More Than Just Us

The First Cancellation

Saturday afternoons used to be their thing.

When college life got too heavy, when exams piled up and professors drained the life out of them, Kaye and Kiko would find their way back to their comfort: a bag of chips, a pile of movies, and the couch in Kiko’s living room. It wasn’t fancy, but it was theirs—hours of laughter, inside jokes, and the kind of silence that felt like home.

So when Kaye walked up the street to his house, clutching the DVD she’d borrowed from a friend, she already felt the lightness returning.

She texted him: I’m outside.

Seconds later, her phone buzzed.

Kiko: Kaye, I’m so sorry. I can’t today. Lianne’s group had some last-minute changes for our presentation and she asked if I could help out. I promise I’ll make it up to you. Don’t be mad, okay?

Kaye stopped in her tracks, staring at the message. The DVD suddenly felt heavy in her hands.

For a moment, she thought about knocking on his door anyway, pretending she hadn’t seen the message. But no—she couldn’t. Not when he’d already chosen to be somewhere else.

Her chest tightened. Slowly, she typed back: It’s fine. Good luck with the project.

She hit send, and just like that, the afternoon she had been looking forward to dissolved into nothing.

Back home, she curled up on her bed with the DVD beside her. She could’ve watched it alone, but what was the point? The laughter wouldn’t sound the same without his running commentary, without his teasing remarks about how she always cried during the sad parts.

Her phone buzzed again.

Kiko: You’re the best. Next week, it’s on me. I’ll bring the snacks. Promise.

She smiled faintly at the screen, but it didn’t reach her eyes. She wanted to reply something light, something playful, but all she managed was: Okay.

Monday came, and with it, another reminder.

“Kiko,” someone called down the hall. Lianne, waving a folder, rushing to catch up with him.

Kaye stood by the classroom door, watching as Kiko slowed down, his grin easy and familiar. He took the folder from Lianne, their shoulders brushing as they walked side by side.

And maybe it was nothing. Maybe she was reading too much into the way he leaned in when Lianne spoke, or how naturally they fell into step. But to Kaye, it felt like watching something she used to have slip into someone else’s hands.

She swallowed hard and forced herself into the classroom, pasting on a smile for her other friends. But her heart wasn’t in it.

Later that week, just when she was starting to wonder if things would keep slipping away, Kiko showed up at her doorstep.

“Kaye!” His voice carried that familiar boyish energy, and when she opened the door, there he was—holding up a plastic bag with two cups of her favorite milk tea.

She blinked. “What’s this?”

“My peace offering.” He flashed his grin, the one that had gotten them both out of trouble more times than she could count. “I told you I’d make it up to you, right?”

Her lips curved despite herself. “You canceled on me, and you think milk tea fixes everything?”

“Yes.” He handed her a cup. “Because you love me too much to stay mad.”

Her laugh slipped out before she could stop it, soft and helpless. “You’re impossible.”

“Maybe,” he said, stepping inside like he’d always belonged there. He flopped down on the couch, stretching out comfortably. “But I’m your impossible.”

And just like that, the ache dulled again. Sitting beside him, sipping her drink while he talked about random things—the funny thing their professor did in class, the new song stuck in his head—felt like home again.

But even in the comfort, the cracks remained. Because every so often, he’d glance at his phone, smile faintly at a new message, then quickly set it aside.

And Kaye knew.

Even as she laughed at his jokes, even as she leaned against his shoulder, she knew: she wasn’t the only one holding pieces of him anymore.

That night, when he finally left, Kaye sat by her window with her notebook open. The milk tea cup sat empty on her desk, the straw bitten through, a tiny reminder of the sweetness he had brought her.

Her pen hovered, then touched the page.

"Today you reminded me why I can never let go. But every time you look at your phone, I wonder if one day, it’ll be her you bring milk tea for instead of me."

She pressed the pen harder, the words smudging slightly, as if the paper itself understood the weight she couldn’t speak aloud.

And then, almost bitterly, she wrote the one line she didn’t dare say out loud:

"Don’t let her take you away from me."

She closed the notebook, her chest tight, and whispered into the silence:

“Please.”

But silence was the only answer.