The city lights blurred as Phuwin walked home, the boba cup empty in his hand. He’d thrown it out before he left Pond on the rooftop, but the cold weight of it lingered in his palm. The streets were quieter now, the last of the evening rush fading into the hum of distant traffic. He yawned so wide his jaw cracked, and he pressed the heel of his hand against his eye until stars bloomed behind the lid.
The gate to Mae Godji’s shop was still unlocked, the warm light spilling through the front windows onto the pavement. He pushed through, the bell above the door chiming softly, and the smell of frying garlic and night-blooming jasmine wrapped around him like a blanket. Godji was behind the counter, her apron already off and folded over one arm. She looked up and broke into a grin.
“Sawasdee ton bai, na,” she said, her voice lilting with laughter as she set the apron aside. “You look like a ghost, Phuwin. Did you wrestle a project or a boy?”
He managed a weak laugh. “Auntie. Can we please get some cookout? I don’t have energy right now to cook.”
Godji’s expression softened. She unlatched the small gate at the end of the counter and stepped out, her flip-flops slapping against the weathered floorboards. She pulled him into a hug before he could protest—warm, flour-dusted arms squeezing him tight. Her hand came up to cradle the back of his head.
“Hey,” she murmured against his hair. “What’s wrong?”
Phuwin let himself sag into her for a long moment. “I have a lot of work to do,” he said, voice muffled. “And I still need to finish setting up a place for my birthday party, and buying stuff, and—I’m just very overwhelmed. And tired.”
Godji pulled back, her hands cupping his cheeks. She kissed his forehead—soft, deliberate—and then his cheek. “It’s okay,” she said. “Of course we can cook. I’ll get pork belly, dumplings, rice, vegetables, stew. I’ll make you a feast.”
“Yes,” Phuwin said, the word coming out almost a sigh. “Thank you, Auntie.”
Godji released him, already reaching for her wallet and phone on the counter. “Go upstairs. Shower if you want, or just sit. I’ll bring it up when it’s ready.” She grabbed her keys and winked at him. “I’ll be back soon.”
He nodded and climbed the narrow staircase, each step a little heavier than the last. The upstairs hallway was dim, lit only by the glow from his bedroom door. He pushed it open and let his bag slide off his shoulder onto the bed, the thud of it absorbed by the quilt. His desk was a clutter of familiar things—figures in half-finished poses, books stacked open, paint palettes with dried smears of color, textbooks, folders, a small frame with a photo of him and Santa and Siyh grinning at a fair. He ran his fingers over the edge of the desk before pulling out the drawer and taking out clean sheets of paper.
He turned the computer on, the screen’s blue light washing across his face as he signed in. The research felt endless—paragraphs of text to parse, citations to check, arguments to build. He fell into it, the world narrowing to the glow of the monitor and the scratch of his pencil on the margins of his notes.
An hour later, the door creaked open. Godji came in balancing a tray—steaming bowls, a plate of dumplings, rice, sliced pork belly glistening with sauce. She set it down on the clear corner of his desk and rested a hand on his shoulder.
“You’re doing good,” she said quietly. “Eat a little, okay?” She squeezed his shoulder. “I’m going to sleep in here with you tonight. I’ll get my pillows.”
Phuwin blinked up at her, and her smile was soft in the low light. She rubbed his shoulder once more before turning and heading out, the sound of her footsteps padding down the hall. A moment later, the bathroom door clicked shut, and the shower started running, the hiss of water muffled through the walls.
He sat at his desk for a long minute, the food cooling untouched, his mind drifting away from the screen. The way Pond had looked at him on the rooftop—eyes dark, with that hint of a smile, that shadow stretching toward his without quite touching. The way he’d said I asked Santa like it was nothing, like he’d just wanted to know what Phuwin liked. Like it was a clue he’d needed to solve.
Phuwin shook his head. Pond wouldn’t bother liking some guy like me. All the girls at school wanted him—crowding around him for photos, signing things, laughing at his jokes. Why would he look twice at someone who rolled his eyes and batted his hand away?
But the image stayed. The way Pond’s shadow had stretched. The way the sun had caught the line of his jaw. The way his voice had dropped when he’d said those two words.
Phuwin pressed his palm against his cheek. It was warm. He let himself, just for a second, imagine what it would feel like if that shadow had closed the distance.
He dropped his hand and pulled the keyboard closer. Work. That was what mattered. He wrote, the keys clicking in the quiet, and the minutes slipped by like water through fingers.
The bathroom door opened. The shower stopped. Godji’s soft footsteps crossed from her room into his, and he heard the creak of the bedsprings as she settled, the rustle of pages as she opened her book. He didn’t look back—just kept writing, the rhythm of his pencil and the distant sound of her turning pages a comfort at the edge of his awareness.
It was 3:00 now. He rubbed his eyes, the screen blurring and snapping back into focus. Almost done. He took a sip of the cooled soup—still good, salty and rich—and pushed forward.
Two more hours. The words finally settled into place, the argument complete, the citations aligned. He sat back, the pencil still in his hand, and let out a breath that turned into a smile. Stretched his arms above his head, the joints in his shoulders cracking softly. The clock on the wall read 5:00.
He stood slowly, his legs stiff, and made his way to the bathroom. The shower was quick—hot water beating against his shoulders, washing away the grit of the night. When he stepped out at 5:24, wrapped in a towel, the world felt softer, the edges blurred.
He dressed in a loose T-shirt and shorts and padded back to his room. Godji had turned off the main light, leaving only the small lamp on the bedside table. She was lying on her side, her book closed beside her, her arm extended in invitation.
Phuwin climbed onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. Godji pulled him close, her arm wrapping around his waist, her hand resting warm against his stomach. She pressed a kiss to his hair.
“You did good, baby,” she whispered.
He sighed, the tension in his chest finally loosening. He curled into her, letting his fingers find the soft fabric of her sleeve, and held on. The last thing he saw before his eyes closed was the faint glow of the desk lamp against the wall, the shadow of his own hand lying still.