Phuwin's eyes opened to pale morning light filtering through his curtains, the same light that had filtered through them yesterday and the day before, and the ceiling above him looked exactly the same as it had for the past two mornings when he'd woken up and reached for his phone and found nothing.
Two days.
He rolled onto his side, the sheets twisting around his legs, and grabbed his phone from the nightstand. The screen lit up with his wallpaper—Pond's selfie, that crooked smile, those eyes looking at him like he was the only person in the world—and under it, the notification bar was empty.
No messages.
He opened their chat anyway. Scrolled. The last message from Pond was from two nights ago, a voice note he'd sent after they'd left the bathroom, his voice warm and tired: Get home safe, baby. I'll call you tomorrow.
Tomorrow had come and gone. Twice.
Phuwin sat up, ran a hand through his hair, and let the phone drop onto the mattress beside him. Maybe Pond was busy. Maybe his phone died. Maybe he'd forgotten.
He didn't believe that last one. Not for a second.
He showered quickly, dressed in an oversized hoodie and jeans, and packed his bag with his sketchbook and a water bottle and his phone, which he checked again even though nothing had changed in the past thirty seconds. He caught Godji's eye on his way out the door—she was setting up the pastry display, and she gave him a look that said we'll talk later —and he just nodded, because he didn't have words for it yet.
The walk to campus was quiet. The air was cool, the sky a pale blue, and students milled around the gates in clusters, laughing, talking, living their normal lives. Phuwin kept his head down, his earbuds in, and the music turned up loud enough to drown out the part of his brain that kept asking where is he.
The cafeteria was already busy when he arrived. He grabbed a coffee—black, two sugars, no time to taste it—and was scanning the tables for Santa when a voice cut through the noise.
"Phuwin."
He turned. Ryu stood there with two of her friends flanking her like bodyguards, her arms crossed, her smile the kind that looked friendly but wasn't. She had that long wavy hair, that perfect makeup, that way of standing like she owned the floor beneath her.
"Oh. Hey." Phuwin kept his voice flat. "What's up."
"I've been looking for you." She stepped closer, and her friends followed, boxing him in against the edge of a table. "You've been hard to find."
"Been busy."
"With Pond?"
He didn't flinch. Didn't blink. "What about him."
Ryu's smile widened, just slightly. "I was just wondering. You two seem close. Really close. I see you together all the time." She tilted her head, her hair falling over one shoulder. "I was just curious what your deal is."
"My deal."
"Yeah. Like, why are you so obsessed with him?" Her voice was light, almost playful, but her eyes were sharp. "You're always hanging around him. Always near him. And I get it, he's hot, everyone wants him. But some of us actually have a claim."
Phuwin felt something tighten in his chest. His jaw. His hands around his coffee cup. "A claim."
"Yeah." She smoothed a strand of hair behind her ear, slow and deliberate. "He's obviously mine."
The laugh that came out of Phuwin was short and dry. "He's not yours."
"No?" She raised an eyebrow. "Then why has he been ignoring you for two days?"
The words hit like a slap. He felt heat rise to his face, felt his pulse spike, and for a second he just stood there, holding his coffee, staring at her smug, perfect face.
"You don't know anything," he said quietly.
"I know he hasn't answered your calls." She shrugged one shoulder. "That's all I need to know."
Phuwin stepped forward, and she had to step back or be walked through. Her friends shifted, but he didn't look at them. He just pushed past, shoulder brushing hers, and walked toward the table where Santa was already sitting.
"Fuck you," he said over his shoulder, not loud, but clear enough. "You don't know shit."
He heard her laugh behind him—light, dismissive—and the sound of her heels clicking away toward her usual table. He didn't turn around.
Santa looked up as Phuwin dropped into the seat across from him, coffee sloshing over the rim onto his fingers. He didn't wipe it off.
"What was that about?" Santa asked, glancing toward Ryu's table.
"Ryu and her minions." Phuwin set the coffee down, finally, and wiped his hand on his jeans. "They wanted to know about Pond. Why I seem so close to someone that's hers."
Santa rolled his eyes. Phuwin rolled his too, at the same time, an old habit, and then they both exhaled.
"Where's Siyh?" Phuwin asked.
"Biomedical class. She'll be out in an hour or so." Santa leaned back in his chair, watching him. "You okay?"
"Fine."
"You're not fine."
Phuwin picked at the cardboard sleeve of his coffee cup. "I haven't seen Pond in two days. He hasn't texted me. He hasn't called. I don't know where he is."
Santa was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "He went to see his parents."
Phuwin's head snapped up. "What?"
"He visits them sometimes. He doesn't usually come to uni those days. He doesn't really talk to anyone." Santa's voice was careful, measured. "He probably fought with his dad again."
"What do you mean, again?"
Santa adjusted his glasses, a slow, deliberate movement. He looked at Phuwin, then at the table, then back at Phuwin. "You know how Pond left home, right?"
Phuwin shook his head.
Santa sighed. "He doesn't talk about it. But I've known him for more than five years, and I've pieced it together. His dad—" He paused, choosing his words. "His dad used to beat him. Bad. The day Pond left, his dad beat him until there were bruises all over his body. Holes in his skin where the blood wouldn't stop."
Phuwin felt the air leave his lungs. The cafeteria noise faded into a distant hum.
"He hasn't forgiven him," Santa continued quietly. "When he visits, he sees his younger brother, Tyral—he's only four. And his older brother, Kioer. Kioer tries to get him to talk it out with their dad, but Pond won't. He just spoils Tyral with gifts and toys and leaves."
"He has brothers," Phuwin said, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Yeah. He doesn't talk about them either." Santa met his eyes. "That's just how he is. He deals with things alone."
Phuwin stared at his coffee. The surface was still, a dark mirror. He thought about Pond's laugh, his loud, genuine laugh, the way he carried himself like the world belonged to him. He thought about the way Pond held him, tight and sure, like he'd never let go.
He hadn't known any of this.
He called Pond.
The phone rang. Once. Twice. Three times. Then voicemail: Hey, you've reached Pond. Leave a message.
He hung up and called again.
Voicemail.
Again.
Voicemail.
"He's not answering," Phuwin said, his voice thin. He looked at Santa, and he didn't bother hiding the worry in his eyes. "I want to go to his penthouse. See if he's home."
Santa studied him. "You could try."
"Will you come with me?"
"I have class in two hours." Santa checked his phone. "But I've got time. Let's go outside first. You look like you need air."
Phuwin nodded, grabbed his bag, and left his coffee on the table. They walked out of the cafeteria together, past the tables and the chatter and the normal life humming around them, and stepped into the open air.
The campus grounds stretched out before them, green and sprawling, students scattered across the grass and benches and pathways. Phuwin found a spot under a tree, away from the main flow, and sat down on the grass. Santa sat beside him.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Phuwin pulled his sketchbook out of his bag, opened it to a blank page, and set a pencil in his hand. He didn't draw. He just looked at the white space.
"We talked about marriage," he said quietly. "In the bathroom that night. After we—" He stopped. "He asked me to marry him. Someday. He said he wanted kids. He wanted to meet my parents in Chiang Mai. He wanted all of it."
Santa didn't say anything. Just waited.
"I said yes. To all of it." Phuwin's voice cracked at the edge. "And now he's gone."
"He's not gone." Santa's voice was firm but gentle. "He's dealing with something. That's what he does. He shuts down and deals alone. It doesn't mean he doesn't want you."
"Then why won't he answer his phone?"
"Because he's stubborn. And because he's probably sitting in his penthouse right now, staring at his own phone, trying to figure out how to tell you about his dad without breaking down."
Phuwin pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. "I didn't know," he whispered. "He never told me any of that."
"He doesn't tell anyone. I only know because I walked in on him one night, years ago, when he was drunk and crying. He didn't even remember telling me."
Phuwin dropped his hands and stared at the sky. It was blue. Completely, stupidly blue. Like nothing was wrong.
He started to draw. Just lines at first, aimless, his hand moving without thinking. Slowly, a shape emerged—broad shoulders, strong arms. A jawline. A familiar smile.
He drew Pond.
Santa watched him for a while, then leaned back against the tree and pulled out his phone. He didn't say anything else. He just stayed.
Phuwin's hand moved across the page, filling in the shadows, the curve of Pond's neck, the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed. He drew from memory, from the image burned into his brain after that night in the bathroom, after that kiss, after all of it.
He drew the way Pond had looked at him when he said never.
His hand stopped. The pencil hovered over Pond's eyes—just two dark circles, unfinished, waiting.
"I love him," Phuwin said, and it came out raw, unpolished, like a confession he'd been holding too long. "I love him so much it scares me. And he's somewhere alone, dealing with something horrible, and I can't do anything."
"You can go to him."
Phuwin looked at Santa. Santa looked back, calm and certain behind his glasses.
"You can go to his penthouse," Santa said. "You can show up and knock on his door and tell him you're not going anywhere. Even if he tries to push you away."
Phuwin's throat tightened. "What if he doesn't want me there?"
"Then you stay anyway. That's what love is."
The pencil fell from Phuwin's fingers. He looked at the half-finished drawing, at Pond's unfinished eyes, and made a decision.
He closed the sketchbook. Stood up. Brushed the grass off his jeans.
"I need to find him."
Santa stood too, slower, and pulled his keys out of his pocket. "Then let's go."