The morning of the art festival arrived with the weight of a held breath. Phuwin sat on the concrete steps of the art hall, his phone pressed to his ear, the cool stone seeping through his thin canvas shoes. His classmate's voice crackled through the speaker — something about the placement of their still-life studies — and Phuwin nodded, not really listening, his eyes fixed on the fabric bundle in his lap.
The painting was wrapped in brown paper and twine. He'd finished it at four in the morning, the last brushstroke trembling under the desk lamp, and then he'd sat in the dark until the sky bled pink through his window, staring at the shape of Pond's smile frozen in oil and his own fear.
"Phuwin!"
Siyh's voice cut through the buzz of fluorescent lights. He looked up to find her sprinting across the quad, her bag swinging wildly, her hair flying behind her. She skidded to a stop at the bottom of the steps, chest heaving, and dropped onto the concrete beside him.
"You're here early," she said, catching her breath. "I texted you like five times."
"I know. I was on the phone." He gestured vaguely with his free hand. The classmate was still talking. Phuwin said, "Yeah, I'll be there soon, thanks," and hung up before she could reply.
Siyh's eyes dropped to the bundle in his lap. "Is that it?"
"Maybe."
"Can I see it?"
"No."
"Phuwin." She leaned closer, her voice dipping into a whine. "Come on. Everyone else is going to see it in like —" She checked her phone. "Four hours. That's forever."
Phuwin sighed and rolled his eyes. He ran his free hand through his hair, ruffling his brown bangs until they fell back over his eyes in a familiar curtain. "The show starts in four hours. That's not forever. That's exactly the right amount of time for me to get it hung and not panic."
"You're already panicking."
"I'm not panicking. I'm — strategically concerned."
Siyh snorted. "Your leg is bouncing."
He looked down. His knee was trembling. He pressed his palm flat against it, stilling it, and said nothing.
Across the quad, a figure emerged from the humanities building. Tall, dark hair, a familiar lazy stride. Phuwin's breath caught for half a second before he recognized the walk. Not Pond. Dice.
Dice's eyes found him across the lawn. A slow smile spread across his face, that same smirk that had once made Phuwin's stomach flip. Now it just sat there — a reminder, a ghost he'd already buried. Dice lifted a hand and waved. Phuwin raised his own hand, a short, polite wave back. Dice winked, then turned and headed toward the medical building, his hands in his pockets, not looking back.
Siyh had gone quiet. She was watching him.
"He's still around," she said.
"He goes to school here."
"Yeah. I know." She paused. "You okay?"
Phuwin looked at the brown paper in his lap. Underneath it, under the layers of pigment and varnish, was Pond's face. The man who had waited. The man he'd said yes to. "I'm fine," he said. "Come on. I need to show Mr. Sminkinaelyl the painting before I lose my nerve."
He stood, the bundle cradled against his chest. Siyh scrambled up beside him, and they walked together into the cool hallway of the art hall, their footsteps echoing off the linoleum. The air smelled of turpentine and fresh gesso, the hum of the building's old pipes vibrating through the walls. Students passed them, carrying stretched canvases and portfolios, their faces tight with the same pre-show anxiety.
Mr. Sminkinaelyl's office was at the end of the east wing, a narrow room with a window that faced the parking lot. The door was open. The professor sat behind his desk, reading glasses perched on his nose, a stack of papers in front of him. He looked up as Phuwin appeared in the doorway.
Phuwin stepped inside. "สวัสดีครับ," he said, bowing slightly.
Mr. Sminkinaelyl smiled. "Good morning, Phuwin."
Phuwin grabbed Siyh's arm and pulled her forward. "Say it," he hissed.
Siyh rolled her eyes but bowed. "สวัสดีค่ะ, Teacher."
"You're both very polite," Mr. Sminkinaelyl said, setting his glasses down. "I take it the painting is complete?"
Phuwin's throat tightened. He nodded and stepped forward, laying the bundle carefully on the desk. His fingers fumbled with the twine, then the paper, peeling it back like skin. The painting emerged into the fluorescent light — Pond, captured in oil, standing at the edge of a swimming pool, the water behind him a blur of blue and gold, his body half-turned, his smile just beginning, his eyes full of the same quiet hunger that had undone Phuwin a dozen times, Phuwin.. Himself Taking a picture of Pond with a bright smile and Blushing.
Mr. Sminkinaelyl was silent.
He took off his glasses and stood up, leaning over the canvas. His fingers hovered above the surface without touching it, tracing the curve of Pond's jaw, the light on his collarbone, the soft edge of his lips.
"Phuwin," he said, his voice low. "This is —" He stopped. Shook his head. "This is really beautiful."
Phuwin felt heat climb his neck. "It's not that good. I just — I tried my best."
"No." Mr. Sminkinaelyl looked up, his eyes bright. "You did more than try your best. Look at this." He tapped the air above the chest. "The way the light falls here. The texture of the skin. That's not technique. That's —" He searched for the word. "That's love. I can feel it. There's a special feeling in this painting. It's full of something real."
Phuwin's ears burned. He glanced at Siyh, who was grinning like a cat.
"I want you to hang this in the center of the hall," Mr. Sminkinaelyl said. "In the middle of all the artworks. Right where everyone will see it first."
Phuwin's lips parted. "The center?"
"The center. I'm very proud of you, Phuwin. This is the best work you've done all year."
Phuwin didn't know what to say. He wrapped the painting back in the paper, carefully, his hands steady now, and tied the twine. Siyh leaned forward, trying to peek, and he twisted the bundle away from her.
"Stop it," he said.
"I just want one look!"
"You'll see it in four hours like everyone else."
"That's not fair!"
"Life's not fair." He slung his bag over his shoulder and turned to Mr. Sminkinaelyl. "Thank you, Teacher." He bowed again.
The professor smiled. "Go. Hang it. Make it beautiful."
Phuwin and Siyh stepped back into the hallway. She was still pouting, her arms crossed, her lower lip jutting out. "You're so mean."
"You'll survive."
"I'm telling Santa you showed me nothing."
"Santa doesn't care."
"Santa cares about everything."
They walked back toward the main hall, their voices bouncing off the empty corridors. The hall was already set up — white display boards arranged in a labyrinth, each one waiting for its canvas. Students moved through the space with staple guns and measuring tapes, adjusting lights, arguing about angles. The air was thick with the smell of fresh paint and nervous sweat.
Phuwin found the center board. It was empty, positioned exactly where the first thing visitors would see. He set the bundle on the floor and pulled out his tools — a hammer, nails, a level. Siyh stood back, arms still crossed, watching.
"You're not going to help?" Phuwin asked.
"You wouldn't let me see the painting. I'm taking a support strike."
"Fine."
He unwrapped the painting one last time, checking the surface for dust, then lifted it onto the board. His hands were steady. He centered it, tapped a nail into the top bracket, then the bottom. Stepped back. Adjusted. Stepped back again.
It was perfect. Pond looked at him from the canvas, the pool shimmering behind him, the light catching his collarbone just right. Phuwin's chest ached.
He picked up the small white card he'd prepared — the title and description, handwritten in black ink. He'd written it last night, sitting on his bedroom floor, the brush still wet in his hand.
He pinned the card beside the painting.
Siyh finally stepped closer, reading over his shoulder.
"'Untitled,'" she murmured. "'I loved a boy who was too popular, too powerful, too bold — until I realized that being with him was the piece missing from my life. When I found it, I felt safe. Free. Alive. This is what love looks like when you stop running.'"
She went quiet.
Phuwin didn't turn around. He was still looking at the painting — at Pond's eyes, the way the green-gold caught the light, the way they seemed to follow him even now.
Siyh's voice was soft. "That's really beautiful, Phuwin."
He swallowed. "It's just words."
"No. It's not." She stepped beside him, her arm brushing his. "You love him."
Phuwin's throat closed. He wanted to say yes. It sat on his tongue, heavy and warm, waiting to be spoken out loud. But instead he just nodded. "Yeah. I do."
Siyh was quiet for a long moment. Then she cleared her throat and said, in a high-pitched imitation of his voice, "He was so popular and bold and powerful —"
Phuwin smacked her arm. "Shut up."
"— and I couldn't stop thinking about his biceps —"
"Siyh!"
She dodged his next swing, laughing, and ran between two display boards. "And he was so cool and strong —"
"I will end you."
"You can't catch me!"
He chased her through the labyrinth, weaving around boards and easels, their laughter echoing off the high ceilings. A student with a staple gun yelled at them to watch out. Another one laughed. Phuwin caught Siyh near the back corner and tackled her into a giggling heap on the floor.
"Uncle," she gasped. "Uncle."
"Say it again."
"You're so in love it's disgusting."
He let her go, rolling onto his back, staring up at the ceiling lights. His chest was heaving, but his smile was real — wide and unguarded, the kind that came without thinking.
Siyh sat up, brushing dust from her jeans. "He's coming to the show, right?"
Phuwin's smile softened. "He said he'd be here."
"Good." She stood and offered him a hand. "Because if he doesn't cry when he sees that painting, I'm going to fight him."
Phuwin took her hand and let her pull him up. "Please don't fight my boyfriend."
"Boyfriend." She rolled the word around. "I like that."
He did too. More than he'd let himself admit.
They walked back to the center board, where the painting waited. The lights had been turned on — warm spotlights that made the gold leaf in the water glow. Pond's face seemed to float out of the canvas, alive and watching.
Phuwin touched the edge of the frame, just once. Then he checked his phone.
A message from Pond, sent ten minutes ago: Counting the hours. Can't wait to see what you made.
Phuwin typed back: It's just a painting.
The reply came instantly: I doubt that.
He pocketed the phone, his heart too full to answer. Siyh was already circling the other boards, critiquing someone's abstract landscape under her breath. The hall filled with more students, more voices, more nervous energy. The four hours were ticking down.
In the center of it all, the painting of Pond stood ready — a confession in oil, waiting for the one person who mattered most to see it.