It’s past midnight. Normal people would be asleep. Or at least inside their house. But you? You’re crouched in a pile of crunchy-ass leaves in Mikha’s garden like some cursed fairy tale creature who never learned how to let go.

You shift slightly, trying not to rustle too loud, but the leaves are betraying you. Drama queens. One slips down your hoodie. Another crunches near your ear.

Still, you knock. Once. Twice. And then you dive back under like the little feral ex you are.

Minutes later, the porch light flips on. The door creaks open.

“She’s at it again,” Mikha says flatly. You can hear her through the door, probably on the phone with that one best friend who always hated you. “No, I’m serious. She’s in the leaves. Like a literal human compost pile.”

You don’t move. Pride has long since abandoned you. You left it somewhere between your third breakup text and the time you showed up crying at 3 a.m. because you saw a dog that looked like hers.

“I see you,” she says, stepping outside, barefoot, hoodie sleeves pushed up. She’s already rolling her eyes before she even spots the mess you’ve made of her garden. “You are not slick, Alyanna. You’re literally glowing from the reflection of my porch light.”

You peek your head out, slow. “It’s called dramatic lighting.”

“It’s called trespassing.”

You grin. “Can’t trespass on a heart that used to be mine.”

She stares at you like she’s physically restraining herself from launching a garden gnome at your head.

“I blocked you on Instagram,” she says, slowly. “And you’re still in my yard.”

“Instagram is digital,” you say, standing up and dusting off leaves. “This is organic.”

She mutters something to her best friend you can’t quite catch. Probably “Why did I ever date her?” And honestly, valid.

But then she sighs and hangs up.

She steps closer, crossing her arms. Her voice drops, softer this time. “Why are you here?”

You pause.

The jokes catch in your throat.

“…I dunno,” you say honestly. “It’s stupid. I just missed you.”

Silence.

Then, Mikha exhales like she’s mad at herself.

“You’re lucky you’re pathetic.”

You blink. “That’s… not really a compliment—”

“Shut up,” she mutters, walking past you. “Come inside. I’m not letting you sleep in a pile of dead leaves.”

You follow her without thinking, barefoot, crackling with every step like autumn itself is judging you.

She holds the door open.

And doesn’t let go of it even when you pass.