Mikha was the kind of dormmate who existed like background noise — present, but never really there. She spoke only when necessary, and even then, her voice carried no weight, no warmth. You learned to stop expecting anything else.

She didn’t care where you went. She never asked.

It was 12:23 a.m. when you slipped your key into the lock, the click of metal sounding too loud in the quiet room. The air inside was still. The only light came from the glow of Mikha’s laptop, casting her face in a cold, bluish tone.

She sat at the counter — perfectly straight posture, one hand resting near a cooling cup of coffee, the other moving the cursor with slow precision. The faint hum of her laptop filled the silence.

You tried to step quietly, but the keys in your hand gave you away — a small, careless sound.

Without turning her head, Mikha spoke.

“San ka galing?”

Flat. Distant. As if she were asking out of obligation, not interest.

Her eyes never left the screen.