Chapter Text
Po stepped out of the teahouse. The air had cooled enough that the wet pavement reflected the neon signs in broken red and gold streaks. His cardigan felt too thin against the breeze that slipped under his collar, but he didn't button it. He just walked.
The streets were quieter than usual for a Thursday. Motorbikes hummed past in low gears, delivery bags swinging from handles. A street vendor called out for grilled squid, voice tired and automatic.
Po kept his eyes on the sidewalk tiles, counting them the way he used to count fence posts on the walk home from school when he was smaller.
His stomach turned; not with the sharp twist of hunger or the slow churn of too much sugar. Something heavier. Like the rose-and-lotus tea had settled wrong, except he knew it hadn't. The cookies had been soft, the tea fragrant. Nothing about them had tasted like betrayal.
He pressed a hand to his abdomen anyway, fingers splayed, as if he could hold whatever was rising back down. It didn't work.
The walk to the condo took twenty-three minutes on a good day. Tonight it felt longer. Every step jarred something loose inside him. Kiet's voice kept replaying, soft and careful, the way adults speak when they're trying not to scare you.
You were a kid. He knew that.
Po's sneakers scuffed the curb. He swallowed once, twice. The taste of petals lingered on his tongue.
By the time the building came into view, his breathing had shallowed. He fished out his keycard with shaking fingers. The sensor beeped green. The glass door sighed open.
He didn't take the elevator.
He turned left instead, toward the stairwell. The door was heavy, painted institutional green, the kind of color that made everything look sick. It clanged shut behind him with a sound that echoed up the concrete.
The first landing smelled faintly of mildew and old cigarettes. Po leaned against the railing, metal cold through his sleeve. His knees folded before he could stop them. He slid down until he sat on the second step, back to the wall, knees drawn tight to his chest.
The stairwell lights buzzed once, dimmed, steadied.
He stared at the opposite wall. A small crack ran diagonally from the ceiling corner, thin as a hair. He'd never noticed it before.
Then the memories came, uninvited, like someone had opened a drawer he'd kept locked.
Fifteen. The first time Earn kissed him in the empty classroom after detention. Earn had smiled against his mouth and said, You're safe with me now. Po had believed it because Earn was older, taller, knew how to talk to teachers, knew which bus lines ran late. Po had felt small and seen at the same time.
Sixteen. The night Earn said the apartment would be cheaper if they shared. Your parents won't mind if you say you're staying with a friend. Po had nodded, packed a duffel, told his mom he was crashing at a classmate's for a project. The lie had tasted like metal.
Seventeen. Earn's hand on his wrist in the kitchen, not hard, just firm enough to stop him from turning away. You're not going anywhere until we talk this out. Po had stood still until the grip loosened. He'd told himself it was because they were both tired.
Eighteen. Months ago. The breakup. Earn's voice calm, reasonable. You can leave when you're ready. When you can pay your half. Until then, this is still our home. Po had stared at the floor and nodded because arguing made the room smaller.
The stairwell blurred.
His chest heaved once, sharp, like he'd been punched. Then again. The sound came out wet, ragged. He pressed both hands over his mouth, but the noise kept leaking between his fingers.
He was shaking now. Not dramatically. Just small, constant tremors, the way a phone vibrates when it's on silent and someone keeps calling.
Kiet's words looped louder.
That's not love, nong. That's someone taking advantage of a teenager who didn't know better yet.
Po's forehead dropped to his knees. The cardigan sleeve soaked up the first tear, then the second. He didn't sob. He couldn't. The sound stayed trapped somewhere behind his ribs, pressing outward until it hurt to breathe.
He was eighteen. Almost legal. Old enough to sign leases, old enough to work full-time, old enough to choose. That was what he'd told himself every time Earn reminded him the apartment was theirs. Every time he stayed quiet instead of leaving.
But Kiet had said fifteen.
Fifteen.
Po's fingers curled into the wool until his nails bit through to skin.
He thought of the scar on his wrist: a thin white line from the bedside table corner when he'd jerked away too fast one night. He'd told his mom it was from a bike chain. She'd believed him because she wanted to.
He thought of the way Earn always paid for groceries first, then asked Po to transfer his share later. How the amounts never quite matched what Po earned. How Earn smiled every time Po handed over the money, like it proved something.
He thought of the bed. One bed. Always one bed.
The stairwell light flickered again.
Po lifted his head just enough to press his temple against the cold railing. His breathing slowed.
He stayed there until the tremors eased into stillness.
Then he stood with unsteady legs, but they held. He wiped his face with the sleeve of the cardigan twice. The wool smelled faintly of rose tea.
He climbed the last three flights slowly, keycard in hand.
The hallway outside the apartment door was quiet. No light under the crack. Earn wasn't home yet.
Po let himself in.
The living room was dark except for the blue standby glow of the TV. He didn't turn on the overhead. He just stood in the doorway, bag still on his shoulder, listening to the fridge hum.
For the first time in years, the silence didn't feel like safety.
It felt like the moment before the next take.
He closed the door behind him, soft as he could. The lock clicked.
He didn't move for a long time.
First-day assemblies had always been the longest hour of Thame's life. He no longer bothered pretending this one might be his last. He pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, swallowing a yawn that tasted like stale coffee and resignation.
His posture straightened on reflex; spine rigid, chin level, the perfect picture of a senior who had learned exactly zero lessons from repeating the year.
A teacher two rows ahead caught his eye and shook her head once, slow and deliberate, the way people do when they've already decided you're the problem.
Thame exhaled through his nose and slipped into what he privately called his exclusive meditation state: eyes half-lidded, breathing shallow, brain on standby. The principal's voice droned on about discipline, unity, and the bright futures awaiting everyone who behaved.
Something nudged the small of his back. Soft. Insistent. Not quite a finger. He turned, expecting a classmate's elbow or a misplaced water bottle.
A rubber snake stared back at him.
Not cartoonish. Not cheap. Realistic yellow-brown patterns coiled along a dark, almost black body, scales glossy enough to catch the morning light and look wet. High-end prank prop. The kind someone had actually paid money for.
Thame's classmate, Phu, the quiet one who only spoke when he was about to ruin someone's day, stood stone-faced behind him, mischief flickering so faintly in his eyes it almost disappeared. He pressed the snake's rubber head gently against Thame's spine one more time, like he was ringing a doorbell.
Thame snatched it, hissed a curse under his breath, and shoved the thing under his shirt before anyone else could see. He glanced around. Fah's cousin, the one with the prohibited glitter-nude manicure, caught his eye and crooked a single finger. Give.
Thame edged sideways, trying to stay inconspicuous. The same teacher whipped her head around and shook it again, sharper this time. He tipped his chin toward the stage. Listen to your god up there, not me. She wasn't having it.
He passed the snake anyway.
The girl took it without a word, turned, and... Oh no.
Thame's eyes tracked the move like a slow-motion car crash.
The snake sailed through the air in a perfect, lazy arc. It landed square in the middle of a girl's long braids, tangled briefly with her white ribbons, then dropped to the ground.
She screamed.
Not a startled yelp. A full, theatrical, horror-movie shriek. Hands flew up. Her friend lunged, yanked the snake free, saw what it was, shrieked louder, and flung it sideways.
The rubber snake arced again.
Someone else caught it midair and screamed.
Within seconds the entire courtyard dissolved into chaos. Circles formed around invisible threats. Girls climbed onto benches. Boys pretended to be brave while backing away. A teacher actually shielded a cluster of first-years with her arms like the snake might strike.
The principal's voice cut out mid-sentence as the microphone screeched feedback; the tech guy sprinted into the crowd.
Thame stood frozen, mouth half-open, watching the snake ricochet like a cursed ping-pong ball.
The teacher who'd been shaking her head at him since the first yawn marched straight through the panic, snatched the snake off the ground, and held it aloft like evidence in a murder trial.
Silence crashed down.
She turned. Locked eyes with Thame.
"Teema Kanjanakittkul!" Her voice cracked on the high note, old cords straining. The entire schoolyard turned to look.
Thame's jaw dropped. He blinked once, twice, then glanced at the trio responsible: Phu, glitter-nails girl, and the copycat clown who'd been trying to become Thame since last year. They had their hands clamped over their mouths, shoulders shaking, eyes bright with the kind of glee that only comes from successfully framing someone else.
Thame's brain short-circuited.
"I... What the fuck?"
The curse rang out clear and loud. Too loud.
A collective gasp rippled through the nearest rows. The teacher's face went from annoyed to triumphant in half a second.
Thame's stomach dropped. He turned slowly toward the stage. The principal stood motionless, microphone in hand, eyebrows raised in that patient, disappointed way that made Thame feel twelve years old again.
Thame forced his mouth into the sheepiest smile he could manage.
"I'm... sorry?"
The principal didn't smile back.
After assembly, which somehow stretched another fifteen agonizing minutes, the four of them were summoned to the front. Thame walked with his head down, hands shoved deep in his pockets, the rubber snake long confiscated. He could feel every stare on his neck.
Phu and glitter-nails flanked him, still biting their lips to keep from laughing. The copycat clown walked ahead, chin high, like he'd won something.
Thame didn't look at any of them.
He looked at the principal instead.
The man waited at the edge of the stage steps, arms folded, expression calm and expectant. No anger. Just the quiet certainty of someone who had seen this movie before.
Thame met his eyes. For once there was no quick grin, no deflection, no joke ready on his tongue. Just the slow, heavy acceptance of someone who knew exactly how this ended.
He was going to the office.
Again.
And there was no one left in the crowd who would sneak him a sympathetic look, no best friend to mouth you got this from the back row, no group chat already exploding with memes about his legendary bad luck.
Just him, the principal, and the same tired hallway he'd walked too many times before.
Thame exhaled once, long and quiet.
Then he stepped forward to accept his fate.
"Due to the lack of detention during the first week, the four of you will stay after school and follow the janitor's orders for one hour. Teema."
The principal's voice cut through the air like a ruler snapping against a desk. He turned fully toward Thame then, brows knitting as if he were studying something that hadn't changed the way it was supposed to.
Thame still looked exactly like he had ten weeks ago: same careless posture, same too-loose tie, same expression that suggested school was something happening around him, not to him.
"Come with me." He added. "We need to speak in private."
He followed a few steps behind, eyes flicking toward open classroom doors, down branching hallways, past stairwells that could swallow him whole if he chose the wrong one. Every turn looked like an escape. Every corner looked like a bad idea.
He didn't take any of them.
It was his last year. First day. He wasn't about to start it with another form stamped in red ink and a lecture he'd heard in different fonts for years.
His gaze dropped to the floor instead. The tiles were discolored in the same places they always were; water stains shaped like continents, cracks that made crooked borders. He knew where each one lived.
The principal's office had changed.
The old beige walls were gone, replaced with white so clean it felt sterile, a thin blue line running along the top like it was trying to be friendly. The ceiling held one professional-looking lamp, the kind you'd see in an office building, not a school that still smelled like dust and sweat.
Thame's eyes drifted to the framed photo by the door.
Last year's graduation.
Two of his ex-classmates stood beside the principal, holding papers that read Graduated with Honorifics. Their smiles were stiff but proud. Underneath, their university names were printed in neat black font. Full coverage. No loans.
The principal noticed where Thame was looking. Something crossed his face. Recognition, maybe. Not warmth.
He cleared his throat and pulled out his chair. It scraped sharply against the newly tiled floor.
"You may sit."
Thame bowed his head halfway, the motion automatic, and lowered himself into the gray chair opposite the desk.
"I see your attitude varies now." The principal started, folding his hands. "You behave after causing chaos. That is... new."
Thame pressed his lips together.
"This is your final year." The principal continued. "Where are you applying?"
Thame lifted his eyes. "I don't know yet, sir."
"Do you wish to attend university?"
A pause.
"Maybe."
The principal leaned forward and opened a drawer. Papers whispered against each other as he flipped through them. "Your homeroom teacher printed your calendar from last year. Both semesters."
He slid it across the desk.
Thame's breath hitched before he could stop it.
At the top was his full name in bold. Underneath: dates, subjects, remarks. Late. Disruptive. Incomplete. Failed. The words stacked until they started to blur.
"Your reputation is... active. Not in a way any teacher would encourage. Today's incident only supports what we discussed yesterday."
Thame stopped reading. Some of the notes made him sound feral. Like he'd been raised without language.
"We've decided a student like you requires more attention than we can offer." The principal reached into another drawer and held up a small black card. "If you receive five of these, you will be required to find another school to graduate from."
He placed it beside Thame's hand.
Thame looked at it like it might bite him.
"What?" His voice cracked. "This is my last year. I can't just... transfer."
"You are correct." The principal said gently. "You cannot. And it would be very difficult for you to find another institution willing to accept a student with your record." He leaned back. "Teachers are frustrated, Teema. They wish to teach students aiming for strong universities. A challenging student is... not convenient."
"This is unfair." Thame muttered.
The principal nodded once. Almost kindly.
Another sheet slid across the desk. Excuses. Every one Thame had ever given. Sick grandmother. Lost notebook. Broken alarm. Family issue. Too tired.
"I suggest you read these. Perhaps you will recognize a pattern before I remove your name permanently from this school's list."
Thame didn't touch the papers. He stood. Bowed. Turned.
The hallway was loud with life. Students leaned against lockers, voices bouncing, someone laughing too hard, someone already buried in a textbook like the year had started without warning.
He walked until he reached his classroom.
Heads turned. They always did.
Phu raised a hand from the back row. "Wanna sit, bro?"
Thame dropped into a seat in the middle row, next to the window. Outside, across the street, an older guy leaned against a lamp post, smoke curling from a cigarette that looked thicker than it should've been.
Thame kept his eyes on the window longer than necessary, until Phu nudged the desk with his knee.
"Yo. Attendance."
Thame lifted his hand just in time, fingers flicking up like it cost him something. The teacher marked his name without looking at him. Small mercy.
He didn't slouch the way he usually did. He didn't lean back until his chair balanced on two legs. He sat like someone pretending to care; spine straight enough to pass, pen between his fingers instead of a phone.
Math went by with the sound of chalk and the smell of dust. Thame copied formulas he knew he wouldn't use. Every time his knee bounced, he forced it still. Every time a joke climbed up his throat, he swallowed it back down.
Four more of those black cards and I'm done, he reminded himself.
So he behaved. Mostly.
In Thai class, when the teacher asked him to read, he did. Voice clear, just loud enough to count. When a guy in the front row dropped his pen and it rolled under Thame's desk, Thame picked it up and passed it forward instead of flicking it into the aisle like he usually would.
At lunch, he didn't climb onto the table. He didn't steal fries off someone else's tray. He sat with the others and ate like a normal human being, which felt worse than detention.
His classmate leaned over. "You look like you're about to explode."
"Character development." Thame bit into his chicken. "Don't interrupt."
Someone else glanced at him over her juice box. "Principal?"
Thame shrugged. "He loves me. Wants me all to himself."
After lunch came science, then history. Thame stayed awake through both, which deserved some kind of medal. When the teacher turned her back, he drew little monsters in the margins of his notebook, ones with square teeth and tiny black cards for eyes.
By the time the final bell rang, his jaw hurt from holding back.
The janitor handed them gloves like they were about to perform surgery.
"Hallway B." He said. "Mop first. Then windows."
Thame stared at the bucket. "This is discrimination against artists."
"Move." Phu grabbed a mop.
They worked in silence for about five minutes. Thame swirled dirty water like he was painting something abstract. When no one was looking, he pushed the bucket a little too hard so it sloshed over the edge and kissed Phu's shoe.
"Bro."
"Science experiment."
Phu splashed him back with his mop.
Thame laughed before he could stop himself. It came out loud and bright, bouncing off the lockers. He clamped his mouth shut immediately and glanced down the hall.
By the time they were done, his shirt clung to his back and his arms smelled like lemon cleaner. He dumped the gloves in the trash and wiped his hands on his pants, already peeling off the version of himself that tried.
Outside, the sky had that tired gold look, like it had been doing this all day and wanted to lie down.
Po stepped through the front gate of the elementary school as though he was trespassing.
The paint on the bars were chipped, colored the kind of blue that had faded into something between sky and dust. The yard smelled like warm concrete and leftover lunch. A mural of cartoon animals peeled along one wall, their smiles cracked by years of sun. Everything about the place screamed children, and Po stood there with his backpack digging into his shoulders and the uneasy certainty that he had made a mistake.
He checked the address on his phone again.
Then he called. For the second time.
"I'm... I'm outside." Po said, lowering his voice like the playground equipment might be listening. "This is... an elementary school."
There was a pause. Then a small laugh. "Yes, it is. You're in the right place. Don't panic. Walk inside. You'll see other Kor Sor Nor students."
Po glanced around the yard. A pair of kids chased each other near the basketball hoop. A woman in a pink blouse sat on a bench scrolling her phone. No one looked like they were about to sit for high school exams.
"I feel like I'm doing something illegal." He muttered.
"You're not." The woman said gently. "Come in."
Po ended the call and crossed the yard, every step stiff with second thoughts. The building was low and square, its windows protected by metal grates painted the same tired blue as the gate. Inside, the air was cooler. A fan rattled somewhere down the hall.
That was when he saw them.
Not kids.
Adults.
A man with a shaved head leaned against the wall, typing furiously on his phone. A woman in office clothes sat on a bench, eating from a plastic bag. Two teenagers whispered together near a classroom door, their uniforms from some other school still on.
They varied wildly; early twenties, mid-thirties, maybe older. Faces lined by work, not exams. Tired eyes. Polite nods. No one stared at Po like he didn't belong, and somehow that made his chest loosen a little.
"Mr. Pawat?"
Po turned.
A woman with a bright, practiced smile stood by an open door. She wore a cream blouse and dark slacks, her hair tied neatly back. She gestured him over like this was the most natural thing in the world.
"Yes." Po replied quickly, adjusting the strap of his bag.
"Welcome." She said, stepping aside so he could enter. "Come in. Can we talk informally? We're all adults here."
Her voice carried warmth, but Po didn't know what to do with it yet.
The room looked like a classroom that had tried to become an office. Small desks lined one wall. A whiteboard held faded writing. A shelf of old textbooks sagged in the corner. A desk faced the window, cluttered with folders and a laptop.
Po sat where she pointed, perching on the edge of the chair. He set his backpack on his lap like a shield.
"This isn't really what I imagined." He admitted before he could stop himself.
She smiled wider. "It rarely is."
Po hesitated, then asked: "May I... are you the principal?"
She nodded. "I am."
Something in his shoulders dropped. "Oh. I'm sorry. I mean-"
"It's fine. You can call me teacher or ajarn, whichever is easier." Her eyes flicked to his bag. "That backpack is quite big, nong. Have you already bought everything from the list?"
Po nodded. "Yes. I didn't want to miss anything."
"Wow." A voice commented from the doorway.
Po turned. A man leaned against the frame with his arms crossed, one ankle hooked over the other. He looked amused. "You must be smart."
The principal shot him a look. "Out."
He grinned and pushed off the frame. "Yes, boss." The door clicked shut behind him.
Po leaned back into the chair, suddenly aware of how tense he'd been holding himself. "Is it always like this?"
"Yes." The principal said, opening her laptop. "Since we're not traditional, we don't pretend to be. But don't misunderstand. We take studying seriously."
She turned the screen toward him. A schedule filled it, blocks of color and dates.
"You'll attend two days a week. Tuesday and Wednesday. Three PM to eight PM." She pointed with her pen. "Three Saturdays per semester for IT. The teacher can't come on weekdays."
Po nodded, taking out a notebook. His handwriting came out careful, deliberate. Mid-semester break. Exam periods. Attendance rules. The rhythm of a school that bent around adult lives instead of the other way around.
"This program is for people who work, or who couldn't finish before." She continued. "You'll see how a normal day works soon. It's different. But you'll belong."
Belong.
The word landed strangely in Po's chest.
"Oh." She exhaled, closing the laptop. "If you can't make it, you send a message in the group chat. May I have your Line ID? That's how we send homework and notes."
Po unlocked his phone. A message notification from Earn popped up immediately.
Where are you?
He ignored it and handed the phone over.
The principal typed quickly. "There. You'll be added now."
Po watched as his screen filled with unfamiliar names and profile pictures.
"Everything will be settled legally by the end of the week." She said. "Then you'll be officially our student."
Po bowed his head slightly. "Thank you."
When he stepped back into the hallway, the adult students barely glanced up. Someone laughed at something on their phone. A fan rattled. The mural outside waited with its cracked smiles.
Po stood there for a moment, backpack still on, feeling like he had walked into the wrong place and somehow found the right one anyway.
Kiet found Po before Po could even clock in properly.
He appeared from behind the snack counter with two paper cups, steam curling up between them. One he handed over without ceremony, the other he lifted to his mouth as he leaned his hip against the counter.
"Peace offering. How were your first two days?"
Po blinked, then accepted the coffee with both hands like it was something fragile. "Weird." He said honestly. "Not bad. Just... weird."
Kiet smiled, small and easy. The kind of smile that didn't ask for details but invited them anyway.
So Po talked.
He talked about the school being in an elementary building, about how the first day had been packed and how the second day had already thinned out. About how there were only two teachers per day, how the IT teacher only came on Saturdays like a rare bird. About how three separate people had patted his shoulder and told him he was "a champion" for not smoking.
Kiet laughed and tapped the cigarette pack peeking from his own pocket. "Guess I lose the champion title."
"You do." Po said, surprised at how easily the joke came out.
They stood there sipping coffee while the lobby hummed awake around them; the whir of machines, the murmur of customers, the pop song looping faintly from a speaker somewhere near concessions.
Po felt lighter. Not at home. Not in the apartment with the couch and the silence and the bed he shared with someone he didn't belong to anymore. Here, he could talk. Here, he could breathe.
At four o'clock, the door slid open.
Po looked up without thinking.
Him.
The boy stood framed by the glass doors like he'd been cut out of the afternoon itself. Sunlight at his back, hair a little messy, uniform slightly wrinkled like he'd come straight from somewhere else.
His eyes weren't bright like they used to be. They were quieter. Guarded. Familiar and different at the same time.
God, he's handsome today.
The thought landed hard enough that Po almost dropped the cup.
His hand went automatically to his pocket. The tickets were still there. Two of them.
He'd bought them weeks ago, for the special screening this Saturday for an old romance film the cinema was only showing once, something quiet and slow and stupidly perfect. He'd told himself it was just in case. Just because it was nice to have something planned.
Then the boy had stopped coming.
And Po had folded the tickets and kept them anyway, like they were proof of something that hadn't happened.
The boy walked up to the counter.
Po straightened without realizing it.
"One ticket to the special screening." The boy said. "This Saturday."
Po stared at him. For half a second, his brain simply didn't move.
"Uh-" Po said, brilliantly. "Hi."
"Hi." The boy replied.
There was a pause. Not awkward. Just... full.
Po could see the way the boy's eyes flicked to his uniform, then to his face again. Like he was checking something he hadn't been sure of. The ticket printer hummed quietly in the background.
Po swallowed and reached into his pocket before he could overthink it. He pulled out the folded slips of paper and held them between his fingers like they might dissolve.
"I, um..." He started. "I actually... already have two."
The boy blinked. "Two?"
Po nodded, then winced because it looked too eager. "I bought them in advance. They sell out fast."
"Oh, right."
Po hesitated. His chest felt tight in a way that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with timing. "You can still buy one." He added quickly. "I mean- unless- you don't have to..."
The boy tilted his head. "You sound like you're selling me something illegal."
Po laughed despite himself. "It feels illegal."
Another beat.
Po looked at the tickets. Then at the boy. Then back at the tickets.
"I was... going to give one to you." He said quietly. "Before. When you stopped coming, I thought... never mind. That doesn't matter."
The boy's eyebrows lifted slightly. "You were?"
Po nodded. "Yeah."
"Why?"
Po's mouth opened. Closed.
Because I like you. Because you look at me like you don't expect anything. Because I wanted one thing to go right.
"Because I wanted to."
The boy studied him for a second, then smiled. Not the flirty grin from before. Something softer. Something real.
"So." He formed the words slowly. "Are you asking me out?"
Po's heart kicked against his ribs. "Yes." Then, because apparently his mouth didn't know when to stop, he added: "If you want. You don't have to. I just... yeah."
The boy didn't answer right away.
He looked down at the counter, then back up at Po. "Okay. Yeah. I want."
Po blinked. "Really?"
"Really."
Po exhaled a breath he hadn't known he was holding. His fingers tightened on the tickets. "There's just one thing."
The boy waited.
"I'm not... taken." Po said carefully. "Just so you know. I'm not with anyone."
The boy's eyes shifted, something in them loosening. "Good."
Po handed him one of the tickets. The boy took it, thumb brushing Po's for a split second longer than necessary.
"I'll see you Saturday."
Po nodded. "Saturday."
The boy stepped back, already half-turned toward the lobby. Then he looked over his shoulder. "You look different today."
Po watched him leave, ticket tucked safely into his pocket, heart doing something reckless and bright in his chest.
Behind him, Kiet coughed loudly. "Coffee break successful?"
Po smiled into nothing.
Po's good mood held until the clock hit six sharp, the shift's end announced by the soft chime that always sounded cheerful.
He gathered his bag slowly, then walked to the sink in the colleagues-only room and filled a paper cup with water. Drank it in three measured swallows. Filled it again. Drank slower this time, letting the cold slide down his throat like it could rinse away the lightness that had settled in his chest since handing over the ticket.
Eventually the phone in his pocket lit up, screen glowing through the fabric like a warning light.
Waiting in the parking lot. Usual spot.
Po exhaled through his nose, sharp enough that it stung the back of his throat. He pocketed the phone without replying, licked his dry lips, and counted to ten in his head.
Then he pushed through the door.
The lobby stretched wide and bright in front of him, laughter bouncing off the high ceiling, a group of students clustered near the escalator arguing over popcorn flavors.
Po kept his eyes forward, sneakers quiet against the polished floor. He reached the elevators and pressed the down button. The first car was full; he waited for the second. A woman beside him gave him a sideways glance before stepping in ahead of him. Po followed without argument.
Elevator music drifted down from the speaker, the same low, looping beat he could hum in his sleep. Bland saxophone, synthetic strings, the kind of sound designed to fill space without being noticed. Po stared at the glowing floor numbers, counting backward in silence.
The doors opened onto the underground parking lot. Cool, damp air hit him first, carrying the faint smell of wet concrete. Po inhaled deeply, then stepped out.
His sneakers scraped softly against the cement, each echo bouncing back at him like a second heartbeat.
Earn's car sat in the usual spot. Through the windshield Po could see Earn's profile: head bent over his phone, thumb scrolling, face lit blue-white by the screen. He looked bored. Like this was a chore he hadn't signed up for.
Po opened the back door and slid inside.
Earn's eyes flicked up to the rearview mirror, lifting one brow. "What are you doing?"
Po set his bag on his lap, buckling the seatbelt with careful fingers. "Sitting." He kept his voice even. "You're driving me home."
Earn let out a short breath that wasn't quite a laugh. "Sit in the front. I'm not your fucking taxi."
Po didn't answer right away. He stared at the back of the headrest and at the faint crease where Earn's shoulders had worn the leather.
Slowly, he unbuckled and climbed over the center console, movements deliberate. He settled into the passenger seat.
Earn tapped the music icon on the dashboard screen. Rap exploded through the speakers; aggressive bass, lyrics spitting anger faster than Po could catch them. The volume was high enough that the windows vibrated faintly. Earn didn't turn it down.
He pulled out of the spot without looking over. The car surged forward, tires chirping once against the smooth concrete ramp. Po pressed his back into the seat, fingers tightening around the strap of his bag until it bit into his palms.
Earn's hand left the wheel and dropped toward Po's knee.
Po jerked away so fast his shoulder hit the door. The leather creaked under him.
Earn's jaw flexed. "I thought you were normal again finally."
Po tilted his head, just enough to look at him sideways. "Normal?"
"That whole breaking-up bullshit." Earn's voice stayed low, almost conversational. "Thought we were cool. Thought you'd come around."
Po felt something hot and bright flare behind his ribs, close to rage, but quieter. He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted copper. Instead of answering he shook his head once.
Earn chuckled. No humor in it. Just a low, tight sound that filled the space between them like smoke.
"You wanted to leave me months ago." He said, driving past a yellow light that had already turned red. The car jolted forward. "And now you're acting like I'm the problem."
Po kept his eyes on the window. Streetlights streaked past in long white lines, buildings blurring into dark shapes. He could feel the speed in his teeth, in the way the seatbelt pressed across his chest.
"Earn." His voice came out too steady.
"What?" Earn snapped the word like a whip, pretending normalcy. "Afraid of a fast car now, Po? Afraid of the money I've put into this thing?" He gestured at the dashboard, the leather, the glowing screen. "The money you're still paying back, piece by piece?"
Po's fingers turned white around the bag strap.
He knew what this was. Earn was showing off. Reminding him. The same way he used to leave receipts on the kitchen counter, then wait for Po to transfer his share.
And now he was speeding through Bangkok like the city owed him right of way. Red lights ignored. Horns swallowed by the rap still blasting.
Po's stomach lurched from the sudden clarity of it all.
Kiet's voice looped in his head, soft and careful.
That's not love, nong. That's someone taking advantage of a teenager who didn't know better yet.
Po closed his eyes for half a second, long enough to see the stairwell again, the cold railing against his temple, the tears soaking his sleeve. Long enough to smell Earn's cologne still clinging to the seats; sandalwood and amber. Heavy. Familiar. Suffocating.
He opened his eyes.
"Earn." He said it again, quieter this time.
Earn glanced over, smirk already forming. "What?"
"You put me in danger a second ago." Po's voice stayed level. "What if we crashed?"
Earn laughed once, sharp. "Just now. But you wanted to leave me months ago."
"I gave you my reasons." Po turned his head fully now, meeting Earn's eyes in the passing streetlight. "I sat you down. I explained. You got angry. Same as now."
Earn's hands tightened on the wheel. The car slowed at a long red light. The bass thumped against Po's ribs like a second heartbeat.
"I don't understand." Earn's voice dropped into something almost wounded. "I have no idea why you'd want to leave. We were happy, Po. We were doing our fucking best. And now you're... different. In every way."
Po looked out the window again. A street vendor's cart glowed orange under a tarp. A motorbike couple leaned into each other at the light, helmets touching. Normal. Easy.
He felt the heat behind his eyes again; not tears, just pressure. The same pressure from the stairwell.
"You're still trying to make me stay." Po said quietly. "Even now. Even like this."
Earn didn't answer right away. The light turned green. He drove smoothly this time, almost gently.
Po held his bag tighter and watched the city slide past, every familiar street looking just a little less like home.
The apartment door clicked shut behind them with the same soft finality it always had. Earn kicked off his shoes without a word and headed straight for the bathroom. The shower started almost immediately. Water hissed against tile, steam already seeping under the door.
Po stood in the living room for a long moment, bag still slung over one shoulder. The blue standby glow from the TV painted faint rectangles across the floor. He set the bag down carefully, as if sudden movement might wake something.
He walked to the bedroom.
The bed was still made from this morning. Earn's side tucked tight, Po's side rumpled from restless sleep. The pillow on Po's side smelled faintly of Earn's shampoo. Po picked it up, hesitated, then carried it back to the living room along with the thin blanket folded at the foot of the mattress. He didn't look back.
On the couch he arranged the pillow against the armrest, spreading the blanket in careful layers. The cushions gave under his weight with a small, defeated sigh. He sat first, then lay down, knees bent to fit, one arm tucked under his head.
The ceiling fan spun lazy circles overhead, stirring the same air that had been here for months.
He reached over and switched off the last lamp.
Darkness settled, thick but not heavy. The fridge hummed. A motorbike passed outside, engine fading down the street. Po stared at the ceiling, waiting for the usual knot in his chest to tighten.
It didn't.
He pulled the blanket higher, up to his chin. The fabric was thin, worn at the edges from too many washes. He closed his eyes. The shower still ran; a steady white noise, distant enough that it almost felt like rain.
His phone lit up on the coffee table, screen glowing soft blue against the dark wood. He reached for it.
Kiet.
I'm off work tomorrow. Good luck on Saturday.
Po stared at the message. The words sat there, simple, unadorned. No emoji. No follow-up. Just quiet confidence.
His thumb hovered over the screen. He typed, deleted, typed again.
Thank you. Really.
He sent it before he could second-guess.
The typing bubble appeared almost immediately, then disappeared. A second later another message came.
You've got this. Sleep well.
Po set the phone face-down. The glow faded slowly, leaving only the faint blue standby light from the TV.
He turned onto his side, facing the back of the couch. The cushions smelled faintly of laundry detergent. Not Earn's sandalwood. Not the apartment's usual weight.
Saturday was two days away.
Two days.
He let the thought sit there, unhurried. No panic. No rehearsal of worst-case scenarios. Just the small, steady knowledge that somewhere in the city, someone believed he could walk into a dark theater and sit beside another person without the world ending.
The shower cut off.
Po didn't tense.
Water ran in the pipes for a moment longer, then silence returned.
He exhaled once, long and slow. The blanket rose and fell with his breathing. For the first time in years, sleep didn't feel like surrender. It felt like waiting.