Screenshots
Rain did not just fall in Singapore.
It arrived with intent.
It hit glass and metal and skin like the city owed it something, like the clouds were collectors and everyone below was late on payment. Even when it stopped, it left behind a damp memory–darkened concrete, the smell of wet leaves, the way humidity clung to fabric as if refusing to let go.
Mika Nakamura woke up to that memory.
Not rain itself. No tapping against her Bayview window, no thunder rolling over rooftops.
Just the sensation of being watched.
Her phone lay on her pillow like a small creature that had crawled there during the night. The screen was dark, but her body already knew what it would show when she woke it: messages, notifications, proof that the world did not sleep.
She stared at the ceiling for a long moment, letting her eyes trace the faint seam where the paint met the wall. Priya’s breathing rose and fell in the other bed across the room, steady and unbothered–like Mika’s roommate had never in her life been humbled by a comment section.
Mika reached for her phone anyway.
The lock screen lit up.
Haruka: So!!! Finally!!!
Haruka: You owe me dinner
Haruka: I saw StamfordSpills. Wild.
Below it, a message from her mother.
Mama: Are you safe?
Mika stared at those three words until her throat tightened.
Safe.
It should have been a simple question.
But for her parents, safety was not about the absence of danger.
It was about the presence of something that made them feel calm.
A routine. A family. A man.
Mika’s thumb hovered over her mother’s message.
She typed, erased, typed again.
Yes, I’m fine.
She deleted it.
Fine sounded like deflection.
Yes, I’m safe. I’m with friends.
She deleted that too.
Friends weren’t enough.
Proof.
Her phone vibrated again, sharp against the pillow.
Another message.
Mama: Your father saw something online.
Mika’s stomach turned.
She didn’t need to ask what.
Her father didn’t say “online” unless it meant something humiliating had escaped the private boundaries of family talk.
Mika sat up slowly. Her hair slid over her shoulder, heavy from sleep. The air in the room was cool but not clean; Bayview’s air-conditioning always carried a faint scent of someone else’s detergent, someone else’s curry, someone else’s life.
Across the room, Priya shifted, rolled over, and opened one eye.
“You’re awake,” Priya mumbled.
Mika swallowed. “Yes.”
Priya blinked at her, then at Mika’s phone.
“Don’t tell me your parents saw StamfordSpills,” Priya said, voice suddenly clearer.
Mika didn’t answer.
Her silence was enough.
Priya groaned, flopping onto her back dramatically. “Of course they did. The algorithm feeds parents drama like it’s health food.”
Mika’s cheeks warmed, shame rising like heat.
“It’s… not only that,” she whispered.
Priya sat up, pushing her hair back. Her face, even half-asleep, looked like someone who took exams and arguments the same way: directly.
“What did they say?”
Mika stared at her phone.
Her mother’s second message glowed.
Your father saw something online.
Mika’s throat tightened.
“He will call,” she said.
Priya’s expression softened, the sharpness replaced by something steadier.
“Okay,” Priya said, voice gentler than her threats. “Then we do what we always do. We control the narrative.”
Mika managed a faint smile.
“You sound like my major,” she murmured.
Priya snorted. “Your major is useful. That’s why you picked it.”
Mika looked down.
She hadn’t picked it for usefulness at first.
She had picked it because stories were the only things she could shape when everything else was being shaped for her.
Priya leaned closer.
“Did Rafi message you?” Priya asked.
Mika blinked. “No. Not… today.”
Priya frowned. “Then message him. We’re doing the video call.”
Mika’s chest tightened.
The video call.
Priya had said it last night like it was a simple solution, like you could plug “boyfriend” into a conversation the way you plugged a cable into a port.
But Mika had grown up learning that when you introduced someone to your parents, even through a screen, you didn’t take it back.
It left a residue.
It meant expectation.
It meant the story had become real enough to be measured.
Mika stared at the chat with Rafi.
Last message:
Rafi: Rehearsal was good. You did well.
Her chest gave a small, ridiculous ache.
The praise had landed like warmth against cold.
Not dramatic.
Just… steady.
Mika typed.
Good morning. Are you free today?
She stared at the words.
Too formal.
Too needy.
She erased it.
Hi. My parents might call. Can we talk?
She erased that too.
Priya watched her fumble in silence for a few seconds, then snatched a pillow and threw it lightly at Mika’s shoulder.
“Stop writing like you’re applying for a bank loan,” Priya said. “He already agreed to fake date you. Send something human.”
Mika blinked, startled, then let out a quiet breath.
She typed again.
Rafi. Are you around later? My dad saw StamfordSpills. I think he’ll call. I might need… proof.
She hesitated at the last word.
Proof.
It felt ugly.
But it was true.
She pressed send before she could overthink it.
The message delivered.
Mika’s heart thudded once, hard.
Priya swung her legs off the bed.
“I’m going to shower,” Priya announced. “If your father calls while I’m in there, I’m not allowed to scream?”
Mika managed a small laugh.
“You can scream,” she said.
Priya pointed at her. “No. You scream. I’ll be backup.”
Then she marched into the bathroom, leaving Mika alone with the sound of running water and her own pulse.
Mika stared at her phone.
Three dots did not appear.
She waited anyway.
Rafi’s reply came twenty minutes later, just as Mika had finished tying her hair into a neat half-up twist, just as she had decided she would not look like a girl about to be returned to Japan like a faulty product.
Rafi: Okay. Where are you?
Mika’s breath caught.
Not why.
Not what happened.
Where are you.
Like it was a given that he would come.
She typed quickly.
Bayview. Block A. But we can meet at Juniper.
A pause.
Rafi: Bayview common kitchen. Level 2. 11:30.
Mika stared at the message.
Bayview.
Domestic.
Visible.
Her stomach fluttered–an emotion too complicated to name.
She replied with a simple:
Okay.
Priya emerged from the bathroom with wet hair and a towel wrapped around her neck.
“Did he respond?” Priya asked.
Mika nodded.
Priya’s eyes gleamed. “Good. We’re doing this properly.”
Mika swallowed.
Properly.
That word again.
A word that sounded like safety.
And like a trap.
At 11:27, Mika stood in Bayview’s Level 2 common kitchen and tried not to look like she was waiting.
The kitchen smelled like boiled noodles and leftover garlic from someone’s breakfast. The counter was cluttered with mismatched cups. A pot sat soaking in the sink with a film of oil floating like a thin regret.
The room was half full.
Two exchange students argued softly over whose rice was whose in the shared fridge. A boy in a hoodie stirred something in a pan while watching a tutorial on his phone. A girl in a sports bra poured protein powder into a shaker with the seriousness of a pharmacist.
Mika chose a spot near the window, where the light was better.
Where a video call could look bright.
Where her face would not be swallowed by shadows.
She set her tote on the table and opened it, pulling out what she had prepared: her clipboard from Cultural Night, her laptop, a small notebook where she kept internship deadlines written neatly.
She didn’t know why she had brought the notebook.
Maybe to look like someone with plans.
Maybe because her life felt safer when it was arranged in lists.
She checked her phone.
No new messages.
Then the kitchen door swung open.
Rafi stepped in.
He looked different here.
On campus, he was always framed by fluorescent lights and committee tension. In the Blackbox Theatre, by equipment and urgency.
In Bayview, in this kitchen that smelled like other people’s lives, he looked like someone’s boyfriend in a way that was inconveniently believable.
He wore a clean university outfit–dark jeans, a simple grey tee under an unbuttoned overshirt, sneakers that looked like they had been worn but cared for. His hair was neat. His backpack hung from one shoulder.
And there, as if it was part of him, was the outline of his spare umbrella inside the bag.
Mika’s chest tightened.
Rafi’s gaze found her almost immediately.
He walked over, posture calm.
“Mika,” he said.
“Rafi,” she replied.
He set his bag down beside her chair.
For a second, neither of them moved.
The kitchen noise filled the silence.
Someone laughed at a meme. A pan sizzled. A kettle clicked.
Rafi looked at her.
Not scanning her like Haruka.
Not measuring her like Chloe.
Just… looking.
“You okay?” he asked.
Mika swallowed.
She wanted to say yes.
She wanted to lie.
But her father’s message sat in her chest like a stone.
“My dad saw the post,” she said quietly. “He said he saw something online.”
Rafi’s jaw tightened.
“I saw it too,” he admitted.
Mika’s eyes flicked to his.
“You did?”
Rafi nodded once.
Then he added, voice low: “Haruka posted it.”
Mika’s cheeks warmed with embarrassment and anger.
“Yes,” she whispered. “She thinks she is helping.”
Rafi exhaled.
“What do you need?” he asked.
The question was practical.
It should have comforted her.
Instead, it made her throat tighten.
Because she needed him.
She hated that.
Mika looked down at her hands.
“I think my father will call,” she said. “He will ask… who you are. If it’s real.”
Rafi’s eyes stayed steady.
“And if it’s real enough,” he said, echoing his own words from last night.
Mika’s cheeks warmed again.
She lifted her gaze.
“I don’t want to trap you,” she said, the apology emerging before she could stop it. “You didn’t ask for my family–”
Rafi cut in, not harshly, just firmly.
“Stop apologizing,” he said.
Mika blinked.
Rafi’s expression remained calm, but something in his voice tightened.
“We agreed,” he added. “Properly. So we do it properly.”
Mika swallowed.
Properly.
She nodded.
Rafi glanced around the kitchen.
“We do the call here,” he said. “Looks normal.”
Mika’s stomach fluttered.
Normal.
Her parents would see a shared space, a kitchen, a university life that wasn’t lonely.
They would see other people in the background.
They would see that she existed in a community.
That she wasn’t unstable.
Mika took a slow breath.
“Okay,” she said.
Rafi set his phone on the table.
“Practice,” he said.
Mika blinked.
Rafi looked at her. “What will they ask?”
Mika hesitated.
Then she listed them anyway, because her family’s questions lived in her bones.
“How did you meet,” she said. “What you study. If you are serious. If you… have intention.”
Intention.
The word sounded like marriage.
Rafi’s eyebrows lifted slightly.
“They’ll ask if I’m serious?” he repeated.
Mika’s cheeks flushed.
“Yes,” she admitted. “Japanese parents…”
Rafi exhaled, slow.
“Okay,” he said. “We keep it simple.”
Mika nodded.
Rafi leaned forward slightly.
“What’s your father like?” he asked.
Mika’s fingers tightened on her notebook.
“He is… strict,” she said. “Not loud. But strict. He cares about reputation. He thinks stability is… structure.”
Rafi’s mouth tightened.
“Sounds like donors,” he murmured.
Mika blinked, startled, then let out a quiet breath that almost resembled laughter.
“Yes,” she admitted.
Rafi’s gaze softened for a fraction.
“Okay,” he said. “Then we give him structure.”
He lifted his phone again.
“Tell me your parents’ names,” he said. “So I don’t sound rude.”
Mika’s throat tightened.
“Mama is Aiko,” she said softly. “Father is Kenji.”
Rafi nodded slowly, absorbing.
“Do they speak English?” he asked.
“Some,” Mika replied. “My mother more. My father understands but he prefers Japanese.”
Rafi’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“I know a few words,” he said.
Mika blinked. “You do?”
Rafi’s mouth twitched. “Very few. Don’t expect miracles.”
Mika’s lips curved faintly.
The smile was small.
But it was real.
Rafi glanced down at his phone, then back at her.
“What do you want them to see?” he asked.
The question caught Mika off-guard.
Not what they would ask.
Not what they wanted.
What she wanted.
Mika stared at him.
“I want them to see that I’m okay,” she said, voice quiet. “That I’m not… breaking.”
Rafi held her gaze.
Mika swallowed.
“And I want them to stop,” she added, the frustration breaking through. “Stop pulling me back like I’m a child. Stop telling me I’m unstable because I’m far away. I want them to trust that I can live.”
Her voice trembled at the end.
She hated that it did.
Rafi didn’t look away.
He didn’t try to comfort her with useless phrases.
He simply nodded.
“Okay,” he said.
And somehow, the word felt like a promise.
They rehearsed like it was a presentation.
Rafi asked questions the way he would in a mock interview: direct, precise, designed to expose weak points.
“How did we meet?”
“Cultural Night committee,” Mika answered.
“Where?”
“Stamford. Blackbox Theatre. Planning meetings.”
“What do we like about each other?”
Mika blinked hard.
Rafi’s expression stayed neutral.
“It’s a normal question,” he said.
Mika’s cheeks warmed.
“I… like that you are reliable,” she said.
Rafi’s gaze held hers.
“Okay,” he replied. “What else?”
Mika’s throat tightened.
She hated that answering felt like stepping closer to something real.
“I like…” she began.
She glanced down.
“…that you don’t try to impress people,” she finished.
Rafi blinked.
He looked away for a moment, jaw flexing as if swallowing something.
Then he nodded once.
“What do you say about me?” Mika asked, voice smaller.
Rafi’s gaze returned.
His expression remained calm.
“I say you’re competent,” he replied.
Mika stared.
“That’s like… resume,” she said.
Rafi’s mouth twitched.
“Your father wants stability,” he said. “Competent is stable.”
Mika sighed softly.
Then, more daringly, she asked, “Do you like anything else?”
Rafi went still.
For a second, he looked like someone being asked to open a door he had kept locked.
The kitchen noise swelled around them.
Someone laughed loudly behind. A cupboard slammed.
Rafi’s gaze flicked away, then back.
He spoke quietly.
“I like that you’re honest,” he said.
Mika’s breath caught.
Rafi’s jaw tightened as if he regretted the admission.
He added quickly, “When you’re not apologizing.”
Mika’s cheeks warmed.
She looked down at her hands.
“Okay,” she murmured.
Rafi stared at his phone.
Then he said, almost grudging, “And I like that you do your job properly.”
Mika blinked.
“That’s still… work,” she teased softly.
Rafi’s mouth twitched.
“It matters,” he replied.
Mika didn’t push.
She couldn’t.
Because her chest felt tight in a way she didn’t understand.
Because the simplicity of his words–honest, properly–felt like a kind of intimacy.
Not romantic.
But real.
Her phone buzzed.
Mika froze.
She looked down.
A call.
Papa
Kenji Nakamura.
Her throat tightened.
Rafi’s gaze sharpened.
“Now?” he asked.
Mika swallowed.
She nodded.
Her fingers hovered over the screen.
She wanted to run.
She forced herself not to.
She pressed answer.
“Papa,” she said, voice steadying into polite Japanese.
Her father’s voice came through, low and measured.
“Mika.”
One syllable.
Her name said like a judgment.
Mika sat straighter.
Rafi remained still across from her.
His calmness was contagious.
Her father spoke again.
“I saw a photograph,” he said.
Mika’s throat tightened.
“I understand,” she replied.
“Who is he?” her father asked.
Mika glanced at Rafi.
He nodded once.
A silent cue.
Mika took a breath.
“He is my boyfriend,” she said.
The word–kareshi–felt heavy in her mouth.
Her father was quiet.
Then: “Put him on.”
Mika’s stomach dropped.
Rafi’s eyes narrowed.
“Now?” Mika whispered, covering the phone.
Rafi nodded.
“We do it,” he said.
Mika’s fingers shook slightly.
She switched to video call.
Her mother’s face appeared first, a little blurred, then sharpening.
Aiko Nakamura wore a pale blouse. Her hair was neatly tied back. Behind her, Mika could see their living room–familiar framed art, the soft light of home.
Then her father leaned into frame.
Kenji Nakamura’s face was stern, calm. His eyes were sharp in a way Mika had feared since childhood.
“Mika,” her mother said softly. Relief and worry braided together in one word.
Mika smiled politely.
“Hi, Mama,” she replied.
Her father’s gaze flicked over her face.
Then down.
Then around.
He was scanning her environment.
Proof.
“Where are you?” he asked.
Mika swallowed.
“In Bayview,” she said. “Residence. Common kitchen.”
Her father’s eyes narrowed.
“You cook?” he asked.
Mika’s cheeks warmed.
She forced a small laugh. “Sometimes.”
Her mother leaned closer, eyes soft. “You look tired.”
Mika’s throat tightened.
“I’m okay,” she said quickly. “I’m fine.”
Her father’s gaze hardened.
“Put him on,” he repeated.
Mika glanced at Rafi.
Rafi leaned in, shifting into frame.
For a second, Mika saw him through her parents’ eyes.
A Singaporean boy. Calm. Clean-cut. Serious.
Someone believable.
Rafi looked into the camera.
He bowed slightly–awkward but respectful.
“Hello,” he said. “Nice to meet you.”
Her mother blinked, surprised.
Her father didn’t blink.
“Name,” Kenji demanded.
Rafi’s jaw tightened slightly, then he answered evenly.
“Rafael Tan Rui Fan,” he said. “But… Rafi.”
Her father’s gaze sharpened.
“What do you study?”
“Computer Engineering,” Rafi replied. “Cybersecurity track.”
Her father nodded once, as if the major had weight.
Her mother smiled faintly. “Cybersecurity… that sounds difficult.”
Rafi’s expression softened a fraction. “It’s okay.”
Mika’s cheeks warmed.
Her father’s gaze flicked between them.
“How long?” he asked.
Rafi answered without hesitation.
“Since last week,” he said.
Mika’s stomach fluttered.
Her father’s eyes narrowed.
“Last week,” Kenji repeated. “And already photographed. Already online.”
Mika’s chest tightened.
She opened her mouth.
Rafi spoke first.
“It wasn’t planned,” he said calmly. “We were seen by friends. We’re both involved in Cultural Night committee. People take photos.”
Kenji’s expression did not soften.
“Are you serious?” he asked.
The question hit like a stone.
Serious.
Mika’s breath caught.
Rafi didn’t flinch.
“Yes,” he said.
One word.
No elaborate promises.
No romantic speech.
Just certainty.
Mika’s throat tightened.
Her mother exhaled softly, eyes shining.
“Rafi-kun,” Aiko said carefully, trying the honorific as if testing it. “Thank you for taking care of Mika.”
Mika’s cheeks warmed.
Rafi’s eyes flicked to Mika for a fraction–so quick her parents probably wouldn’t notice.
Then he looked back.
“I will,” he said.
Mika’s chest tightened again.
Her father held his gaze.
“Do you have intentions?” Kenji asked.
Mika’s stomach dropped.
Intentions.
Rafi blinked once.
Then he answered in the calmest voice she had ever heard.
“I have intentions to respect her,” he said. “To support her while she’s here.”
Kenji’s eyes narrowed.
“That is not what I asked.”
Mika’s fingers tightened around the phone.
She felt heat crawling up her neck.
Her mother’s expression shifted–worry, a silent apology.
Rafi’s jaw flexed.
He didn’t get defensive.
He didn’t try to charm.
He simply spoke with the same steadiness he used with donors.
“I understand,” he said. “But we’re students. We’re still building our future. Right now, my intention is to be stable. For her.”
Kenji stared.
Mika held her breath.
Then her father looked away for a moment, as if considering.
When he looked back, his gaze landed on Mika.
“You have classes?” he asked.
“Yes,” Mika replied quickly.
“You eat properly?”
Mika nodded.
Her father’s gaze flicked around the kitchen again.
Then, quietly, he said, “Do not embarrass yourself.”
The words were sharp.
Not cruel.
But sharp.
Mika’s throat tightened.
“I won’t,” she whispered.
Her mother leaned closer, voice soft.
“Mika,” she said. “Are you happy?”
Mika froze.
Happy.
It wasn’t a question her mother asked often.
Mika’s eyes stung.
She forced a small smile.
“I’m… okay,” she said.
Her mother’s eyes softened.
“Okay,” she repeated gently. “Okay is… good.”
Mika’s breath caught.
Rafi’s gaze flicked toward her again.
The call ended the way all family calls ended–with polite farewells, with her father’s final instructions, with her mother’s gentle “take care” that felt like a hand hovering over her head even across the sea.
When the screen went dark, Mika stared at her reflection in it.
She didn’t move.
She didn’t breathe properly.
Then she exhaled, long and shaky.
Rafi sat back.
The kitchen noise returned, louder now that the bubble had popped.
Mika’s hands trembled.
She hated that they did.
She clasped them together under the table.
Rafi watched her.
“You okay?” he asked again.
Mika swallowed.
“He asked about intentions,” she whispered.
Rafi nodded once.
“He always asks,” Mika added, voice tight. “It’s like… he wants to decide my future through my answers.”
Rafi’s jaw clenched.
Mika stared down.
“And you said yes,” she said quietly. “You said you were serious.”
Rafi’s gaze stayed steady.
“It was necessary,” he said.
Mika’s chest tightened.
Always that word.
Necessary.
She lifted her gaze.
“Did it feel like a lie?” she asked.
Rafi went still.
For a second, he looked like someone standing at the edge of a line.
He didn’t answer immediately.
Mika’s throat tightened.
She regretted asking.
Then Rafi spoke, voice low.
“It felt like… something that could become real,” he said.
Mika’s breath caught.
The words were not romantic.
They were not a confession.
But they landed like a small crack in the wall.
Mika’s eyes stung.
She looked away quickly.
“I shouldn’t have involved you,” she whispered.
Rafi’s jaw tightened.
“Stop apologizing,” he said again.
Mika’s shoulders trembled once.
She hated herself for it.
The tremble grew.
Suddenly, the composure she had worn all morning slipped.
Not dramatically.
Just… a crack.
Her eyes watered.
She blinked hard.
Rafi didn’t move.
He didn’t reach for her.
He simply sat there, steady, present.
Mika swallowed.
“I’m tired,” she confessed, voice barely audible. “I’m tired of proving I’m okay.”
Rafi’s gaze softened, just a fraction.
He nodded once.
“I know,” he said.
Two words.
Not an attempt to fix.
Just recognition.
Mika’s breath shook.
She wiped her eyes quickly, embarrassed.
“Sorry,” she murmured automatically.
Rafi’s eyes narrowed.
“Mika,” he said, voice firm.
She looked up.
Rafi leaned forward slightly.
“Don’t say sorry for being tired,” he said.
Mika stared.
Her throat tightened.
For a moment, she didn’t know what to do with the gentleness.
Then she looked down.
“Okay,” she whispered.
Rafi’s mouth twitched.
“You said that like you don’t mean it,” he observed.
Mika managed a small, wet laugh.
“It’s my default,” she admitted.
Rafi nodded.
Then he reached into his bag.
Mika’s eyes widened slightly.
Rafi pulled out his umbrella.
He didn’t open it.
He just set it on the table.
Between them.
A familiar object now.
A symbol they had never agreed was a symbol.
Mika stared at it.
Rafi’s voice was calm.
“Proof works both ways,” he said. “Your parents needed proof you’re not alone. My… donors need proof I’m stable.”
Mika’s chest tightened.
Rafi continued, quieter.
“But sometimes you need proof for yourself too,” he said. “That you can… stand here and still be okay.”
Mika’s eyes stung again.
She stared at the umbrella handle.
Then, slowly, she reached out.
Her fingers curled around it.
Not just touching.
Holding.
Rafi didn’t move.
He watched her like he was letting her take something without making it a transaction.
Mika exhaled.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Rafi’s jaw tightened.
He didn’t like gratitude.
But this time he didn’t deflect.
He nodded once.
“You’re welcome,” he said.
The words sounded unfamiliar.
Like he was practicing a new language.
They left the kitchen together.
The corridor outside smelled faintly of someone’s curry and fabric softener. Bayview’s lobby fans pushed warm air in slow waves. Outside the glass doors, clouds had gathered again–grey, heavy at the edges.
Mika walked beside Rafi, her hands calmer now.
She still felt raw.
But the rawness wasn’t just pain.
It was… relief.
Her father had seen.
Her mother had smiled.
She had not been pulled back across the sea today.
At the Bayview gate, Rafi stopped.
Mika stopped too.
He looked up at the sky.
“Rain later,” he said.
Mika huffed softly, a hint of humor returning.
“Singapore always,” she murmured.
Rafi glanced at her.
“You have class?” he asked.
Mika nodded. “One seminar. Media Lab later.”
Rafi nodded.
“Okay,” he said. “Text me if Haruka causes trouble.”
Mika blinked.
The offer was simple.
Not dramatic.
But it felt like someone giving her a spare key.
“Okay,” she replied.
Rafi’s mouth twitched.
He turned to leave.
Mika watched him walk away.
Then her phone buzzed.
Haruka.
Mika’s stomach tightened.
She opened the message.
Haruka: I told my mom about you.
Haruka: She said your parents must be relieved!
Haruka: Also… your dad should meet him properly. Not just video.
Mika’s throat tightened.
Not just video.
Meet him properly.
The words felt like a door being pushed open.
Mika’s fingers trembled.
Then another notification popped up.
StamfordSpills: New post.
Mika’s heart dropped.
She clicked.
A grainy photo.
Her. Rafi. Bayview common kitchen.
Someone had taken it through the window.
Rafi leaning slightly into frame.
Mika holding her phone.
The caption:
bro they’re at BAYVIEW now??? fast fast 😭
The comments were already stacking.
power couple fr
Chloe must be screaming
wait is this real or PR stunt
Mika’s stomach turned.
The proof she had just used to protect herself had become another public object.
She stared at the screen.
Then she looked up.
Rafi was halfway across the courtyard now.
He hadn’t seen the post yet.
Mika’s fingers tightened around her phone.
The rain began again–soft at first, like the sky testing her resolve.
Mika swallowed.
She didn’t want to drag him deeper.
But the world had already decided to pull them in.
She typed.
Rafi. StamfordSpills posted Bayview.
She hit send.
Then she stood under the awning and watched rain fall into the courtyard like a thousand tiny questions.
And in the space between one droplet and the next, Mika realized something that made her chest tighten:
This was no longer only about convincing her parents.
It was about surviving the attention.
Together.