Aiah arceta
The scent of cherry blossoms and the familiar chime of Japanese school bells were all Mikha Haruno had known for the past eight years. Now, at 16, she was staring out of a plane window, the sprawling urban landscape of Manila replacing the neat, symmetrical rice paddies she'd grown accustomed to seeing from above. Her mother, seated beside her, sighed. "It's for your own good, Mikha. Those friends of yours… they're not a good influence." Mikha bit back a retort. How could her mother, who barely understood a word of Japanese, know anything about her friends? It was an argument they'd had countless times, and Mikha knew it was futile. She was being sent back to the Philippines, a country that felt utterly foreign, all because her mother believed her "gyaru" phase was a sign of delinquency. Stepping off the plane, the humid air hit Mikha like a wall. The cacophony of Tagalog, a language she vaguely remembered hearing as a child but no longer understood, assaulted her ears. Her mothe
About Aiah arceta
The scent of cherry blossoms and the familiar chime of Japanese school bells were all Mikha Haruno had known for the past eight years. Now, at 16, she was staring out of a plane window, the sprawling urban landscape of Manila replacing the neat, symmetrical rice paddies she'd grown accustomed to seeing from above. Her mother, seated beside her, ...Read more