Miles

Cairo Sweet x fem!reader

Summary: After the note, time has passed, you were just trying to graduate and disappear as you start hearing the scandal of Mr. Miller and Cairo. After two years, you return to the place you swear to forget..

Warnings: slow burn, ANGST, happy ending?, Mr. Miller, grammar, idk what I’m doing to be honest, first time writing this so it might suck but I hope you enjoy anyway….

[A/N:]

Sorry, I took a while to write this part, my job has keep me busy this past few days but finally, here it is! I wanted to be as good as can be. Anyways, hope you guys enjoy! Also I apologize if there’s any errors!

Part 2 of “We were Almost Something”

As time goes on, I try not to say her name anymore. Not because I have forgotten it — Cairo Sweet is carved too deep into my soul for that — but because it still feels dangerous. Like speaking it out loud could drag all the rumors, the whispers, the ugly headlines, right back to the surface.

I still remember the day it all broke — the scandal with Mr. Miller. The creative writing assignment. The story that expose a possible affair between them. A student and teacher relationship. Everyone talk about it in every hallway conversation, that the story was a love letter, that she did it for attention, she fuck teacher and many others that I haven’t heard yet.

And me? I was collateral damage — “the girl who was always hanging around her” I learned quickly how fast pity can rot into suspicion.

After Mr. Miller got suspension. She left before the semester ended. No goodbyes. No letter. Just absence, heavy and sharp.

Weeks blur into months. Then, one rainy night, it happens.

I was walking home when the streetlights flicker — not in the way old bulbs do, but like the world is glitching. The air thickens, humming, and suddenly, it wasn’t my street anymore.

I was back at her house. In her room. The light outside the window is strange — neither day nor night. The kind of light that feels like it’s holding its breath.

And Cairo was there. Sitting on the sofa. Leaning against the wall. Holding her laptop on her lap while holding a cigarette on her fingers. Wearing the same guarded expression I saw the last time we were alone together.

“You’re not real,” I said as her eyes meet mine, steady. “Neither is this. But it’s the only place I can see you.”

“Why here?” she ask, her voice smaller that she probably meant to.

“Because it’s where we still make sense.”

The world outside the window seems to warp and bend, the buildings dissolving into streaks of color. I can feel my heart pulse in my throat as water drip down my forehead.

“You left,” I said “You didn’t even try—”

“I had to.” Her voice is raw, like the truth is cutting her throat on the way out. “After Miller… they would have chewed you up too. I thought I was protecting you.”

“You thought you were protecting me by vanishing? Everyone was talking about how you fucked Miller, and I have to keep my mouth shut and pretending nothing happened??!!Seriously Cairo!!… I can’t even look at you right now..” I said as I shake my head and turn around to leave

“I didn’t fucked Miller, Y/n. I promise you that! I was confused! But please understand, I vanished to make sure no one could link you to us. By making sure they only aimed at me.” she yelled as my hand stop at the doorknob. I want to scream at her. I want to tell her it didn’t work, even tho she disappeared, I still felt the heat of every stare, still heard the whispers. But I also want to close the distance that we both have and never let her go.

But I know I can’t, because this Cairo is not her… Because all of this, its all my head.

“I can’t change what happened,” she said, softer now. “But I want to change what happens next. So please, don’t go…” You turn around and look at her as she stands in the middle of the room “You too late, Cairo”

Two Years Later

Life moves on without asking permission. I finished school, moved away and have started to build something on my own in Oregon. I’m finishing writing a book. I haven’t met anyone, I have try but it hasn’t work out. Even after two years, I have almost convince myself that I had imagined her — the real Cairo and the twilight Cairo.

But one day, a call came — my mom’s voice on the phone, telling me she’d found an old box of my things. She asked me to come pick it up before she cleared the attic. A small reason, maybe, but enough to bring me back to the town I have swore I’d never return to. Just for a weekend.

It’s raining when I arrive. Warm, heavy drops that make the streets shine like they’ve been painted in silver. I keep my head down, my hands in my pockets as my mind already telling me that this is the most stupidest thing I have ever done, that I turn back and get fuck out of here again.

Until I hear my name. I stop and turned slowly to direction to that familiar voice, the voice of that person that has consumed me against my will. Cairo Sweet. Standing in front of me — in a long sleeve black dress, black heel boots, and her hair in a messy bun — holding an umbrella.

After two years, she still has the same ability to take my breathe away, still have those same eyes, though now they look at me like they’ve been waiting and searching for me in every face for two years.

For a moment, neither of us move. — Me? I haven’t moved cause I don’t know nor sure if this real or just like last time — “You came back,” she said, snapping me out of my thoughts as she takes a step forward — and it feels like stepping out of the twilight, into something solid. Real.

“For a box in my mom’s attic,” I replied, my voice is softer than I mean it to be, pointing behind me as if my house is behind me. She laughs under her breath, like she’s afraid the sound might break whatever this moment is. She steps closer — not enough to touch, but enough that you can smell her perfume and the faint hint of coffee and cigarette on her breath — and holds the umbrella over both of our heads.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again,” she admits. “I thought… I’d ruined any chance we had.” “You did,” I said, but there’s no heat in it. “And maybe I did too. But here we are.”

“I’m not the same,” she said. I swallowed. “I’ve spent two years trying not to be the girl who walked away from you.”

“And who are you now?” I asked. She steps into my space, slow and certain, until our chests are almost touching as she let go the umbrella. My hand hovers, then rests lightly on her jaw, my thumb brushing the edge of her cheekbone “Someone who wants to stay.” She said as she grabs my neck and leans in.

The leaning is slower than I have expect — not rushed, not desperate. It’s a question, not an apology. A quiet can I? that I answer by kissing her.

Her fingers slide to the back of my neck, her forehead pressing against mine when we pull away. I can feel her breath against my lips, steady and warm.

“You don’t owe me anything,” she murmurs as she plays with my baby hair on my neck. “But I’ll spend as long as it takes proving I’m not going anywhere this time.”

I smile — small, but real. And for the first time in years, I believe her. The secret kiss, the note, the scandal, the whispers, the years apart — they’re still there, part of your story. But now, so is this.

The rain doesn’t stop. But the air feels different as we embrace each other. Lighter. Brighter. Like maybe the storm was just making room for the sun. Like maybe, this time, it’s finally sunrise.

Paired: Cairo Sweet x fem!reader

Summary: The story follows reader, an awkward antisocial kid who struggles to survive. However, everything changes the moment takes a literature class with Mr. Miller.

Warnings: slow burn, ANGST, grammarammer, idk what I’m doing to be honest, first time writing this so it might suck but I hope you enjoy anyway….

[A/N:]

This is story is gonna be inspired by We can’t be friend (wait for your love) of Ariana Grande. This idea has been going on my mind for a while when I heard about the song and saw how Cairo was with Winnie on the movie.

Enjoy! Also I apologize ahead if there’s any error, English is not my language

I don’t remember the first time I saw Cairo Sweet. Not exactly. I was trying to lay low and survive the semester. To be honest, she was just another figure in the background of my life — another student with half-lidded eyes and a stare like she was always somewhere else. But now, she’s everywhere. In my class. In my notebooks. In the quiet corners of my mind. In the ache I have carry every time she walks by and doesn’t look back. To the point, it feels like it’s a cursed.

It started with a creative writing assignment. We were paired up because, according to Mr. Miller, “You’re both a little… passionately intense.” Whatever that meant.

She turn to me but didn’t speak much, not at first. Just scribbled ideas in a black leather notebook, pausing now and then to chew on the end of her pen or glance out to look at Mr. Miller.

I admired her from the start — her wit, her detachment, the way she seemed to carry secrets in her bones. And then, one late afternoon in the Mr. Miller’s classroom, when there’s no one but us, she turned to me and said:

“Do you ever write about things that are real? Not just stories. Things that happened.”

I froze. I didn’t know how to tell her that my stories were only about things that happened — about bruised feelings and sleepless nights, about things I couldn’t say out loud. She must’ve seen something in your face because her eyes softened.

“Me too.” She said. And just like that, we just like we clicked. Like we shared a secret only we understand. One that had no name, no definition. But it was there — in our glances, in the way our hands brushed when we passed each other paper, in the words left unsaid.

Then came the night that changed everything.

It wasn’t planned. You stayed late at her house to finish edits. She was reading something I wrote — something raw. It was about a girl with fire in her lungs and frost in her eyes. Somehow, deep down I knew that she knows it was about her. And when I looked up, she was already looking at me.

“You always look like you’re waiting for me to say something,” I murmured. “But if I did… we couldn’t come back from it.” There was a moment silent as we look at each other. I hold my breath. “Then don’t say it.” She whispered.

But I wanted her to asked me. God, I wanted her to.

Instead, she leaned in and kissed me — soft, careful, like she was afraid I’d disappear. And for a second, the world was quiet. There was no one but us. No rules. No fear. Just me and her, and the secret we both chose to carry.

But that all change the next day, she acted like nothing happened. I told myself that everything was okay, that she was just scared. But I was, too. I have to believe that if I just waited long enough, she’d find the courage to come back to me. But weeks passed, and the silence between us became something heavier than heartbreak. Until one day, I found a note folded inside my book. Just four words, written in her beautiful handwriting:

“We can’t be friends.”

My heart stops, there’s a knot forming on my throat. I wanted to rip it up. I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. I wanted to confront her and demand answers. But I didn’t. I kept it. I still have it. Because that’s what you do when someone leaves you without really leaving — when the worst part isn’t the goodbye, but the way they pretend nothing ever mattered.

But I still see her. In class. In hallways. In dreams I pretend I don’t have.

And sometimes, in class, in hallways, her eyes linger — just a second too long. Like she remembers that night, too. Like she still carries holds what you have as a secret inside herself. But she never says a word. So now, we walk past each other like ghosts.

We’re not friends. We’re not strangers. We’re just two people who could’ve loved each other, if only the timing had been right. And maybe I’ll wait. Maybe I’ll stop. But deep down, I know the truth.

We were almost something.