First Public Test
“Boyfriend?”
The word hung between them like a raindrop suspended mid-fall–small, harmless in shape, heavy with what it could become once it landed.
Haruka Satō’s smile stayed bright, polite. The kind of smile that could be worn in family photos. The kind that could also be worn while pinning a butterfly to cork.
Mika’s fingers tightened around the umbrella handle. Rafi felt it–the minute change in pressure where her skin brushed his. He didn’t look down. He didn’t move away.
The Bugis Underpass glowed behind Haruka, warm neon reflecting in puddles. Rain hammered the umbrella fabric above Rafi and Mika with a steady insistence, like the sky was taking attendance.
Rafi stood still.
He could have lied in a softer way.
He could have said, We’re friends.
He could have laughed it off.
But Haruka’s eyes didn’t blink. The people behind her–two Japanese students whose names Rafi didn’t know–leaned in the way people leaned toward stories.
This was the first real test.
Not a post.
Not a blurry photo.
A person who understood cultural expectations and could smell cracks.
Rafi’s mind flicked through his terms list like a checklist.
Public proof required.
Physical contact only when needed.
If feelings happen, we talk and adjust.
They weren’t at feelings.
But they were at consequences.
Rafi glanced at Mika.
Her expression was composed–the practiced softness she had worn in the Glass Atrium, in Juniper Café, in every place where people could judge her. But her eyes weren’t soft.
They were watchful.
Braced.
Like she was waiting to see if he would abandon her in front of witnesses.
Rafi didn’t like being watched.
He liked abandonment even less.
He turned back to Haruka.
“Yes,” he said.
One syllable.
No hesitation.
Not a grand declaration–just a fact delivered with calm.
Mika’s breath caught beside him. Rafi felt it in the tiniest shift of her shoulders, the way her posture loosened as if a string had been cut.
Haruka’s smile widened, sharpened.
“Oh,” she said, as if delighted. “Since when?”
Mika’s lips parted.
Rafi answered first.
“Recently,” he said.
Haruka tilted her head. “Recently can mean many things.”
Rafi held her gaze. “Since last week.”
A lie, technically.
Not entirely. They had met yesterday, but in the eyes of anyone who needed a timeline, a week sounded more credible than a day. A week implied privacy. A week implied deliberation.
Mika’s lashes lowered, then lifted again. She didn’t correct him.
Haruka’s eyes slid to Mika.
“Mika-chan,” she said, voice sweet as syrup. “You didn’t tell me.”
Mika’s cheeks warmed.
“I… didn’t think it was necessary,” she replied, carefully.
Haruka gave a small laugh. “Not necessary?”
One of the Japanese students behind her–an older-looking guy in a black tee–murmured something in Japanese that sounded like teasing.
Mika stiffened.
Rafi watched the exchange, learning the dynamics in real time.
Haruka wasn’t merely curious.
Haruka was evaluating.
And these two students were Haruka’s audience.
A stage.
Fine.
Rafi could do stage. He did it all the time without stepping onto one. He’d learned to speak in rooms with donors and professors and committee members who smiled while measuring your worth.
He shifted his stance slightly.
Not closer.
Just enough that the umbrella angled more firmly over Mika.
It was subtle.
A protective gesture.
A visible claim.
Haruka’s gaze flicked to the movement.
Her smile didn’t change.
“You’re in Cultural Night, right?” she asked Rafi, as if changing topics. “Tech crew?”
Rafi nodded. “Yes.”
“And Mika is PR and stage coordination,” Haruka continued. “So you met because of that?”
Mika’s eyes widened a fraction.
Rafi’s mind moved fast.
It was better than saying they met at Orientation.
It linked them through an existing structure.
It sounded natural.
“Yes,” he said.
Haruka looked satisfied.
“Ah,” she said, eyes gleaming. “That makes sense. You’re both very… responsible.”
The way she said it made “responsible” sound like a compliment and a warning.
Mika forced a smile. “Haruka, we’re just–”
Haruka lifted a hand, interrupting gently. “It’s okay. I’m happy for you.”
Rafi didn’t believe her.
Haruka’s gaze lingered on Mika, then returned to Rafi.
“If you don’t mind,” Haruka said, and her tone was still sweet, “can I take a photo? Just for memories.”
Mika froze.
Rafi’s stomach tightened.
A photo.
Not their controlled selfie.
Not their planned vegetable aisle shot.
A photo taken by someone who could share it.
Haruka’s eyes were already asking a second question: Do you have something to hide?
Rafi didn’t like being trapped into choices.
But he understood traps.
He nodded once.
“Sure,” he said.
Mika’s eyes snapped to him.
He didn’t look away.
“Okay?” he murmured, low enough that only she could hear.
Mika swallowed.
Then she nodded.
Haruka’s smile brightened, victorious.
She lifted her phone.
Rafi shifted again–one small step–bringing himself a fraction closer to Mika. Not touching. But close enough that their shoulders almost met.
Haruka’s camera clicked.
“Cute,” Haruka said.
Mika’s cheeks flushed.
Rafi’s face stayed neutral.
Haruka lowered her phone, satisfied.
“I won’t keep you,” she said, tone generous. “Rain is terrible. Mika-chan, message me later. I want details.”
Mika’s smile tightened. “Okay.”
Haruka turned to leave, her friends trailing after her.
But as she walked away, she glanced back once.
Her eyes met Mika’s.
There was something in that look that didn’t belong to friendliness.
It belonged to control.
Then she was swallowed by the underpass crowd.
Rain continued to fall.
For a moment, Mika didn’t move.
Rafi felt her fingers still on the umbrella handle.
He looked down now, finally.
Her knuckles were faintly white.
“You okay?” he asked.
Mika’s lips parted. No sound came.
Then she exhaled, long and shaky.
“She will tell them,” she whispered.
Rafi’s brows knit. “Your parents?”
Mika nodded. “Maybe not today. But she will. Haruka… she thinks she is helping.”
Rafi’s jaw tightened.
Helping.
He glanced around. The rain had eased slightly, enough that people began to move again, spilling out from shelter.
“We need to go,” he said.
Mika blinked. “Where?”
“Back,” Rafi replied. “Campus. Before someone else asks.”
Mika’s throat bobbed.
Her fingers loosened on the umbrella handle.
Then, quietly, she removed her hand.
Like touching it had been a mistake.
Rafi noticed.
He didn’t comment.
They walked.
The umbrella shielded them from rain, but not from the way the world looked at two people sharing shelter.
At the MRT station, Mika stood close enough that strangers would assume familiarity.
Rafi kept his gaze forward.
He told himself it was a performance.
He told himself it was containment.
But the moment they stepped onto the train and the doors closed, sealing them into a capsule of air-conditioned quiet, Mika spoke again.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
Rafi’s eyes flicked to her.
“For what?”
“For pulling you into this,” Mika replied. Her voice was soft, controlled. “For making you lie.”
Rafi’s jaw flexed.
“You didn’t force me,” he said.
Mika’s gaze dropped. “Still.”
Rafi didn’t like her guilt.
He didn’t like how familiar it felt.
Because he understood the shape of it–being a burden, being inconvenient, apologizing for needing anything at all.
He stared at the station map above the door.
“Haruka took a photo,” he said.
Mika nodded.
“That’s good,” Rafi continued.
Mika turned, startled. “Good?”
Rafi met her gaze.
“It’s proof,” he said. “Not staged. Not something you can say is fake.”
Mika swallowed.
Rafi watched her throat move.
He thought of her father’s voice on the phone, labeling her unstable.
He thought of Dr. Koh’s slide, demanding convincing.
Different worlds, same cruelty.
The train slowed.
City Hall.
Bugis.
They exited at the campus stop.
Outside, the rain had thinned into a grey drizzle.
The Stamford Skybridge glowed faintly under the overcast sky.
By the time they reached the Glass Atrium, Orientation Week was winding down. Booth banners sagged slightly from humidity. Volunteers looked tired. The crowd had thinned into clusters.
Rafi kept his pace steady.
Mika walked beside him, quieter now.
As they passed the Cultural Night booth, Rafi felt his stomach tighten.
Chloe Lim was there.
Her laughter was sharp. Her posture immaculate. She held a clipboard like it was authority.
When she saw Rafi, her smile didn’t immediately change.
Then her gaze dropped.
To Mika.
To their proximity.
To the umbrella in Rafi’s hand, even though it wasn’t raining hard enough to justify sharing it.
Chloe’s smile sharpened.
“Rafi,” she called.
Rafi stopped.
Not because he wanted to.
Because walking away would look guilty.
Mika’s posture stiffened beside him.
Chloe approached with the ease of someone who believed she owned the narrative.
“Didn’t expect to see you with…” Chloe’s gaze flicked over Mika like scanning a product label. “Hello.”
Mika bowed her head slightly. “Hi.”
Chloe’s eyes narrowed. “Are you new?”
Mika’s smile was polite, controlled. “Exchange.”
Chloe’s gaze returned to Rafi.
“And you?” she asked, voice light. “Busy.”
Rafi’s jaw tightened.
He kept his face neutral.
“Yes,” he said.
Chloe’s eyes gleamed. “Busy with her?”
Mika went still.
Rafi felt her tense like a wire.
He didn’t like it.
He didn’t like Chloe’s tone.
He didn’t like being cornered.
So he did the thing he didn’t plan.
He put his hand at Mika’s back.
Not gripping.
Not possessive.
Just a firm, steady contact–two seconds of warmth through fabric.
A silent statement.
Mika’s breath caught.
Rafi’s pulse jumped.
Chloe’s smile faltered.
Then she recovered.
“Oh,” she said, tone too sweet. “So it’s true.”
Rafi held her gaze.
“Yes,” he said.
Chloe’s eyes flashed.
“Interesting,” she murmured. “Good for you.”
The words sounded like a compliment.
They weren’t.
Mika’s eyes flicked to Rafi’s hand.
Rafi removed it immediately.
Private restraint.
The moment for the gesture had passed.
Chloe watched the removal with a look that suggested she’d noticed too much.
“Cultural Night rehearsal is tonight,” Chloe said, addressing Rafi as if Mika wasn’t there. “Tech crew better not mess up. Sponsors are coming to watch.”
Rafi’s jaw tightened. “We won’t.”
Chloe smiled. “Good.”
Then she glanced at Mika.
“You’re PR,” Chloe said.
Mika nodded.
Chloe’s smile widened. “Then you know. If anything looks messy, it reflects on everyone.”
Mika’s smile stayed polite. “Yes.”
Chloe’s gaze lingered.
Then she stepped back.
“See you tonight,” she said.
Rafi nodded once.
As Chloe walked away, Mika exhaled.
Rafi glanced at her.
“You okay?” he asked again.
Mika’s lips parted.
She looked at him with something complicated in her eyes.
“You…” she began.
Rafi waited.
Mika swallowed.
“You touched me,” she finished.
Rafi’s throat tightened.
He kept his voice neutral. “It was necessary.”
Mika’s gaze didn’t drop.
“It felt…” she began, then stopped.
Rafi’s chest tightened.
Felt like what?
Safe?
Real?
Too much?
He didn’t want to know.
He said, carefully, “We’re doing a rehearsal tonight. We’ll have more people watching. We need to be consistent.”
Mika nodded slowly, as if shifting her brain back to practicality.
“Okay,” she said.
But her voice was quieter.
Like she had just realized consistency came with a cost.
By evening, the air smelled like rain again.
The Blackbox Theatre sat slightly removed from the main campus flow–low building, dark exterior, the kind of place that held secrets in its corners. The entrance doors were propped open, and inside, light spilled out in warm rectangles, cutting through the grey.
Rafi arrived early.
Of course he did.
The tech crew was already moving–rolling cables, testing microphones, adjusting stands. The stage smelled of dust, gaffer tape, and the faint metallic tang of equipment that had been handled by too many hands.
Rafi set his bag down at the tech table.
He pulled out his laptop.
He had barely logged in when someone called his name.
“Rafi!”
He turned.
Mika stood at the edge of the stage, clipboard in hand, headset hanging around her neck. She looked different in the theatre lighting–less like a polished campus girl, more like someone in her element. Focused. Capable.
Her white blouse was replaced with a black tee and a light cardigan–practical. University appropriate. Her hair was tied back loosely, strands escaping at her temples.
Rafi’s chest tightened for a reason he didn’t like.
“Mika,” he said.
She stepped closer.
“Thank you for coming early,” she said.
Rafi nodded. “We always do.”
Mika’s lips curved faintly.
She glanced around the theatre, then lowered her voice.
“Haruka is coming,” she said.
Rafi’s jaw tightened. “To rehearsal?”
Mika nodded. “Japanese Society is supporting Cultural Night. She said she wants to watch.”
Of course.
Rafi exhaled.
“And Chloe,” Mika added, her voice slightly flatter. “She will be here. Sponsors.”
Rafi nodded.
He already knew.
Mika’s gaze lingered on his face.
“You’re okay?” she asked.
Rafi’s mouth went dry.
He wasn’t used to being asked that by someone who wasn’t obligated.
He nodded once. “Yes.”
Mika didn’t look fully convinced.
But she didn’t press.
Instead, she lifted her clipboard.
“Okay,” she said, shifting into coordinator mode. “We need to walk through the running order. Tech check first.”
Rafi nodded.
He followed her instructions.
The next hour blurred into controlled chaos.
Microphones squealed. Lights flickered. A dancer complained about floor marks. Someone’s music track wouldn’t load.
Rafi moved through it with his usual calm.
He didn’t raise his voice.
He didn’t snap.
He solved problems.
He liked problems.
They had solutions.
Unlike people.
Mika moved like a conductor, headset on now, voice steady.
“Okay, we go from cue three,” she said. “Dancers, stand by. Tech, ready?”
Rafi watched her, caught by the competence.
He had seen many student leaders who performed leadership.
Mika didn’t perform.
She did.
Maybe that was why her parents didn’t believe she was stable.
Because stability wasn’t loud.
It didn’t announce itself.
It just… held.
The theatre doors opened again.
A small group entered.
Haruka first.
Then two Japanese students behind her.
Then Chloe Lim in a fitted blazer, flanked by two sponsor liaisons carrying branded tote bags.
The air shifted.
Even the stage lights seemed to tighten.
Mika’s posture stiffened slightly.
She turned toward the door with a smile that looked like it had been practiced.
“Haruka,” Mika said. “Hi.”
Haruka’s eyes swept the room, landing on Rafi at the tech table.
Her smile widened.
“There you are,” she said.
Mika’s smile tightened.
Chloe’s gaze also landed on Rafi.
Then flicked to Mika.
Then back.
Like she was counting.
Rafi’s jaw tightened.
He told himself to focus.
Haruka approached first.
“Rehearsal looks busy,” Haruka said lightly.
Mika nodded. “Yes. Please take a seat. We’ll start run-through.”
Haruka leaned in slightly, lowering her voice as if sharing intimacy.
“So,” she murmured, “you’re really dating him.”
Mika’s cheeks flushed.
Before she could answer, Rafi stood.
He walked toward them.
Not because he wanted attention.
Because Mika shouldn’t have to carry this alone.
He stopped beside Mika.
Close enough.
Visible.
Haruka’s gaze flicked to him.
Rafi met it.
“Yes,” he said calmly. “We are.”
Haruka’s smile didn’t falter.
“Congratulations,” she said.
Her eyes moved to Mika.
“You look… happier,” Haruka added.
Mika’s lips parted.
Rafi felt Mika’s tension.
He didn’t know if she was happier.
He knew she was watched.
Mika forced a small smile. “Thank you.”
Haruka’s gaze lingered.
Then she stepped back, satisfied.
Chloe approached next.
Her smile was smooth.
“Mika,” Chloe said, voice warm. “PR coordinator. Nice to finally meet properly.”
Mika bowed her head slightly. “Hi.”
Chloe’s eyes flicked to Rafi.
“Rafi,” she said.
Rafi nodded. “Chloe.”
Chloe’s smile sharpened.
She spoke as if making conversation.
“So you two,” she said lightly. “How long?”
Rafi didn’t blink.
“Since last week,” he replied.
Mika’s gaze flicked to him.
Chloe’s brows lifted.
“Oh,” she said. “Fast.”
Rafi’s jaw tightened.
“It’s not your business,” he wanted to say.
Instead, he said nothing.
Mika answered, voice polite. “We didn’t announce. We kept it private.”
Chloe’s eyes gleamed.
“Private,” she repeated.
Her gaze slid over Mika’s face.
Then she smiled as if she was being generous.
“Well,” she said, “as long as it doesn’t affect rehearsal. Sponsors like clean stories.”
Clean stories.
Rafi’s fingers curled slightly.
Mika’s expression didn’t change, but her eyes hardened for a moment.
Then Mika lifted her clipboard.
“Okay,” she said, voice clear. “We’re starting run-through. Please take a seat.”
Her tone left no room for argument.
Haruka and Chloe moved to the front row.
The rehearsal began.
Rafi returned to the tech table.
He focused on cues.
Light transitions.
Sound levels.
Camera framing.
But every few minutes, his gaze flicked to the front row.
To Haruka’s watching eyes.
To Chloe’s poised posture.
To the way they both seemed to treat Mika like an object being inspected.
Rafi didn’t like it.
He didn’t know why he cared.
He told himself it was because Mika was his “responsibility” for this arrangement.
He told himself it was because he hated people who used others.
He told himself it was nothing else.
Halfway through rehearsal, a dancer missed a cue.
The music stuttered.
Someone groaned.
Mika’s voice snapped through the headset.
“Stop. Reset from cue five. Dancers, breathe. Tech, we check track.”
Rafi’s fingers flew.
He fixed it.
The rehearsal resumed.
But when the track played again, it played too loud.
The speakers screeched.
The stage lights flickered.
Someone cursed.
Mika’s gaze shot toward the tech table.
Rafi’s stomach tightened.
He wasn’t used to being the problem.
He adjusted quickly.
But the damage was done.
The front row murmured.
Chloe leaned toward her sponsor liaison, whispering.
Haruka’s lips curved slightly, as if amused.
Rafi’s jaw clenched.
He fixed the issue in seconds.
But seconds were enough to become narrative.
Mika walked toward him during the reset.
She stopped at the edge of the tech table, headset still on.
Her voice was low.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
Rafi blinked.
Not why did you mess up.
Not what happened.
Are you okay.
Rafi’s throat tightened.
He nodded once. “Yes. Cable misread. Fixed.”
Mika’s gaze held his.
She didn’t look annoyed.
She looked… concerned.
Rafi didn’t know what to do with it.
He looked away.
Mika stepped closer.
Her hand hovered, then she lightly touched his arm–two fingers, brief.
A grounding gesture.
Private.
Not for the audience.
Rafi froze.
Heat spread under his skin.
Then she withdrew.
“I trust you,” Mika said.
Rafi’s chest tightened.
Trust.
He hated that word.
He also wanted it.
He didn’t respond.
Mika turned back to the stage.
The rehearsal continued.
And Rafi, despite himself, worked harder.
Not for the sponsors.
Not for Chloe.
Not for Haruka.
For Mika.
By the end of rehearsal, the theatre smelled like sweat and gaffer tape.
The performers dispersed in tired clusters. The sponsor liaisons left first. Chloe stayed behind, speaking to the committee, her voice low and controlled.
Haruka lingered near the stage, chatting with her Japanese friends.
Mika stood near the tech table, flipping through her clipboard as if checking boxes could quiet her mind.
Rafi packed cables.
He did not look at Mika.
Not because he didn’t want to.
Because looking felt like acknowledging something.
Haruka finally approached again.
Her smile was soft.
“You did well,” she told Mika.
Mika nodded. “Thank you.”
Haruka’s gaze shifted to Rafi.
“Tech was good,” she said.
Rafi nodded once.
Haruka’s smile widened. “I’m happy for you two.”
Rafi didn’t respond.
Haruka leaned in toward Mika, voice low.
“Message me,” she repeated. “I want details.”
Mika’s smile tightened. “Okay.”
Haruka stepped away.
As she left the theatre, she glanced back once more.
Her eyes met Rafi’s.
A silent message.
I’m watching.
Then she was gone.
Chloe finished her sponsor talk and walked toward the exit.
She didn’t stop at Rafi.
She stopped at Mika.
Her smile was polite.
“Good work,” she said. “You’re competent.”
Mika’s brows lifted slightly.
It sounded like praise.
It wasn’t.
“It’s important,” Chloe continued, voice smooth, “that Cultural Night looks cohesive. Sponsors like unity. They like… stable committees.”
Stable.
The word again.
Mika’s fingers tightened around her clipboard.
Rafi watched.
Chloe’s gaze slid to Rafi.
“And you,” she said lightly. “Try not to be distracted.”
Rafi’s jaw clenched.
Distracted.
By Mika.
Chloe smiled.
Then she walked out.
The theatre doors closed behind her.
Silence expanded.
Mika exhaled.
Rafi finished packing his laptop.
He slung his bag over his shoulder.
“Walk back?” he asked, voice neutral.
Mika nodded.
They left the Blackbox Theatre together.
Outside, the air was cooler, damp.
The campus lights had turned on, casting warm pools on wet pavement.
The Fluoro Corridor beside the theatre glowed harshly through a side door–a strip of fluorescent light that made everything look too honest.
Mika stopped near it.
Rafi stopped too.
He turned.
Mika looked at him.
Her expression was careful.
Like she had rehearsed it.
Then she said, softly:
“You were good at that.”
Rafi blinked.
“At what?” he asked, though he knew.
Mika’s gaze flicked away, then back.
“With Haruka,” she said. “With Chloe. With… being calm.”
Rafi’s throat tightened.
He didn’t know how to respond to praise.
He didn’t want to respond to praise.
So he said the only safe thing.
“It was necessary,” he replied.
Mika’s lips pressed together.
“You always say that,” she murmured.
Rafi stared.
Mika stepped closer by half a step.
Not touching.
Just closing distance.
“Do you really only do things when they’re necessary?” she asked.
Rafi’s chest tightened.
The question wasn’t about rehearsal.
It was about him.
He didn’t like it.
He looked away, toward the wet walkway.
“I don’t like mess,” he said finally.
Mika’s voice softened. “Neither do I.”
Rafi glanced back.
Mika’s eyes were tired.
“But you still… touched me,” Mika added, and the words were quiet. Not accusing. Just stating.
Rafi’s jaw clenched.
“It was for Chloe,” he said.
Mika nodded slowly.
“I know,” she whispered.
Silence stretched.
Rain began again, faint at first–tiny clicks on leaves.
Rafi reached into his bag automatically.
Umbrella.
He opened it.
The canopy spread above them.
Mika didn’t step under immediately.
She watched him.
Then she stepped closer.
Under the umbrella, her face looked softer.
Rafi’s chest tightened.
He didn’t move.
Mika’s fingers hovered near the handle.
She didn’t touch it this time.
Instead, she looked up at him.
“Do you regret this?” she asked.
Rafi’s throat tightened.
Regret.
He thought of StamfordSpills.
He thought of Chloe.
He thought of Haruka’s photo.
He thought of Dr. Koh and donors.
He thought of Mika’s parents across the sea.
He thought of Mika’s hand on his arm earlier–two fingers, brief–I trust you.
Rafi exhaled slowly.
“No,” he said.
The word surprised him.
It sounded too sure.
Mika’s breath caught.
Rafi’s jaw tightened.
He added, quieter, “Not yet.”
Mika’s lips curved faintly.
Not a smile.
Something close.
Like relief.
They walked.
Back toward Bayview.
Rain fell around them in soft sheets.
The campus glowed warm.
Under the umbrella, the world narrowed.
At the Bayview gate, Mika stopped.
Rafi stopped too.
He expected her to say thank you.
He braced for it.
But Mika didn’t.
Instead, she looked at him with a seriousness that made his chest tighten.
“Haruka will message me,” she said.
Rafi nodded.
“She will ask questions,” Mika continued. “She will want details.”
Rafi’s jaw clenched.
“Don’t give her too much,” he said.
Mika nodded.
Then she hesitated.
Her voice lowered.
“What should I say if she asks… if it’s real?”
Rafi’s pulse jumped.
He stared at her.
Mika’s eyes held his.
Not shy.
Not flirtatious.
Just… needing an answer.
Rafi’s throat tightened.
“It’s real enough,” he said.
Mika blinked.
Rafi regretted the phrasing immediately.
Real enough.
It sounded like the truth and a lie at the same time.
Mika’s cheeks warmed.
She looked down.
Then, quietly, she said, “Okay.”
She turned toward the gate.
Rafi watched her go.
She didn’t look back.
But halfway to the lobby, she paused.
She pulled out her phone.
She typed.
Rafi’s phone buzzed a second later.
A message from Mika.
Thank you for today. Goodnight, Rafi.
Rafi stared.
He hated gratitude.
And yet his chest tightened the way it always did when her messages appeared.
He typed back:
Goodnight.
He didn’t add anything else.
He should have left it there.
But his fingers hovered, then moved on their own.
Rehearsal was good. You did well.
He sent it before he could reconsider.
His heart thudded.
Across the Bayview courtyard, Mika paused, phone in hand.
Rafi couldn’t see her face.
But he imagined it.
A softening.
A quiet, surprised relief.
Then Mika walked inside.
Rafi stood under the umbrella alone, rain tapping above him.
His phone buzzed again.
A notification.
StamfordSpills: New post.
Rafi’s stomach tightened.
He clicked.
A photo.
Not blurry.
Haruka’s photo.
Rafi and Mika under the Bugis underpass shelter, close enough to look intimate.
Caption:
campus power couple?? cyber guy + japanese girl??
Rafi’s chest tightened.
Perception.
He looked up at the rain.
He didn’t know whether to laugh or swear.
Because the umbrella had been meant as shelter.
And now it was a spotlight.