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Here is the part of the story where the hero screams in agony, realising that his world was on a faux-axis all along, until it falls and it falls, to the right axis, realising at once that he wanted to orbit the actual hero of his story all along. He was only ever the most trusted accomplice. The one who betrayed the actual hero, shaking both their worlds apart, keeping them galaxies apart, realising, at once that they may never collide again.
He spends months in unrelenting pain after that, muddled with guilt, confusion, hatred -- for how things ended up being, anger for how he’d turned around the best thing that happened to him into something that can only be thought of with an ache in his palm.
Here is the part of the story where our fallen hero wakes up from the ashes that he believes is his own creation, staring down at them in disgust, where he tries being a little honest to himself.
And if our fallen hero, Pom is being honest to himself — which, admittedly he is not , most of the time — he has imagined meeting Chanon over several different occasions ever since he made himself remember all that he'd forgotten. All that he'd made himself forget.
Pom had always, to a certain extent, been prepared to see Chanon, to see the other half of his soul looking at him with a certain kind of rage embedded deep within, either at school — in the middle of the morning, at his home — in the middle of the night, in a park when he's jogging and looking around for a familiar figure, a meeting by chance, a meeting on purpose if he ever decided to look him up, just a glance, anything. The thread that had been choking Pom's heart all these years, the thread that bound them to each other, will pull them towards each other, he was sure.
He just hadn't, even in his simplest fantasies, ever thought that he'd meet Chanon like this — under the grim, fluorescent lights of the almost-empty store two blocks away from his house on an inconspicuous evening, their little fingers brushing against each other, reaching for the same bag of oranges — the only bag of oranges left behind.
Here is the part of the story where galaxies collide, once again. A universe is born in that one, singular moment.
Pom looks up on instinct, apologies dying on the tip of his tongue when he gazes upon… him. He is almost sure that it's his ardent desire to see Chanon again that has made him appear in front of him.
Pom lets out a gasp, but he's only a half-certain because he feels the air entering his mouth, but he hears nothing but a ringing sound, feels nothing but the pace of his fastidious heartbeat, sees nothing but the actual hero of his story, Chanon, in front of him, looking exactly how he did, 13 years ago, whilst looking like an entirely different person.
Chanon only blinks in response, and that's when Pom realises, an ache spreading from his palms all the way to his heart. He probably doesn't remember.
Chanon does not let that thought linger for too long.
Despite the chaos of it all, Pom doesn't miss the way Chanon's lips curve in recognition.
"Pom," Chanon grins. "What's up?"
Pom isn’t certain that he’s breathing, then. "Non— Cha non . You— I—?"
"Pom," Chanon says, stepping forward as though he's about to put his hands on Pom's shoulder before he clenches them in a fist.
Then, softer: "Pom."
" Chanon, " Pom breathes out, taking the step that Chanon had not taken. "How do you remember?"
"How can I forget?" asks Chanon with a shrug.
Here's the part of the story where our hero, clad in a black hoodie and jeans, his hair falling on his eyes, and our other hero (a fallen hero, he thinks, he becomes) clad in a crisp white shirt and grey slacks pay for the bag of oranges, together, exit the store, together , everything, together as though they had already decided, or perhaps it was predestined, aeons ago. They simultaneously make their way towards the same park that they used to go to, all those years ago when they were young and naïve, only fuelled on determination — Chanon's determination. They walk in silence; Pom feels that it will shatter soon and the illusion of Chanon beside him will seep through the gaps of the city once again.
They reach their bench; The Bench. The conversation is stilted, awkward. Chanon initiates most of the questions. Pom sits there, his heart on his sleeve, in his mouth, an itch underneath his fingers that begs him to touch Chanon, just to know that he's there. That he's real.
"When did you remember?" Pom blurts when Chanon is in the middle of asking Pom where he currently works.
"Pom?"
"Non."
Pom turns towards him, meeting his eyes for the first time ever since the supermarket.
"Does it matter?"
" Non, " Pom breathes, broken and defeated. "Please. I— I am— I can't believe that you're here. That you're actually here."
"I am here," Chanon nods, inching towards Pom so their shoulders brush.
"How?" Pom asks.
Chanon sighs and begins meticulously opening the bag of oranges. "I remembered a few years ago," he says. "I have been angry and sad, I have felt betrayed and gotten over it. But throughout it all, I don't blame you." Chanon's voice is gentle, soothing, and Pom almost believes him.
"How do you not blame me?" Pom asks. "You were willing to destroy your future for me and I—"
It's a miracle, Pom thinks, that he hasn't broken down over this yet. The same words in his head repeating on tape ever since he'd remembered.
"Ah," Chanon breathes, his face awfully vulnerable before he guards it up with a shrug once again. "You know about that."
"Non, I am so sorry. I—"
"You couldn't have known," Chanon gently interrupts. He puts the bag of oranges between them and takes the smallest one out of the bunch. "If I blame anyone, then it's the director ."
"But I—"
" Pom," Chanon says, with a smile so reminiscent of their days behind. "This isn't on you," he says, peeling the orange. "You are not to be blamed. I blame the director. He is at fault here."
"Non," Pom starts, unable to follow his name with anything but a repetition of it.
Why are you here and why did you find me and how did you find me and why aren't you screaming at me? Threatening to destroy me as you should've?
Those questions remain embedded under his tongue.
Chanon looks certain, his actions methodical, and some things truly never change. Pom knows Chanon a little too well to know that he means business.
"Your kids," Chanon says, jerking his chin. "They tried fighting against him too, didn't they?"
Pom can't help it— his lips quiver as he remembers Pang's distraught face in front of him again.
Chanon smiles then, leaning sideways to throw the orange peels into the dustbin before plucking the individual slices out. He offers the largest slice to Pom. "You are a teacher, then," he says, squinting. He looks at Pom again and Pom feels like he's looking into the sun. "I mean, I knew that, I'd been trying to find you since forever, but. You're an actual teacher, huh? I always knew you'd be one. I bet you're popular with your kids, huh? You're their favourite, I can tell."
With the burden of a betrayal against his own will, Pom certainly does not feel like their favourite, much less a teacher. A teacher does not harm their kids.
"Wait," Pom says, squeezing his eyes shut. "Why were you looking for me?"
"The director ruined my life," Chanon says, the glint in his eyes back. "He is on his way to ruin the other kids' life as well."
Pom nods. There is no winning the director. He's learnt this the hard way.
"Do you want to finish what we started?" Chanon asks. To someone who hadn't known Chanon better than they knew themself, he would sound firm, determined. Pom is willing to admit in the privacy of his mind that he can still detect the hit of vulnerability underneath his tone.
"They are only kids," Chanon says, in a gentle voice. "Do you remember us when we were that young? How we had been deprived of having the normal experience of teenagehood? Do you want the same for them?"
Pom remembers, with utmost clarity, living through his teenage years with a gaping hole in the centre of his soul, holding The Pen — the only remainder of Chanon — against the pocket over his heart, only to realise, several years later, that he'd forgotten where his heart lay.
"Non…"
Chanon doesn't look deterred, only curious.
"Pom, look. I—"
"You don't have to convince me, Non," Pom says. "Of course, I want what's best for them. Of course, I want to finish what we've started. That's all I've been thinking about ever since… ever since I remembered."
"Then what's the problem?"
It's been a wild evening, an evening he had never known he'd ever have, an evening he'd been preparing himself forever since he remembered Chanon.
" Do you still trust me ?" Pom wants to ask. He's not brave enough to hear what might be on the other end of the question.
"Do you still trust me?" Pom asks, regardless.
Chanon's eyes soften immeasurably. There is orange juice splattered on his hand. Pom wants to feel it, hold it, pull Chanon with him wherever he goes.
"Don't you know this already, Pom?" Chanon asks. " Yes . You are everything to me. How could I not?"
Pom looks up, surprised.
Chanon does not let him reply. "So? Are you in?"
There is a lifetime worth of things that Pom could say, right now. You are everything to me, too. I am sorry. I can't believe you're here. I am sorry. Are you sure I haven't made you up? I am sorry. Pom knows that they have to talk, but it can wait. It can wait until the war ends.
"What's your plan?" Pom asks instead.
Here is the part of the story where our fallen hero realises that there are no heroes here, only people willing to give their utmost to change the archaic system.
Here, their story begins again.