,” she shot back, her voice sharp.

Jaz’s eyes flashed with something deeper, but she didn’t raise her voice. 

Instead, she just stood there, a calm smile playing at the corners of her lips. “And you think equations do.”

The silence stretched between them, their breaths the only sound in the room. It was like the entire lab held its breath, as if waiting for the next move.

Aly’s heart raced as the words lingered in the air, but she refused to back down. 

“I’m not here to babysit people’s emotions,” she muttered, turning her attention back to her prosthetic.

Jaz’s smile remained, but it was quieter now, more thoughtful. “Maybe you don’t have to. But that doesn’t mean we should ignore them, either.”

Aly clenched her fists, the frustration rising in her chest. “You don’t get it, Jaz,” she replied, her voice more brittle. 

“I’m not like you. I don’t have time for feelings. I need results.”

Jaz paused for a moment, her eyes searching Aly’s face, as if trying to understand what was behind the harsh words. 

Her gaze softened slightly before she spoke again, more gently. “I get it, Aly. But sometimes, the results aren’t just numbers. Sometimes, they’re the way someone feels when they get their life back. When they feel whole again.”

Aly swallowed, her mind racing. She wanted to respond, to argue that feelings had no place here, but for some reason, she found herself at a loss for words. 

And that’s when it happened—Jaz, mid-argument, absentmindedly tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

It was such a small gesture, but it hit Aly in a way she couldn’t explain. 

For a split second, she found herself staring, caught off guard by the tenderness of it.

Her heart skipped, and she quickly averted her gaze, swallowing hard as she tried to regain control of her thoughts. 

What was that?

Jaz noticed the brief pause, the shift in Aly’s expression. 

She gave her a knowing smile, one that seemed to understand more than Aly wanted to admit.

“You know,” Jaz said, her voice light but with a hint of playfulness, “I think we’re just getting started here.”

Aly bit her lip, still trying to gather her composure. 

“We’re not here to be friends, Jaz. We’re here to make things work.”

Jaz’s eyes twinkled, unbothered by Aly’s words. “Yeah, I know. But we’ll work better if we figure out how to balance the science and the heart.”

Aly didn’t respond. She didn’t know how. The argument was still simmering inside her, but so was something else—something she didn’t want to confront, not yet. 

And as Jaz turned away, Aly felt the weight of it settle in, deep in her chest, a sensation she couldn’t shake.

The meeting had been long and tense, as expected. 

The team had gathered at the hospital to discuss a new initiative—a trial program to integrate the latest prosthetic models into patient care. 

Aly had been focused, absorbed in technicalities. Her mind was locked on the precise measurements, the biomechanics of the prosthetic hands they were testing.

Jaz, on the other hand, had been concerned with the human side of the project, talking to doctors and patients about the emotional and psychological impact of wearing prosthetics, emphasizing the need for both care and compassion.

Dr. Reyes, the senior surgeon, had outlined the objectives: "We need to ensure that the prosthetics we provide not only function properly but that they also help patients regain their sense of identity and independence. The technology has come far, but it’s about more than just the mechanics—it’s about their experience."

Aly had been leaning forward in her seat, listening carefully. 

“The mechanics are the foundation, Dr. Reyes. If the prosthetic doesn’t fit, doesn’t perform as expected, then the experience doesn't matter. We can talk about emotional recovery all we want, but if the prosthetic doesn’t work, the whole system fails.”

Jaz had glanced at Aly then, unable to stay quiet. “But Aly, we can’t forget that the prosthetic is going onto a person, not just a machine. If we don’t approach this holistically, we’re just giving them a tool, not helping them rebuild their life.”

The tension between them had been palpable. Aly, pragmatic and analytical, didn’t see how emotions fit into the clinical equations she had meticulously built. 

Jaz, passionate and empathetic, couldn’t ignore the human side of the work, the relationships with patients that went beyond technology.

Now, as the meeting ended and the team started packing up, Jaz could feel the exhaustion in her bones. She rubbed her temples, trying to make sense of the feedback they had received. 

Meanwhile, Aly stood by the door, already lost in her thoughts, packing up her things in a methodical, almost mechanical way.

They walked together in silence toward the exit. The sky outside had darkened, the first few drops of rain splattering on the pavement as they left the building. 

The humidity in the air was thick, and the distant rumble of thunder made the tension in the air feel even more charged.

Jaz looked up at the sky, squinting as the rain began to fall heavier. "Great. Just what we need," she muttered, glancing around for shelter. 

Her umbrella was sitting unused at home, of course, and she hadn’t even thought to bring one.

Aly, a few steps ahead, paused for a moment as if she had already anticipated the situation. 

Without a word, she reached into her bag and pulled out a small, black umbrella. She turned and handed it to Jaz without making eye contact.

Jaz blinked in surprise, her heart skipping. “Aly, you don’t have to—”

Aly didn’t respond immediately. She simply held the umbrella out to her, her gaze focused on the rain, on anything but Jaz.

Jaz hesitated for a moment, the umbrella hanging awkwardly between them. 

Aly didn’t say anything. 

Her face was unreadable, a mask of determination and quiet resolve, but there was something else there—something Jaz couldn’t quite place.

Finally, Jaz took the umbrella, her fingers brushing against Aly’s hand for a brief second.

Before she could say anything, Aly turned and started walking away, already drenched by the rain. 

She didn’t look back.

Jaz stood there, the umbrella still in her hands, the rain pouring harder now. She watched Aly’s retreating figure, her mind racing. 

The silence between them had been so thick, so loaded with unspoken words. Jaz could feel the tension pulling at her chest, a strange ache that she couldn’t explain.

Her breath caught in her throat as she realized something: despite all their arguments, despite the way they often butted heads, something was shifting. 

There was something in Aly’s gesture—the simple, quiet offering of the umbrella—that sent a rush of warmth through Jaz.

Aly hadn’t said a word, hadn’t tried to explain. She hadn’t looked for recognition. 

She had just… given.

Jaz’s heart pounded a little faster, and for a moment, she felt vulnerable—exposed in the sudden storm. She wanted to chase after Aly, to say something, to ask why she did it, but the words wouldn’t come. 

She just stood there, watching her retreating form, her chest tight with emotions she didn’t know how to name.

She didn’t understand what was happening, why a simple act of kindness had turned her world upside down. 

But one thing was certain—Aly had left her with a feeling that refused to be ignored.

Jaz lowered her gaze to the umbrella in her hands, its sleek black surface now a symbol of something deeper.

Why does it feel like more? she thought, her breath shaky. It’s just an umbrella…

But it wasn’t just about the umbrella. 

It was the way Aly had handed it to her, the way she walked away without needing anything in return. 

Jaz couldn’t shake the pull she felt, the storm that seemed to be brewing both inside and outside of her.

As she watched Aly disappear into the rain, Jaz felt an unfamiliar flutter in her chest—a realization that she couldn’t stop the feelings from surfacing, no matter how hard she tried.

And in the quiet aftermath of the storm, Jaz was left standing there, the umbrella above her, heart racing for reasons she couldn’t yet explain.

The library at the BINI University was quiet that afternoon, the usual hum of students working and talking muted by the heavy rain that drummed against the windows. 

Aly sat at their usual spot near the back, surrounded by textbooks, notes, and the scattered remnants of a dozen different projects. 

She was immersed in the pages of her textbook, scanning through formulas and diagrams with precision. 

But despite the focus she maintained on her work, she couldn't help but glance up occasionally at Jaz.

Jaz had been there for hours, her eyes heavy with exhaustion, rubbing her temples every few minutes as if trying to push back the tiredness from the long shift at the hospital earlier that day. 

They had been reviewing data for the upcoming prosthetic trials, but Jaz had been slow to catch up, her mind distracted.

Aly could tell that Jaz was trying her best to stay alert, but the exhaustion was beginning to win. 

Jaz had her head propped up with one hand, scribbling down notes half-heartedly. 

Slowly, her eyelids fluttered, and despite her best efforts to stay awake, she gave in to the pull of sleep.

Aly glanced up from her notes, her eyes narrowing slightly as she saw Jaz’s head begin to droop lower. 

Jaz's cheek rested against the edge of the table, her notes half-finished and untouched. 

She let out a small sigh, knowing that Jaz had been running on fumes for the past few days—back-to-back shifts at the hospital, her work at the university, and everything in between.

Aly’s fingers drummed against the edge of her book as she debated for a moment. 

Then, with a quiet sigh of her own, she gently shifted the pile of books between them, selecting one of the thicker volumes on biomedical engineering. 

With careful precision, she slid it under Jaz’s head, hoping to offer her at least a little comfort, to keep her from waking up with a stiff neck.

Aly didn’t say anything, her gaze softening for a brief moment as she glanced at Jaz, whose breathing had already deepened into a soft, steady rhythm. 

For once, she didn’t focus on the logic, the mechanics, or the precision of the moment. 

She simply let the act of kindness settle in the space between them.

It was a simple gesture—no grand statement, no words exchanged—but something about it felt important, something that Aly didn’t know how to explain.

Jaz remained asleep, her face relaxed, the gentle rise and fall of her chest matching the rhythm of the quiet library. 

Aly returned to her notes, but the quiet stillness in the air felt different now.

An hour passed, and Aly’s mind once again returned to the pages in front of her. 

But when she heard the soft rustling of papers, she looked up just in time to see Jaz stir, her eyes fluttering open slowly. 

For a moment, she blinked in confusion, as if unsure where she was. Her gaze shifted to the book resting under her head, and she smiled—just a small, fleeting smile, but enough to make Aly’s heart skip a beat.

Jaz didn’t say anything, but the warmth in her eyes spoke volumes. She shifted slightly, carefully lifting the book from beneath her head and setting it down beside her. 

She looked at Aly for a moment, her smile lingering, her gaze softer than usual.

"Thanks," Jaz said quietly, her voice still husky from sleep, but it was enough. 

Just the way she said it—soft, grateful, unspoken—felt like a shared moment between them.

Aly opened her mouth to say something—anything—but the words caught in her throat. She wasn’t sure what to say. It was just a book, just a small gesture. 

So, instead, she nodded, offering her own small smile in return.

Jaz stretched, glancing at the pile of notes they were supposed to be working on, but her attention lingered on Aly for a moment longer.

 Aly could feel the weight of her gaze, the unspoken connection between them building quietly in the space of the library.

The silence hung between them, not uncomfortable, but charged with something else—a warmth that Aly didn’t know how to name. 

She cleared her throat and returned to her work, but her mind wandered, still lingering on the softness of Jaz’s smile, the gentleness of the moment.

Jaz, for her part, didn’t say anything else. 

She just smiled again, her fingers tracing the edge of her notebook as she adjusted her position. But her heart was racing, and she couldn’t ignore the strange fluttering in her chest. 

There was something about this—the way Aly had taken care of her without asking, the quiet tenderness in her actions—that made everything else fade into the background.

They continued to study in silence, the hours slipping away as the library lights dimmed. 

The rain had slowed to a steady drizzle outside, but inside, the quiet warmth of the room felt like a bubble, cocooning them in a space where the lines between friendship and something more started to blur, slowly, almost imperceptibly.

And though neither of them spoke of it, neither of them acknowledged it aloud, they both knew—there was something more here than either of them had expected.

The minutes passed in a comfortable silence, the only sounds coming from the rustling of papers, the tapping of keys on laptops, and the occasional cough from students across the room. 

Aly kept her head buried in her notes, but her mind was elsewhere. She couldn't shake the feeling of warmth from earlier, the unexpected flutter she had felt when Jaz smiled at her. 

She tried to focus, but the thought kept creeping into her mind.

Jaz, on the other hand, was doing her best to pretend she wasn’t distracted. She picked up her notes, trying to make sense of the material, but every time she glanced over at Aly, her chest tightened. 

There was something about Aly’s quiet demeanor that always pulled her in, something that made her feel safe, comfortable, and… more than that. 

But Jaz didn’t know what exactly it was yet.

She caught herself staring at Aly for a second longer than necessary, her gaze lingering on the way Aly chewed on her pen, lost in thought. 

Jaz couldn’t help but smile a little, even though she was trying to focus.

“Aly, seryoso, may nangyaring miracle ba? Hindi kita nakita ganito mag-study,” Jaz teased lightly, trying to break the tension. 

"Kumusta na ang mundo mo?"

Aly looked up, blinking as if she had been snapped out of her thoughts. 

She frowned, but there was a glint of amusement in her eyes. “Shut up, Jaz. Gusto ko lang matapos ‘to.”

"Okay lang 'yan, puro logic na naman yan sa’yo eh," Jaz smirked, leaning back in her chair. 

“Pero seryoso, kung ano man ‘yung napansin mong masarap gawin, I’m pretty sure it’s not reading all these books. Gotta live a little, right?”

Aly rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress a small, amused smile. “You sound like my mom.”

“Sure ka? Baka naman ako na ‘yung mama mo," Jaz teased, playfully raising an eyebrow. 

"I’m just trying to help you relax.”

Aly shook her head. “You never stop, do you?”

“Yup. Kahit kailan. Hindi ako titigil. Lalo na kung ikaw ‘yung kailangan ko tulungan,” Jaz said, grinning. 

She stretched her arms out, trying to shake off the stiffness that had come from the long hours of studying. Her smile softened when her eyes met Aly’s. 

“But seriously, you’ve been working non-stop lately. You deserve a break too, you know?”

Aly’s gaze softened as she looked at Jaz for a long moment. There was something different in the way they were talking now, the way they had settled into this space of comfort, a familiarity that wasn’t there before. 

It was like the line between friendship and something else was starting to fade away, but neither of them was ready to admit it.

“Maybe,” Aly murmured, glancing down at her papers again, but her thoughts were far away. She rubbed the back of her neck. 

“I guess I don’t know how to just… stop. Sometimes it feels like if I do, everything will fall apart.”

Jaz leaned forward, her eyes softening. "I get that, Aly. But you don’t have to do everything alone. You have me, you know? I’m not going anywhere."

Aly met Jaz’s eyes, the sincerity in her voice unmistakable. Something stirred in her chest, an unfamiliar warmth spreading through her. 

Her mouth opened slightly, as if to say something, but the words caught in her throat. 

She wasn’t used to opening up like this, wasn’t used to letting people in—not even Jaz, who had become an unexpected presence in her life.

“Thanks,” Aly finally said, her voice softer than usual. “I guess I could use a little help sometimes.”

Jaz smiled, that familiar playful light dancing in her eyes. "Ay, ay, ay. Hindi na kita palalampasin. You’re stuck with me now, Aly."

Aly couldn't help but chuckle at that, the sound light and genuine. Her shoulders relaxed for the first time in hours. 

She didn’t know how it had happened, but the tension that had been hanging between them had dissipated. 

Jaz’s presence, her teasing, and the quiet way she had cared for Aly—it all made the weight of everything seem a little less heavy.

“Okay lang,” Aly said, her voice teasing but there was a warmth in it. “Wala akong magagawa, ‘di ba? You’re persistent.”

Jaz winked at her, sitting back in her chair. "I know. I’m like a bad habit na hindi mo na matanggal."

Aly rolled her eyes but smiled nonetheless. She turned back to her notes, but there was a lightness to her now, an ease she hadn’t felt before. 

Every now and then, she’d glance up at Jaz, only to find Jaz looking back at her with that same smile.

For a few more minutes, the two of them studied in silence, but the tension had shifted. 

The lines between friendship and something more were starting to blur, and neither of them knew what to do with it yet.

Jaz let her fingers idly trace the edge of her notebook, her thoughts drifting. For the first time, the feeling of closeness between them felt different—stronger, more electric. 

She wasn’t sure when it had started, but somewhere along the way, her heart had begun to lean toward Aly, in a way that made her unsure whether it was friendship… or something more.

Aly, too, felt it—the small moments that made everything feel a little more significant, the way Jaz’s presence made her heart beat a little faster. 

But like Jaz, she wasn’t ready to face it yet.

The library around them seemed to fade away, and for a moment, it was just the two of them, sitting in a quiet bubble of unspoken understanding, unsure of what the future held, but not minding it so much anymore.

It was late, much later than Jaz had planned on staying at the hospital, but she couldn’t bring herself to leave just yet. 

The shift had been harder than usual. A young patient, barely in his twenties, had passed away after a long battle. 

Jaz had been part of the team that tried everything they could to save him, but in the end, nothing worked. 

It felt like a failure—a heavy, suffocating weight she couldn’t shake off.

She sat on a bench in the hospital courtyard, the soft hum of the city in the distance, but it all felt so far away. 

She stared at the ground, her mind racing, the weight of the loss pressing down on her chest.

It wasn’t like this was the first time she’d experienced loss—she knew it came with the territory of being in medicine—but this one felt different. 

This time, it was personal. 

She had tried to talk to the patient, to connect with him, to offer comfort. 

But in the end, none of that had been enough.

The sky above was clear, the stars barely visible through the thick city lights. 

Jaz pulled her coat tighter around her, trying to keep the chill at bay, but the coldness didn’t compare to the emptiness she felt inside.

Jaz rubbed her eyes, trying to push away the tears she could feel building up behind her eyelids. 

She couldn’t break down—not here, not now. 

She wasn’t allowed to. She was supposed to be strong for everyone around her, the team, the patient’s family. 

But no one was there for her, and she felt the suffocating loneliness of it all.

Her hands shook as she reached for her phone. She had never been the type to reach out for help—not even when she needed it the most. 

But tonight… tonight was different. Maybe it was the crushing silence of the empty hallway, or the exhaustion pulling at her body, but something inside her broke. 

She needed to hear a voice, someone’s voice—someone who wouldn’t treat her like she was weak for feeling this way.

Her thumb hovered over Aly’s name. The last person she would ever think to call. 

But the irony of it didn’t escape her—Aly, the one she clashed with at every turn, the one who treated everything with that damn mechanical logic that Jaz could never quite understand. 

But Aly had something Jaz couldn’t deny—she had a way of being there , of being grounded when the world around them felt like it was crumbling. 

Their arguments were always heated, their words sharp, but beneath all the bickering, Jaz knew Aly would be the one who could keep her from spiraling too far.

With a deep, shaky breath, Jaz pressed the call button.

It rang twice before Aly’s voice came through the line, sharp but laced with a calmness that somehow made Jaz’s heart race.

“What do you want, Jaz?”

Jaz’s throat tightened at the sound of her voice. She hadn’t expected the call to feel this difficult, but it did. 

Her usual sharp tongue, her biting remarks—everything she used to defend herself, to keep people away—was gone. 

There was nothing left but the raw emotion she had been fighting to keep inside all night.

“I... I don’t know,” Jaz managed, her voice barely above a whisper. “I just…” Her voice broke, and she quickly bit her lip to stop the tears that were threatening to spill. 

“I just had a patient. And… and he died. I couldn’t save him. I couldn’t do anything.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line, and Jaz could feel her heart racing, her chest tightening as the silence stretched on. 

She hated how vulnerable she sounded, how small she felt. But she couldn’t take it back now.

“I’m sorry, Jaz. That’s rough, but that’s the reality of what you’re doing.” Aly’s voice was low, steady—almost detached.

Jaz let out a frustrated sigh, her teeth grinding against the sharp edge of Aly’s practicality. 

She didn’t want to hear that. Not now. Not when she felt like she was crumbling inside. 

“I know that. I know that, okay?” Jaz snapped, her emotions flooding through, uncontrolled. “But it doesn’t make it any easier. I’ve tried so damn hard, and I—I just… I don’t know how to feel anymore.”

Aly didn’t respond immediately. Jaz wasn’t sure if she was frustrated by her outburst or if she was waiting for Jaz to calm down. 

But Jaz could hear the quiet shift in Aly’s breathing on the other end, the small change that signaled she was no longer just listening, but actually hearing her.

“I can’t fix it, Jaz. I wish I could,” Aly’s voice softened, surprisingly calm, “But I’m here.”

Jaz’s chest hitched, and she felt a tightness behind her eyes. That wasn’t something Aly usually said to her. It wasn’t how their conversations went. 

But tonight, something in Aly’s words—the steadiness, the absence of judgment—broke through Jaz’s walls.

Jaz swallowed hard, trying to regain some sense of control. “You’re actually saying something nice for once,” she muttered, a weak, teary laugh escaping her lips. It was a defense mechanism—she wasn’t used to receiving kindness from Aly. 

The banter, the challenges—they were easier to handle than anything softer.

Aly huffed, but there was something different in her tone, a gentleness she didn’t usually show. 

“I’m not trying to be nice, Jaz. Just… get a grip. You can’t save everyone. But you’re not alone in this. Don’t forget that.”

Jaz’s head fell back against the cool stone wall, her phone still pressed to her ear. The weight of Aly’s words sunk deep, filling the hollow space she hadn’t realized had formed inside her. 

It wasn’t the comfort she had expected—it wasn’t hugs or the kind of reassurance she usually craved—but it was exactly what she needed. 

A quiet reminder that, even if Aly didn’t understand everything Jaz was going through, she wasn’t alone.

She let her head rest against the wall and closed her eyes for a moment, breathing in the stillness of the garden around her. 

The night air felt colder now, but the chill in her bones wasn’t as sharp as before.

“Thanks,” Jaz whispered, her voice quieter now, but sincere. 

“I guess I needed that.”

Aly’s voice was softer, but still with that faint edge of sarcasm that made Jaz smile despite herself. 

“Don’t make me do this again, Jaz. Call me when you’re not being a drama queen.”

Jaz chuckled weakly, the sound still tremulous, but she couldn’t help it. “I won’t. I promise. Good night, Aly.”

“Good night. Get some rest. You’ve earned it, or whatever.”

Jaz smiled, shaking her head a little as she ended the call. 

The words weren’t the ones she would’ve chosen for comfort, but in the end, they were exactly what she needed.

She sat in the garden for a while longer, staring at the night sky. The weight of the world didn’t feel as heavy now—not with Aly’s words lingering in her mind. 

For the first time in a long while, Jaz didn’t feel completely alone. 

And that, somehow, was enough—for now.

Jaz had always been the type to wear her emotions on her sleeve, especially when it came to relationships. 

But now, as she walked across the campus with someone else by her side, she felt an unfamiliar knot in her chest. 

The guy beside her—Marco—was charming, kind, and funny. 

He was the kind of person everyone liked, the kind who made her laugh easily and made her forget about the weight of the world for a moment.

They’d been studying together in the library for the past few weeks. Late-night sessions over coffee, studying for exams, teasing each other about their medical jargon—it all felt easy. 

He was attentive, understanding, the kind of person who had that natural warmth, and slowly, Jaz found herself drawn to him in a way that felt simple, uncomplicated.

It wasn’t love—not yet—but it was something.

Today, Marco had asked her to dinner, and she had agreed, despite the hesitation that tugged at the back of her mind. 

She was still processing her own emotions from the loss of the patient a few days ago, still trying to figure out what she wanted, what she needed. 

But with Marco, it felt like she didn’t have to think so hard. He just was , and for tonight, that was enough.

But as they walked together under the fading orange light of the campus courtyard, Jaz couldn’t help but feel a sense of unease. 

It wasn’t about Marco—he was easy to be with—but about someone else who was always there, even when she didn’t expect it.

Aly.

Jaz had become so used to her presence, to the way Aly’s sharp words cut through the tension when things got heavy, to the quiet way she always showed up when it mattered, even though neither of them ever said it aloud. 

Despite their constant bickering, Jaz had never questioned how much she relied on Aly’s grounding influence. 

But now, with Marco walking beside her, it was hard to ignore the feeling that something was missing. 

Or perhaps, someone.

Aly didn’t make it obvious that she noticed. She wasn’t the type to meddle or even comment on things that weren’t her business. 

Still, Jaz could feel her eyes follow them as they crossed paths on campus, could feel the subtle shift in the air when she caught a glimpse of Aly’s expression—cool, unreadable, but somehow with an edge of something more.

Jaz tried to push it out of her mind, tried to focus on Marco’s lighthearted chatter about a recent class project. 

But every so often, her eyes would drift back to Aly, who was standing by the entrance to the engineering building, her posture stiff and deliberately neutral as she watched the two of them walk past. 

There was a tension there, like Aly was trying to force herself to look away, to focus on something else.

Aly was good at this—at burying whatever emotions she didn’t want to deal with under the surface. 

She had to be. 

That was who she was, who Jaz had come to expect over the years. 

But there was something different in her eyes this time. 

Something Jaz couldn’t ignore, even if she wanted to.

As Jaz reached the door to the restaurant with Marco, she felt a strange twist in her chest. 

It was a fleeting thought, quickly dismissed: Did Aly care?  

Did it bother her to see Jaz with someone else? 

Was it just the awkwardness of the situation, or was there something more to it?

She looked back over her shoulder instinctively, but Aly had already turned away, heading in the opposite direction, as though nothing had happened. 

But Jaz couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that something had shifted, something she wasn’t ready to confront.

Inside the restaurant, Marco pulled out the chair for Jaz, and she smiled, grateful for his consideration, trying her best to push all the noise inside her head aside. 

It was just dinner. It was just one night. 

Yet, as they settled into their conversation, Jaz couldn’t escape the sinking feeling that no matter how easy this felt, there was something—someone—lingering in the back of her mind.

Aly.

And the more Jaz tried to focus on Marco, the more she couldn’t help but wonder if she had already crossed a line she wasn’t supposed to cross.

Jaz had arrived at the coffee shop early, as usual, hoping to settle in before Marco arrived. 

The soft hum of the café’s atmosphere usually comforted her—quiet chatter, the gentle clink of mugs, the hum of the espresso machine in the back. It was her go-to spot for a quick escape from the pressures of the hospital and classes. 

Marco had suggested it earlier that day, in between discussing their latest rounds and the most recent medical lectures.

It had started off casually enough—just two students grabbing coffee after a long day. 

But as the day wore on, the invitation felt heavier, more significant. Jaz couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but a part of her had been excited. 

Maybe it was because Marco was easy to talk to. He had that effortless charm, always with a joke ready to lighten the mood. 

Maybe it was the way he’d looked at her during their study sessions, like she was more than just a med student or a classmate. 

It made her think, for just a moment, that maybe—just maybe—she could let her guard down.

So, here she was, waiting for him at the coffee shop, her mind swirling with a mix of anticipation and nerves.

Jaz sat in the corner of the coffee shop, the soft hum of chatter around her barely registering. 

The warmth of the mug in her hands should’ve been comforting, but instead, it only seemed to highlight the cold, empty feeling that was slowly creeping in. 

Marco had promised to meet her here after their rounds, a casual date to unwind after a long week. 

But as the minutes stretched into an hour, the familiar sting of disappointment began to settle in her chest.

She had texted him once, then twice, and received nothing in response. Jaz didn’t usually let these things bother her, but tonight, it was different.

The weight of the patient she’d lost earlier that day, the isolation that had been creeping up on her over the past few weeks—it all felt too much. 

And now, sitting here in this quiet coffee shop, the absence of Marco felt like a reminder that she was always the one left behind.

She tried to focus on the heat radiating from the cup in her hands, trying to drown out the nagging feeling in her chest. 

Maybe something came up, she told herself, though she knew deep down that the disappointment was just starting to feel too familiar.

Just as she was about to glance at her phone for the hundredth time, the door to the shop chimed softly. 

Jaz didn’t look up, assuming it was just another passerby. 

But when the footsteps approached her table, she instinctively lifted her eyes. 

And there she was—Aly.

Jaz’s heart skipped for an inexplicable reason. Aly, in her usual no-nonsense style, looked around briefly before meeting Jaz’s eyes. 

There was no judgment in her gaze, no sarcastic remarks about being stood up. 

Just a quiet understanding that Jaz couldn’t quite place.

Aly didn’t say a word, but she moved toward the table, pulled out the chair, and sat down across from Jaz without asking permission. 

Without a glance at the empty chair next to her, Aly simply reached into her bag and pulled out a warm drink, sliding it gently across the table toward Jaz.

"Eh? What’s this?" Jaz asked, voice a little rough from the emotions she hadn't let out yet. 

"Seryoso? You’re giving me coffee now? Just like that?"

Aly looked at her blankly. "Well, you’re not gonna get any sympathy from me, so might as well give you caffeine."

Jaz let out a small, humorless laugh, glancing down at the warm cup that was now in front of her. 

"Wow, thanks. I really needed that. And you’re not gonna say ‘I told you so,’ huh?"

Aly shrugged, tapping the side of her cup with her fingers. 

"Do you want me to?" she asked, deadpan.

Jaz rolled her eyes, then looked back at her phone—still no message. 

"No," she muttered, a little too quietly. "I don’t want you to."

"Then don’t ask." Aly’s voice was softer now, almost teasing but with something else underneath. 

It was the first time Jaz had heard her tone so... neutral.

Jaz finally let her gaze meet Aly’s, and there was no sarcasm, no sharp remark. 

Just... Aly, sitting there, still. Waiting for Jaz to talk, or not talk. 

Aly wasn't pushing, wasn't pretending like everything was fine. And that, more than anything, settled something in Jaz’s chest.

"Marco was supposed to meet me," Jaz finally admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. 

"He said he would. But now, he’s not even texting me back." Her fingers tightened around her cup, betraying her calm facade.

Aly’s eyes softened, and for a brief second, there was a flicker of something other than the usual annoyance that Jaz had gotten so used to. 

"I know," Aly said, her voice low. "But that’s not your fault."

Jaz looked at her, surprised by the absence of judgment. "What do you mean?"

Aly sighed, her gaze turning thoughtful. "You’re always so caught up in trying to fix things, Jaz. But sometimes... you can’t fix people. Or, uh, their messes. All you can do is... be there, for yourself. Or for whoever’s actually there for you."

Jaz was taken aback, unsure how to respond. But before she could say anything, Aly continued, her usual sarcasm creeping back in.

"Besides, look at me," Aly said, with an exaggerated gesture to herself. 

"If I’m here and I’m not making fun of you for being stood up, maybe you should reconsider your life choices."

Jaz chuckled, but it wasn’t as bitter as before. "You know, you’re actually not as annoying as I thought."

Aly grinned, leaning back in her chair. "I know. I’m a lot of things, but annoying? Not at the moment."

Jaz let out a slow breath, letting the warmth of the drink, and the unspoken comfort that Aly had quietly offered, sink in. She wasn’t alone at this moment. 

And that thought, strange as it was, gave her the smallest bit of peace. "Thanks," Jaz said quietly, finally meeting Aly’s eyes again.

Aly nodded, a subtle smile tugging at her lips. "You’ll survive, Jaz. Don’t worry. I’m here. Even if I can’t fix this for you."

The days following that night at the coffee shop felt strangely heavy for Aly. The silence between her and Jaz wasn’t just a break in their usual banter—it was a wall. 

And Aly was the one who had built it.

She didn’t know why it was happening. After all, they had always been antagonistic, always pushing each other’s buttons. 

So why did this feel different? Why did the thought of Jaz sitting across from her, looking quietly vulnerable, feel so... dangerous?

It started with the messages. Jaz had sent her a text the day after their coffee shop encounter.

“Hey, just wanted to say thanks again for showing up last night. I know you didn’t have to, but it meant a lot.”

Aly stared at the text for what felt like an eternity. Her thumb hovered over the reply, but she didn’t type anything. 

Instead, she locked her phone and tossed it aside, as if avoiding Jaz’s words would make the situation easier to ignore.

Aly had never been one for feelings, and now it felt like the more she tried to engage, the more tangled she became. 

So, she let the text go unanswered, telling herself that she would reply later. She was just busy. Work. School. 

It was all a good excuse to avoid the conversation.

Two days later, another text from Jaz came through. 

This time, it was about an upcoming group project they were both a part of. The message was casual, focused on logistics, but Aly could feel the weight of it in her chest as soon as she read it.

“Aly, do you have time to meet tomorrow to work on the project? Let me know what works for you.”

Aly stared at the screen for a long time, her fingers frozen over the keyboard. 

The hum of her workspace, filled with scattered prosthetic parts and papers, faded into the background. Her pulse quickened, and she could feel a familiar tightness in her chest as she processed the text.

She had always been able to keep things professional with Jaz, focused on school or the task at hand. 

But now, with the way things had shifted between them, that simple message felt like a trap. It wasn’t just about the project anymore. 

Every word, every interaction with Jaz seemed loaded now, like the weight of everything unsaid was starting to press down on her.

Aly’s eyes flicked to the prosthetic parts scattered on the table in front of her, the intricately designed pieces meant to be carefully assembled. 

She focused on them, hoping the mechanical world of gears and metals could provide some clarity. 

But all she could think about was Jaz—how she had looked that night at the coffee shop, the vulnerability she hadn’t expected to see, and how it had left an unexpected ache in Aly’s chest.

Aly clenched her jaw, trying to push the thoughts away.

She hated this. 

Hated how one moment could shift everything. 

One look, one word. 

How it all felt like it was spiraling beyond her control, something she wasn’t ready to confront. 

She had always prided herself on being able to manage her emotions, to keep things neat, controlled. 

But now, every time she thought about Jaz, her carefully constructed world seemed to crack, piece by piece.

She took a deep breath and glanced back at the phone, the blinking cursor taunting her. 

She couldn’t respond right away. 

She couldn’t. 

She had to think it through—had to create some distance. 

So, she waited. 

A few minutes stretched into hours, and every time she reached for her phone, the tension in her gut would grow. Her fingers hovered over the screen, ready to type something, but then she’d pull back.

Just a project, just a project, she kept telling herself. You’re just being ridiculous.

But every time she convinced herself of that, the voice inside her would grow louder. 

She had never been this nervous around Jaz before, and that made everything feel uncertain.

Finally, after hours of pushing the decision off, Aly typed her reply. It was short. Simple. Almost curt.

“I’m busy. Maybe later.”

She didn’t offer a time, didn’t even consider how it might come off. She didn’t want to. 

The space between them had already shifted, and the thought of facing it, of confronting it head-on, made her want to retreat.

Aly hit send, tossed the phone aside, and returned her focus to the parts on her desk. 

But she couldn’t shake the feeling that something had been left unsaid—something that couldn’t be ignored, no matter how much she tried.

The next day, the lab was quieter than usual. Aly sat hunched over the workbench, lost in the intricate pieces she was assembling. 

The rhythmic clicking of the tools and the faint hum of the lab’s ventilation system filled the space, keeping her absorbed in the only world she knew how to control: mechanics. 

Each piece of the prosthetic she was designing needed to fit perfectly, just like everything else in her life should be—calculated, precise, orderly. 

But, despite her best efforts to focus, she felt a tightness in her chest, something unsettling that wouldn’t let go.

Then, the door creaked open.

Aly didn’t look up. She didn’t want to look up.

Jaz’s presence was undeniable. Aly could almost feel her hesitation before the other woman even spoke. 

She’d been doing this for the past few days—avoiding Jaz, telling herself that it was just a phase, that the distance was necessary. 

But each time Jaz crossed her mind, the unease returned, and no matter how many tools she picked up or how many wires she twisted, it never quite went away.

Jaz cleared her throat. Her voice, when she spoke, was soft but carried the familiar note of sincerity Aly had always known. "Aly, I wanted to—"

Before Jaz could finish, Aly cut her off, her voice more clipped than she intended. “I’m busy, Jaz. Can we talk later?”

She felt the words slip out before she had a chance to stop them, but she couldn’t bring herself to stop now. 

The avoidance was easier, safer, wasn’t it? If she kept herself busy, kept her head down, she wouldn’t have to deal with the mess of emotions threatening to surface.

Jaz stood still for a moment, a brief flicker of uncertainty passing over her face. Her eyes scanned the lab, taking in Aly’s stiff posture, the scattered tools and half-finished designs. 

It wasn’t hard to tell that Aly was deliberately keeping her distance. Jaz had always been able to read her, even when Aly tried to hide behind her walls of logic. 

The tension was thick in the air between them, palpable even in the silence.

But Jaz didn’t call her out on it. She didn’t confront her. Instead, she took a step back, her gaze flicking down to the floor before raising it to meet Aly’s with something that wasn’t quite resignation—but wasn’t defiance either. 

It was understanding, in its own way.

“Alright. Let me know when you have time.”

There was a quiet finality in her words, but it wasn’t harsh. It was soft, almost as if Jaz was giving Aly the space she needed without forcing it. 

She wasn’t pushing, wasn’t demanding an explanation—something Aly didn’t know whether to feel grateful for or guilty about.

With that, Jaz turned on her heel and walked out of the lab, the door clicking shut behind her with a soft finality.

Aly let out a long, heavy breath she hadn’t even realized she was holding. 

She stared at the door for a few seconds, her chest tight, her mind swirling. She couldn’t tell if the silence that followed was a relief or a reminder of everything she was trying to avoid. 

She reached for another piece of the prosthetic, her fingers trembling slightly as she held it in her hands, trying to focus on the mechanics, trying to focus on anything but the way Jaz had looked at her before she left.

For a moment, the lab seemed emptier than it ever had before. 

And no matter how hard she tried to get back to the work in front of her, the weight of her own emotions—those things she had worked so hard to suppress—felt like they were slowly creeping in.

The next few days passed in a haze, each one blurring into the next as Aly continued her cycle of avoidance. It had become a routine—get up, go to class, go to the lab, pretend like everything was fine. 

Each time she saw Jaz across campus, whether in the halls of the engineering building or out on the lawn near the medical school, Aly would quickly avert her gaze. 

The avoidance felt almost instinctual, like a reflex. 

She'd pretend to be absorbed in whatever task was at hand—her phone, her notes, the screen in front of her—but the truth was, every time her eyes caught Jaz’s, something in her chest twisted, and she couldn’t breathe for a second. 

It was easier to ignore it, to act like they were strangers passing by, than to face whatever had shifted between them.

Whenever a message from Jaz popped up on her phone, Aly would feel that familiar knot in her stomach. 

She couldn’t explain it, but she felt trapped, like the messages themselves were pulling her deeper into something she wasn’t ready to face. 

The first few texts were easy enough to ignore. 

Work-related things, little check-ins about group assignments, nothing too personal, nothing that would force her to confront the weight of her own feelings.

But then, Jaz started texting more often, each message a little more casual, a little more vulnerable. 

"How’s the project going?" or "Need any help with the prosthetic designs?" And every time, Aly would stare at the screen, her thumb hovering over the reply box. 

Sometimes she’d start typing, then stop, deleting everything before sending nothing. And when she did reply, it was always something impersonal, something neutral. 

Short answers. Simple logistics. Nothing that would hint at the tension that was slowly suffocating her.

It was a habit she’d perfected over the years—keep things shallow, keep things distant, keep everything under control. 

Keep the conversations just about school, just about work, never letting anything slip into territory that could make her lose control. 

If she stayed on the surface, she wouldn’t have to deal with what was brewing beneath. 

But every time she kept her distance, it felt like she was lying to herself more and more.

And deep down, she knew that was exactly what she was doing. 

The lies weren’t just about pretending things were fine—they were about denying the fear she felt every time she thought about Jaz. 

Fear of letting her in, fear of admitting that something had changed, that something had shifted in the space between them.

Every time Aly told herself she could keep things under control, that everything would go back to how it was before—the easy banter, the rivalry, the unspoken distance—she knew she was fooling herself. 

Because even though she tried to keep the world, her world, neatly boxed into what was safe, Jaz was still there. 

Lingering on the edges of her thoughts. In her peripheral vision, in the quiet moments when Aly wasn’t trying to distract herself. 

And the more she pushed Jaz away, the stronger the pull became.

It was subtle at first. A glance that lasted a second too long. A brief moment where their eyes met, and for the first time in a long time, neither of them looked away. 

The pull grew stronger with every interaction, every word that wasn’t spoken, every text left unanswered.

But no matter how much she tried to distance herself, to keep pretending she was okay, Aly couldn’t escape the truth: the distance wasn’t working. 

And the pull was only getting harder to ignore.

Jaz had spent the last few days trying to keep her head above water, burying herself in schoolwork, in hospital rounds, in anything that could keep her from thinking about the growing tension between her and Aly. 

But it wasn’t working. 

The silence between them was suffocating. The cold shoulder Aly had been giving her was like a weight on her chest, pressing her down with each passing day.

She could feel it—Aly avoiding her. 

And it hurt more than it should. 

They were friends… sort of. Frenemies, at least. 

They had their moments, their conversations, even their unspoken understanding, but lately, every attempt to reach out was met with a wall. 

No responses to her texts, and when she saw Aly in passing, it was like she wasn’t even there.

Jaz had tried. She really had. 

She’d given Aly space, tried to play it cool, not push too hard. 

But it wasn’t working. And tonight, it had reached a breaking point.

It was late, the engineering building was nearly empty, and Jaz had already been circling the hallways for a good ten minutes, trying to calm the storm raging inside her. 

She knew exactly where Aly would be—alone in the lab, hunched over her projects, lost in the world of circuits and prosthetics. 

Jaz didn’t even knock. She didn’t give herself the time to second-guess her decision.

The tension in the engineering lab felt almost suffocating. Aly’s hands shook ever so slightly as she adjusted the prosthetic, but she wasn’t really paying attention to the work. 

Her mind kept drifting to the conversation she didn’t want to have. 

She knew Jaz was mad at her—and for good reason. 

She had been avoiding her, and she couldn’t even deny it. 

The thought of confronting Jaz, of dealing with whatever this... thing was between them, made her stomach twist with something she couldn’t name. 

So she buried herself in her work, hoping it would drown out the guilt gnawing at her.

But of course, Jaz wasn’t going to let her get away with it.

Aly heard the soft creak of the door before she even saw Jaz standing in the doorway. 

Her presence was unmistakable, like a storm slowly building. 

Aly tried to focus on her tools, but she could feel Jaz’s eyes on her, sharp, knowing. 

She wasn’t going to get away this time.

"Aly," Jaz said, voice thick with frustration, and Aly forced herself to look up, meeting her eyes for the first time in days. 

Jaz’s face was a mix of hurt and anger, but more than anything, it was that look of disappointment that hit Aly the hardest.

"Alam mo, I noticed you’ve been avoiding me," Jaz said, crossing her arms, her voice holding a bite that Aly wasn’t used to hearing. 

"Ano ba? May kasalanan ba ako?"

Aly’s heart skipped a beat at the question, and she quickly turned her attention back to the prosthetic. 

She was so damn good at pretending things didn’t affect her, but this? This was different. Jaz was right. 

She had been avoiding her—avoiding all the messiness that came with being around her. With Jaz, everything was always so... uncertain. 

She couldn’t control it, couldn’t fix it, and that scared her more than she was willing to admit.

"I’m just busy," Aly said, the words coming out too quickly, and she knew it sounded like a lame excuse even to herself.

"Busy?" Jaz repeated, her tone dripping with disbelief. 

"Bakit di ko kaya na... hindi mo ko tinext? I thought we were okay." Her voice was quieter now, almost vulnerable, but the edge was still there. 

"You just... stopped talking to me, Aly."

Aly clenched her jaw, the frustration building up like a knot in her chest. She wanted to shout, to explain herself, but the words wouldn’t come. 

The truth was, she was scared—scared of whatever this was between them. 

Scared that if she let her guard down, if she let herself care too much, she might not be able to handle it.

"I don’t know how to do this, Jaz," Aly finally muttered, her voice cracking slightly as she set the prosthetic down. 

"You... you make things complicated. I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel."

Jaz’s eyes softened for a split second, but the frustration never quite left her face. 

"I get it. Emotions don’t fit into your calculations, right? Kasi... feelings are messy. Masaya ka lang if everything’s perfect, di ba?"

Aly’s breath hitched at her words, and for a second, she wanted to tell Jaz everything—that this wasn’t just about feelings or calculations. 

It was about how much control she needed to feel okay. 

How scared she was of losing that control. But the words wouldn’t come. 

Instead, all she could do was clench her jaw tighter, unwilling to show how much it was eating her up inside.

"I didn’t ask for this," Aly shot back, the words harsher than she meant them to be. "Hindi ko hinahanap ‘to."

Jaz didn’t flinch, though. She just looked at Aly, her gaze piercing through the walls Aly had built around herself. 

"Hindi ko rin. But I’m still here," Jaz said softly, her voice quieter now. 

"Hindi naman kita pinipilit, Aly. I just... I just need you to stop running away from this. From us."

The silence that followed felt like it lasted forever. Aly’s chest tightened, her thoughts running in circles, unable to settle on one. 

She hated this feeling, hated not knowing what was going on between them. Jaz had always been so... real, so raw, and Aly didn’t know how to deal with it. 

She couldn’t fix it. She couldn’t fix her . 

And that made everything feel like it was slipping out of her grasp.

"I don’t know what you want from me," Aly said, her voice small now, almost defeated. 

"I can’t... I can’t deal with this. Hindi ko kaya."

Jaz let out a soft breath, her eyes flickering with a mix of understanding and sadness. She stepped closer to the table, her voice gentle. 

"I’m not asking you to deal with it, Aly. I’m just asking you to be here. With me. Stop pretending like we don’t matter."

Aly felt her walls starting to crumble, the resolve she had held onto so tightly suddenly slipping through her fingers. 

She wanted to say something—anything—to fix this. 

But she couldn’t find the words. Jaz was right. She was afraid. 

Afraid of what this could mean, afraid of what would happen if she let herself feel too much.

Aly exhaled slowly, closing her eyes for a moment before opening them again, finally meeting Jaz’s gaze. 

"I don’t know how to... I’m not like you," she whispered, the words raw and vulnerable. "I don’t know how to just... feel things."

Jaz’s gaze softened, and she reached out, not to touch her, but just to offer a quiet presence that Aly had been too afraid to accept. 

"It’s okay," Jaz murmured, voice steady but kind. "You don’t have to know everything. Just... don’t shut me out."

Aly stood still, her heart racing, torn between the instinct to push Jaz away and the longing to lean into the comfort she never thought she needed. 

For the first time in a long while, she let herself feel that small crack in her armor. 

Maybe she didn’t have to have everything figured out. 

Maybe, just for once, it was okay to not know what was next.

But she couldn’t say that to Jaz, not yet.

"Don’t make me do this again," Jaz said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Call me when you’re not being a drama queen."

Aly’s lips quirked in a smile, but it was soft, knowing. "I won’t. I promise."

And in that moment, despite the messiness, despite the uncertainty of it all, Aly stayed.

Jaz had been running on empty for days—weeks, maybe. It had started off manageable, or so she told herself. 

Long hours at the hospital, endless rounds with patients, and the perpetual weight of responsibility on her shoulders. 

Then there were the late-night study sessions, the group projects that never seemed to end, and the pressure to be perfect. 

She was supposed to be strong, the reliable one, the one everyone could count on. 

But lately, it felt like she was being stretched thin, torn between the duties that never ceased and the exhaustion that clung to her like a second skin.

The dizziness had come on gradually, at first a slight sensation that she could ignore. But it wasn’t just dizziness now—it was a constant, sickening swirl in her head that worsened every time she stood up too fast. 

Her stomach had been in knots for days, and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten something that wasn’t rushed or half-hearted. 

She had been pushing herself, convincing herself that she could make it through just one more shift, one more day.

But today was different. The hospital had been especially overwhelming. The cases were more complex, the patients more critical, and her own body was starting to scream at her to slow down. 

Yet, she couldn’t. 

She had to push through. She had to keep going. 

That’s what she kept telling herself as she moved from one patient to the next, barely registering the faces around her.

By the time she got to the last patient of the day, Jaz had already lost count of how many hours she had been on her feet. 

She could feel the cold sweat trickling down her back, the pounding headache in the base of her skull, but she forced herself to focus. 

The patient was in critical condition, and she needed to make sure everything was handled properly. But as she checked his vitals, her hands started to shake, and she could feel the room closing in around her.

Her vision blurred. 

At first, it was just a flicker at the edges of her sight. 

She tried to shake it off, but it only got worse. Her knees buckled beneath her as if the weight of her own body was too much to carry. 

Her vision spun wildly, and she fought to stay upright, but it was no use. She crumpled to the floor, her body betraying her after weeks of pushing it past its breaking point.

The sharp sound of someone shouting for help brought her back to reality just enough to realize she wasn’t alone. 

The hospital staff rushed to her side, but she could barely register their voices, their movements, as the vertigo overwhelmed her. She couldn’t even summon the strength to lift her head, her limbs feeling like lead. 

Her ears were ringing, and everything seemed to blur in and out of focus.

"Jaz, hey, stay with us," a familiar voice called out, but it sounded far away, muffled, as though she were underwater. 

It was a nurse, but Jaz couldn’t find the energy to answer. She was too lost in the disorienting whirlpool of her own body failing her.

Her hands felt clammy as they tried to grip the cold floor for stability, but there was nothing she could do to steady herself. 

She heard more footsteps, then the rush of voices around her, but they all seemed so distant. It was as if the world was moving in slow motion, and she was just a bystander in her own life, helpless to stop it from spinning out of control.

"Vitals dropping," someone shouted.

Jaz tried to fight the wave of panic rising in her chest, but it was futile. She couldn’t remember when it had gotten this bad, when she had started ignoring the signs, when she had allowed herself to fall apart like this. 

There was a sense of defeat that washed over her, and it stung. This was the price of pushing herself too hard, of not knowing when to ask for help.

As the world around her dimmed further, the last thing she remembered was the feeling of someone’s hands gently supporting her, lifting her, as if she were a fragile thing. 

She wanted to say something, to apologize, but her voice didn’t come. 

Everything went dark, and Jaz let herself fall into it, too exhausted to fight anymore.

Meanwhile, the staff worked quickly to stabilize her, but even through the haze of unconsciousness, one thought cut through everything: How had it gotten this far? And who would be there to pick up the pieces when it all came crashing down?

Aly didn’t know anything was wrong until her phone buzzed, pulling her from her thoughts. She glanced at the screen and saw a message from the hospital staff. 

Her heart skipped a beat before she even read the words.

“Jaz collapsed during rounds. We’ve got her stabilized, but she’s unconscious. Please come by as soon as you can.”

The message hit Aly like a punch to the gut. It wasn’t the shock of the words themselves—it was the weight of what it meant. 

Her stomach churned as panic surged through her, a storm of emotions she couldn’t fully control. 

A cold sweat broke out across her forehead, and her breath caught in her throat. She couldn’t breathe for a moment, the world around her spinning as she processed the news. 

Jaz. Collapsed. 

She was in a hospital bed, unconscious, and Aly hadn’t even been there.

She had been avoiding Jaz for days, refusing to face whatever was going on between them, too caught up in her own fear to acknowledge it. 

And now, this. 

Jaz was lying in a hospital bed because Aly hadn’t been there when she needed someone. The guilt was suffocating.

Without a second thought, Aly grabbed her bag, throwing it over her shoulder with a frantic urgency she didn’t even fully understand. 

Her mind raced, her feet moving faster than her thoughts, pushing her forward, toward the hospital. 

She couldn’t be here, not in this place where the weight of her own inaction had brought her to this point. 

She needed to be there for Jaz. She couldn’t let her be alone.

Each step felt like a heavy weight on her chest, the guilt gnawing at her as it twisted deeper inside her. The harder she walked, the harder it became to breathe. 

She had avoided Jaz when she should have been there, when she should have been paying attention to the signs. 

And now, this was the consequence. She couldn’t undo the days of silence between them, but maybe she could make things right, starting now.

When Aly finally reached Jaz’s room, her heart pounded in her ears, a constant drumbeat of anxiety. 

She hesitated at the door for a split second, but it was enough. 

Then, she pushed it open, the door creaking softly as it swung inward. The sight that greeted her hit her like a wave of cold reality.

There, on the bed, lay Jaz. Unconscious. Pale. So still. 

The soft beep of the heart monitor was the only sound in the room, a steady rhythm that contrasted with the panic rising in Aly’s chest. 

An IV drip hung in Jaz’s arm, the tube snaking down to the bag of fluids hanging above her. Aly’s breath hitched at the sight. 

Jaz, the person who had always been strong, the one who had never once shown weakness, was now lying there in a vulnerable state that Aly couldn’t reconcile with the fierce, confident woman she knew.

Aly stepped forward, her footsteps almost silent as she approached the bed, her heart hammering in her chest. 

She couldn’t stop staring at Jaz’s face—pale and drawn, the exhaustion that had been etched into every movement of Jaz’s for weeks now made painfully visible. 

Her chest rose and fell steadily, but that steady rhythm felt fragile, like it could break at any moment. It was a cruel reminder of how close they had come to losing her. 

Aly had ignored the signs. She had seen Jaz’s exhaustion, the way she had been running on empty, and yet, she had turned away. 

She had pushed her away, afraid of facing the feelings that were becoming harder to ignore.

Aly sank into the chair beside the bed, her hand hovering near Jaz’s but never quite touching her. The air felt heavy, thick with the unsaid, with all the things she had been afraid to feel. 

The feeling of helplessness washed over her, a tidal wave that knocked the breath out of her. There was nothing she could do, no easy way to fix this. 

Jaz wasn’t just physically hurt; Aly had allowed her to get to this point, emotionally distant and physically drained. The weight of that failure pressed down on her, suffocating her.

She leaned her head back against the wall, her eyes squeezing shut as the reality of it all set in. 

The room was too quiet. Too still. 

Her mind raced through the past few days, through the past few weeks, and the silence that had stretched between them. 

The avoidance. 

The fear.

Fear of what would happen if she let herself care too much. 

Fear of what would happen if she admitted what she was feeling. 

But now, sitting in this sterile, quiet room, watching Jaz lying there so fragile, Aly realized just how deep her feelings for her ran.

How much she had failed her.

Aly opened her eyes, her gaze drifting back to Jaz’s still form. She didn’t know how long she sat there, lost in the weight of her own guilt and fear. 

But at that moment, all she wanted was to make things right. She couldn’t fix what was broken, but she could be there, in this moment, for Jaz. 

She wasn’t going to run anymore. 

Not from Jaz. Not from herself.

Jaz had no idea how long she had been unconscious. All she knew was that the moment her eyes fluttered open, the sterile, quiet atmosphere of the hospital room hit her like a tidal wave. 

The soft beeping of the heart monitor echoed in the background, steady and rhythmic, while Jaz’s mind scrambled to piece together what had happened. 

The bright overhead lights pierced through her blurry vision, and the discomfort of an IV in her arm was the first sharp sensation that brought her back to reality.

Her heart skipped a beat when she noticed the figure sitting next to her bed. Aly. 

Her back was stiff, her posture rigid, and her eyes were locked on Jaz’s hand, her grip on the bed rail so tight that Jaz could almost see the strain in her knuckles, which had turned white. 

There was something raw in Aly’s expression that she hadn’t seen before—something that took Jaz by surprise. 

Fear. Real, unguarded fear. 

The kind of fear that wasn’t hidden behind sarcasm or indifference, but laid bare in the way Aly was holding on, as though Jaz might slip away again.

For a moment, Jaz couldn’t breathe, the guilt wrapping around her chest like a vice. She hadn’t meant for this to happen. 

She hadn’t meant to scare anyone, least of all Aly. 

The tension in the room was palpable, but it wasn’t just the silence between them—it was the weight of everything unsaid, everything that had been building up between them for weeks. 

She tried to speak, to break the silence, but no words came out. Instead, she focused on Aly, trying to make sense of the unreadable look on her face.

The moment seemed to stretch on forever before Aly’s gaze finally shifted, her eyes flicking up to meet Jaz’s as if she had just realized that Jaz was awake. 

Aly’s hand loosened its grip on the bedrail, but she didn’t release it completely. 

Her eyes were wide, and there was a tightness around her mouth, like she was trying to hold herself in check, to keep herself from breaking down.

Jaz tried to sit up, wincing as dizziness hit her in waves. She reached up instinctively to pull the IV out of her arm, but Aly was faster, her hand gently but firmly stopping Jaz before she could touch it.

“Easy,” Aly’s voice was hoarse, thick with emotion, but steady enough to make Jaz pause. 

Her hand hovered near Jaz’s wrist, not quite touching, but close enough that Jaz could feel the warmth radiating from it. “You’re not going anywhere just yet. You need to rest.”

Jaz frowned, forcing her voice to sound steady even though the exhaustion weighed her down. “I’m fine, really. I just… overdid it.”

Aly shook her head, her expression softening just a fraction, but there was still that tension in her body. 

“No, Jaz. You didn’t just overdo it. You pushed yourself too far.”

Jaz tried to meet Aly’s gaze, searching for something—anything—that would tell her that Aly was okay, that things weren’t as complicated as they seemed. 

But all she saw was that familiar guarded look, the wall that Aly had put up between them, keeping her emotions just out of reach. 

Jaz swallowed, feeling the unease rise again.

The silence stretched between them, heavy and thick, until Jaz could no longer ignore it. 

She knew. 

She knew that the distance between them had grown in ways she couldn’t fully understand, but the one thing she did understand was how much it hurt. 

How much it hurt to be this close to someone and still feel so far apart.

Aly broke the silence, her voice low but raw, unlike anything Jaz had ever heard from her. 

“You scared me, Jaz.” The words seemed to tremble in the air, and Jaz felt her heart lurch in her chest. 

“I… I didn’t know if you were going to wake up.”

Jaz’s breath caught in her throat. She had never heard Aly speak like this—so vulnerable, so exposed. 

There was no sarcastic edge, no teasing remark. 

Just raw, unfiltered emotion. Jaz wasn’t sure how to respond, her throat tight with the weight of it all.

“I’m sorry,” Jaz whispered, her eyes locking onto Aly’s. 

She wanted to take back everything, to undo the moment that had led to this—this exhaustion, this fear. 

“I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Aly’s gaze softened, but her hand lingered on Jaz’s wrist longer than necessary, a touch that grounded Jaz in a way she hadn’t expected. 

“I don’t care about your stupid apologies, Jaz,” Aly murmured, her voice thick with something Jaz couldn’t quite place. 

“I care about you. Don’t ever do this again.”

The sincerity in Aly’s words hit Jaz harder than anything else. She could feel the weight of those words in her chest, could feel them reverberate in her bones. 

For the first time in a long while, she let herself believe in them. She wasn’t just a burden. She wasn’t just a project to be fixed. 

She was cared for .

“I won’t. I promise,” Jaz whispered back, her voice barely a breath. 

She managed a small smile, though the exhaustion still pulled at her. 

But there was something more in her now—a flicker of hope. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Aly didn’t say anything more. She just stayed there, her hand resting on Jaz’s wrist, like she wasn’t ready to let go. 

Jaz could feel it—something unspoken, something that both terrified and comforted her all at once.

Finally, Aly broke the silence, her tone light but still laced with that deeper meaning. 

“I swear, Jaz, if you ever make me do this again—”

Jaz couldn’t help it; a soft chuckle escaped her lips, despite the heaviness in her chest. 

“Don’t worry. I’ll try to keep it together.”

Aly’s lips twitched upward in the faintest of smiles, but she didn’t let go of Jaz’s wrist. 

And in that moment, Jaz realized that maybe, just maybe, they could figure this out. 

Maybe, just maybe, they could face whatever came next—together.

The hospital room was bathed in the soft glow of the late afternoon sun, casting warm hues over the sterile, quiet space. 

Jaz had been asleep for a while, her breathing steady, but there was a tension still hanging in the air, a weight that neither Aly nor Jaz could shake. 

Aly sat quietly beside the bed, her fingers tracing the lines of her palm in absent, repetitive motions. 

She didn’t even know why she was doing it—maybe it was the way it helped to focus her thoughts, or maybe it was just the silence that had filled the room, a silence she didn’t know how to break.

She couldn’t stop thinking about everything that had happened in the past days—the way she’d kept her distance from Jaz, the way she’d avoided the growing feelings, the fear of letting anyone get too close. 

But now, with Jaz so vulnerable and so present in front of her, the walls Aly had built around herself felt fragile, and her thoughts were spiraling.

The sound of Jaz’s voice broke her reverie, soft and raspy, as she stirred in the bed. “Aly?” Jaz’s gaze found hers, her eyes still a little unfocused but searching. 

“I thought... you were just gonna stay silent, ha?”

Aly paused, then let out a soft, breathless chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. “I’m not really good at that.” 

Her voice was quieter than usual, like she was testing it out. Her hand faltered for a moment as she looked down at the palm she was still tracing. 

“You know, not really good at... staying still.”

Jaz raised an eyebrow, watching her closely. There was something in the way she was looking at Aly, as if she knew there was more behind the words than Aly was saying. 

“Are you trying to avoid me again, or are you just avoiding yourself this time?” Jaz’s voice was gentle but direct, a familiar challenge.

Aly’s breath hitched, and she looked up at Jaz, startled by the question. Her chest tightened, and she felt the familiar knot of guilt twist in her stomach. 

“Hindi ko alam, Jaz.” Aly exhaled slowly, the words coming out quieter than she intended. 

“Hindi ko alam kung paano hindi tumakbo... how not to just... run.”

The silence stretched between them, heavy and thick, as Jaz processed her words. 

Aly swallowed hard, her fingers curling around her palm, as if it could keep her grounded. 

She hadn’t meant to say it out loud—not like that, not with Jaz looking at her with those soft, steady eyes that made everything inside her feel raw and exposed.

Jaz’s gaze softened, and she moved slightly in bed, propping herself up with one elbow. 

“What are you running from, Aly?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper but cutting straight through the air between them. 

“From me? Or from... us?”

Aly looked away, suddenly feeling vulnerable, like every unspoken thing was now too loud in the room. 

She wanted to say something, to explain everything she’d been feeling, but the words wouldn’t come. 

The fear—of her own feelings, of being too much or too little—held her back, and it made her throat tight.

Jaz, sensing her hesitation, slowly reached out with her hand. 

She moved carefully, like she was handling something fragile. Aly’s breath caught as Jaz’s fingers brushed against her own. 

The contact was soft, tentative, but it was enough to pull her out of her spiral. 

Jaz took her hand gently in hers, her grip warm and steady.

Aly’s heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, she felt the weight of everything press into her chest. The vulnerability, the rawness, the emotions she’d been holding at bay for so long. 

Jaz wasn’t pulling away, wasn’t judging her, and that simple act—holding her hand—was everything Aly didn’t know she needed. It was quiet, a silent promise that they could take this step together.

“I’m not going anywhere, Aly,” Jaz murmured, her thumb brushing against Aly’s wrist. 

“Hindi kita iiwan, okay?”

Aly’s breath hitched again, her throat tightening as she looked at their hands, the warmth between them spreading through her chest. 

It felt too simple, too intimate for all the walls she had built up around herself, but in that moment, it also felt like the most natural thing in the world.

“I’m sorry,” Aly whispered, her voice thick with emotion. 

She didn’t know what she was apologizing for—maybe for everything. 

Maybe for the fear that had kept her from letting Jaz in, maybe for all the times she had backed away instead of facing what was right in front of her.

Jaz’s fingers tightened slightly around hers, a silent reassurance. 

“No need to say sorry,” she said quietly, her voice warm but firm. 

“Just... stay with me, Aly. Just... stay. Don’t run.”

Aly’s chest tightened, but this time it was a different feeling—a strange mix of relief and something deeper, something she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in so long. 

She didn’t know how to do this—how to not run, how to let herself stay—but for the first time in a while, she felt like maybe, just maybe, she could try.

Aly’s eyes met Jaz’s, her voice barely a whisper. “I’ll try, Jaz. I’ll try... to stay.”

For a long moment, they stayed like that—just holding hands, a quiet understanding passing between them. 

It wasn’t a promise of forever, but in that moment, it was enough.

The quiet between them settled for a moment, the sound of Jaz’s steady breathing the only thing breaking the stillness in the room. 

Aly didn’t want to let go of Jaz’s hand, as though the simple connection was grounding her in a way nothing else could. 

She kept her gaze on their joined hands, hesitant to break the fragile peace they had found together.

Finally, Jaz shifted a little, her voice soft but purposeful. 

“So, Aly...” she started, her thumb still gently stroking the back of Aly’s hand. 

“If we’re not running from each other... maybe it’s time I get to know the real you, huh?”

Aly raised an eyebrow, feeling a little surprised by the sudden change in tone. 

But the warmth in Jaz’s voice made her heart flutter, and she couldn’t help but smile slightly.

“Really? Now?” Aly asked, her voice still teasing but with a hint of uncertainty. 

“I don’t exactly have a reputation for being the most... open person.”

Jaz chuckled softly, her hand still wrapped around Aly’s. 

“Well, I figured you can’t keep me at arm’s length forever, and I’m tired of guessing. So let’s just... talk, okay?”

Aly let out a small sigh, feeling her shoulders relax for the first time in days. 

It was hard to think of opening up, but something in Jaz’s eyes told her it was safe to try. “Fine. Ask away.”

Jaz grinned, sitting up a little straighter in bed, as if preparing for a mini-interview. 

“Okay, first question: What’s your idea of a perfect day? No school, no responsibilities—just you, Aly.”

Aly blinked, caught off guard by the simplicity of the question. It wasn’t what she expected, but it made her pause, considering. 

“Hmm…” she thought for a moment, her eyes drifting to the ceiling. 

“Probably just... no noise. I like peace. Maybe a good book, or even just... a walk somewhere quiet. Somewhere I can think. Away from the crowds.” 

Her voice softened as she said it, and she realized she hadn’t really allowed herself to consider something as simple as enjoying quiet time without guilt. 

“And... if I’m being honest, maybe a cup of coffee, but that’s just because I’m addicted.”

Jaz smiled at the mention of coffee, remembering their last conversation at the café. 

“Aha, I knew it! You and your coffee obsession,” Jaz teased, squeezing her hand playfully. “But seriously, that sounds nice. I get it, the quiet part. Alright, next question. If you weren’t in engineering, what would you be doing? Don’t tell me ‘no plan B,’ I refuse to believe that.”

Aly huffed out a laugh, but there was a flicker of something wistful in her eyes. 

“I don’t know… maybe something with art. Not like, full-on artist, but I’ve always loved sketching things. It’s always been more of a personal thing, though, you know?” 

Her gaze softened as she spoke, and it was clear she was letting herself be a little more vulnerable. 

“Sometimes I wonder if I’d have been happier doing that. But then I remember... it’s not practical. So, here I am.”

Jaz’s expression softened, and she gave Aly’s hand a comforting squeeze. “I get that,” she said quietly. 

“I mean, I’ve always known I wanted to be in medicine, but... I’ve always had a thing for music too. I guess we both have our ‘what ifs.’” 

She paused, her eyes locking with Aly’s. “Okay, your turn now. If you could ask me one thing—anything—what would it be?”

Aly was a bit taken aback by the question, the directness of it catching her off guard. 

But she couldn’t help the curiosity that flickered in her chest. “Hmm... Well, I guess... What’s your biggest fear, Jaz?” She looked at Jaz seriously, her voice quieter now. 

“I mean, you’re always so... strong, so confident. But everyone’s got something, right?”

Jaz met her gaze, her smile fading a little as she thought about it. After a moment, she exhaled slowly, her thumb running over Aly’s skin in slow, thoughtful movements. 

“My biggest fear... it’s not so much about failing at medicine or whatever. It’s the fear of being forgotten, I guess. Like, I put everything into helping others, but in the end, I worry if people will even remember me. I’ve always been afraid of being invisible.” Jaz’s voice softened, and she looked away, her expression turning introspective. 

“But that’s the thing about being afraid of something—it can sometimes make you push harder, even if you don’t know why.”

Aly took a deep breath, the weight of Jaz’s words sinking into her chest. It wasn’t the answer she’d expected, but it made her understand Jaz more than she thought she would at that moment. 

“I didn’t expect that,” she admitted. “But I get it now. And, hey—people won’t forget you. Not as long as I’m around.” She gave a half-hearted smile, trying to ease the heaviness of the conversation.

Jaz chuckled, the tension lifting just a little. “I’m holding you to that, you know. You’ve got to stick around to make sure I don’t disappear.”

Aly smiled more genuinely this time, squeezing Jaz’s hand back. “I will. I promise.”

The air between them was softer now, the quiet understanding between them growing stronger as they shared more—something that had felt impossible just days before. 

Aly didn’t know where this would lead, but right then, it felt like enough to just be here, getting to know each other in small, real ways.

The silence between them deepened, but it was a comfortable kind of quiet—one where the tension from earlier had started to fade, replaced by something lighter. 

Jaz’s hand still rested in Aly’s, and despite everything, Aly felt a little warmth growing in her chest.

“So…” Jaz began, breaking the silence with a mischievous grin. 

“You’re telling me that if you weren’t in engineering, you’d be some artsy, sketching genius?”

Aly rolled her eyes, though she couldn’t help the small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “I didn’t say genius. I said ‘maybe.’” 

She flicked her gaze to Jaz, pretending to look offended. “Are you implying that I don’t have the talent?”

Jaz gasped in mock horror, clutching her chest as though she had just been wounded. 

“Of course not! I’m just... I’m just trying to picture you as an artist. Like, imagine—Aly, the emotional artist. I can’t even.”

Aly crossed her arms, grinning. “Oh really? Anong role mo kung artista ka? Siguro isa kang dramatic theater queen, no?”

Jaz smirked back, sitting up straighter, clearly enjoying the tease. “Excuse me? I’d nail every role. Especially the villain. Alam mo ‘yan.”

Aly raised an eyebrow. “A villain? You look more like someone who would break into song in the middle of a serious scene.”

“Duh, villain roles are the best! I would totally be the type na may dramatic monologue, tas biglang dramatic entrance sa scene,” Jaz said, clearly making herself laugh. 

“Ikaw, ano? Sidekick lang, always behind the scenes.”

Aly gasped. “Sidekick? Excuse me, I would be the main character —not some random person in the background. No way!”

Jaz rolled her eyes. “Main character? I see it now: ‘The Sarcastic Hero Who Does Nothing But Stare At The Villain With A Blank Expression.’”

Aly laughed, throwing her hands up in mock frustration. “Wow. You’re so mean! At least I’d look good doing nothing.”

“I mean, the sarcasm, yes,” Jaz said with a teasing wink. “You'd be very good at doing nothing.”

Aly rolled her eyes again, clearly enjoying the playful jab. “I don’t need to do the whole ‘punching the villain’ thing. I’d just stand there, look super cute, and boom, the villain’s already scared of me.”

Jaz snorted. “Yup, definitely the most useless hero ever. You’re basically a poster child for ‘too cool to save the day.’”

Aly shot her a look. “Well, at least I won’t be overdramatic like you, mister villain.”

Jaz pouted dramatically. “Ouch. You’re hurting my feelings. But fine, okay, I’ll save the world in my own way. Let me know if you need my ‘dramatic villain expertise.’”

Aly smirked. “Oh, I’ll make sure to get you to not save the day with your over-the-top evil laugh. Alam ko na, villain.”

Jaz laughed loudly, squeezing Aly’s hand lightly. “I swear, you’re impossible. Pero I think I’d still want you by my side if I ever went villain mode. You’d be my sarcastic sidekick.”

Aly rolled her eyes but smiled. “Gusto ko pa ba maging sidekick? I’ll just keep you grounded in reality. Someone has to, right?”

Jaz smiled back, her expression softening. “Yeah, I need that. Kung wala ka, sino magtutuwid sa mga over-the-top ideas ko?”

Aly didn’t reply immediately, but just the thought of Jaz leaning into their ridiculous banter made something warm settle in her chest. 

She was usually the one to keep everything under control, to keep her distance. 

But with Jaz, it felt like the world was a little less complicated, even if they were just making fun of each other.

Jaz squeezed her hand again. “Pinky swear, we make the best villain duo.”

Aly chuckled softly. “Pinky swear. Pero, kung ikaw pa rin ‘yung villain, baka matalo tayo, ha.”

Jaz grinned. “Challenge accepted. Baka ikaw na ‘yung secret weapon ko.”

Aly snorted, leaning back in her chair. “Oh no, you’ll just have to do everything yourself. I’ll be over here saving the world with my sarcasm.”

Jaz laughed softly, looking at her with a mixture of fondness and something deeper. “Fine, Captain Sarcasm. You win. For now.”

The engineering lab was always a place of quiet focus for Aly, a sanctuary where the noise of the outside world could fade away. 

The late hours only deepened the solitude, the dim glow of the overhead lights casting a sense of intimacy in the otherwise sterile room. 

But tonight, despite the quiet, Aly couldn’t shake the feeling of being on the edge of something—something she hadn’t been ready to face.

She sat at her workbench, the unfinished prosthetic arm in front of her. 

It was the kind of project she excelled at—precise, technical, something she could lose herself in. 

But tonight, no amount of concentration could distract her from the thoughts swirling in her head, from the unspoken words between her and Jaz that had been growing louder with each passing day.

Her fingers brushed over the cool metal of the prosthetic’s joints, but her mind was far from the task at hand. 

The words Jaz had spoken earlier that week echoed in her mind: “People want to feel human again.”  

Aly had always been one for logic, for facts, but that one line had burrowed under her skin, stirring something she wasn’t ready to face. 

What did it mean to feel human again? 

Was it about connection? 

About letting someone in? 

About feeling seen?

The sound of footsteps broke her concentration. She didn’t need to look up to know who it was. The presence in the room, the quiet but undeniable energy, was unmistakable.

Jaz.

She stood in the doorway, her figure silhouetted against the harsh fluorescent lights outside the lab. 

There was something hesitant in the way she lingered there, as if she wasn’t sure whether to approach or leave. Aly could feel her eyes on her, but she didn’t look up, too caught in the mess of her own thoughts.

“Bakit ka nandiyan?” Aly’s voice was soft, a little too raw in the silence of the room.

Jaz hesitated. “Wala lang,” she replied, her voice carrying a mix of exhaustion and something else, something softer. 

“I just… I didn’t know where else to go.”

Aly’s heart skipped, a subtle, almost imperceptible shift in the air between them. She wanted to say something—anything—to push Jaz away, to keep the walls intact, but the words wouldn’t come. 

The space between them, once so clear and defined, felt smaller now. 

Every glance, every quiet pause, seemed to bridge the gap in ways Aly couldn’t control.

Jaz took a few slow steps forward, the faint sound of her boots against the tile floor echoing in the stillness. 

“Jaz,” Aly began, her voice barely above a whisper. 

“You once said people want to feel human again. I think… I think I finally got it.”

Aly’s fingers were hovering over the prosthetic, but her mind was spinning. 

Aly’s words weren’t just a comment about the prosthetic—they were a quiet admission, a confession of sorts, a realization that had been growing between them for weeks.

She finally looked up, and their eyes met. 

There was no escape from it now—the way her chest tightened, the way her breath caught. 

Jaz’s gaze was steady, searching her face, and Aly could feel the weight of everything unspoken between them pressing in. 

There was no hiding it anymore.

“For someone who believes in precision,” Jaz whispered with a slight smile, her voice low and teasing, “You take forever to figure things out.”

Aly didn’t respond right away, the smile tugging at her lips despite the tension. 

She looked back at the prosthetic arm, tracing the intricate details with her fingers. 

“I was just making sure I got it right,” she said quietly, the words carrying more weight than she intended.

Jaz studied her for a moment, her heart beating a little faster. There was something in Aly’s voice, something raw and unguarded. 

“I thought you always had to get everything right,” she said, her voice laced with a playful challenge. “But maybe… maybe it’s okay to be wrong sometimes?”

Aly exhaled, a little laugh escaping her lips despite the heaviness of the moment. 

“Maybe.” Her eyes softened, and she looked at Jaz, the space between them no longer as easy to navigate. 

“Maybe I’m just tired of getting it wrong.”

Jaz stepped closer, the tension between them palpable now, but she didn’t say anything. 

Instead, she reached out, taking Aly’s hand in hers, gentle, almost hesitant. 

It wasn’t a gesture of dominance or certainty. 

It was just… a quiet offering.

Aly’s breath caught at the contact, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. 

The sound of their breathing was the loudest thing in the room, but it felt like a shared rhythm, something they were both syncing to without words. 

The simplicity of it, the weight of the gesture—it was everything and nothing at once.

Aly let herself squeeze Jaz’s hand back, the subtle pressure between them grounding her in a way she hadn’t expected. 

It wasn’t about fixing anything or getting it right. 

It was about letting it be, letting things unfold without forcing them into neat, precise boxes.

“You’ve always been good at this, you know,” Aly whispered, her voice thick with something she couldn’t name. 

“At letting go.”

Jaz chuckled softly. “I don’t know about that,” she said, but there was a quiet vulnerability in her tone. 

“I think… I think I’m just learning.”

And in that moment, Aly realized that maybe, just maybe, they both were.

They stayed like that for a while, their hands intertwined, the weight of their unspoken connection hanging in the air. 

They didn’t need to fill the silence with words—they were finally understanding each other without the need for explanations or justifications.

As the night wore on, the lab grew quieter, the only sound the soft hum of the machines in the background. 

And for the first time in a long time, Aly felt something shift in her chest. 

Something soft, something real. 

The walls that had kept her safe for so long were starting to crumble, piece by piece, and as much as she tried to resist it, she knew it was okay.

With Jaz by her side, in this moment, everything felt possible.

The night air carried a stillness that seemed to wrap itself around them, making the world feel distant, like they were the only two people who mattered in that moment. 

The city lights below flickered like distant stars, soft reflections of the weight of the silence between them.

Jaz’s head rested a little more heavily against Aly’s shoulder, the weight of the day, of the weeks before, lifting as she let herself be present in this moment. 

The quiet was soothing, yet it carried a depth neither of them had expected. 

She closed her eyes, letting the quiet fill the space where words would usually go. 

But tonight, there was no need for words.

Aly’s breath was steady, but her thoughts were running a little faster than she wanted. 

She had spent so long trying to keep everything under control, trying to keep her distance from whatever this was between them, but in this moment, in this silence, she realized how much of herself she had been holding back. 

How much she had been afraid of. 

And now, with Jaz beside her, there was no more need to fight it.

“I never thought I could feel this... safe,” Jaz whispered after a long while, the words soft but heavy. 

Her voice trembled just a little, but not out of uncertainty—more out of something deeper, something more fragile. 

“Like everything’s in pieces, but when I’m with you... it just fits. I don’t even know why or how it happened.”

Aly’s heart ached a little at the vulnerability in Jaz’s voice. 

She could feel the weight of those words in her chest, the realization that Jaz, the one who always seemed so composed, was allowing herself to be this open. 

This raw.

“You’re not the only one who’s been afraid,” Aly finally murmured, her voice barely a whisper. 

Her eyes drifted from the skyline to the space around them, as if searching for the right words. “I thought I had everything figured out. But I was wrong. I thought I had control over everything, especially myself. But with you…” 

Her voice faltered for a moment, and she inhaled deeply. 

“With you, I don’t know. It’s like I can’t stop myself from wanting more. And that scares me. Because I don’t know how to make sense of it.”

Jaz’s fingers brushed against Aly’s lightly, the soft gesture grounding them both in the moment. 

“You don’t have to make sense of it,” she said, her voice quiet but confident. 

“Not everything needs to be figured out, Aly. Some things just are. Some things just... feel right. Even if you don’t understand them right away. Even if it doesn’t fit the plan you made in your head.”

Aly felt the weight of those words settle deep within her chest. She had spent so much of her life analyzing, compartmentalizing, trying to make everything fit into neat little boxes. 

But Jaz’s words were a reminder that maybe she didn’t have to do that. 

Maybe, just maybe, she could let go and let things unfold as they were meant to.

She swallowed, her throat tight with emotions she had been ignoring for too long. 

“I don’t know if I can stop trying to figure things out,” Aly admitted, her voice low. 

“But I’m trying. I want to try. Because I can’t... I can’t keep pretending that this, whatever this is between us, doesn’t mean something.”

Jaz turned her head slightly, her eyes meeting Aly’s with an intensity that sent a shiver down her spine. 

“You don’t have to pretend,” she said softly, her voice warm but laced with something deeper. 

“I think we both know that something’s been changing. And we’re not the same people we were when we first met.”

Aly’s chest tightened, but not in the way she expected. It wasn’t fear. It was something else. 

Something deeper, something more raw.

“We’re not,” she whispered, finally allowing herself to lean into the feeling. 

“And I think that’s okay.”

Jaz smiled softly, her head still resting against Aly’s shoulder. “It’s more than okay, Aly. It’s everything.”

For a moment, they just stayed like that, the weight of their words hanging in the air. 

It wasn’t a grand declaration of love or a promise for the future—it was something simpler, something more intimate. 

An understanding that didn’t need to be explained, that didn’t need to be rushed. 

Just two people, sitting in the quiet, knowing they didn’t need to have all the answers.

Because, at this moment, they didn’t need anything more than what they had right now.