Chapter Text
Niki never liked being asked if she was okay.
Not because she wasn’t.
Mostly because she didn’t know how to answer it.
“Okay” had always felt too vague. Too lazy of a word. It flattened things. Reduced entire inner landscapes into something digestible.
And Niki had spent most of her life learning how to make herself digestible.
Easy.
Polite.
Capable.
The kind of person no one had to worry about.
It started young.
It had to.
When you lose a parent early enough, people start looking at you differently. Softer. More careful. Like you’ve become something fragile they might accidentally break further.
At first, they ask.
How are you feeling?
Do you miss her?
Do you want to talk?
Then enough time passes.
People stop asking.
They assume grief expires.
As if it has a deadline.
As if a child eventually just… adjusts.
Niki did adjust.
That was the problem.
She became very good at it.
Her mother died during a typhoon when she was seven.
That sentence had become easy to say over the years.
Clinical.
Clean.
Detached.
Her mother died during a typhoon.
Not:
Her mother’s hand slipping from hers.
Not:
The freezing water rising too fast.
Not:
Her father screaming her mother’s name into the storm until his voice gave out.
Those parts stayed buried.
Mostly.
She remembered pieces.
Her mother’s perfume.
Warm rice porridge when she got sick.
The sound of humming in the kitchen.
And weirdly, her mother’s laugh whenever it rained.
She used to love storms.
Before.
Now, she tolerated them.
At twenty-eight, Niki lived in a quiet apartment on the twenty-third floor, where rain looked beautiful and harmless behind glass.
That was intentional.
Distance.
Control.
Everything in her life was arranged that way.
Her apartment.
Her wardrobe.
Her meetings.
Her conversations.
Even her emotions, sometimes.
Especially those.
She worked in her father’s company now, though technically, it was hers too.
Construction.
Infrastructure.
A business built by a man who coped with loss by building things that wouldn’t disappear.
Her father never remarried.
Never healed, either.
He simply redirected all his grief into work and expected life to continue.
Niki learned from him.
Not consciously.
But enough to inherit the habit.
Build.
Function.
Keep moving.
Do not examine the empty spaces too closely.
It worked.
Until it didn’t.
The strange thing wasn’t sadness.
She wasn’t sad.
Not exactly.
She just kept feeling like she had forgotten something important.
Like there was an unfinished task waiting for her somewhere.
Like someone had called her name and she had never answered.
It followed her everywhere.
In elevators.
During meetings.
While brushing her teeth.
While pretending to listen to friends talk over expensive dinners she didn’t want to attend.
A low, persistent hum beneath everything.
Something missing.
Something undone.
She thought maybe she was burnt out.
So she took a vacation.
It didn’t help.
She thought maybe she needed therapy.
It helped, but not enough.
She thought maybe she needed love.
That one made her laugh.
She had dated.
Men.
Women.
A little.
Nothing lasted.
Not because anything went wrong.
Mostly because she kept leaving before anyone could matter.
It was easier that way.
Less risk.
Less ache.
Then one night, unable to sleep, she found herself on a volunteer website.
She couldn’t even remember how.
One minute she was reading headlines about typhoon recovery efforts.
The next, she was staring at an NGO application form.
Liwanag Bayan.
Disaster relief.
Community rebuilding.
Volunteer-based operations.
She almost closed the tab.
Instead, she filled out the form.
She didn’t tell anyone.
Not even herself, really.
She just submitted it and went to bed.
Two weeks later, she was standing in a humid covered court somewhere in Quezon Province, surrounded by boxes of canned goods and strangers who all seemed to know what they were doing.
She was sweating through her volunteer shirt.
Her hair was sticking to her neck.
A toddler had just sneezed directly onto her forearm.
And she was seriously considering faking a family emergency.
“First day mo?”
Niki turned.
The woman standing behind her looked unimpressed.
Not rude.
Just… observant.
Late twenties, maybe. Tall. Dark hair tied into a loose bun that looked like it had given up hours ago. Mud on one sleeve. Clipboard under one arm. A tiny cut on her chin.
And eyes that looked tired in a way Niki recognized immediately.
Not sleepy.
Heavy.
Niki nodded.
“Is it that obvious?”
“Medyo.”
The woman glanced at the box Niki had been staring at for the last three minutes.
“You’ve been reading that same label like it’s going to explain your purpose in life.”
Niki blinked.
“…I was trying to figure out where it goes.”
“It’s noodles.”
“I know.”
“It goes with the other noodles.”
Niki looked at the massive pile of identical boxes.
“Right.”
The woman held out her hand.
“Amiel.”
Her grip was warm.
Firm.
Niki noticed that.
She noticed too many things.
“Niki.”
Amiel looked at her for a second too long.
Not flirtatiously.
Not warmly.
Like she was trying to place her.
Then she nodded once.
“Okay.”
“Okay what?”
“You look like someone who either leaves in the next ten minutes or accidentally stays for years.”
Niki frowned.
“That’s… weirdly specific.”
Amiel shrugged.
“I’m usually right.”
Then she walked away.
Just like that.
No smile. No dramatic spark. No instant connection.
And somehow—
Niki found herself annoyed.
Which was new.
That should have been the end of it. Just another stranger. Another volunteer. Another forgettable interaction. Except later that afternoon, Niki saw Amiel sitting alone behind the building. Not on break. Not checking her phone. Just sitting on an overturned plastic crate, staring at the rain.
It had started suddenly.
Hard.
Violent.
The kind of rain that made Niki’s chest tighten before she even realized why.
She stopped walking.
Her breathing changed.
Her palms turned cold.
No. Not here. Not now.
She closed her eyes.
Count.
Breathe.
Count—
“Niki.”
Her eyes snapped open. Amiel was standing in front of her. Too close. Concerned.
“You okay?”
Niki nodded too quickly.
“Yes.”
“Liar.”
There was no accusation in it. Just fact.
Niki hated that. She also wanted to cry. Which she hated more.
Amiel looked at the rain. Then back at her.
And quietly said, “I don’t like storms either.”
Something about the way she said it.
Not comforting.
Not performative.
Not I understand.
Just truth. Bare. Offered. No pressure.
Niki swallowed.
“Mine took someone.”
Amiel was quiet.
Then:
“Mine brought someone back.”
Niki looked at her.
“What?”
But Amiel had already stepped back.
“Come on. They need help sorting blankets.”
And she walked away.
Leaving Niki standing there, heart racing.
Confused.
For the first time in years, curious.