The Red String

They say there's a thread that connects the people meant to find each other. It may tangle, it may stretch, but it will never break.

Qin never thought he'd see that guy again.

High school was hard for everyone, but for him, it was something else entirely. His best friend—his once best friend—started treating him differently. Softer. Closer. Tiw looked at him like he was something worth looking at, and Qin, for the first time in his life, let himself believe it. Let himself hope.

Then Tiw cut him out. Chased someone else. Left Qin standing in the wreckage of a friendship he thought was unbreakable, holding feelings he didn't know what to do with.

He lost his best friend and the person he thought he loved in the same breath.

That was the year everything changed. That was also the year a guy from another school started sitting in the row ahead of him at tuition. A guy who was loud and annoying and impossible to ignore.

A guy who, without knowing it, became the string Qin started following without realizing he was even holding it.

And somewhere between the stolen glances and the quiet moments, between the train that passed between them and the stage lights that finally made him seen, Qin fell for him without ever knowing it.

A Year Earlier

The First Time

It was a normal day. The kind that doesn't announce itself. The kind that slips into memory sideways, unnoticed until it's too late to forget.

Qin was leaning against the wall outside the classroom, his friends' voices fading into background noise. Kim was talking about a test he hadn't studied for. Tong was scrolling through his phone. The late afternoon light slanted through the windows, casting long shadows across the corridor floor, and Qin was watching the dust motes float in the golden air, half-listening, half-somewhere else.

Then came the noise.

Three boys spilled out of the stairwell like laughter made visible. They were loud—the kind of loud that bounced off walls and filled spaces, the kind of loud that demanded to be noticed. Their joy was unselfconscious, bright as the afternoon light, and Qin felt his jaw tighten with irritation.

"Pae!"

"Ai Jamie!"

"Give me my shoe back!"

Two of them were playing keep-away with a single sneaker, tossing it back and forth like it was the most important game in the world. The third—barefoot, hopping on one leg—lunged between them, his face a battlefield of desperation and helpless laughter. His hair was messy, falling across his forehead in dark waves. His shirt was untucked. His smile was enormous.

He looked like he'd never worried about anything in his life.

Qin watched them with mild disdain. Annoying.

The shoe chase ended when the barefoot one finally tackled his friend, wrestled the sneaker free, and shoved it onto his foot in a hurry. He was still tying the laces as his friends bolted into the classroom, leaving him to scramble after them, his laughter trailing behind like a banner caught in the wind.

He paused at the doorway, catching his breath. His hair was falling across his forehead. His cheeks were flushed. His eyes were bright.

For a moment, just a moment, he glanced in Qin's direction.

Qin looked away.

He didn't know then that he'd spend the next year looking for that laugh. That he'd learn to pick it out of a crowd, to recognize it before he even saw the face it belonged to. He didn't know that this was the first time he'd ever see Duang, and that it would not be the last.

He didn't know that somewhere, in a place he couldn't see, a thread was beginning to form.

The Second Time

They started sitting in the front row. The three of them, always together, always loud.

The guy sat in the middle. His two friends always leaning over to whisper something, always poking and prodding and making him laugh. His shoulders were broad—the kind of broad that filled out his uniform shirt in a way that made Qin's eyes linger longer than they should. His hair was always slightly messy, like he'd run his hands through it too many times, like he'd just woken up even though it was six in the evening.

When he laughed—which was often—his whole body seemed to tilt toward the sound. His head would fall back, his shoulders would shake, and his friends would laugh too, caught in the same current, the sound rippling through the room like sunlight on water.

Qin watched the back of his head more than he meant to. More than he should.

He learned things without meaning to. The way Duang took notes—messy, sprawling, his handwriting tilting sideways like it was in a hurry to get somewhere. The way he tapped his pen against his notebook when he was thinking, a steady rhythm that Qin found himself unconsciously matching. The way he'd stare at the whiteboard with his head cocked, his lips slightly parted, like he was trying to catch the words before they disappeared.

He was always moving. His knee bounced under the desk. His fingers drummed against the armrest. He'd lean forward, then back, then sideways to whisper something to Jamie, then forward again. It was like his body couldn't contain all the energy inside him, like he was made of light and motion and something Qin didn't have a name for.

Qin found himself watching for those movements. Waiting for them. Anticipating the next small shift.

He told himself it was just irritation. That Duang was the loudest thing in the room, and anyone would notice someone who took up so much space.

But he didn't notice the other loud students. Didn't catalog their habits, their gestures, the way the light caught their hair when they turned their heads.

Qin noticed Duang.

The Third Time

It was the end of a long calculus lecture. Qin was packing his bag slowly, organizing his notebooks with the careful precision that came naturally to him, when he heard it.

A soft thud. A whispered curse.

He looked up.

Duang had dropped his pen. It had rolled off his desk and disappeared somewhere beneath the row of seats. He was bent over, his arm stretched out, his fingers searching blindly. Jamie was laughing at him, Pae was leaning over to help, and the three of them were making a production out of retrieving a single pen.

Qin watched Duang's back arch as he reached further, watched the fabric of his shirt pull across his shoulders, watched the way his hair fell forward and exposed the nape of his neck.

Then Duang straightened, pen clutched triumphantly in his hand, and turned.

For one heartbeat, their eyes met.

Qin's breath stopped. His hands went still on his bag. The noise of the classroom faded to static.

Duang's eyes were brown—warm, deep, the kind of brown that caught the fluorescent light and turned it to something softer. He was looking at Qin like he was seeing him for the first time. Like he'd just noticed he existed.

The moment stretched. Qin felt it in his chest, in his throat, in the space behind his ribs where something small and fragile was beginning to stir.

Then Jamie said something, and Duang's attention snapped away, and the moment was gone.

Qin looked down at his hands. His heart was pounding. His face was warm. He didn't know why his chest felt strange. He didn't know why he kept replaying the moment—the way Duang's eyes had widened, the way his lips had parted, the way he'd looked at Qin like he was something worth seeing.

He didn't know why he wanted Duang to look at him like that again.

The Fourth Time

It was a Tuesday.

Qin was sitting on the bench near the restroom corridor, waiting for Kim. The late afternoon light was fading, the shadows stretching long across the floor, and he was scrolling through his phone, half-reading an article he'd already forgotten.

Then he heard it. Running footsteps. Desperate, uncoordinated, the kind of footsteps that meant someone was about to trip.

He looked up.

Duang was sprinting toward the restroom, his arms full of something that looked like... pads. Sanitary pads. An entire armful of them, in every brand and size and color imaginable, stacked so high he could barely see over the top. His face was flushed, his hair was a mess, and he looked like he was running a race against time.

He didn't see the crack in the pavement.

His foot caught. His body tilted forward. The avalanche began.

Pads scattered across the floor in a cascade of pastel packaging, skittering under the bench, bouncing off the wall, settling around him like fallen leaves.

Duang stood in the middle of the chaos, breathing hard, his face cycling through embarrassment, panic, and something that looked like defeat.

"Duang!"

A girl's voice cut through the silence. She was standing near the restroom door, one hand pressed to her stomach. She crouched, grabbed the nearest packet, and straightened.

"Thank you!" she called, already turning toward the door. "Thank you, Duang!"

And then she was gone, disappearing into the restroom, leaving Duang standing alone in the scattered remains of his good deed.

The corridor was quiet for a moment. Then the whispers started.

What is he doing?

Is he carrying pads?

That's so weird.

That's... kind of sweet, actually.

Qin sat perfectly still, watching. A pink packet had come to rest near his foot.

Duang didn't seem to hear the whispers. Or maybe he did, and he just didn't care. He crouched down, his movements unhurried, and started gathering the packets one by one. His hands were careful, methodical, like he was collecting something precious rather than something embarrassing. He stacked them in his arms again, the pile just as unsteady as before, and when he straightened, his gaze swept across the corridor.

It passed over Qin without stopping.

Qin watched him disappear around the corner, his arms still full of pastel packages, his shoulders squared like he hadn't just been humiliated in front of half the building. There was something about the way he carried himself—unashamed, unapologetic, kind—that made Qin's chest ache.

He sat there for a long moment after Duang was gone, staring at the spot where he'd disappeared. Then he stood up, brushed off his pants, and walked to class.

But the image stayed with him. Duang crouched in the middle of the corridor, picking up scattered packages like it was nothing. Like helping was just something he did. Like the whispers didn't matter.

Something about it lodged itself somewhere soft and stubborn in Qin's chest. He didn't have a name for it then. He wouldn't have a name for it for a long time.

The Fifth Time

After that, Duang was everywhere.

At the convenience store near the tuition center, buying three bottles of water and a bag of chips, his laugh echoing across the parking lot. At the bus stop, his head tilted back, his eyes closed, his face turned toward the late afternoon sun like he was soaking up warmth. In the parking lot, doubled over with laughter at something Jamie said, his whole body curving toward his friend like a flower seeking light.

Qin's eyes found him without permission. His attention snagged on Duang like a thread catching on a nail, and he couldn't pull it free.

He started sitting on the right side of the classroom, where he could see Duang's profile instead of just the back of his head. He told himself it was because the light was better. Because he could see the board more clearly.

He was lying. He knew he was lying. But he sat there anyway.

He memorized the shape of Duang's jaw—the clean line of it, the way it sharpened when he smiled. The way his nose crinkled when he laughed, small lines appearing at the corners of his eyes. The small mole below his left ear that was only visible when he turned his head a certain way, like a secret written on his skin.

He was becoming someone he didn't recognize. Someone who noticed things. Someone who waited.

Sometimes, in the middle of class, Duang would stretch, his arms reaching above his head, his shirt riding up just enough to reveal a strip of skin at his waist. Qin would look away, his face warm, his heart too loud. And then, moments later, his eyes would drift back.

He was falling into something. He didn't know what.

He only knew that when Duang laughed, Qin's chest felt lighter. When Duang was late to class, Qin's eyes kept drifting to the door. When Duang packed his bag at the end of the class, Qin found himself packing slower, drawing out the moments until Duang walked out.

He was waiting for something. He didn't know what. He only knew that he wasn't ready for it to end.

The Sixth Time

Qin was sitting on the stairs outside the tuition center, his back against the metal railing, his phone in his palm. He'd just ordered a ride—an Uber that would take him home—when a voice drifted up from below.

"I'm going by train."

"What about you, Duang?"

Qin's spine went straight. His thumb hovered over the screen.

Duang's voice was lower than he expected. Smoother. The kind of voice that would sound good on the radio, or in a quiet room, or pressed close to your ear. "Motorcycle taxi. Want me to walk you to the station?"

The girl's voice was softer now, grateful. "If you don't mind."

Footsteps. Voices fading. The sound of Duang's laughter, bright and easy, carried on the evening air like music.

Qin canceled his ride.

He didn't know why. He told himself he was just stretching his legs, just killing time. But his feet were already moving, carrying him down the stairs, across the parking lot, toward the train station on the other side of the street.

He stayed on the far platform. Kept his distance. Watched from the other side of the railway as Duang walked the girl to the station entrance, waved as she disappeared inside, waited until she was safely through the gates.

He was kind. Qin had known that already. But watching it, seeing it in real time, was something else entirely. The easy way Duang moved through the world. The way he made people feel seen, feel safe. The way he didn't seem to know how much space he took up, or maybe he did and just didn't care.

A train rumbled past, cutting off Qin's view. The noise was deafening, the wind from its passage tugging at his clothes, and for a moment, he was blind and deaf and alone in the world.

When it was gone, Duang was looking in his direction.

Qin's heart dropped. He turned quickly, his back to the platform, his face hidden. His hands were shaking. His breath was too fast. He stared at the wall in front of him—blank, grey, unremarkable—and waited for the feeling of being seen to fade.

Had he recognized him? Did Duang even know he existed?

When Qin finally turned, Duang was gone.

He stood there for a long time, the platform empty, the station lights flickering to life. A train arrived, then another. People came and went, their faces blurring together.

He thought about the way Duang had looked at him, just for a moment, before the train came between them. The way his eyes had held—curious, wondering, like he was trying to place Qin's face.

He thought about the way his chest ached when he looked at Duang, and the way he looked forward to it anyway.

The Seventh Time

It was the last day of tuition.

Qin knew because the tutor had announced it, and because everyone was lingering longer than usual, exchanging numbers and promising to keep in touch. The room was loud with goodbyes, the kind of noise that made Qin want to shrink into himself.

He packed his bag slowly. Took his time. Let the crowd thin out around him.

Duang was still there. He was standing near the front row, his bag slung over one shoulder, his friends on either side. Pae was saying something that made him laugh, and Jamie was trying to steal something from his bag, and they were all talking at once, their voices layering over each other like music.

Qin watched him from across the room. Watched the way he tilted his head when he listened, the way he reached out to steady Jamie when he stumbled, the way he looked at his friends like they were the only people in the world.

He wanted to say something. He didn't know what. He picked up his bag and walked toward the door.

At the threshold, he paused. Something made him look back.

Duang was looking at him.

Their eyes met across the empty rows of seats, across the space between what had been and what would come next. Duang's expression was unreadable, but he was looking—really looking—like he was trying to memorize Qin's face, like he was filing him away for later.

Qin's heart stopped. His hand tightened on the doorframe.

Then Jamie said something, and Duang's attention shifted, and the moment was gone.

Qin turned and walked out.

He didn't look back again.

But he carried that look with him. For weeks, for months, for the long stretch of summer that followed. The way Duang's eyes had held his. The way his lips had parted, like he was about to say something. The way he'd looked at Qin like he was something worth remembering.

A Year Later

The First Time (Again)

He didn't expect to see him again.

He'd moved on. University was different—bigger, louder, full of new faces and new routines. The memory of a loud boy from tuition had faded to something soft at the edges, a collection of stolen glances and moments he'd never quite understood.

He didn't think about him. Not consciously. Not deliberately.

But sometimes, in the quiet spaces between classes, he'd catch himself looking for a messy head of hair, a broad set of shoulders, a laugh that filled the room. And then he'd look away, irritated with himself, and go back to whatever he was doing.

He didn't expect to see him again.

And then he did.

It was the first week of university. The morning light was gold, the kind of light that made everything look softer, easier. Qin was walking from his condo to the Faculty of Music, his headphones in, his eyes on the pavement, when he heard it.

Laughter. Loud. Familiar.

He looked up.

And there they were. Three boys, crossing the street ahead of him, caught in the same orbit of chaos that had followed them through tuition. Jamie and Pae—he knew their names now, though he didn't know why he'd kept them—were running ahead, something held between them. A bag. Duang's bag.

Duang was chasing them, his hands outstretched, his face caught between exasperation and laughter. The same expression Qin remembered from a year ago. The same laughter, the same broad shoulders, the same energy that filled whatever space he occupied.

Qin's feet stopped moving. His headphones slipped from his ears.

Jamie and Pae reached the opposite pavement just as the light changed. A car passed between them, cutting the group in half, and the security guard stepped forward, his red flag raised, blocking Duang from crossing.

Duang stopped. He was laughing still, shaking his head, calling something across the street. His voice carried on the wind, familiar and strange.

Then Duang turned.

The light changed. The traffic stopped. Qin stepped off the curb, his phone in his hand, his eyes fixed on the pavement. He didn't look up. Didn't need to. He could feel Duang's presence like a pull, like gravity, like the moment before a storm breaks.

He walked. Measured. Controlled. The way he always walked, like the world was something to be observed, not engaged with.

He felt Duang's eyes on him. Felt the weight of that gaze like a touch, like a question, like something that had been waiting to be asked.

He didn't look back.

He crossed the street, passed the fine arts building, and kept walking toward the music faculty. His heart was too loud in his ears, drowning out the city noise, the traffic, everything. His palms were sweating. His throat was dry.

Behind him, footsteps.

He didn't turn. Didn't check. But he knew. Knew that Duang was following. Knew that Duang was watching. Knew that somewhere in the space between them, something was shifting, tilting, waiting to fall.

His Marshall headphones are still on, silent. His phone was in his pocket, forgotten. He walked the familiar path to the music building, the one he'd walked a hundred times, and tried to pretend his pulse wasn't racing.

Behind him, Duang kept walking.

Freshman night came faster than he expected.

Qin didn't want to sing.

He'd made that clear. Multiple times. But the seniors had asked—dearly, they said, like it was a favor, like Qin owed them something—and somewhere between the pressure and the exhaustion and the weight of being the one who always said yes, he'd found himself agreeing.

Now he was backstage, his palms sweating, his heart racing, his throat closing up the way it always did before he had to perform. The sounds of the crowd filtered through the curtains—murmurs, laughter, the occasional shriek of excitement. It was too loud. Too bright. Too much.

He gripped the mic stand like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

Then the instruments started playing.

The first chord cut through the noise, through the panic, through the static in his head. Qin closed his eyes. Breathed. The melody wrapped around him like something familiar, something safe, and he opened his mouth and let the song pour out.

His voice filled the space. The crowd faded. The lights blurred at the edges. There was only the music, only the song, only the rising swell of notes that carried him somewhere else—somewhere quiet, somewhere he didn't have to think.

He opened his eyes.

And saw him.

Duang was pushing through the crowd, his friends somewhere behind him, his eyes fixed on the stage. On Qin. He was moving like he couldn't help it, like something was pulling him forward, and when he reached the front, he stopped.

He was staring.

Not the way people usually stared at performers—with admiration or curiosity or the vague appreciation of someone watching talent. This was different. This was looking. The way you look at something precious. The way you look at something you've been searching for without knowing you were searching at all.

The stage lights caught his eyes, made them sparkle, made them shine. His face was tilted up toward Qin like Qin was the sun and he was just grateful to be in the light.

He was smiling. All ears to ears. Like he couldn't help it. Like the smile had been building in his chest for a year and was finally, finally allowed to break free.

Qin's voice cracked.

He kept singing—or tried to. The notes were there, somewhere, but his mind was somewhere else. Somewhere in the past. Somewhere in the noise.

Stop screaming.

I told you to stop singing.

The voices from his childhood, from the nanny who couldn't stand the sound of his voice, from the years of being told to be quiet, to be small, to take up less space. 

He was on a stage. People were listening. And Duang was looking at him like he was something worth hearing.

The song was almost over. The final chorus was building, the instruments swelling, and Qin opened his mouth to sing—

Nothing came out.

His throat was closed. His chest was tight. The memories were crashing over him, wave after wave, pulling him under. The screaming. The yelling. The years of being told that his voice was something to be silenced.

Duang was still looking at him. His eyes were bright, his smile soft, his whole face open and unguarded. He didn't know. He couldn't know. But he was there, and Qin wanted to be there too, wanted to finish the song, wanted to be the person Duang was looking at—

He couldn't.

He stumbled back from the mic, his hands shaking, his vision blurring. The lights were too bright. The crowd was too loud. Duang was still watching, and Qin couldn't—he couldn't—

He ran.

Off the stage, through the curtains, down the narrow hallway behind the auditorium. His footsteps echoed off the walls, too loud, too fast, and he didn't stop until he was outside, in the cool night air, his back against the brick wall, his chest heaving.

He pressed his hands to his face. His hands were shaking. His whole body was shaking.

He stayed there for a long time, alone in the dark, until his heart slowed and his breath evened out and the memory of Duang's face—of Duang looking at him—faded to something he could carry without breaking.

After that night, everyone wanted a piece of him.

"Can I get your IG?"

"What's your LINE ID?"

"Do you have a girlfriend? Boyfriend?"

Qin refused them all. Every single one. His face was a mask of polite disinterest. No. No. No.

But there were three people who didn't approach him like everyone else. Three people who didn't ask for his number or his IG. Three people who just... watched.

They were everywhere. In the courtyard, leaning against the railing. In the cafeteria, sitting at the edge of the room. In the hallway outside his classes, ducking into doorways when he looked their way.

It was annoying. It was infuriating.

And yet, Qin let them.

He told himself it was because they weren't bothering him, not really. They kept their distance, didn't approach, didn't ask. They just... observed.

But sometimes, when he caught Duang's eyes across a crowded room, something in his chest would tighten. Something that felt like recognition. Something that felt like waiting.

They were everywhere. Everywhere Qin went, the three idiots appeared. The courtyard. The hallway outside his theory class. The bench near the music building. And now, the cafeteria.

Qin sat with Kim and Tong at their usual table, his lunch spread out in front of him, his headphones around his neck. Across the room, near the window, the three boys were crowded around a table of their own. Duang and Jamie were facing Qin. Pae had his back to him, but Qin could see the way his head kept turning, like he was reporting something to the others.

Duang was watching him. Of course he was.

Qin stabbed a piece of chicken with his fork and tried to ignore the way his pulse quickened. It was annoying. It was infuriating. It was—

Kim and Tong got up to get drinks, and suddenly Qin was alone at the table, and Duang's eyes were still on him, and Qin could feel them like a physical weight on his skin.

He ate. Methodically. Deliberately. He didn't look up. He didn't react. He was the picture of calm, of disinterest, of I don't notice you and I don't care.

But his heart was racing. His hands were almost shaking.

Kim and Tong came back with drinks. Kim slid an Americano across the table—Qin's usual—and Qin reached for it, his fingers closing around the cup, lifting it to his lips—

Duang was leaning forward in his seat, his eyes fixed on the cup, trying to see what Qin was drinking.

Qin's jaw tightened. He lowered the cup. Turned his head. Met Duang's eyes.

What are you looking at, bastard?

He didn't say it. He mouthed it. Slow, deliberate, each word shaped carefully on his lips so there could be no mistaking.

Duang's eyes widened. His ears went pink. He looked away so fast it was almost comical, his head snapping toward Jamie, his shoulders hunching like he was trying to disappear into his own body.

Jamie was laughing at him. Pae was laughing too. And Duang—Duang was bright red, his hands fluttering, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

Qin took a sip of his coffee. It tasted better than it should have.

They were in the practice room, Qin and Kim and Tong, running through a piece they'd been working on for weeks. Qin was tuning his guitar, his fingers moving automatically, his mind somewhere else, when the door burst open.

Duang appeared in the doorway, his face flushed, his eyes wild. He looked like he'd been running. Or maybe he just looked like himself—chaotic, uncoordinated, everywhere.

Their eyes met.

Their eyes met.

For a moment, no one moved. Then Duang's face went through approximately fifteen expressions in three seconds—recognition, panic, hope, more panic—and Duang stepped back, and the door slammed shut. 

Tong was already grinning. "Ah, that lover boy again. Let me handle them."

He walked out before Qin could stop him. Through the thin walls, Qin could hear voices—Tong's teasing, Jamie's stammering, Pae's weak excuses. The door opened again, and the three of them shuffled inside like penguins being herded onto ice.

"We're looking for the restroom," Duang said, his voice too high, too fast.

Tong's grin widened. "Restroom?"

"Yes."

"Over there." He pointed to the door on the other side of the practice room. "It's easier to cross from here."

Duang looked at Jamie. Jamie looked at Pae. Pae looked at the ceiling.

"It's... it's okay," Duang managed.

"Are you sure? Or are you trying to find someone here?" Tong asked, his voice dripping with innocence.

Their faces went red. All three of them, at once, like a synchronized display of embarrassment.

"OK. We'll go. We'll cross from this room."

The three of them shuffled through the doorway like penguins crossing thin ice. They moved in a tight cluster, eyes fixed straight ahead, shoulders hunched, radiating an aura of nothing to see here. Jamie was gripping Pae's arm. Pae was gripping Jamie's arm. Duang was staring at a spot on the far wall like it held the secrets of the universe.

They passed Qin's without looking at him. Walked through the room without breathing. Disappeared out the other door like they'd never been there at all.

Tong came back to Qin, his face alight with mischief. "Ai Qin."

Qin didn't look up. His fingers moved over the strings, adjusting the tension, listening for the right pitch.

"Aren't they the ones following you the whole day?"

Qin nodded.

Qin didn't answer. He turned a tuning peg, listened to the note.

"Are they your fans?" Kim asked, and there was something in his voice—not quite concern, not quite amusement. "This time they followed you all the way to the practice room."

Qin's fingers tightened on the neck of his guitar. "Let's practice."

The senior caught him outside the music building. He was walking across campus, his headphones around his neck, his mind on the piece he was supposed to be practicing, when he saw him. The senior. The one who'd been pressuring him to do another performance, another event, another thing Qin didn't want to do.

"Nong Qin!"

The senior spotted him. Started walking toward him, his face lighting up, his mouth already forming the words Qin didn't want to hear.

Qin's steps faltered. His heart rate spiked. He looked around for an escape route, for a way out, for anything—

And saw Duang.

He was walking in his direction, his eyes glued to his phone, his friends nowhere in sight. Qin walked straight toward him.

"Help me," Qin said. "Someone is following me."

Duang stared at him. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. He looked like a computer that had just been asked to process something it wasn't programmed for.

"Are you asking for help?" His voice was high, almost squeaky. He was grinning—grinning—like Qin asking for his help was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

It was so annoying. He was so annoying.

Qin's jaw tightened. "Are you dreaming?"

Duang's face fell. His hands came up, waving, placating. "No, no. What did you say?"

"Someone is following me." Qin's voice was tight, impatient. "Help."

The grin vanished. Duang's face shifted into something else—something sharper, more focused. "What? Someone is following you?"

Qin's patience was a thread about to snap. "Are you going to help or not?"

Duang nodded frantically. "Yes, yes. I'll help."

Qin walked away. He didn't look back. Behind him, he heard the senior calling his name, heard Duang's voice rising to meet it, heard the beginning of a conversation he didn't need to be part of.

Duang would help. Duang was kind. Duang was the kind of person who helped strangers with their groceries, who bought pads for girls he barely knew, who walked friends to train stations just because.

Duang was the kindest person he'd ever met.

"So where did that senior go?" Tong asked, sliding into the seat across from Qin. "Did he lose you?"

Qin picked at his food. "I asked that guy to handle it."

Kim looked up from his phone. "The one who's been following you?"

Qin nodded.

"Okay." Kim's voice was matter-of-fact. "Just tell the seniors you don't want to perform if you don't want to. They'll stop bothering you."

Qin nodded again. "Mmm. I'll tell them."

They ate in silence for a moment. The cafeteria was loud around them, full of voices and laughter and the clatter of trays, but Qin's table was quiet. Comfortable.

Then Tong broke the silence. "Hey. Do you want to go to Loy Krathong?"

Qin didn't answer. He kept eating.

"I can go," Kim said casually.

Tong shot him a look. "Qin, what about you?"

Qin looked up. Tong's expression was carefully casual, which meant he was anything but.

"You don't have to stay long," Tong said quickly. "Just a quick visit. There's a lot of food. Sweet treats..."

Qin opened his mouth to say no. He didn't want to go. He wanted to stay home, in his room, where it was quiet and no one was looking at him and he didn't have to pretend to be anything.

"You can go with me," Kim said to Tong, and Tong's face fell.

"But aren't you interested in sweets?" Tong was listing now, rattling off names of desserts, descriptions of food, reasons why Qin should come. "They have the mango sticky rice you like. And the coconut pancakes. And—"

Qin thought about it. He really did want mango sticky rice. And coconut pancakes. And he'd been working hard, practicing, staying inside. Maybe one night out wouldn't hurt.

"Fine," he said. "I'll go."

Tong's face split into a grin. "Yes!"

Kim looked at Qin, then at Tong, and something passed between them—something Qin didn't quite catch.

The riverbank was crowded. Lanterns glowed in the darkness, casting warm light over the faces of the people milling between the stalls. The smell of fried food and flowers hung in the air, and somewhere in the distance, someone was playing music.

Qin walked between Kim and Tong, his eyes scanning the stalls, looking for the desserts he'd been promised. Tong was looking around too, but not at the food.

"Who are you looking for?" Kim asked.

Tong's ears went pink. "The one I'm meeting. Nong Cherry."

Kim's eyebrows rose. "Aww. That's why you really wanted to come here."

Qin's attention drifted. He spotted a stall selling mango sticky rice and started toward it, his feet carrying him forward, his mind already on the sweet, creamy taste.

"I thought it was strange," Kim was saying behind him. "Are you seeing her?"

"Maybe text her and ask where she is—"

Tong's hand landed on Qin's arm, pulling him to a stop. "Where are you going?"

Qin blinked. "The mango stall—"

Tong's phone was ringing. He was already turning away, his grip on Qin's arm loosening, his attention elsewhere. "Maybe look around. We'll come back."

And then he was gone, dragging Kim with him, leaving Qin alone in the crowd.

Qin stared after them for a moment, then shrugged and headed for the mango stall. He bought a container of sticky rice, a skewer of coconut pancakes, a bag of fried bananas. The food was warm in his hands, the sweetness filling his senses, and for a moment, he forgot about everything else.

Someone asked for a photo. He declined. Someone else asked. He declined again. He was good at saying no, at being polite but distant, at keeping people at arm's length.

He was walking back toward the meeting point, his bag of desserts swinging from his wrist, when he heard it.

"Hey!"

He looked up.

Duang was standing a few feet away, his face bright as usual.He looked nervous. Excited. Like a puppy who'd just seen his owner come home.

He had said "hey" without using Qin's name, and everyone nearby was looking. Looking at Duang, looking at Qin, looking between them like they were watching something unfold.

"Ah, I called him," Duang explained to the crowd, his voice high, his ears red. He turned back to Qin, and his brain seemed to short-circuit. His eyes darted. His hands came out of his pockets, went back in. His mouth opened and closed.

Jamie appeared beside him, Duang grabbing his arm. "My buddy likes you!" he announced, pointing at Jamie.

Qin blinked. "Buddy?"

Duang's face went through three emotions in two seconds—horror, panic, and then a kind of desperate hope. He stepped back, shaking his head, pointing at Jamie, then at himself, like they were playing a game of charades.

"My name is Buddy," he said, breathless.

Qin looked at Duang. Duang looked at Jamie. Jamie pointed at Duang. Duang pointed at himself.

Qin closed his eyes. The annoyance was a familiar weight in his chest, but underneath it, something else was stirring. Something that felt almost like... amusement.

"I'm sick of this," he said, turning to leave. "Another one like this."

Duang stepped in front of him, blocking his path.

"I'm Duang," he said. "Give me a chance."

Qin stopped. Looked at him. Duang's face was open, earnest, hopeful. His hands were shaking. His eyes were bright.

"So is your name Buddy or Duang?"

"It's Duang." He swallowed. His voice was steadier now. "Would you mind... if I floated my krathong with you?"

"Just say what you want."

Duang's hands moved, fidgeting, nervous. He took a breath. Let it out. Took another.

"Can I try to win your heart?"

Qin stared at him. The words hung in the air between them, fragile and bright, like the lanterns floating on the river.

"Noo I'm not going to try to win your heart," Duang continued. "I'm going to win it. I'm not asking for permission. I just want you to know."

Duang nodded to himself, like he'd just delivered the most impressive speech of his life. His confidence was almost charming. Almost.

"Then tell me," Qin said. "Why do you want to win my heart?"

"You have fair skin."

The words came out so fast, so unplanned, that Duang seemed surprised by them himself. His eyes widened. His mouth snapped shut.

Jamie's voice cut through the silence. "What?"

"Stop it, or you'll ruin his chance!" Pae grabbed Jamie's arm, pulling him back. "Go on, go on," he said to Duang, giving him a thumbs up. "You're doing great."

Qin wanted to leave. He wanted to walk away and never look back. But his feet wouldn't move.

Duang looked at him again, and his face transformed. The nervousness melted away, replaced by something brighter, something softer. He smiled—wide, unguarded, like Qin was the best thing he'd ever seen.

"I was trying to say," he said, his voice steadier now, "you have perfect skin. Beautiful eyes. A stunning nose." His gaze dropped, then rose. "Pretty lips." He paused, and his voice went quieter. "And even... pretty legs."

Qin moved before he could think.

His fist swung forward, fast and instinctive, aimed at Duang's stupid, smiling face—

Duang caught his wrist.

The world stopped.

Qin stared at his hand, wrapped in Duang's fingers, held still in the space between them. Duang's grip was warm, steady, careful. Like he was holding something fragile.

"Oh," Duang breathed. His eyes were wide, his lips parted, his face lit with something that looked like wonder. Like Qin throwing a punch was the most impressive thing he'd ever seen.

Qin yanked his hand back. Duang let go immediately, his hands flying up in surrender.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say that. The truth is—" He stopped. Froze. Realization dawned on his face, and his voice dropped to something quieter, something almost reverent. "The truth is, I like you."

Qin's heart stopped.

"Because you sing beautifully." Duang's hands fell to his sides. His shoulders relaxed. The words were coming easier now, like a dam had broken. "You're incredibly charming, you know that? I feel like I got enchanted. All because of your voice."

He exhaled, long and slow, like he'd been holding that breath for a year.

Qin stepped forward.

Duang's eyes widened, but he didn't move. He watched Qin approach, watched him close the distance between them, watched him stop just inches away. His breath was warm. His eyes were brown, and gold, and full of light.

Qin reached out, grabbed his shirt, and pulled him closer.

Duang's gaze dropped to his lips.

"Good luck with that, then," Qin said.

Duang smiled. He was looking at Qin like he'd been waiting for this moment his whole life.

And Qin—Qin let him.

The thread had tangled. The thread had stretched. The thread had held.

And now, finally, it had led him home

END