Archive of Our Own ^beta

The town did not simply know its inhabitants; it possessed them. It was an entity built on shared memories and silent observations, where privacy was not a right but a myth whispered by outsiders. Lives were not lived in the privacy of homes, but on the communal stage of its few streets. The postmaster, a man named Myka, didn't just sort mail; he curated the town's ongoing narrative. He knew whose bills were overdue, who received thick envelopes from distant universities, and whose handwriting graced the perfumed letters from abroad. A raised eyebrow from him over his morning coffee could fuel the gossip at the diner for a week.

The diner itself, the 'Skyline Grill' despite having no view of anything but the hardware store across the street, was the central nervous system. Here, over eggs that were always slightly overdone and coffee that was strong enough to stain the soul, the town’s history was written and revised daily. The waitresses, women who had served the same families for decades, didn't need to take orders; they knew who was cutting back on sugar, who was nursing a hangover, and who was meeting someone they shouldn't be. A new car parked outside the Sharma residence on a Tuesday would be noted, its make, model, and potential financial implications thoroughly dissected before the toast arrived.

There were no secrets, only delayed public knowledge. A cough heard by a neighbor in the dead of night would be a topic of concerned discussion by noon. A teenage romance, conducted in the hushed secrecy of the library or the dim glow of a smartphone, was common knowledge before the couple had even held hands. The town’s children were not just their parents’; they were a collective project, their scraped knees, their school grades, their first awkward dates all part of the public record. A curtain left drawn for too long was not a sign of solitude, but an invitation for a "wellness check" that was really just an information-gathering mission.

It was a place where your past was a leash, forever tethered to your ankle. The fact that Mr. Davids had wet his pants in the second-grade school play was recalled with a fond chuckle at his fiftieth birthday party. The memory of Mrs. Gable's brief, disastrous elopement with a traveling salesman in 1987 was resurrected every time her husband took a business trip. This constant, gentle surveillance was a form of love, albeit a suffocating one. It meant you were never alone, but it also meant you were never truly free. You were a character in a story you hadn't written, your every move observed, noted, and filed away into the immense, unspoken archive of the town's collective consciousness.

And in the town's vast, unspoken archive of lives, Phuwin Tangsakyuen had always been the most compelling, most debated, and most epic story.

From the moment he arrived, he was a subject of fascination. He was the boy with the too-bright eyes and a smile that seemed to promise something the town itself could not contain. As a child, his exploits—climbing the highest oak, catching the most fireflies, delivering a soliloquy from a forgotten play to a bewildered audience of pigeons—were not merely childish antics; they were foreshadowing. In high school, his every achievement was a point of civic pride, his every misstep a tragedy. When he and Pond Naravit Lertratkosum, the publican's steady, quiet son, became inseparable, the town watched their friendship with a collective, sentimental sigh. When that friendship bloomed into a romance under the bleachers and in the back booths of the very dive bar Pond would one day own, it was received not as scandal, but as destiny. They were the town's golden couple, a perfect, self-contained story of loyalty and young love.

His ambition to act, therefore, was not a private dream but a public plot point. His application to drama schools was discussed with the gravity of a royal succession. His eventual departure for Hollywood was not just a young man leaving home; it was a local legend being tested on a global stage. For years, he was the town's primary export and its favorite topic. His absence was a presence in itself. They followed his career through the blurry screenshots his mother showed at the hair salon, in the small, obscure international film reviews someone's tech-savvy nephew would find online. They spoke of him in hushed, proud tones, as if his success somehow belonged to them all.

And his breakup with Pond? That was the story's great, heartbreaking twist. It was analyzed from every possible angle. Some sided with Phuwin, the ambitious Icarus who had to fly free. Others sided with Pond, the steadfast anchor left behind who had given it his all just to be abandoned. The failure of their love story was a communal wound, a crack in the town's own identity. For years, Phuwin’s name was a ghost in the diner, in the pub, on the quiet streets. He was the "what if," the "if only," the "remember when." He was the one who got away, and in doing so, he became more of a legend than ever—a beautiful, painful, and endlessly discussed monument to the life that existed beyond the suffocating, green embrace of the hills.

So it was no surprise that the news of Phuwin and the model had reached Pond long before it ever flickered across the television screen above his bar. The town’s gossip network was a far more efficient, and infinitely more cruel, medium.

It first arrived as a hesitant silence. He’d walk into the post office, and the low hum of conversation would stutter and die. Myka would suddenly become intensely focused on sorting a bundle of flyers. At the diner, his usual coffee would arrive a moment too quickly, the waitress’s smile a little too tight, her eyes avoiding his. It was in these silences that he first felt the shape of the news, an absence of sound that screamed of a presence he did not want to acknowledge.

Then came the coded language of pity. "You holding up okay, Pond?" old Mr. Davids would ask, clapping him on the shoulder with a weight that felt like a funeral dirge. "You know, some people just… outgrow places." It was never stated outright, but the subtext was a chorus: He’s moved on. He’s found someone better. You have been replaced.

The final, definitive proof came not from a magazine or a screen, but from Lily, who worked at the library and whose cousin was a production assistant in Los Angeles. She had come into the bar on a quiet Tuesday, her face a mask of solemn concern, and laid a hand on his arm as he wiped the counter.

“Pond,” she’d said, her voice a low, confidential murmur. “I just… I heard something. From my cousin. About Phuwin.”

He had frozen, the damp cloth turning cold in his hand.

“She said he’s… seeing someone. A model. Name’s Blake. They say he’s very handsome. Very… successful.” Her eyes had been wide with a sympathy that felt like acid on his skin. “I just thought you should know. Before you saw it somewhere else.”

And so, when the entertainment news segment finally aired, weeks later, showing a grainy, paparazzi shot of Phuwin laughing, his head thrown back, arm-in-arm with a tall, sculpted man outside some impossibly glamorous restaurant, it was not a revelation. It was a confirmation. It was the entire town watching him watch the living proof of his deepest insecurities. He had stood there, the remote control heavy in his hand, the cheerful banter of the television hosts a grotesque soundtrack to his public humiliation. He didn’t react. He simply turned it off, the image searing itself onto the back of his eyelids, and went back to polishing the glasses. The silence in the bar that night had been the loudest he had ever heard, every customer a witness to the final, visual period at the end of a sentence the town had already written for him.

2006

The world was a vast, thrilling stage, and Phuwin was its newest, most eager performer. After years of being a transient extra in the bleak, rigid production of his father's life, this small-town kindergarten classroom felt like a Broadway debut. His father, an imposing military man with a voice that could crack stone, had dictated their movements across continents, their homes a series of stark, temporary quarters where noise was an infraction and imagination was a disciplinary issue. In that world, Phuwin’s stories and impromptu plays were classified as "a waste of time." His exuberance was "unbecoming." His very voice was too loud, his gestures too grand. The command was always the same: "Behave. Have some manners. Be quieter."

But here, in Riveridge—his mother's hometown, the place she had fled to after finally leaving his father—the rules were different. This classroom was a brilliant, glorious chaos of primary colours and shrieking laughter, a symphony of unchecked noise that was music to his ears. Here, he was not an inconvenience. Here, he could be the star. He intended to learn every part, every role, and every player in this new ensemble as quickly as possible, savoring the intoxicating freedom of a world where no one would shush him or tell him to sit still.

He assessed his new castmates with a bright, fearless gaze, a gaze honed by years of reading new rooms and new threats. Some were shy, huddled in corners. Others were loud, vying for attention. But his eyes kept drifting to the boy by the window. While everyone else was a swirl of motion, he was a still point, a quiet statue in a square of sunlight. The teachers would try to coax him into play, their voices soft and worried, but the boy would just shake his head, his eyes fixed on the floor until they went away. Phuwin was fascinated. He wasn't like the other quiet children; his stillness wasn't vacant. It was intense, like he was concentrating very hard on a secret only he could see.

Phuwin, who now communicated in joyous explosions of sound and grand gestures, found himself drawn to this pocket of profound quiet. He began performing for him, specifically. When he launched into his epic tale of pirates and stormy seas, he made sure his voice carried to the window. When he became a dragon, his roar was a little louder, his flight path a little closer to that solitary chair. He noticed the boy never looked up, but his small hands were always moving, a crayon flying across a page, and Phuwin took that as a sign he was listening in the only way he knew how.

One day, during a lull in his own imaginative play, Phuwin’s curiosity got the better of him. He slipped away from his audience and crept across the room. The boy was so absorbed he didn't notice Phuwin’s approach. A shadow fell over his paper, and the boy flinched, freezing like a startled deer. Phuwin’s heart squeezed with a familiar pang of guilt; he knew what it was like to be startled by a sudden, imposing presence. He hadn't meant to scare him.

He leaned in, and the breath caught in his throat. There, on the paper, was his pirate ship. Not just any ship—his ship. With the specific number of cannons he’d described. And there was the tattered green Jolly Roger, a tiny, perfect detail from a single, offhand comment he’d made yesterday about the pirate king poisoning his rival. No one had ever listened to him with such care. No one had ever taken his words and made them into something so solid and real.

"That's the ship," Phuwin whispered, his voice full of an awe he usually reserved for his own creations. He pointed a finger at the green flag. "The Jolly Roger was green because the pirate king poisoned the last one who challenged him." He looked from the paper to the boy’s wide, terrified eyes. "I only said that once."

The boy, Pond, gave a tight, nervous nod, saying nothing.

Phuwin’s gaze swept over the entire drawing—the churning sea he’d imagined, the dragon he’d given voice to, the fairies with their golden dust. It was all there, but more real, more solid. The colors were bolder, the lines more certain. "It's better than in my head," he stated, because it was the simple, overwhelming truth. It was the first genuine, unsolicited validation of his imagination he had ever received.

He didn't ask to play. He didn't try to pull him into a game. Instead, he pulled out the chair and sat down, his entire being focusing on this new, incredible world laid out before them. "Can you…" he began, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "show me the pirate king? What does he look like?"

A change came over Pond. The fear in his eyes melted away, replaced by a sudden, clear purpose. He didn't need words. He simply reached for a fresh sheet of paper, picked up a charcoal pencil, and began to draw. The lines that emerged were fierce and proud, forming a face of such commanding presence that Phuwin knew, instantly, this was exactly what the pirate king looked like. For the first time, someone wasn't just listening to his stories; they were seeing them, building them, making them real. It didn't feel like he was forcing a quiet boy to play. It felt, impossibly, like a collaboration. It felt like a beginning.

2025

The Blackwood Dive Bar was a vessel of golden light adrift in the deep blue twilight of the evening. Low-hanging orange lamps cast a honeyed glow over the scarred wooden tables, their surfaces polished to a soft sheen by countless elbows and the passage of time. Behind the long, mahogany bar, the light fractured and danced, catching on the curves of glass bottles and the rims of clean glasses, creating a constellation of amber and crystal. The air was a comfortable hum—the low chatter of regulars, the burst of laughter from a corner booth, the faint, melancholic strum of an acoustic guitar from the speakers, a song about highways and heartache that no one was really listening to.

Pond stood at the center of it all, a silent conductor of this familiar symphony. A clean glass was in his hand, a white cloth moving in a slow, circular motion inside it. But his eyes were distant, looking through the bottle-lined shelves, through the wall, into some other time or place. The laughter was muffled, the music a dull throb, the entire scene playing out from the end of a long, dark tunnel. He was going through the motions, his body present but his spirit miles away, the warmth of the bar unable to penetrate the chill that had taken root in his bones years ago.

"Hey, Pond."

The voice, bright and a little nervous, pulled him back. He blinked, the world snapping into sharper focus. Katie was leaning against the bar, a smile on her face that was a touch too eager. She was two years his junior; their paths in high school had been parallel, never intersecting. He was unaware of the rumour that had persisted for years about her quiet crush, oblivious to her friends’ recent, fervent encouragement that now was the time, four years post-Phuwin, to finally make a move. To him, her frequent visits and friendly chats were just that—friendly.

"Hey, Katie. The usual?" he asked, his voice a low, even monotone as he set the glass down.

"Maybe tonight I'll live dangerously," she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "What do you recommend?"

Pond glanced at the taps. "The seasonal ale is good. Less hoppy than the IPA."

"Perfect. I'll trust the expert." She watched him as he pulled the pint, the foam cresting perfectly. "Busy night."

"Standard for a Friday," he replied, sliding the glass towards her. His movements were efficient, automatic.

She took a sip, then leaned in closer, lowering her voice. "You know, my friends and I are going hiking up at Miller's Ridge tomorrow. The view is supposed to be incredible with the leaves changing. You should come. Could use a local guide." She gave a light, hopeful laugh.

Pond’s gaze was on the tap he was wiping down. "Thanks, but I've got inventory all day tomorrow. Paperwork." It wasn't a lie, but it was a wall, erected without a second thought.

"Oh." The disappointment in her voice was palpable, but he missed it. "Maybe another time, then."

"Sure," he said, the word non-committal and hollow. He finally looked at her, but his eyes didn't really see her; they saw a customer making polite conversation. "Let me know if you need a refill."

He picked up another glass and the cloth, the circular polishing motion beginning again. Katie stood there for a moment longer, the hopeful light in her eyes dimming, before she offered a weak smile and retreated back to her waiting, watching friends. One of them patted her arm in consolation.

Pond remained at his post, the chatter and laughter rising and falling around him like waves against a cliff. He was completely unaware that he had just effortlessly batted away an advance he never even registered, his heart and mind occupied by a ghost that made the vibrant, living world around him seem dull and distant. The glass in his hand was spotless, but he kept wiping, lost in a silence that was louder than any noise the bar could make.

°•☆•°

The house was a tomb of quiet when he finally got off work. Every creak of the floorboards, every sigh of the settling foundation, was a solitary sound in the immense silence. Pond lay in the center of his bed, the king-sized expanse feeling like a vast, empty plain. He was the only ghost haunting these rooms, his presence doing little to fill the spaces Phuwin had left behind. The warmth of the heavy duvet did nothing to combat the deep, internal cold that had become his constant companion.

The stark white light of his phone screen cut through the darkness, illuminating the sharp planes of his face and casting long, distorted shadows on the wall behind him. He knew this was self-flagellation. He knew it was a uniquely cruel form of torture he inflicted upon himself night after night. But the pull was a gravitational force, stronger than his will.

His thumb scrolled, and the algorithm, a cruel and efficient accomplice, delivered what he sought. Phuwin’s face filled the screen. There he was, in a crisp interview, his eyes bright and intelligent as he discussed his craft. A clip from a variety show followed, and his warm, familiar laugh, the one that used to echo in this very house, rang out tinny from the phone’s speaker. It was a beautiful, agonizing sound. Pond watched, his own face a mask of stone, drinking in the sight of that smile, a sight that once felt like the sun on his skin and now felt like a brand.

He didn’t tap, didn’t choose. He let the autoplay function decide his fate, a passive participant in his own destruction.

The fifth video loaded.

His heart didn't just skip a beat; it stopped. A full, terrifying cardiac arrest in his chest. Then, it exploded. Not with life, but with shattering violence. It felt like a million shards of glass tearing through his veins, scraping against his ribs, scratching his flesh from the inside until he could almost taste the metallic tang of blood in his mouth.

It was a video from a popular lifestyle variety show. The set was a pristine, modern kitchen. And there they were. Phuwin, wearing a soft, cream-colored sweater that made him look heartbreakingly gentle. And beside him, Blake. The model. He was tall, effortlessly handsome, his arm casually slung around Phuwin’s shoulders as they both looked at a recipe book.

The host was asking them a question, but Pond couldn’t hear the words over the roaring in his ears. He watched, utterly transfixed by the horror, as Phuwin laughed at something Blake whispered in his ear. He watched Blake’s hand, large and sure, guide Phuwin’s as they chopped an herb together, their fingers almost touching. It was the easy, unthinking intimacy that destroyed him. The way Phuwin leaned into the touch, the way his body oriented itself naturally towards Blake, as if drawn by a fundamental law of physics.

This wasn't a red-carpet photo op. This was domestic. This was a glimpse into a life, a shared reality. It was the life Pond had once begged for, the future he had pictured for them in this very house. And here it was, playing out on a screen, starring someone else.

He watched until the very end, until the clip faded to black and the next, irrelevant video began to play. Only then did he let the phone fall from his numb fingers onto the mattress. The room plunged back into darkness, but the afterimage of their shared smile was seared onto the back of his eyelids. The cold in his bones was now absolute, the silence of the house a roaring confirmation of his deepest, most foundational fear: that he had always been, and would always be, entirely replaceable.

2016

In the ecosystem of their high school, Pond was Phuwin’s most constant, unshakeable satellite. Where Phuwin went, a trail of laughter and animated conversation in his wake, Pond was a step behind, a quiet, steady presence. It was a given, an unspoken law of nature. This created an invisible barrier that endlessly frustrated their peers. Girls with carefully written notes and boys with bold challenges to a game of basketball would approach, only to be met with Phuwin’s easy, inclusive friendliness—and Pond’s silent, unmovable observation. He never seemed to get the hint, not out of malice, but from a genuine, single-minded belief that his place was right there.

The incident with Jessica, the diner waitress’s daughter, became legend. She had approached him at lunch, her cheeks flushed, mustering every ounce of her courage to ask if he wanted to go to the arcade that afternoon. Phuwin, ever genial, had agreed with a bright smile. Jessica had floated back to her friends, the gossips already weaving a tale of young love.

What she hadn’t anticipated was that Phuwin would arrive with Pond in tow. The entire afternoon was a masterclass in third-wheeling. They weren't excluding her; Phuwin was perfectly polite. But his attention was a compass needle that always swung back to Pond. He’d hand Pond tokens, their fingers brushing. He’d laugh, leaning his whole body against Pond’s when Pond failed at a racing game. The most damning moment was at the basketball hoops. Phuwin, struggling, had felt Pond come up behind him, chest to his back, Pond’s hands guiding his to adjust the shot. They stood there, a single, intimate silhouette against the flashing lights and electronic cacophony, completely absorbed in their own world. 

That evening, Jessica went home in tears. By the next morning, the long-whispered rumor that Pond and Phuwin were dating, a story that had begun when they were fourteen, solidified into accepted fact.

And the rumour, once a distant and absurd echo, began to slither its way inside Phuwin. At first, he had scoffed, finding the very notion odd and slightly ridiculous. Their dynamic was simply a fact of existence. Of course they were always together. Of course Pond’s hand would find his shoulder during a crowded hallway, or their knees would press together under a library table. It was the natural order of things, the comfortable geography of their friendship.

But now, the whisper had taken root. It became a phantom lens through which he viewed their every interaction. Every time he looked at Pond, the rumour would ricochet inside his skull, a silent, persistent echo. It would slither down his throat and coil itself around his heart, making the organ beat a frantic, unfamiliar rhythm against his ribs. A casual brush of Pond’s fingers as he handed him a textbook now sent a jolt up his arm. A friendly nudge made his cheek flame with a heat that had nothing to do with embarrassment. The easy, unthinking physicality that had defined their lives for a decade suddenly felt charged, every point of contact a small, significant spark.

Everything came to a head during a rehearsal.

It had become a cherished ritual. Phuwin would let himself into Pond’s house, the familiar creak of the floorboards a welcome home, and find his way to the bedroom. Pond would be settled on his bed, a sketchbook in hand, and Phuwin would claim the space in front of him as his stage. He would bring characters to life, pacing the worn carpet, his voice and body transforming. The acting was his passion, a fire in his blood. But there was a different, more private thrill in the way Pond’s eyes remained transfixed on him, drinking in his every movement, his every word. That unwavering focus was a different kind of applause, more intimate and validating than any from a faceless crowd.

Sometimes Pond would draw him, capturing the fierce determination in his eyes or the delicate curve of a gesture. Other times, he would just observe, a silent, captivated audience of one. And sometimes, Phuwin would hand him a script, asking him to read the other lines so he could practice his cues.

Tonight, they were rehearsing a scene from the spring play, a sweet, if clichéd, romantic confession. Phuwin’s character was baring his soul to the female lead. Pond, as always, was reading the other part, his voice a flat, utilitarian monotone, a functional scaffold for Phuwin’s emotional architecture.

"Say you feel it, too," Phuwin delivered, his voice dropping, layering the line with a vulnerable, aching hope that felt startlingly real in the quiet of the poster-adorned room.

Pond, looking down at the script, mumbled the response: "I... I think I do."

"No, look at me," Phuwin instructed, his director's voice surfacing. But it was more than direction. It was a need, sharp and sudden, fed by the rumour that had been whispering in his ear for weeks. He needed to see the emotion on Pond’s face. He needed to hear those words, even scripted, directed at him. "You have to say it like you mean it."

Pond looked up.

And Phuwin saw it. The faint flush creeping up Pond’s neck, staining his cheeks a warm, betraying red. The sight stirred something deep within Phuwin’s chest, a quick, hot flutter. His gaze, unbidden, dropped to Pond’s lips, soft and slightly parted in surprise. A single, undeniable wonder bloomed in his mind, a question of what they would feel like against his own.

The distance between them, usually insignificant, now felt charged and inevitable. The script, the characters, the world outside the window—all of it dissolved into a silent, humming tension. The air was thick, difficult to breathe.

Driven by an impulse that felt both terrifying and as natural as his next breath, Phuwin closed the final inches.

The kiss was soft. A tentative, questioning press of his lips against Pond’s. It was sweet, achingly so, and over in a heartbeat. He felt the stunned stillness of Pond’s body, the soft gasp of breath against his skin. Phuwin’s own heart was a wild, trapped thing in his throat, pounding a deafening rhythm. He pulled back, the world swimming back into focus, the silence in the room now roaring. His wide, startled eyes searched Pond’s, seeing the shock, the confusion, and a dawning, mirroring wonder that stole the air from his lungs. The script lay forgotten between them, its fictional confession now rendered utterly, profoundly obsolete.

2025

The old pickup truck knew the road better than Pond knew his own mind. Its tires settled into the familiar grooves of the asphalt, a path he could drive in his sleep. Every bend, every gentle slope, every gnarled oak leaning over the guardrail was a part of his muscle memory. But today, the drive between villages was a form of exquisite torture. Each corner was a trapdoor, each landmark a key that unlocked a memory he desperately wished would stay buried.

As he passed the turnoff for the state park, the dense wall of autumn trees blurred. Suddenly, he was twelve. The school camping trip had descended into chaos as temperatures plummeted, but their teacher, Mr. Henderson, had insisted the tents would hold. 

He and Phuwin were zipped in their own little world, a green nylon dome against the deepening cold. The air inside the tent was bitingly cold, their breath pluming in the weak beam of a single flashlight. They had pushed their sleeping bags together until they were one large, shared nest, a desperate attempt to pool their body heat. The world was only as wide as the few inches between them,  their hands, hidden under the shared cover of a rough wool blanket, were touching. First, it was just a brush of knuckles in the dark, a silent question. Then, Phuwin’s colder fingers had slid between his, holding on tightly. 

He could still feel the exact pressure of Phuwin’s grip, the way his thumb had rested on Pond’s knuckle, a phantom touch now superimposed over the cold, hard feel of the steering wheel.

Further down the road, a narrow, overgrown track disappeared into the woods. His knuckles tightened on the wheel. The present-day foliage, a brilliant tapestry of red and gold, melted away, replaced by the deep, shadowy greens of a summer years ago. They had been fifteen, convinced they were invincible explorers. They’d followed a deer path too far, the woods swallowing the way back. Instead of panic, there had been a giddy, terrifying freedom. Phuwin, ever the dramatist, had declared them the last two people on earth. They’d sat on a fallen log, shoulders pressed together, the only sounds their breathing and the rustle of unseen creatures. Pond remembered the exact quality of the fear—not a fear of being lost, but a fear of that perfect, isolated intimacy ending. He could almost smell the damp earth and hear Phuwin’s voice, low and conspiratorial, saying, "We'll find our way. We always do."

Then he saw it, just ahead: the lone, bent streetlamp, its metal post still twisted in the same unnatural angle, a permanent scar on the landscape. His foot instinctively lifted from the accelerator. The present-day gravel turnout vanished. He was seventeen again, the windows of the car rolled down, the air crisp and cold. Phuwin was in the passenger seat, his head tilted back, eyes closed, a serene smile on his face as the wind whipped his hair. The late afternoon sun had gilded his skin, highlighting the long sweep of his lashes against his flushed cheeks. He had looked incandescent, so beautiful it was physically painful to behold. Pond, stealing glance after glance, his heart swelling with a feeling so immense it stole his breath, hadn't seen the curve tightening. The shriek of tires, the lurch of the car, the sickening crunch of metal. The car had shuddered to a halt, angled precariously, the front fender wrapped around the unyielding pole. For a single, suspended moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing. Then Phuwin had turned to him, his eyes wide not with fear, but with a wild, adrenaline-fueled glee. They had looked at each other, at the bent pole, and then burst into hysterical, relieved laughter, the sound echoing in the sudden, quiet woods.

The memory faded, leaving a cold hollow in his chest. The twisted metal of the lamp post was still there, a stark, gray monument to a moment frozen in time. He pressed the accelerator, forcing the truck forward, trying to outrun the ghosts. But he knew it was useless. On this road, he wasn't just driving between villages; he was navigating the map of a life he had lost, every mile a fresh reminder of a happiness so vivid it had become a permanent, agonizing part of the scenery.

2019

The airport was a cathedral of noise and motion, a vast, echoing space where a thousand separate hellos and goodbyes were happening all at once. The air hummed with distorted announcements and the rolling thunder of suitcase wheels on polished floors. Phuwin stood amidst the chaos, an island of desperate calm, holding Pond’s hands as if they were the only anchor he had left. His own face felt hot, his vision blurring with the effort of holding back tears. He could feel the painful tightness in Pond’s grip, see the unshed tears burning in his eyes, and it took every ounce of his will not to crumble.

He looked at Pond, at the beautiful, familiar face etched with a pain he was causing, and he reached up, his fingers trembling as he gently caressed Pond’s cheek. The skin was warm, real, a tactile memory he was already trying to sear into his fingertips, a touchstone for the lonely nights to come.

“I have something for you,” Pond said, his voice thick. He fumbled in his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, velvet box. He opened it to reveal a delicate silver necklace, its pendant a single, perfect teardrop pearl. “It was my mother’s,” he explained, the words catching. “She always wore it. It belonged to her mother.”

Phuwin’s eyes widened, shimmering with fresh tears. “Pond, no. It’s too precious. I can’t.”

“There is no one else,” Pond insisted, his voice gaining a desperate strength. “There is no one else in this world I would ever want to have it. It belongs with you. Please.”

With shaking hands, Pond lifted the necklace. Phuwin bowed his head slightly, feeling the cool metal clasp fasten at the nape of his neck. The pearl settled against his skin, a beautiful, heartbreaking weight. Pond’s hands didn’t leave; they came to rest on Phuwin’s shoulders, his thumbs stroking the soft, vulnerable skin, a final, memorizing touch.

Then they kissed. It was not a kiss of passion, but of devotion, of desperation, of a love being stretched across an impossible distance. Phuwin poured every ounce of his soul into it—every shared sunrise, every whispered secret, every laugh. It was a kiss that was both a prayer and a plea, a final, futile attempt to pour all of his love into Pond, hoping it would be enough to finally pull him along.

The speaker overhead crackled, a voice slicing through their private universe. “Flight 294 to Los Angeles, will start boarding at Gate 14 in thirty minutes.”

The world rushed back in, cold and cruel.

“You have your ticket?” Pond asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Phuwin nodded, his throat too tight to speak. He opened the front pocket of his backpack, the crisp boarding pass feeling like a warrant for his own heartbreak. He showed it to Pond, a silent, terrible confirmation.

They embraced one last time. Pond pulled him close, squeezing him so tightly it stole his breath. His hands fisted in Phuwin’s shirt, holding on as if his own strength alone could keep him there.

“Be good while I’m gone,” Phuwin said softly, the words feeling hollow and inadequate.

He took a step back, his hand slipping from Pond’s. The distance of a single step felt like a mile.

Phuwin’s voice was strained as he turned back around. “Come with me.”

“Phuwin—” Pond started, his expression pained.

“I know how important this place is to you,” Phuwin rushed on, the words tumbling out. “I know, and I feel so selfish for asking. But I have this feeling… that if we part ways now, if you stay here…” He shook his head, the premonition too terrifying to voice. It felt like severance. “We can be so happy there. Together. We can find a bar, or you can draw, even apply to college. We can be together, happy. It would be worth it.”

Am I not worth it?

There was a beat of silence, a chasm opening between them.

“I love you, Phuwin,” Pond said, his voice thick with a grief that sounded like an ending.

For a fleeting second, Phuwin let out a heavy breath, a fragile hope blooming. He thought he had gotten through.

Then Pond spoke again, and the world shattered. “But this is my home. My life is here. My dad's bar… I can’t just leave. It’s who I am. You can always come back.”

You can always join me. The unspoken words hung in the air, a final, desperate offer left to die.

Phuwin kissed him one last time, a ghost of a touch, a goodbye. Then, he turned and walked away, each step feeling like a betrayal. He didn’t look back, but his entire being was a raw, open nerve, screaming, Run after me. Change your mind. Choose me.

He walked slowly—so slowly—through the bustling terminal, a man walking the plank. He willed a hand to land on his shoulder, to hear Pond’s voice calling his name. He reached the security line, each shuffling step forward a nail in the coffin of their future.

At the gate, he was the last to board. The final call echoed around him. He stood, his boarding pass damp in his sweaty palm, staring down the jet bridge as if it were the entrance to a prison. He took a seat in the waiting area, ignoring the impatient glance of the gate agent, and waited. He counted the seconds, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs, his eyes fixed on the corridor, praying for a miracle, for a last-minute sprint, for Pond to appear, breathless and determined, ready to choose their future.

The gate agent called his name over the intercom. The door to the jet bridge was about to close.

Slowly, insidiously, the truth finally slithered its way past the fragile barricades of his hope and into the core of his heart. It was a cold, absolute certainty that left him hollow.

Pond was not coming.

With a leaden heart, Phuwin stood, handed his pass to the agent, and walked onto the plane alone.

2025

The autumn air in Riveridge held a specific, familiar chill, one that seeped into your bones and promised a long winter. But today, there was another, more unsettling current running beneath the crisp breeze—the townspeople were acting weird in that particular, unmistakable way that meant a major piece of gossip was brewing. Pond, navigating the main street, felt the weight of sidelong glances and the sudden hush of conversations as he passed. He just shook his head, shoving his hands deeper into his jacket pockets, and continued about his day. He had learned long ago that ignoring the town’s nervous system was the only way to maintain his own sanity.

He pushed open the door to the local convenience store, the bell jingling a little too loudly in the tense silence. A few patrons by the coffee machine suddenly found the powdered creamer fascinating. Pond grabbed a bag of chips and a soda, placing them on the counter with a definitive thud.

Jack, the cashier, refused to meet his eyes.

"Spill," Pond said, his voice flat.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Jack mumbled, scanning the items with undue concentration, his ears turning pink.

Pond let out a short, humorless laugh. "Don't give me that. Do you think I just fell off the turnip truck? I've noticed the staring all morning. What is it?"

Jack finally looked up, his expression genuinely pained. "I'm sorry, man. I really am. But we have a gag order. From above."

Above. The word hung in the air. There was no higher authority in Riveridge's gossip chain than Miss Jankins, the retired mail lady who curated the town’s secrets with the precision of a museum archivist. A 'gag order' meant she had decreed silence, usually to control the narrative or, on rare occasions, to protect someone from a harsh truth. Pond’s mind flickered to when Mr. Jacobs had his affair; the whole town had known for half a day, biting their tongues until Miss Jankins had personally taken his wife out for coffee to break the news gently, shielding her from the ruthless jungle of public opinion.

Pond sighed, the fight going out of him—he knew he wouldn't get anything out of Jack. Whatever had happened, he’d find out soon enough, packaged and delivered by Miss Jankins herself. "Yeah, whatever," he muttered, taking his change.

As he drove towards Miss Jankins's house, his mind, against his will, began to conjure possibilities. A million stories flashed before his eyes, each more dramatic than the last. But one, treacherous and persistent, kept rising to the surface, making his heart thump a little harder against his ribs: maybe Phuwin and his beautiful model boyfriend had broken up.

He shoved the thought down, angry at himself for the flicker of hope it ignited.

When he pulled up to her neat little cottage, she was already waiting on her porch, a wooden crate of glossy red apples at her feet as if she’d been expecting him.

"Pond. Good," she said, not one for pleasantries. "Bring these to your mother, will you?"

"Hello to you too," he joked, hefting the crate. It was heavy. "I'm fine, you?"

"Eh, whatever," she waved a dismissive hand. "I see you every day."

He decided to cut to the chase. "What's it about? This gag order I've been hearing about?"

Her face was a perfect mask of innocent confusion. "I don't know what you're talking about. Now go."

Pond narrowed his eyes, studying her. She was a fortress. He changed tactics, leaning into the annoyance she expected from him. "There are too many apples anyways," he grumbled, shifting the crate. "Mum will never eat them all. They'll just go bad."

"Just tell her to make pies for everyone," Miss Jankins retorted, a glint in her eye. "Everyone loves her apple pies. Now go, quickly."

Pond sighed loudly, throwing his head back in an exaggerated display of exasperation. He knew a lost cause when he saw one. He turned and trudged back to his truck, the crate of apples feeling like a payoff for his silence. He slid it onto the passenger seat.

"Bye!" he called out, waving through the open window as he started the engine.

In his rearview mirror, he saw her figure already fumbling in her apron pocket, pulling out her ancient flip phone with clumsy, hurried fingers. She was probably dialing the next person on her list, confirming the gag order was holding or, more likely, preparing to break the news officially.

Pond laughed, a dry, weary sound, and shook his head as he drove away. The mystery remained, but the town’s strange ballet of secrets was, at least, a constant. He’d know soon enough. He just wasn't aware of how soon that soon was.

The truck, on autopilot, turned towards the only place that had ever truly felt like home—Phuwin's mother's house. It was a route he’d driven countless times, a pilgrimage he’d made every day for the past six years, a habit so ingrained it predated Phuwin’s departure. This house had been his sanctuary long before it became a museum of his greatest loss.

Pond had lost his own mother when he was a toddler, her face a blurry photograph, her presence a ghost felt only in the profound absence she left behind. His father, gutted by grief, had let everything else fall away—first his joy, then his responsibilities, and finally, any real connection to his son. The only thing he hadn't let go of was a delicate silver necklace, a teardrop pearl that had belonged to her, a final, fragile thread to a love that had been severed too soon.

Phuwin’s home had become the antidote to that silence. He had spent more meals, more afternoons, more nights on that family’s worn sofa than in his own cold, empty house. Phuwin’s mother had fed him, scolded him, and hugged him with a warmth that felt like a birthright. It had been the most natural progression in the world to start calling her ‘Mum.’ She had raised him in all the ways that mattered. Her walls—a chronicle of their shared life—held more pictures of him than his own father’s ever had.

When he pulled up, he barely registered the unfamiliar, sleek rental car parked out front, his mind still churning with the morning’s cryptic events. He killed the engine and walked towards the familiar green door, not bothering to knock. The sound of the hinge was the sound of coming home.

"Mum?" he called out, his voice echoing in the cozy hallway.

"In the kitchen," her voice floated back, warm and steadying.

He walked through, the crate of apples balanced on his hip. "I swear I told Miss Jankins there were too many apples," he began, ready to launch into his well-practiced complaint about the town's unofficial fruit distributor. "She said to just make pies for every—"

The words died in his throat. The crate felt suddenly like a block of lead in his arms.

There, at the sunlit kitchen table, sat Phuwin. The sight of him was a physical blow, knocking the air from Pond’s lungs. And behind him, the window framed the backyard—a stage for a thousand ghosts: snowball fights, play rehearsals on the grass, stargazing on a worn blanket.

But it was the man sitting beside Phuwin that froze Pond’s blood. He was beautiful in a way that seemed manufactured, a human sculpture. Every feature was geometrically perfect: jawline sharp enough to cut, a straight, aristocratic nose, eyebrows like precise pen strokes. His eyes were a startling, unreal shade of ocean blue, and when he offered a polite smile, his teeth were blindingly white. He was a living, breathing magazine cover. And as a matter of fact, Pond had seen him on many, from the glossy fronts at the convenience store to the towering perfume ads in the airport. Blake.

The gag order. The strange looks. The whispered conversations. It all clicked into place with a sickening finality. The gossip wasn't about a breakup. It was about the return. And he, Pond, had been the last to know.

"How many times do I have to tell you?" his mother asked as she got up and walked towards him, her hands reaching for the crate. “Close your coat when you go out.”

"Don't, it's heavy," he said sidestepping her, his eyes snapping away from Phuwin as if the sight had burned him. He turned, placed the crate on the kitchen counter with a soft thud, closed his eyes, and took a deep, fortifying breath before turning back to face the room.

"And what about the scarf I made you?" his mother continued, her hands moving to zip his jacket before resting for a comforting second on his shoulders. He could see the pity in her eyes, a look that felt sharper than any winter wind.

"It's not that cold yet," he forced himself to say, a ghost of a smile on his lips, a desperate attempt to deflect that pity. "It's fine."

"If you end up in the hospital again, I'm not coming this time," she joked, her thumb gently stroking his cold-reddened nose.

"I won't," he promised, the same moment Phuwin's voice, laced with concern, cut through the air. "Hospital?"

"It was nothing," Pond said quickly, the memory of why he'd ended up there crashing over him.

It had been the day the gossip solidified into fact, the day it had been confirmed Phuwin was dating the model. The news hadn't simply broken Pond's heart; it had shattered his very biology, leaving a physical ache deep in his bones. That night, he had drank until the world blurred, then stumbled into the backyard and collapsed under their tree—the silent witness to a lifetime of them.

The freezing cold had been nothing against the numbness inside. As he sat there, the barren winter scene had dissolved, overwritten by a single, devastating montage of everything he had lost, a crushing collage of their life together: Phuwin’s voice weaving tales under a starry summer sky, their shared laughter echoing during a snowball fight, the intense focus on Phuwin’s face as he rehearsed on the spring grass, with Pond forever watching, forever sketching, forever seeing him. 

He must have passed out then, because the next thing he knew, he was in his mother's car, the world swaying, the confession torn from a place of raw, unguarded hurt. "The new guy is so much better than me," he had slurred, his head lolling against the cold window. "I always knew he would find someone better."

"It was not nothing," his mother said now, her voice firm, pulling him back to the present. "He got pneumonia and had to stay in the hospital for three days last winter."

"It wasn't that bad," he defended weakly, even though it had been. The fever, the coughing that felt like it would break his ribs, the profound weakness—all of it had been a physical manifestation of the internal shattering.

An awkward silence filled the kitchen, thick and suffocating.

"Hi," Blake said, his voice unnaturally cheery, breaking the tension. "I'm Blake. You must be Phuwin's brother."

"What?" Pond asked, dumbfounded, his mind reeling. Had Phuwin really introduced him to his new boyfriend as his brother?

"I'm sorry," Blake laughed awkwardly. "You called her 'mum', and I saw you in all the family pictures, so I just assumed."

"No, I'm just—" but he stopped, the sentence dying in his throat.

Just what?

The guy Phuwin had discarded? The one he had left behind? The ghost haunting his own life?

"He's a childhood friend," Phuwin intervened, his gaze fixed on the tablecloth, refusing to meet Pond's eyes.

Childhood friend.

The words were a dismissal, a brutal minimization of everything they had been. It felt so miniscule compared to the truth. Soulmate. Love of my life. Family. That was what Phuwin was to Pond.

"I was about to get upset that you had never mentioned a brother," Blake was already joking, his smile disarming and perfectly practiced.

"I have to go now," Pond said quickly, the words tumbling out. He leaned down, kissing his mother's cheek. "I'll see you tomorrow."

She nodded, her eyes holding a deep, knowing sadness.

"Bye," he said to Phuwin, the single word laden with years of unsaid things. "It was a pleasure meeting you," he lied to Blake, the taste of the falsehood bitter on his tongue.

Then he was gone, sprinting to his truck before the carefully constructed dam could fully break.

And if the familiar road became a blurry, indistinct streak as hot, silent tears finally fell, no one had to know.

And if he spent the rest of the day in bed, the covers pulled over his head in a futile attempt to block out the world, no one had to know.

And if for all those years, a foolish, stubborn part of his heart had truly, desperately hoped that Phuwin would one day come back to him, no one ever had to know.

2021

The restaurant was a blur of warm light and louder laughter, a bubble of celebration his friends had insisted on. Phuwin sat at the center of it all, a practiced smile on his face. To the world, he was the picture of emerging success, clad in a designer jacket of raw silk that caught the light with a subtle, expensive sheen. But beneath the elegant facade, hidden from every admiring glance, he wore a simple, frayed cotton t-shirt, its fabric worn tissue-paper soft and its graphic design faded to ghosts. It was a shirt Pond had bought him from a market stall a lifetime ago, a secret talisman against the chill of a life lived without him. The conversation swirled around him, but he was only half-listening, a part of him always waiting, always hoping.

When the lights in the restaurant suddenly cut out, plunging them into darkness, his heart performed a wild, impossible leap in his chest. For one breathtaking second, he was sure. He could almost see it: Pond emerging from the kitchen, his face illuminated by dancing candlelight, a crooked smile on his lips as he carried a cake, finally here, finally choosing him.

But when the door swung open and the flames illuminated the face holding the platter, it was just a smiling waiter. The air left Phuwin’s lungs in a silent whoosh. His brilliant, expectant smile dropped, replaced by a stark, naked disappointment that felt like a physical blow. A lump, thick and painful, lodged itself in his throat, making it impossible to breathe. He forced the smile back onto his face as his friends began to sing, the sound muffled and distant. He laughed, a hollow sound, even as his eyes burned with unshed tears.

That’s when he knew. Pond wasn't coming. Not for his birthday, not ever.

°•☆•°

Months later, he was walking a red carpet, the flashes of a thousand cameras creating a universe of blinding white light. It was his first major award nomination for Best Supporting Actor. His white suit was a work of art, elegant and unconventional, with a deep, open back where a delicate silver chain ran down the length of his spine, glittering under the onslaught. He smiled, waved, posed—the picture of rising success.

He saw his co-star, a venerable actress, walking a few paces ahead, her hand tucked securely in the crook of her husband’s arm. They paused, a united front, beaming for the photographers. A familiar, aching emptiness opened up inside him. He had asked Pond, begged him, to just be here for this. He’d promised he could stay in the background, away from the cameras, that he just needed his presence, his solidity, on this terrifying, exhilarating night.

As he turned, a reflexive, hopeful glance over his shoulder, he saw only his manager, talking briskly into a headset. The loneliness that descended upon him was colder and more vast than any he had ever felt, a yawning chasm right in the middle of the roaring crowd.

That’s when he knew. He would always be alone in a room full of people.

°•☆•°

The day was a meticulously constructed hell, each hour layering a fresh kind of torment. It began with the director, a man who wielded silence like a cudgel and criticism like a scalpel. During a crucial, emotionally demanding scene, Phuwin fumbled a line, his mind going blank for a single, fatal second. The razor tongue lashed out, not a quick correction, but a prolonged, surgical dismantling of his technique, his preparation, his very understanding of the character, delivered in a voice that carried across the dead-silent set. Each word was designed to humiliate, to strip him bare in front of the gaffers, the sound technicians, the makeup artists who had just powdered his face.

And his co-stars, a coven of established thespians who viewed him as an upstart, did nothing to shield him. Instead, from their chairs just off-camera, they offered a gallery of subtle, devastating reactions—a shared, raised eyebrow, a barely concealed smirk, a slow, pitying shake of the head. He was their entertainment, the "pretty newcomer" whose undeserved spotlight was finally being rightfully dimmed. The air on set became thick with secondhand embarrassment and silent spiteful delight.

The shoot dragged on for four more agonizing hours under this cloud. When he was finally, mercifully wrapped, his manager was already on the phone with a studio head, waving him away with an absent-minded gesture. There would be no debrief, no comforting post-mortem. He was simply dismissed.

He stood on the curb outside the studio gates, the glamour of the lot a cruel joke. The only available taxi was a battered sedan that smelled overwhelmingly of stale cigarette smoke and cheap air freshener. He slid onto the cracked vinyl seat, the cold leaching through his thin costume trousers. He rolled down the window, desperate for clean air, but the Los Angeles night was frigid, the wind whipping his hair, doing nothing to erase the stench that seemed to cling to his skin and clothes.

Then, the traffic. A solid, unmoving river of red brake lights. The meter, a tiny, relentless demon on the dashboard, ticked upward with a soft, regular click that seemed to sync with the pounding in his head. Each click was a reminder of the money he was wasting, the time he was losing, the sheer, grinding inefficiency of a life that was supposed to be glamorous. He was a prisoner in a moving tomb, shivering, stinking, and watching his resources drain away for the privilege of sitting in gridlock. The distance between the vibrant, punishing world of the studio and the silent emptiness of his rented home felt like a chasm he was falling through, with no one waiting on the other side to break his fall.

When he finally stumbled to the door of his small, rented apartment, the world had narrowed to a single point of entry, a promised sanctuary that turned traitor at the last possible moment. As he turned the key, a sickening, brittle snap echoed in the quiet night. He stared, dumbfounded, at the jagged piece of metal left in his hand, the rest of the key lodged uselessly in the lock. It was the final, perfect insult. A scream of pure, frustrated rage built in his chest, and he slammed his shoulder against the unyielding wood, once, twice, before the latch gave way with a splintering crack.

He shoved a chair under the knob, a flimsy barricade against a world that felt increasingly hostile, and finally, he was inside. The silence that greeted him was not peaceful; it was a physical presence, heavy and absolute. It pressed in on his eardrums, a void where there should have been life. There was no rustle of another person, no call of "You're home," no warm arms to pull him into an embrace that could soften the day's brutality. There was no soft voice to tell him the director was a fool, that his co-stars were jealous, that he was talented and it would be okay. The only truth was the cold, empty air.

His stomach growled, a hollow ache, but the thought of standing at the stove, of the clatter of pans, was utterly insurmountable. He was a shell, emptied out. He could still smell the taxi driver's cigarettes clinging to his jacket, a nauseating perfume of failure. His nose was so cold it felt like a foreign object on his face. In that moment, the loneliness was so profound it felt like a medical condition, a suffocating weight on his chest.

Desperate for a tether, for any connection to a world that felt sane and solid, he fumbled for his phone. His fingers, numb and clumsy, found Pond's name. He pressed call, clutching the device like a lifeline.

It rang.

Once. A distant, electronic chime in another state, in another life.

Twice. A sound that traveled through towers and cables, into a quiet bar, or a silent house, and was simply ignored.

Voicemail.

The sound of Pond's warm, recorded voice—"Hey, it's Pond, leave a message"—was a fresh wave of agony. He called again. And again. Each unanswered ring was a hammer blow to his composure, driving the isolation deeper. Each one screamed the same truth: You are alone. No one is coming for you. No one cares.

The fragile dam holding back the day's terror and humiliation finally shattered. A raw, guttural scream tore from his throat, a sound of such primal frustration and pain that it scared him. He hurled the phone across the room, watching it skid across the cheap rug, a useless piece of plastic. He slid down the wall, his legs giving way, and buried his face in his hands. The sobs that wracked his body were violent, uncontrollable, dredged up from a place of utter defeat. He cried for the public shaming, for the sneering faces, for the cold taxi, for the broken key, for the empty silence. He cried until his throat was raw and his body ached with a deep, bone-weary exhaustion.

He didn't know how long he sat there in the darkness, a crumpled form at the base of the wall. Time lost all meaning. It could have been minutes or hours. Then, a vibration. A low, persistent hum from across the room. His head snapped up. He scrambled on his hands and knees, heart hammering against his ribs, a desperate, wounded animal lunging for a sudden reprieve. He clutched the phone, the screen illuminating his tear-streaked, desperate face. 

Pond.

He answered, his breath hitching. He wanted to pour it all out. I miss you. I need you. I can’t do this alone. Please, just come. But the silence on the other end felt like a judgment. He was cold, he was alone, and he smelled like failure and cigarette smoke.

“I want to break up,” is what came out instead. The words were cold, hard, a preemptive strike to protect a heart that felt too shattered to risk another rejection.

For a whole month, a stubborn, foolish ember of hope stayed alive in his chest: the hope that Pond would show up. That he would fight for him, that he would prove the words a lie. That he would choose them.

But Pond never did.

That’s when he knew. Pond would never show up. Not for a birthday, not for a red carpet, and certainly not for a broken man sobbing on the floor of a rented house. Pond would never choose him. Not over the familiar comfort of a small town, not over the fear of a world that was too big, not over the safety of a life that required no fight.

The hope he had carried for years, a fragile, flickering flame in the vast darkness of his ambition, guttered and went out, leaving only cold, bitter ash.

That’s when he knew. Pond had never loved him enough to fight for him.

2025

The Blackwood Dive Bar was a living thing, and tonight it breathed its usual, comfortable rhythm. The same low hum of conversation, the same clink of glasses, the same golden light pooling on the scarred wooden tables. Mike was already three sheets to the wind in his usual corner, mumbling about the fishing season. Jake was holding court by the dartboard, recounting a story everyone had heard a dozen times. It was a portrait of constancy, a scene Pond had presided over for years.

The only dissonant note was a new figure in the far corner.

Phuwin and Blake were nestled in a booth, Blake’s arm slung possessively around Phuwin’s waist. Blake’s blond hair was a splash of gold in the bar’s soft, orange glow, a shade too bright for the muted tones of the room. Pond didn’t need to look around to feel it—the eyes that kept straying towards the couple, and then, inevitably, flicking back to him. He could feel the weight of the stares, the whispered calculations, the pitying looks. He could already hear the gossip that would slither through the town tomorrow, dissecting his every reaction. Did you see Pond’s face? He looked like a ghost. Poor thing, still pining.

He saw Blake lean in, saying something that made Phuwin laugh, a sound that once was the highlight of Pond’s day and now felt like a shard of glass in his heart. A chasm opened in his chest, so wide and deep he felt dizzy.

Then it happened. Blake, still distracted by his own story, lifted the arm that wasn't around Phuwin and turned his head vaguely towards the bar. He didn't make eye contact, didn't raise his voice in a polite request. He simply snapped his fingers.

The sharp, dismissive sound cut through the bar’s murmur.

Pond saw Phuwin’s eyes widen in horror. He saw Phuwin’s hand dart out, grabbing Blake’s wrist and pulling it down, a frantic, apologetic smile already forming on his lips. But the damage was done.

A hot, bitter knot formed in Pond’s throat. He wiped his hands on the towel tucked into his apron and walked towards their table, each step feeling like he was marching towards his own execution.

Before he could speak, Blake waved a hand without looking at him. “Another round,” he said, his tone bored, as if addressing a piece of furniture.

“Sorry, Pond,” Phuwin began, his voice tight with embarrassment, but Pond cut him off.

His voice was dangerously calm, a thin veneer over a roiling sea of hurt and fury. “No, it’s fine,” he said, a tight, sarcastic smile stretching his lips. “I forget sometimes. Our little town bar must seem so provincial. You’re probably used to places with servers who jump at a finger snap. But here,” he continued, his gaze locking with Phuwin’s, “if someone has a request, they come to the bar. We’re all equals at the Blackwood.”

He held the brittle smile, fighting to keep every tremor of emotion from his face, before turning on his heel and walking away. He didn’t need to look back to feel the heat of their stares. He heard Blake’s indignant, hushed complaint. “God, what was that? How rude.”

Pond reached the sanctuary of the bar, his back to them, his hands gripping the polished wood until his knuckles turned white.

A server. That’s what he was to them. To Blake, he was invisible, a function, not a person. And to Phuwin, he was just the man behind the bar, a relic from a past life who no longer warranted the basic courtesy one gives an equal. The chasm in his chest wasn’t just empty anymore; it was filled with the acid of his own humiliation. He was the scenery in Phuwin’s new, glamorous life.

A few moments later, Pond sensed a presence at the bar. He didn't need to look to know it was Phuwin. The air around him always seemed to change.

"Pond," Phuwin began, his voice low and awkward. "Listen, about before... I'm really sorry. It was just a misunderstanding. Blake is... he's actually very nice, he just gets a little... comfortable sometimes. He didn't mean anything by it."

Pond kept his back turned, meticulously wiping a glass that was already spotless. He could feel the heat of Phuwin's anxious gaze on his neck. Finally, he turned, his face a carefully constructed mask of indifference. He scooped up the two fresh pints he'd already poured and slid them across the bar with a little more force than necessary.

"I'm sure he's just perfect," Pond said, the words dripping with a sarcasm so thick it felt like tar in his mouth.

He immediately turned away, pretending to be utterly absorbed in the labels on the whiskey bottles, his shoulders tense as he waited for Phuwin to take the hint and walk away.

The silence stretched, and then he heard the soft sound of Phuwin retreating.

Only then did Pond’s shoulders slump. The mask fell, and the raw, ugly truth he’d been choking on rose to the surface. The worst part wasn't the sarcasm. The worst part was that, deep down in the marrow of his bones, he truly believed those words.

He was sure Blake was better. Better in every conceivable way. Blake was someone who had made it. He was beautiful, sculpted by genetics and discipline into a form that belonged on a magazine cover. He was successful, moving in a world of glamour and acclaim that Pond could only see through a screen. He was adored by millions, his smile a commodity, his presence an event.

And as long as Phuwin was with someone like that, Pond knew he never stood a chance. He was just the boy who stayed behind, forever serving drinks from the other side of the bar.

°•☆•°

The final, solitary light above the bar cast a tired glow over the empty room. The last patron had stumbled out an hour ago, and now only the scent of stale beer and lemon-scented cleaner remained. Pond moved through the silence, a worn cloth in his hand, mechanically wiping down the last of the sticky tables. As he reached across a particularly damp ring left by a pint glass, the sleeve of his flannel shirt dipped into the spill. He pulled it back, the fabric now dark and clinging unpleasantly to his skin.

He let out a short, bitter scoff. Blake would never be caught dead like this. Blake would never have the cuff of his undoubtedly expensive, tailored shirt soaked in spilled beer. He would never be on his knees, wiping down sticky floors, washing grimy windows, or scrubbing filth from the floor tiles long after midnight. The divide between them wasn't just about success or beauty; it was about the very grime of life, the unglamorous labor that Pond was steeped in and a man like Blake would simply pay someone else to handle.

The thought broke him.

He sank into the floor, the damp cloth falling from his numb fingers. He put his head in his hands, the heels of his palms pressing hard against his burning eyes. A lump formed in his throat, so heavy and painful it felt like it would choke him from the inside out. He could feel the treacherous tremble in his lips, the hot pressure building behind his eyes.

The memory played on a cruel, relentless loop: the dismissive snap of Blake's fingers, the way his eyes had looked right through Pond as if he were a piece of furniture. He had never felt more invisible, more insignificant. A failure.

He had tried. God, how he had tried. He’d worked tirelessly to become someone with roots and substance—someone who could, maybe, one day stand beside Phuwin as an equal. But here he was, right back where he had started. Not standing tall, but on his knees, the cold, sticky floor seeping through the fabric of his pants, the scent of his own failure as sharp as the bleach in the bucket beside him. He was exactly the man he’d always been afraid he was: the one who was never enough.

2024

The bass was a physical thing, a deep, resonant thrum that vibrated through the plush velvet sofa and up through the soles of his shoes. This wasn't a loud, chaotic nightclub; it was a private members-only den, all low lighting, dark wood, and art deco accents. The air smelled of expensive perfume, aged whiskey, and the faint, clean scent of condensation on chilled glass. Phuwin sat with Fourth and Satang, the only two people in this glittering, treacherous industry he trusted. They were all flushed and slightly sweaty from an hour on the small, packed dance floor, the alcohol lending a pleasant, dizzying buzz to the evening.

"Blake has been stealing glances at you for the past hour," Fourth said casually, sipping his neat bourbon.

Phuwin didn't even bother to look. "Let him. I don't even know who that is."

"He's a model. I'm friends with him," Fourth offered, a little too innocently.

A familiar suspicion curled in Phuwin's gut. It was too convenient, this handsome model appearing on the very night Fourth had practically begged him to come out. "Whatever you have planned," Phuwin said, his voice flat, "forget it."

That's when the coordinated assault began. Satang leaned in, his voice a persuasive murmur. "Come on, Phu. Just give the guy a chance. He's actually really sweet."

"And he's crazy about this show you did last year," Fourth added. "He's not just some airhead. He's sharp."

"He's fun," Satang pressed. "He knows how to have a good time. Don't you think you deserve a good time?"

"I don't want a boyfriend right now," Phuwin stated, the lie automatic and well-practiced. He took a long swallow of his drink, the ice clinking loudly in the brief silence.

Fourth and Satang exchanged a look that saw right through him.

"Phu," Satang began, his tone softer, more serious. "We're just saying... Blake is... well, he's so much better than—"

"Don't." The word cut through the music, sharp and final. It was the same instinct that had made him step in front of Pond on the kindergarten playground, the same protective reflex that had flared every time someone in high school had looked at Pond the wrong way. The habit of a lifetime was hard to break, even now.

"Look," Fourth said, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. "We met Pond. We tried. But he seemed... stuck up. He didn't even try to be friendly with us. And you can't tell us he ever showed up for you when you needed him. Not really. Not in the ways that counted."

Satang nodded in agreement. "It's been years, love. You have to move on. You can't keep comparing everyone to a ghost who never even fought for you."

The words landed, each one a precise, painful blow. The dizzying buzz of the alcohol soured, and the thumping bass now felt like a headache coming on. The plush, exclusive club suddenly felt like a gilded cage, and the concerned faces of his best friends felt like a jury delivering a verdict he wasn't ready to hear.

As if summoned by their conversation, a figure detached itself from the shadows near the bar and approached their booth. Blake moved with an easy, fluid confidence, a stark contrast to the tense energy at their table. He stopped before them, a disarming smile already in place, his gaze fixed on Phuwin.

"Forgive the interruption," he said, his voice smooth and warm. "I'm Blake. I've been a fan of your work for a while, and I couldn't leave without saying hello." He then turned his smile, inclusive and charming, to Fourth and Satang. "I hope it's alright if I steal a moment?"

Before Phuwin could form a response, Satang was already sliding over. "Of course! Plenty of room."

"Yeah, join us," Fourth added with a pointed look at Phuwin that allowed no argument.

Blake didn't hesitate. He slid into the booth, his thigh pressing against Phuwin's in the cramped space. There was no hint of awkwardness in the contact, no self-conscious pause. It was the assured movement of someone who had never been made to feel his presence was an imposition. He was a social butterfly, not because he was resilient to rejection, but because the concept seemed entirely foreign to him. Rejection was something that happened to other people.

He turned his body slightly towards Phuwin, his arm resting on the back of the sofa behind him, creating an intimate bubble in the middle of the bustling club. "So, your monologue in the third episode of Echoes," he began, his eyes alight with genuine interest. "The way you delivered that final line—it was like you reached through the screen and grabbed my heart. How did you even prepare for that?"

He was bright, open, and engaging, effortlessly carrying the conversation. He asked thoughtful questions about Phuwin's process, laughed easily at a shared observation, and included Fourth and Satang with a natural charm that was impossible to dislike. He was everything Pond wasn't in social situations: effortless, expansive, and utterly unafraid. And as Phuwin found himself drawn into the conversation, a small, traitorous part of him couldn't help but appreciate the simple, undemanding warmth of the attention.

2025

The silence in the car was a thick, heavy blanket, smothering the sounds of the engine and the tires on the asphalt. It had been this way for miles, a tense stalemate between the man who had left and the man who had stayed. The only reason they were trapped in the metal box together was the collective conspiracy of the entire town, everyone suddenly too busy to give the visiting celebrity a ride to a wedding he’d been guilt-tripped into attending.

"You have to go left after the bend," Phuwin said, his voice cutting through the quiet. He was staring at his phone, its screen a cold, blue rectangle in the dim car.

Pond’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. "It's faster if I pass through the woods and then go left later."

"Google Maps just says to go left now," Phuwin countered, a hint of frustration creeping into his tone. "It usually shows the faster route."

Pond couldn't stop the bitter words from escaping. "Well, Google Maps hasn't been driving these roads for the last decade. You might not know them anymore, since you left, but I do." The sarcasm was a shield, a way to make the hurt sound like strength.

He saw Phuwin flinch as if struck. A sharp, frustrated breath escaped him before he visibly bit back whatever retort was on his tongue. He turned his head sharply towards the window, his shoulders stiff, and said nothing more.

Pond knew he was being harsh. But the ache in his chest, the raw memory of Phuwin walking away and the sight of him with Blake, seemed to transform into something sharp and corrosive as it traveled from his heart to his tongue. Sarcasm was the only way to let it out without completely shattering.

He turned right, leaving the main road and plunging them into the woods.

The world outside transformed instantly. The open fields gave way to a cathedral of trees, their branches forming a tangled canopy against the gray sky. The forest was a symphony in decay and fire. Maples burned a fierce, bloody red, and poplars shimmered in brilliant, blinding gold. A carpet of fallen leaves, damp and richly colored, muffled the world, and the air that seeped through the vents was cold and carried the profound, earthy scent of damp soil and rotting wood. Sunlight, weak and pale, filtered through the skeletal branches, casting long, dancing shadows across the road. It was breathtakingly beautiful and utterly melancholic, a landscape that mirrored the ruin and the stubborn, fiery beauty warring inside Pond’s own heart. He drove on, the vibrant, dying world outside a stark contrast to the frozen silence within the car.

The car climbed higher, the engine beginning to protest with a concerning, sputtering whine. Then, with a final, jarring shudder, it died entirely. Pond cursed under his breath, wrestling the steering wheel to guide the coughing vehicle onto a narrow, leaf-strewn pull-off on the side of the desolate road.

“Just wait here,” he told Phuwin, his voice tight. “It’s freezing outside. I don’t want you getting cold.” It was an automatic, futile gesture of care, a relic of their old dynamic. He got out, the biting mountain air hitting him like a wall, and popped the hood.

He leaned in, his breath pluming in thick, white clouds. He fiddled with wires, tapped the alternator, his knowledge basic and quickly exhausted. The cold seeped through his thin button up shirt, turning his fingers stiff and numb.

A moment later, the passenger door opened. Phuwin emerged, shrugging into his own jacket, and walked over without a word. He held out Pond’s heavier coat, which had been left on the backseat.

“Thanks,” Pond muttered, his heart giving a traitorous lurch as their fingers brushed during the exchange. The brief contact was a spark in the freezing air.

“What’s wrong?” Phuwin asked, his arms crossed against the chill.

“I’m not sure,” Pond admitted, frustration mounting.

Phuwin pulled out his phone, swearing softly. “No signal.” He peered down the empty, winding road. “Maybe someone will drive by.”

“Almost no one ever passes through here,” Pond said, the statement hanging in the air like an accusation.

And that’s when it ignited.

“If you had just listened to me and taken the main road like I said,” Phuwin said, the dam of his patience breaking, “maybe we wouldn’t be stuck here. That road is actually travelled, you know. But no, you’re always too proud to listen to anyone else.”

“Oh, so now you’re an expert on these roads again?” Pond shot back straightening up. “You, who left and never looked back?”

“Stop throwing that in my face!” Phuwin’s voice rose, sharp and raw, echoing in the silent woods. “I left for my dream! I achieved my dream! Why do you have to act like that’s some kind of betrayal? Like it’s a bad thing?”

“There’s nothing wrong with your dream!” Pond roared, his own control shattering. “But you didn’t have to abandon me!”

“I didn’t abandon you!” Phuwin screamed back, his face flushed with anger and cold. “You abandoned me!”

“I abandoned you?” Pond’s voice cracked. “You’re the one who ended it! You broke up with me on a phone call. A fucking phone call!”

“Because you were never there to do it in person!” Phuwin yelled, the words bursting forth from a deep, festering wound. “I was always alone, Pond! You were always cold and distant. The few times you met my friends, you made zero effort! I was the one flying back, exhausted, squeezing every second to see you, while you couldn’t even be bothered to get on a plane once! You were never there! Not when I needed you!”

“Oh stop playing the victim. You were just waiting for an excuse to break up with me.” Pond accused, the most poisonous fear of his heart finally given voice. “You wanted to be free to find someone better! And you did! You never loved me enough!”

Phuwin let out a bitter, hollow laugh that held no humor. “That’s all in your head, Pond! That’s how you’ve always been! Always feeling wrong, always jealous and insecure, always terrified that people wouldn’t like you! You built this prison of insecurity and locked yourself inside, and you’re blaming me for the walls!”

Pond stared at him, the truth of the words hitting with the force of a physical blow, stripping him bare in the freezing forest. The fight drained out of him, leaving only a devastating emptiness. His shoulders slumped.

“Well, at least I tried,” he whispered, the words barely audible. “But whatever I did… it was never enough.”

He looked at Phuwin, his eyes filled with a lifetime of defeat.

“I was never enough.”

Phuwin scoffed, a sharp, dismissive sound that cut through the cold air more deeply than any shouted insult.

"You are the one who never made an effort."

Then he turned, yanked the car door open, and slid back inside, slamming it shut and leaving Pond alone.

Pond stood frozen for a moment, then let out a low, bitter laugh that held no humor, only a world of pain. That one simple sentence was a knife to the heart, twisting in the exact spot that hurt the most. His heart was a ball of hurt so immense, so dense, he felt physically paralyzed by the weight of it.

He couldn't go back in there. Not yet. Not into that suffocating silence. He turned back to the engine, his numb fingers fumbling with wires and hoses he’d already checked. He did anything, everything, just to avoid the moment he would have to sit beside Phuwin in the aftermath of their destruction.

"Try and turn it on," he finally called out, his voice rough.

From inside, he heard the ignition grind. The engine sputtered weakly, then died.

"Try again!"

Another sputter, another failure. It was a perfect metaphor for his entire life.

"Just admit defeat and get inside," Phuwin's voice came, flat and exhausted, through the closed window. "Someone will come."

But admitting defeat meant surrender. So Pond tried again, yanking at a cable, tapping the starter with a wrench, a desperate, futile show of stubbornness.

Miraculously, on his next command to try, the engine coughed, caught, and rumbled to life with a shaky but steady purr.

A grim, triumphant smile touched Pond's lips. He slammed the hood shut, the sound final and defiant. He got into the driver's seat, the interior feeling charged and claustrophobic. He put the car in gear and pulled back onto the road.

"See?" he said, the words sounding hollow even to his own ears. "See what happens when you don't give up on things?"

Phuwin didn't reply. 

°•☆•°

The wedding was a painting come to life. The bride stood beneath an arch woven with autumn branches, her brilliant white gown a stark, almost celestial contrast against the fiery backdrop of crimson and gold foliage. 

Pond stood with Phuwin, sipping champagne from a delicate flute, making strained small talk with Jessica and her boyfriend, Mark. They were a relic of a simpler time, a life he’d almost forgotten.

Jessica, a little flushed from champagne, laughed. “God, I had the biggest crush on you in high school, Phuwin.” She nudged Mark playfully. “If it had worked out, I’d be rich and living in LA right now.”

Mark scoffed good-naturedly. “And you wouldn’t have the rose garden,” he retorted, earning another laugh. “Or me.”

Phuwin looked genuinely surprised. “You did? Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

Jessica shook her head. “I did! I asked you to the arcade, remember? We went. But you…” Her gaze flickered to Pond for a fraction of a second, a knowing look in her eyes. “You always only ever had eyes for Pond. It was like the rest of us were just background characters.”

Pond looked at Phuwin then, his heart giving a painful, lurching squeeze. He remembered. He remembered when that was undeniably, beautifully true. When they lived in each other’s orbit, a self-contained universe where nothing else mattered.

“I saw you two come in together today,” Jessica continued, her voice softening with sentimental assumption. “And I just knew you’d find your way back to each other. After everything Pond did, there was no way you wouldn’t. Everyone was so shocked when you broke up, especially after all those years of hard work to get into college and move to LA.”

Pond’s blood ran cold. “Jessica,” he interrupted, his voice tight. “The past is the past. No need to bring it up.”

But it was too late. Phuwin’s head snapped towards him, his expression one of pure, uncomprehending shock. “What is she talking about?”

Mark shifted uncomfortably. “Jess, honey, the gag order on it.” He shot an apologetic look at Pond. “Sorry, man.” He gently took Jessica’s arm, starting to steer her away.

“Sorry, Pond,” Jessica called over her shoulder, her earlier cheer replaced by embarrassment.

Phuwin tried to call after them, to demand more information, but they were already melting into the crowd. In this town, nobody broke a gag order from Miss Jankins.

Pond didn’t wait. He turned and walked away, his champagne flute feeling like a lead weight. He found a secluded spot at the edge of the reception, a stone balustrade overlooking the vast, rolling valley below, the patchwork of autumn colors a beautiful, indifferent expanse.

He didn’t have to wait long. Phuwin found him soon after, his presence a familiar disturbance in the air.

“When were you moving to LA?” Phuwin’s voice was quiet, intense. “What college?”

Pond’s jaw tightened so hard it ached. He stared straight ahead. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Tell me.”

“What’s done is done,” Pond said, the chasm in his chest tearing wider as the memory, long buried, surged to the surface. “I was young and foolish. There’s no point in bringing up the past.”

“I care,” Phuwin insisted, stepping closer. “I want to know.”

Pond finally turned to face him, the emotion he’d been fighting finally breaking through, his lips trembling. “What will it change, Phuwin?” he asked, his voice raw. “Will it magically make your boyfriend disappear? Will it turn back time and make me the only person you’ve ever loved again?”

The questions hung in the crisp mountain air, unanswered and unanswerable, a monument to a future that had died before it ever had a chance to live.

2020-2021

The memory was a fresh wound, even now. Meeting Phuwin’s new friends in that stark, minimalist Los Angeles mansion had been a special kind of torture. Every surface was polished to a blinding sheen, and Pond had felt like a stain, his very presence an intrusion. He’d been terrified to touch anything, convinced his worn-out jeans and scuffed boots were desecrating the pristine space. But worse than the shame of his clothes was the crushing weight of their conversation. They spoke of passion projects, indie films, and artistic revolutions with a fiery, self-assured ambition. And Pond? Pond had a bar. A bar he hadn't built, but inherited. A place that held no mark of his own dreams, only the ghost of his father’s. The fear was a living thing in his gut—the fear that they were laughing at him, that Phuwin was embarrassed by his small-town simplicity, his lack of a grand narrative.

On the flight home, staring out at the endless clouds, he made a vow. He would never put Phuwin in that position again. He would not be the dead weight, the boring, grey anchor holding back a shooting star. He would work until his bones ached to become someone who could stand tall next to Phuwin, someone with his own dream, his own passion. Someone worthy.

The vow became a grueling, two-year-long obsession, a marathon run at a sprinter's pace. His life didn't just fracture; it was pulverized into a fine dust of endless tasks, each grain a minute of the day accounted for. He existed on a brutal, self-imposed schedule that left no room for breath, let alone for a relationship spanning states. His life fractured between working 

His life became a delicate, exhausting balancing act, meticulously divided between honing his craft to perfect his portfolio and laboring to afford a tuition that was nothing more than a desperate, distant hope.

His days began before the sun, in the harsh, unforgiving light of his single bulb, hunched over a drafting table. The only sounds were the scratch of charcoal on paper and the frantic, ticking clock. As soon as the sun reached the middle of the sky, his first shift began. He’d pull on worn work gloves, his back already aching, and head to Mrs. Gable’s to wrestle with her overgrown rose bushes, or to Mr. Davids’ to mend a broken fence. The physical labor was a dull, constant throb in his muscles, a different kind of exhaustion from the mental strain of creation.

As soon as the bar opened, he was there, his artist's hands now wiping down sticky counters and pulling taps, the cheerful clatter of the crowd a jarring transition from the quiet focus of his studio. 

Lunch and dinners were for the diner, the smell of grease seeping into his clothes as he balanced trays and refilled coffee cups for a pittance, the owner’s pity a small, bitter pill to swallow. On weekends, when others slept, he was in his beat-up truck at 4 a.m., driving three hours through the pre-dawn gloom to the art gallery a few cities over. There, he’d spend eight hours as a glorified pack mule—hauling heavy crates, sweating under the weight of canvases, his hands cramping from carefully hanging exhibitions for artists whose lives he could only envy. The drive back was a battle against sleep, his eyes gritty, the white lines of the highway blurring into a hypnotic, dangerous trance.

And in the stolen moments—the twenty minutes between closing the diner and opening the bar, the dead hour after the diner's lunch rush—he was learning. His small house was no longer a home but a chaotic, hazardous laboratory of art. The kitchen table was permanently stained with watercolour pigments, vibrant blues and reds bleeding into the wood. The bathroom sink was clogged with clay from his frantic, late-night attempts at sculpture, clumsy figures that mocked his ambition. The air was a thick cocktail of chemical smells—acrid photo-developer, waxy pastels, the toxic tang of fixative. He fell asleep with art history textbooks splayed open on his chest, his dreams a jumble of colour theory and mounting debt.

He was a ghost in his own life, a spectre of exhaustion haunting the spaces of his own making. His phone would buzz with calls from Phuwin, the screen lighting up with a name that sent a simultaneous pang of longing and guilt through him. He’d let it go to voicemail, too tired to form a coherent sentence, too ashamed to admit he was breaking himself apart to become someone worthy of the very person he was now ignoring. Every ignored call, every truncated text message, was another brick in the wall he was building between them, a wall he desperately hoped he could tear down with a single acceptance letter. He was burning the present to the ground, praying the ashes would fertilize a future he wasn't even sure he would ever reach.

°•☆•°

The dream felt terrifyingly fragile the day before Phuwin’s birthday. Pond was deep in the forest before first light, his body running on the dregs of a three-hour sleep. He was trying to capture the ethereal quality of the dawn sun as it pierced the canopy, a specific, soft glow he needed for his photography portfolio. But as he bent to adjust the framing, the world tilted. A wave of dizziness, born from relentless exhaustion and too many skipped meals, washed over him. His head spun, his vision blurred for a single, catastrophic second, and his foot, numb with fatigue, caught on a gnarled root.

The fall was brutal and graceless. He landed with a heavy, jarring thud, the breath knocked from his lungs. His camera, his precious, second-hand camera, flew from his grip, smacking against a tree with a sound of splintering plastic and glass that was almost as sickening as the sharp, unmistakable crack that echoed from his own left arm. White-hot, nauseating pain shot through him, so intense it stole his voice. He lay there, gasping amidst the damp leaves, the serene morning birdsong now a mocking chorus to his agony.

A hiker found him half an hour later, pale, disoriented, and cradling his grotesquely angled limb. The ride to the hospital was a blur of jolting pain and rising dread. When he woke in a sterile white room, his left arm was entombed in a thick, unyielding plaster cast from knuckles to bicep. His first conscious thought wasn't of the throbbing ache, but of the clock on the wall. His flight to LA—the flight to see Phuwin, to finally be there for his birthday—had taken off without him.

Then, the true panic set in, cold and absolute, freezing the blood in his veins. It wasn't about the missed celebration. It was the death of the dream. How? His mind screamed, the question a frantic, trapped bird. How could he draw the intricate final pieces for his portfolio? How could he pull pints or carry trays with one functional arm? How could he finish the delicate wire sculpture that was the centerpiece of his application? The dream he had built over two years with his own blood, sweat, and stolen sleep was shattering, he could feel it, alongside the broken bone.

He sobbed, great, heaving, ugly sobs, for a full hour in his mother’s arms, the physical pain a distant echo compared to the psychic terror of his future collapsing.

In the end, he persevered. The days that followed were a lesson in grim adaptation. He could still draw with his right hand, his lines initially clumsy and childish, the sketches a pathetic shadow of his initial work. He filled a whole trash can with these failed attempts before his muscle memory began to grudgingly adjust. Sculpting and carving, which required two strong, steady hands, were abandoned, the half-finished pieces in his studio now taunting monuments to his limitations.

Work was a fresh hell. Pulling a pint became a precarious, two-stage maneuver. Carrying a loaded tray at the diner required a torturous balancing act and a constant, humiliating fear of sending plates crashing to the floor. Every simple task demanded three times the effort, three times the concentration, leaving him mentally and physically drained. At the gallery, he was relegated to the most menial tasks: sorting mail, logging inventory, and dusting baseboards—work that required only one arm but chipped away at his spirit.

He moved through the world as a specter of his former, already exhausted self. The cast was a heavy, white anchor, a constant, visible reminder of his fragility. Yet, he refused to surrender. The dream was battered, dented, and hanging on by a thread, but as long as he could hold a pencil in his right hand and will his body through one more shift, it was, against all odds, still alive.

°•☆•°

The day of the final UCLA interview arrived, a date circled in red on his calendar that had, cruelly, become a day of profound conflict. It was the same day as the premiere of Phuwin’s new movie, the biggest of his career so far. The clash was not just a scheduling error; it was a physical pain, a deep, wrenching pull in his chest. He wanted, more than he wanted to breathe, to be there. To stand beside Phuwin on that red carpet, not as a secret shame, but as a partner. To finally show up for him in the way he’d always failed to. He imagined the flashbulbs, the glamour, the pride in Phuwin’s eyes, and the ache of missing it was a constant, throbbing hum beneath his skin.

But he couldn't go. Missing this final interview would render the last two years of back-breaking labor meaningless. The choice felt like a self-inflicted wound.

The day of the interview, he was a mess of raw nerves. A near-paralyzing anxiety seized him the moment he woke, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. His stomach churned violently; he spent the morning hunched over the toilet, vomiting three times until there was nothing left but bile and a hollow, shaky dread. He stood before the mirror, scissors in hand, and hacked at his hair, trying to sculpt some semblance of a professional look, only to decide it was wrong, washing the jagged strands and trying again. He changed his outfit over a dozen times—a button-down felt too stiff, a sweater too casual, every fabric feeling like a costume that didn't fit the person he was pretending to be.

His greatest terror was the technology. This was his one shot, and it depended on a flickering stream of data. He tested his internet connection obsessively, running speed tests until his fingers were numb. It wasn't enough. He found himself, in a state of sheer panic, knocking on his neighbors' doors, his explanation a frantic, embarrassed jumble as he asked to check their Wi-Fi strength, desperate to find the most stable, powerful signal in all of Riveridge to carry his fragile dream to Los Angeles.

When the interview finally began, his carefully rehearsed answers deserted him. His voice stammered, betraying his nerves. He fumbled over simple words, his mind, exhausted from two years of overwork and the day’s emotional turmoil, going blank for agonizing, eternal seconds. He could only stare at the panel of impassive faces on his screen, the silence screaming his inadequacy. He saw their subtle, exchanged glances and felt his chances slipping away with every clumsy, hesitant phrase.

The moment the call ended, the last of his energy vanished. He didn't move from his chair for a long time, just sat in the crushing silence of his own perceived failure. Then, he crawled to his bed and collapsed, fully clothed. He slept for a solid twenty-four hours, a dead, dreamless sleep, his body and spirit so utterly depleted that not even the ghost of his ambition could stir him. He had given everything to this day, and as he slept, he was haunted by the twin ghosts of a red carpet he wasn't walking and an interview he was sure he had failed.

°•☆•°

The two months of waiting were a special kind of purgatory. Every day, Pond’s eyes would snap to the mailbox, his heart leaping into his throat at the sight of Myka, the postman, only to crash back down when the delivery was just bills and flyers. Hope was a fraying rope, and he was hanging on by the last thread.

Then, the day arrived. Myka was more than just a herald; he was the town’s central nervous system. The moment the mail truck rolled in, the thick, weighty envelope from UCLA in his hand, the news began to pulse through Riveridge. Myka didn’t just deliver mail; he delivered fate. By the time he had finished his route on the south side, a low hum of anticipation had spread. The butcher knew. The librarian knew. The waitress at the diner knew. A small, hopeful crowd, a mix of familiar faces who had watched Pond grow from a quiet boy into a man burning with a desperate dream, had gathered and now followed Myka like a procession, their footsteps a soft, shuffling drumbeat towards Pond’s door.

Pond opened it to find them all there, their eyes wide, their faces etched with a shared, breathless expectation. The world narrowed to the pristine white envelope in Myka’s outstretched hand. Pond’s own hands—usually steady from pulling pints and sketching for hours—shook so violently he could barely grasp it. He fumbled, the paper feeling impossibly heavy. This wasn't just a letter. It was his future. It was the validation for every missed hour of sleep, every aching muscle, every ignored phone call to Phuwin, every moment of doubt that had screamed he wasn't good enough. It was the sum total of his entire being for the past two years, condensed into a single, terrifying object.

His vision blurred as he tore it open, the sound of the ripping paper grotesquely loud in the silence. He skimmed the formal text, his heart a frantic, painful drum against his ribs. Then he saw it.

A sob ripped from his chest, raw and unrestrained. Tears, hot and immediate, streamed down his face. The crowd's eyes, dozens of them, were locked on him, waiting.

He turned the letter around, holding it up for all to see, his voice cracking. "I'm going to Los Angeles!"

The cheer that went up was electric, communal. It was a triumph for all of them, for their boy who had worked himself to the bone. Mrs. Gable, whose roses he’d weeded, clapped her hands over her mouth, her eyes shining. Mr. Davids, whose fence he’d mended, let out a loud, booming "Huzzah!". His mother hugged him so tightly he almost couldn't breathe. It was a perfect, golden moment, the culmination of every sacrifice, glowing with the incandescent light of a dream realized. For the first time in his life, Pond had a future that was entirely, brilliantly his own.

The celebration lasted for hours. Well-wishers stayed, drinks were poured, and his house, usually empty and quiet, felt like the center of the universe. Eventually, the celebration ebbed, the last of the well-wishers drifting out into the night with echoing congratulations and slaps on the back. The silence they left behind was warm, humming with the afterglow of a shared triumph. Pond stood in the center of his quiet living room, the acceptance letter still clutched in his hand, the paper now soft from being passed around and admired. A wide, disbelieving smile was permanently etched onto his face. 

He had done it.

He reached for his phone, but as the screen lit up, his breath caught. Three missed calls. All from Phuwin.

He hit the call-back button, Pond’s mind racing, playing out the conversation, wondering if he should tell him now, over the phone, his voice cracking with joy, or if he should wait, book a flight for tomorrow, show up at his door, the acceptance letter in hand, a tangible promise of their future. The thought was intoxicating. He could see it: the surprise on Phuwin’s face melting into understanding, then into the same radiant joy he himself was feeling. They would celebrate together, for real this time, as partners moving towards the same horizon.

But when the phone stopped ringing, the voice on the other end, strained and distant, spoke five simple words that shattered the golden moment into a million irreparable pieces.

"I want to break up."

2025

Alone under the skeletal branches of the tree that had witnessed half a lifetime of his story, Phuwin sat on the cold, hard ground. In his hand, he clutched the silver chain, the single, tear-shaped pearl cool against his palm—a final, fragile tether to a love that had once felt as vast and permanent as the sky. He pressed it to his heart, as if he could somehow push it back inside the hollow cavity of his chest. Tears streamed down his face, hot and silent, for the boy he had been, for the man he had left behind, for the beautiful, convenient life waiting for him inside that felt like a gilded cage. The pearl was a question, and his tears were the only answer he had. Whether they were a final, grieving farewell or the first, painful step toward an unknown reckoning, not even he could yet know. The future remained, suspended in the chilly air, as silent and ambiguous as the pearl itself.