The first thing Phuwin registered was the light. A single strip of it, warm and dust-moted, cutting across his pillow and landing on his cheek like a finger tapping him awake. He blinked, squinted, rolled onto his back. The ceiling fan spun slow overhead, and somewhere downstairs a door slammed — Godji's voice, muffled, swearing at a suitcase.
He reached for his phone. The screen lit up — June 14. His thumb scrolled down to the calendar notification he'd set three weeks ago and ignored ever since. Birthday. Plan party? Call friends? Book venue? He'd done none of it. He let out a breath and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm.
Twenty-three. He was twenty-three today.
He sat up, the blanket pooling in his lap, and looked at the pile of clothes on his chair — the oversized hoodie he'd worn yesterday, the jeans with the hole in the left knee. Nothing about this morning felt different. Same room. Same fan. Same dust motes floating in the same strip of light. But his phone kept buzzing now, a low hum against the mattress. Messages stacking. Happy birthdays from numbers he barely recognized.
He swung his legs off the bed and stood. The floor was cool under his feet. He padded to the door and opened it, and the smell of coffee and sugar hit him immediately — Godji's bakery already breathing downstairs, warm and sweet and alive.
He found her at the bottom of the stairs, hauling a suitcase with one hand and a duffel bag with the other, her shoulder-length black hair tied back in a messy ponytail, flour dusted across her apron like she'd been baking since five and packing since six. She looked up when she heard his footsteps, and her whole face softened.
"Good morning, birthday boy."
She dropped the duffel, crossed to him in three quick steps, and pulled him into a hug — warm and brief and tight, the kind that said I know I'm leaving but I'm still right here. Then she pulled back and kissed his cheek, then his forehead, her hand brushing his bangs out of his eyes with a tenderness that made his chest ache.
"Happy birthday, baby," she said, softer now. "Twenty-three. Can you believe it?"
He smiled. It felt small on his face, but real. "Barely."
He moved past her to the counter, reaching for a mug and the kettle, and she turned to watch him, one hand on her hip. "Are you still doing that party? The one you were planning?"
He paused, the kettle halfway to the mug. Then he set it down and leaned against the counter, letting out a breath. "No."
"Why not?"
He shrugged, his eyes dropping to the grain of the wood. "Didn't get to plan it in time. And I don't have enough money."
She was quiet for a beat. Then her hand found his back, rubbing slow circles between his shoulder blades, the same way she'd done when he was ten and crying over a scraped knee. "Phuwin—"
His phone buzzed again. He picked it up, glanced at the screen. A text from his mother — Happy birthday, sweetheart. Love you. I've sent something to help you celebrate. And then a notification from his bank. One hundred thousand baht. Transferred seven seconds ago.
He stared at it. Then he locked the screen and set the phone facedown on the counter.
Godji read his face in a second. She sighed, rolling her eyes, and the warmth in her voice went sharp around the edges. "Here goes your parents. Just all about money and work. No call. No visit. Just—" She gestured at the phone. "Here, buy yourself something."
"It's fine," Phuwin said, but it came out flat.
"It's not fine." She shook her head, then softened again, stepping closer and squeezing his arm. "But you know what is fine? You. Today. You're not going to sit in here selling caffeine and sweets to strangers when it's your birthday." She pulled out her phone and tapped, holding it to her ear. "Mai? Yes, I need you and Pim to come in today. Full day. I'll pay double. I know it's short notice, but it's my nephew's birthday and he's—" She paused, looking at him, and her voice cracked just slightly. "He's twenty-three today. Yes. Thank you. Thank you so much."
She hung up and pointed the phone at him. "You're free. Go do something. Sleep. Eat. Paint in the park. Go drink with your friends. I don't care, but you're not spending your birthday behind that counter."
Phuwin opened his mouth, closed it, then let out a small laugh. "I was just gonna sleep and eat and maybe go paint. Maybe drink with the others later."
"Good." She grabbed her duffel and hauled it toward the front door. "And since your parents are feeling generous today—" She nodded at his phone. "Go shopping. Buy yourself something that isn't a hoodie with a hole in the sleeve."
He followed her outside, his tea warm in his hands, the morning air hitting his face. A cab was waiting at the curb, the driver already popping the trunk. Godji threw her bags in, then turned and pulled him into a quick, firm hug, her mouth finding his ear.
"I'll be back in a few days," she whispered. "But before I go—take the advice I gave you last week. About Pond." She pulled back just enough to look at him, one eyebrow raised. "One night. Just to see."
He laughed, stepping back, shaking his head. "You're going to miss your flight. Go."
She smirked, that knowing, mischievous grin that meant she knew exactly what she was doing and didn't regret a second of it. "Think about it, birthday boy."
She slid into the cab, and the door closed. She waved through the window as the car pulled away, and he stood there on the cracked concrete steps, tea in hand, watching until the cab turned the corner and disappeared.
He went back inside, grabbed his canvas bag, his paint supplies, his phone. He left a note on the counter for Mai and Pim — Open as usual. I'm out. Thanks for covering. — and then he unlocked his bicycle from the railing and pedaled toward the park.
The ride was short, the wind cool against his face. He locked the bike at the rack near the entrance and walked the rest of the way, the grass damp under his shoes, the sound of the ocean growing louder with each step. He found his spot — the old tree at the edge of the field, its roots thick and gnarled, the ground soft with moss. The ocean spread out before him, gray-blue and endless, waves hitting the rocks at the shore in a slow, patient rhythm.
He sat down, unpacked his supplies, and started to paint.
The brush moved without thinking. Long strokes for the sky, shorter ones for the waves, a careful hand for the rocks where the foam broke white. He mixed blue and gray and a touch of green until the water felt alive. And then — almost without deciding to — he painted a turtle. Small. Dark shell. Swimming alone in the blue, heading nowhere in particular, just moving.
An hour passed. Maybe more. He didn't check. When he finally sat back, the painting was finished. Ocean. Rocks. A single turtle. It made something in his chest feel lighter, like the brush had taken some of the weight with it.
He smiled at the canvas, then leaned it against the tree beside him and pulled out his phone.
Messages stacked up — friends, classmates, a few from people he barely remembered giving his number to. He scrolled through them, replying to a few, ignoring most. His bank balance blinked at the top of the screen — 100,000 baht plus a few smaller transfers from friends, aunts, old teachers. He closed the app and opened his gallery instead.
The first photo. Him and Pond on their first date — Pond behind him, arms around his waist, lips pressed to his neck. Phuwin's eyes half-closed, a smile curving his mouth. The second. Them kissing in front of a huge sign, the city lights blurred behind them. The third. Just him, looking out at the water, the sky pink and orange, and Pond had taken it without him knowing.
He scrolled again. A fourth photo. Him in baggy jeans and a tank top, his charm bag hanging at his hip, one hand holding Pond's face while he smiled at the camera. And Pond — Pond was staring at him, not the camera. His lips slightly parted, his eyes dark and soft and so full of something that Phuwin's chest tightened just looking at it.
He looked mesmerized. He looked in love.
"Happy birthday!"
Phuwin's head shot up. Siyh was standing ten feet away, arms spread, posing like she was on a magazine cover. Beside her, Santa was holding a small cake with a single candle, and Jungkook was grinning with a party blower in his mouth.
Phuwin laughed — a real one, surprised and warm — and lifted his phone. "Hold still!"
He snapped a photo of them mid-pose, Siyh winking, Santa deadpan, Jungkook blowing the noisemaker. They collapsed onto the grass around him, laughing, and Siyh immediately spotted the painting.
"Wait. You painted this?"
He nodded, and she studied it for a long moment, her sharp features softening. "It's beautiful, Phuwin. The turtle's my favorite."
He looked down at his phone again. The photo of him and Pond was still open — the one where Pond stared at him like he was the most beautiful thing in the world. He hadn't closed it.
Siyh leaned over, her long nails with their little charms clicking against the screen as she pointed at Pond's face. "This look," she said, her voice quieter now. "This is the look of love. He loves you so much."
Phuwin felt heat rise to his cheeks. "He doesn't love me. We're just—talking. He probably just wants to stay in the talking stage."
Siyh sighed, and Santa reached over, scrolling to the next photo — the one of Phuwin and Pond kissing. He tapped the screen, his finger moving between both their faces. "You two look so in love here. Happier together than I've seen either of you separately."
Phuwin looked at the photo. He was wearing a crop top with designs, ripped leggings, a bag with charms all over it. Pond had on baggy jeans and a white t-shirt, and they were kissing — Phuwin's smile bright, Pond's hand on his jaw so gentle it made his throat tight.
He kept scrolling. Past the other photos. And then he stopped on the one he'd looked at nearly two weeks ago, on the bus, the night everything had started to shift. The same kiss. The same smile. He hadn't been able to close it then, either.
"Aunt Godji told me something," he said, his voice low. "Before she left. She said I should—" He stopped, shook his head. "She said I should just have sex with him. See what happens."
Santa raised an eyebrow. "Your aunt gave you sex advice?"
Jungkook snorted. "Your aunt is cooler than most people our age."
Phuwin laughed, but it faded quickly. He looked at the photo again — Pond's face, that look, the way his hand cradled Phuwin's jaw like he was holding something precious. "We talk. We joke. We take pictures together. I don't know what it is. I don't know if he wants more."
Siyh was quiet for a second. Then she said, very softly, "Look at his face, Phuwin. He already gave you more. He's just waiting for you to take it."
The waves crashed against the rocks. The wind moved through the grass. Phuwin's thumb hovered over the screen, tracing the outline of Pond's jaw in the photo.
He thought of Pond's hands. Of his laugh. Of the way he'd said I've been in love with you for months in the dark outside the bakery. Of the way he'd waited all night, coffee cold, circles under his eyes, just to see Phuwin walk back down those stairs.
Of the way he'd asked, Are you okay? — first. Always first, even when Phuwin had told him about Dice's kiss.
He looked up at the ocean, the waves still rolling in, still patient, still there. The turtle in his painting swam alone through the blue, and he thought maybe — maybe he didn't have to be the turtle anymore.