The nurses office smelled like antiseptic and something metallic that might have been blood or might have been the inside of his own head. Phuwin sat on the narrow bed, the mattress vinyl and cold through his tights, and he held Fluffy so tight his knuckles had gone white. The bear's fur was soft against his cheek. He didn't remember lifting it. Pond had put it there, probably. Pond had been putting things in his hands all afternoon—his own hands, the bear, his voice saying it's okay over and over until the words lost meaning.
Pond sat on the bed beside him, one arm wrapped around Phuwin's waist, his thigh warm and solid against Phuwin's hip. His other hand rested on Phuwin's knee, thumb tracing a slow, repetitive circle through the fabric of his tights. The motion was steady. Grounding. Phuwin focused on it because everything else was too loud.
"Baby," Pond said, his voice low. "You're shaking."
Phuwin looked down at his hands. The bear's ear was crumpled under his fingers, the seam pulling. He loosened his grip but didn't let go. "I'm fine."
"You're not." Pond's voice was gentle. No judgment. Just a fact. "And that's okay. You don't have to be fine."
The words cracked something inside Phuwin's chest. He pressed his face into Fluffy's head and felt the tears come—not the hot, furious kind he'd felt in the yard, but something quieter. Wetter. He let them fall into the bear's fur, let the sobs shake through him in waves that made the vinyl mattress creak.
Pond pulled him closer, one hand coming up to cradle the back of his head. "Let it out. I've got you."
Phuwin cried until his throat ached. When the sobs quieted to hiccups, he pulled back just enough to look at his arm. The sleeve of Pond's shirt—his shirt, the one Phuwin had worn since the penthouse—was pushed up, and there on his forearm were four crescent-shaped scabs, dark and raised, where Ryu's nails had dug in. He hadn't felt them happen. He touched one with his fingertip. It stung.
"I didn't mean to," he whispered. His voice was wrecked. "I wasn't—I wasn't fucking ready. I was just so angry. And now I hurt someone." He pressed his palm over the marks, covering them. "I hurt someone, Pond. She's in the hospital."
Pond's jaw tightened. He looked at the marks on Phuwin's arm, and something dark flickered behind his eyes before he smoothed it away. "She hurt you first."
"That doesn't make it okay." Phuwin's voice broke again. "I just—I just wanted her to stop. She kept talking and talking and I couldn't—" He stopped, swallowed. "Someone is always taking something from me. Or trying to take me away."
Pond was quiet, his hand still warm on the back of Phuwin's head.
"Men are always approaching me. Courting me, they say. Because I'm beautiful. More pretty than any girl they see." Phuwin's voice turned bitter. "Every single girl in Bangkok wants you to themselves. They find ways to talk to you. Flirt. Get close." He looked up at Pond, his eyes red. "Ryu made me feel horrible. Uncomfortable in my own skin. And she had no right to talk to me about who I sleep with. How long I've been here. She's only been around a couple of months. I've spent three years fighting for a place here. A place where I can be myself. With my best friends."
"I know," Pond said. His hand moved from Phuwin's head to his cheek, thumb wiping away a tear. "I know, baby. I know."
Phuwin leaned into the touch, eyes closing. "I'm so tired."
"Then rest."
"I can't. Not until I know what's going to happen."
Pond was quiet for a moment. Then he shifted, reaching for the bear in Phuwin's lap. He didn't take it away—just touched its ear, smoothing the crumpled fur. "We should talk about something else," he said softly. "Distract ourselves. The principal and Ryu's parents are talking with the police right now. We can't do anything about it. So let's talk about something else."
Phuwin shook his head. "I don't want to—"
"Fluffy is our emotional support son," Pond said, and despite everything, there was a hint of a smile in his voice. "We should check on him. See how he's handling this."
Phuwin stared at him. "You're serious."
"I'm very serious." Pond's eyes were soft. "Fluffy, how are you feeling? Did Mommy's fight scare you?"
A sound escaped Phuwin's throat—half laugh, half sob. "You're ridiculous."
"But you're smiling." Pond nudged him. "Come on. For a minute. Just until the principal comes."
Phuwin looked down at the bear. Its button eyes stared back, black and unblinking. He ran his thumb over one ear, then the other. He shifted it in his hands until he could see its face properly, and something in his chest loosened—just a fraction, but it loosened. "Fluffy says you're a dumbass," he muttered.
Pond grinned. "Fluffy has no respect for his father."
"He gets it from me." Phuwin sighed, long and shuddering. Then he set the bear aside on the bed, pulled Pond's sweater—the one wrapped around his shoulders—tighter around himself, and burrowed into it until only his eyes and the top of his nose were visible. "I don't want to talk about anything," he said, muffled.
Pond's arm tightened around him. "Then we don't talk."
They sat in silence for what felt like a long time. The fluorescent light hummed. Somewhere down the hall, a door opened and closed. Footsteps approached, steady and deliberate, and Phuwin's stomach clenched because he knew that sound—the rhythm of heels on linoleum, the weight of authority behind them.
The nurse who had been sitting at her desk looked up as the door opened. Principal Somchai stood in the doorway, her face tight, her lips pressed into a thin line. She was a short woman with sharp glasses and sharper posture, and right now she radiated disappointment like heat from a stove.
"Mr. Tangsakyuen," she said. "You need to come to my office. In a few minutes. I'll send someone to get you."
Phuwin didn't move. His fingers tightened on the edge of Pond's sweater.
"I am very disappointed," the principal continued. "I expected better from a student with your record. Your grades have been slipping. Your attendance has been—" She stopped, shook her head. "I've called your parents. They're on their way."
Phuwin shot upright. "You called my parents?"
"They are your legal guardians—"
"They're in Chiang Mai! You can't just—"
"I called them because you have no other emergency contact listed that isn't a PO box or a bakery number that goes to an answering machine."
"My aunt!" Phuwin's voice cracked. "I signed her name under my contact. Godji. You could have called her."
"I am not discussing this with you, Mr. Tangsakyuen." The principal's voice rose. "Your parents are arriving soon. I want you in my office." She turned to leave.
"You can't do this!" Phuwin was on his feet now, the bear forgotten, his hands shaking. "I want her here. I want my aunt. She's listed. I need her."
Principal Somchai stopped. She turned back, and her face was hard. "I have seen so much change in you, Phuwin. Your attitude. Your work ethic. Your health. You are not the student I admitted three years ago. And I am not calling your aunt. That is final." She paused, and her voice dropped. "You are behaving so much like Soònào."
The name hit Phuwin like a slap. He didn't know why Principal Somchai would bring up her name. Why she put shame on his fucking Dead Sister. Someone he loved. Phuwin scoffed and Yelled.
"Fuck you," he said in Thai, the words ripping out of him before he could stop them. "You are being so fucking ignorant about this situation. You didn't ask what happened. You didn't ask what she did to me. You just—" His voice broke. "I don't give a fuck."
Principal Somchai's eyes widened. For a moment, she looked like she might say something else. Then she turned, her heels hitting the floor like gunshots, and slammed the door behind her.
The silence that followed was worse than the yelling. Phuwin stood in the middle of the room, his breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps. His hands were fists at his sides.
Then he screamed. Not words—just a raw, wordless sound that tore out of his throat and died against the antiseptic walls. He doubled over, hands on his knees, and the tears came again, hot and furious.
Pond was there in an instant, his arms around Phuwin's shoulders, pulling him upright, pulling him close. "I've got you," he whispered. "I've got you. Breathe."
Phuwin shook his head against Pond's chest. "They're coming. My parents are coming all the way from Chiang Mai because of her."
"I know. I know."
"I need Godji." Phuwin pulled back, fumbling for his phone in his bag. His hands were shaking so badly he almost dropped it. He unlocked it, found her contact, pressed call.
It rang once. Twice. Three times.
"Phuwin?" Godji's voice came through, warm and sharp at the same time. "What's wrong?"
"Auntie." His voice cracked on the word. "I got into a fight. I need you to come get me. Please. I'm at school, in the nurses office. The principal called my parents and they're coming and I just—I need you here."
There was a pause. Then the sound of keys jingling. "I'm on my way. Stay where you are. Don't move."
"Okay."
"Phuwin." Her voice softened. "It's going to be okay. I'm coming."
The line went dead. Phuwin lowered the phone and stared at it. Then his legs gave out. He sank to the floor, his back against the vinyl bed frame, and buried his face in his hands.
Pond slid down beside him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, pulling him sideways until Phuwin's head rested against his chest. "She's coming. It's going to be okay."
Phuwin didn't answer. He just leaned into the warmth and let himself be held.
The door opened again, and Phuwin's heart lurched—but it wasn't the principal. It was Siyh, her face pale, her eyes red. Behind her stood Jungkook, and behind him, Santa and another man Phuwin didn't recognize at first—tall, with a tank top that showed off arms carved from stone and abs visible through the fabric.
Perth. He'd seen him around campus. Heard the rumors. But he was here, with Santa.
"Phuwin." Siyh dropped to her knees beside him, not caring that the floor was cold and probably dirty. "I heard. We all heard. Are you okay?"
Phuwin shook his head, his lower lip trembling. He knew he was making a face—that pout Siyh always teased him about, the one that made him look like a kicked puppy—but he couldn't help it. The tears were coming again.
"I'm not okay," he whispered. "I beat her until she stopped moving. And now my parents are coming."
Siyh's face twisted. She reached out and grabbed his hand, squeezing tight. "She deserved it. Every fucking bit of it."
"That doesn't make it better."
"No. But maybe it makes it true."
Jungkook knelt beside her, his hand on Phuwin's shoulder. "We're all here. Whatever happens, we're here."
Santa stood by the door, Perth a silent presence beside him. He met Phuwin's eyes and gave a small nod—the kind that said I'm here, I'm not going anywhere.
Pond pressed a kiss to the top of Phuwin's head. "I need to step out for a minute," he said quietly. "Talk to someone."
Phuwin's hand shot out, grabbing Pond's wrist. "Don't leave."
"I'll be right back. I promise." Pond's eyes were earnest, soft. "Two minutes. I just need to—" He glanced toward the door, and something unspoken passed between him and Santa. "Make sure things don't get worse than they already are."
Phuwin let go. He watched Pond stand, watched him straighten his shirt, watched him exchange a look with Santa that he couldn't read. Then Pond was gone, the door swinging shut behind him.
The silence stretched. Siyh stayed by his side, her hand still in his. Jungkook moved to sit on the bed, the bear beside him. Santa leaned against the wall, arms crossed, Perth next to him, watching the door.
Minutes passed. Or hours. Phuwin couldn't tell.
Then the door opened again, and it wasn't Pond. It was Godji.
She was still wearing her apron, flour dusted on her shoulder, her hair pulled back in a messy bun. She crossed the room in three quick strides and dropped to her knees in front of him, her hands cupping his face, pulling him close.
"What happened?" she asked, her voice low, speaking Thai. She brushed his bangs from his eyes, her fingers gentle against his skin. "Tell me everything."
Phuwin collapsed into her, his arms wrapping around her neck, his face buried in her shoulder. The sobs came in great, heaving waves, and she held him through them, one hand stroking his hair, the other pressed flat against his back.
"She—she was at the yard," he choked out, the words broken and half in Thai. "She called me a whore. She slapped me. And I—I just lost it. I hit her. I kept hitting her. And the principal called my parents. They're coming. From Chiang Mai. Because of her."
Godji's hand stilled on his hair. Then she pulled back just enough to look at his face, her eyes dark, her expression unreadable. "She slapped you first?"
"Yes."
"And no one saw that part?"
"I don't know. Maybe. I don't—" He shook his head, fresh tears spilling. "Auntie, I didn't mean to hurt her that bad. I just wanted her to stop."
"I know, baby." Godji pulled him close again, her hand resuming its slow rhythm through his hair. "I know. We'll figure this out."
They stayed like that, her rocking him gently, speaking soft Thai reassurances into his hair, until the door opened one more time.
Phuwin looked up, and his heart stopped.
His parents stood in the doorway. His father, tall and broad-shouldered, his jaw tight. His mother, smaller, her eyes already wet, her hand pressed to her mouth. Behind them, the principal stood with Ryu's parents—the mother's face twisted with rage, the father's stony and cold.
Phuwin's breath caught. He grabbed Godji's arm, his nails digging in. "Auntie."
Godji looked up. Her arm tightened around him. "I see them."
His mother stepped forward, her voice breaking. "Phuwin."
He couldn't move. He couldn't speak. He just held onto Godji, his breath coming in shallow gasps, as his parents walked toward him and the principal's heels clicked a countdown on the linoleum floor.
Godji stood, pulling him up with her. She grabbed his bag, slung it over her shoulder, and wrapped an arm around his waist, holding him steady. "We'll talk," she said, her voice calm and steady, a wall between him and the room. "But not here."
Phuwin leaned into her, his legs weak, his heart hammering. He looked past his parents, past the principal, past Ryu's parents—and saw them. Siyh, on her feet, her jaw set. Jungkook, standing behind her, his hand on her shoulder. Santa, still by the door, Perth beside him, both of them watching with hard eyes. And Pond, just outside the doorframe, his face pale, his hands in his pockets, waiting.
The principal gestured toward her office. "This way, please."
Godji held him tighter. "Come on, baby."
Phuwin took a step forward. Then another. He didn't look back. He couldn't. But he felt them there—his friends, his boyfriend, the people who had held him together when everything fell apart—watching him walk toward the principal's office, where the real fight was just beginning.
The hallway stretched like a tunnel. Phuwin's legs moved without him telling them to, Godji's arm a steel band around his waist, her hip pressed against his, carrying him forward when his own strength gave out. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and somewhere behind him he heard Siyh's voice—low, furious—and then Santa's calm reply. He didn't catch the words. They sounded underwater.
His mother stood at the end of the tunnel. She looked smaller than he remembered. Her face was wet, her hands clasped together like she was praying, and when her eyes found his, something in her expression cracked—anger and relief and fear and love all fighting for space.
"Phuwin," she said again, her voice breaking.
He stopped. Godji stopped with him.
"Don't," he managed. His voice came out thin, barely a whisper. "Don't stand there like you care. You sent money. You didn't call. Not on my birthday. Not ever."
His mother's face crumpled. She took a step toward him, her hand reaching out, and Phuwin flinched back—into Godji, into the only safe thing he had left.
His father spoke for the first time. "Phuwin." The voice was deep, flat, controlled. The voice of a man who had learned to keep his emotions locked behind a door of bone. "We came as soon as we heard."
"Heard what?" Phuwin's voice rose. "That I beat someone? That I finally snapped? Or that your daughter—" The word caught in his throat. He swallowed it down. "That I'm in trouble and you had to show up so the neighbors wouldn't talk?"
"Phuwin." His mother's voice cracked. "That's not fair."
"Fair?" He laughed, and it sounded ugly, broken. "Fair. You want to talk about fair. Soònào is dead. She's been dead for—" His voice broke. He pressed the heel of his hand against his eyes, hard enough to see stars. "I don't even remember how long. I stopped counting. Because every time I counted, I realized you weren't calling."
Godji's hand tightened on his waist. "Baby," she said softly, in Thai. "Breathe."
He tried. The air came in shaky, shallow. He dropped his hand from his eyes and looked at his mother—really looked at her. The grey streaks in her hair that hadn't been there three years ago. The lines around her mouth. The way her hands trembled.
"We're not doing this here," his father said. "We're going into the office, we're sorting this out with the principal and the other girl's parents, and then we're going somewhere private to talk."
"And then what?" Phuwin's voice was quiet. Hollow. "You take me back to Chiang Mai? Lock me in my old room? Pretend I never left?"
"Phuwin." His father's jaw tightened. "Do not make this harder than it already is."
"Harder?" Phuwin's voice broke. "Harder for who? For you? For her? Soònào—"
"Don't you dare bring her into this." His mother's voice turned sharp, desperate. "Don't you dare use your sister's name to—"
"She was my sister too!" Phuwin was shaking now, his whole body trembling with the force of it. "She was my sister and no one told me how she died. No one told me anything. You shipped me off to Bangkok like I was luggage and you never—" He couldn't finish. The words died in his throat.
The silence that followed was worse than the yelling. Phuwin stood there, gasping, his hands balled into fists at his sides. Godji's hand was still on his waist, grounding him, holding him upright.
His mother took another step forward. "Phuwin, I—"
"Don't."
"I need to tell you—"
"I said don't."
She reached for him anyway. Her hand found his cheek, her palm warm and soft, the same hand that had held his when he was small, that had braided his hair before school, that had waved goodbye at the train station three years ago. It landed gently, almost reverently, and Phuwin's breath caught because it felt like forgiveness, like maybe—
Her hand curled into a fist. And she slapped him.
The sound cracked through the hallway like a gunshot. Phuwin's head snapped to the side, his cheek burning, his eyes wide with shock. He tasted copper. He stood there, frozen, his hand rising slowly to touch his face where her fingers had left their mark.
"How dare you," his mother whispered, her voice shaking. "How dare you speak to me like that. How dare you use her name like a weapon. You have no idea what we've been through. No idea what it cost us to send you here. To let you go."
Phuwin didn't move. He couldn't. The slap hadn't hurt the way Ryu's had—it was quicker, sharper, less about force and more about betrayal. But it hurt worse. It hurt in a place he didn't have a name for.
Godji moved.
It happened so fast Phuwin barely registered it. One moment she was beside him, her arm around his waist. The next, she was between him and his mother, her hand flat on his mother's chest, shoving hard enough to send her stumbling back into his father's arms.
"Don't you ever," Godji said, her voice low and cold, speaking Thai with a razor edge, "lay a hand on him again. Ever."
His mother gasped, her hands flying to her chest where Godji had pushed her. "How dare you—"
"How dare I?" Godji's eyes were dark, her jaw set. "You show up after three years of silence, walk into his school while he's bleeding from a fight, and the first thing you do is hit him? He is a child. Your child. And you hit him."
"He was disrespecting—"
"He was hurting." Godji's voice cracked. "He has been hurting for years, and you were not here. I was. I held him when he cried. I fed him when he forgot to eat. I watched him fall in love and I watched him break and I put him back together every single time. You don't get to walk in here and hit him because you don't like what he said."
The hallway was silent. Phuwin's father stood frozen, his hand on his wife's arm, his face unreadable. Behind them, the principal had stopped, her mouth open, her hand raised like she'd been about to intervene and wasn't sure if she still should. Ryu's parents stood further back, the mother's face a mask of contempt, the father's stony and cold.
Phuwin's cheek throbbed. He touched it again, his fingers coming away with a faint smear of blood where his mother's ring had caught the skin. He stared at the red on his fingertips, and something inside him went very quiet.
"Auntie," he said. His voice was small. "It's okay."
Godji turned to look at him, and the fury in her eyes softened—not disappeared, but softened. "No, baby. It's not okay. None of this is okay."
"I know." He lowered his hand. "But hitting her back won't fix it."
Godji held his gaze for a long moment. Then she exhaled, slow and shaky, and turned back to face his mother. "We're going into that office. We're going to deal with the school. And then—" She paused, her voice hard. "Then we're going to have a conversation. The three of us. About what happens next."
His mother opened her mouth to respond, but his father's hand on her arm stopped her. He stepped forward, his eyes on Godji, and when he spoke, his voice was quiet. "You're her sister."
"Yes." Godji's chin lifted. "I am."
His father nodded slowly. Something passed between them—a recognition, maybe, or a reckoning. Then he turned to Phuwin, and for the first time, his expression cracked. Just a little. Just enough for Phuwin to see the grief underneath.
"I'm sorry," he said. The words came out rough, like they hurt. "I'm sorry we didn't call. I'm sorry we didn't come. I'm sorry for—" He stopped, his jaw working. "I'm sorry."
Phuwin stared at him. Three years of silence, and his father's first apology came in a school hallway, after his mother had slapped him, with the principal watching and Ryu's parents waiting and his friends probably listening through the door.
"Okay," Phuwin said. It wasn't forgiveness. It wasn't acceptance. It was just the only word he had.
His father nodded again, then turned and walked toward the principal's office. His mother followed, her eyes on the floor, her hand pressed to her chest where Godji had pushed her.
Phuwin stood still. His cheek throbbed. His hands were shaking. He felt Godji's arm slide around his waist again, pulling him gently forward.
"Come on, baby," she said. "Let's get this over with."
He took a step. Then another. The door to the principal's office loomed ahead, dark wood with a brass handle. His father held it open. His mother stepped inside. Godji guided him forward, her hand warm on his back.
Before he crossed the threshold, Phuwin looked back. Down the hallway, past the nurses office, past the water fountain, past the bench where Pond had been sitting—there they were. Siyh, standing with her arms crossed, her eyes hard. Jungkook beside her, his hand on her shoulder. Santa, leaning against the wall, Perth next to him, both of them watching. And Pond.
Pond stood at the end of the hall, his hands in his pockets, his face pale. He looked like he wanted to run to Phuwin. He looked like he wanted to break down the door. He looked like every muscle in his body was straining to hold himself back because he knew—they all knew—that this part, Phuwin had to walk into alone.
Phuwin held his gaze. He didn't smile. He didn't nod. But he let himself look, just for a second, at the boy who had put a bear in his arms and called him beautiful and promised him a future with a yard and kids and a big outdoor wedding.
Then he turned and stepped through the door.
The office was smaller than he remembered. A desk dominated the center, piled with papers and a laptop. Chairs lined the walls—plastic, uncomfortable, the kind that made your back ache after ten minutes. The blinds were half-drawn, cutting the afternoon light into stripes across the floor.
Principal Somchai sat behind the desk, her hands folded, her glasses catching the light. On one side of the room, Ryu's parents stood—the mother with her arms crossed, her nails tapping against her elbow, the father with his hands in his pockets, his face carved from stone.
On the other side, Phuwin's parents stood. His father had his hand on his mother's back, a gesture that was either support or restraint. His mother's eyes were red, her face blotchy, but she had stopped crying.
Godji pulled out a chair for Phuwin. He sank into it, his legs suddenly too weak to hold him. She sat beside him, her hand finding his, squeezing once. He squeezed back.
"Let's begin," Principal Somchai said, and her voice was tired, not angry. "We have a lot to discuss."
Principal Somchai folded her hands on the desk. The fluorescent light caught the edge of her glasses, turning her eyes into flat white discs. "Mr. Tangsakyuen. Do you understand why you're here?"
Phuwin's throat was dry. He swallowed, felt the ache in his jaw where his mother's ring had cut him. "I hit someone."
"You beat a student unconscious." The principal's voice was flat. Clinical. "In the middle of campus. In front of dozens of witnesses. On a day when the university was hosting visiting faculty from three different provinces." She paused, letting the weight of it settle. "Do you have any idea what kind of liability this creates for the school?"
Godji's hand tightened on his. "With respect—"
"I'm asking him." Principal Somchai's eyes didn't leave Phuwin's face. "Not you."
Phuwin stared at the grain of the desk. He could see his reflection in the polished wood, distorted and small. "She slapped me first."
"That's not what I asked."
"It's what happened." His voice came out steadier than he expected. "She cornered me in the yard. She called me a whore. She said I was spreading my legs for her man. She said—" He stopped, his jaw tightening. "She said I was nothing. That I'd always be nothing. That Pond would leave me the same way everyone leaves me."
Ryu's mother made a sound—a sharp, dismissive scoff. "My daughter would never—"
"Your daughter has been harassing me for weeks." Phuwin turned to look at her, and something in his voice made her stop. "She followed me to classes. She waited for me outside the library. She sent me messages from numbers I didn't recognize. She told everyone on campus that I was a slut who stole her man." He held her gaze. "Ask anyone. Ask Siyh. Ask Santa. Ask the barista at the café she cornered me in last Tuesday."
Ryu's mother's mouth opened and closed. Her husband's hand found her elbow, pulling her back.
Principal Somchai was quiet for a long moment. Then she reached into her drawer and pulled out a folder. She opened it, flipped through a few pages, and slid a single sheet across the desk toward Phuwin. "Do you know what this is?"
Phuwin looked at it. It was a printout of a social media post—a photo of him and Pond, taken from behind, their fingers intertwined as they walked across campus. The caption read: "The campus princess finally landed her prize. Wonder how long before he gets bored."
His stomach turned. "That's—that's not—"
"It was posted by an account that has since been deleted. But we traced it back to a device registered to Ryu's student ID." The principal's voice was calm, measured. "We also have three witness statements confirming that Ryu approached you first, that she struck you first, and that she had been making verbal threats toward you for the past several weeks." She closed the folder. "That doesn't excuse what you did. But it does provide context."
Phuwin's breath caught. He stared at the folder, at the printout, at the words he couldn't unsee. "You knew?"
"We suspected. We were gathering evidence." The principal's eyes were tired. "But you didn't give us time to act. You took matters into your own hands, and now a student is in the hospital with a concussion, a fractured orbital, and potential nerve damage in her left hand."
The words landed like stones in his chest. Nerve damage. He hadn't known. He hadn't thought about what happened after he stopped hitting her. He'd just wanted her to stop talking. To stop existing in his space. To stop making him feel like he was crawling out of his own skin.
"I didn't mean to—" He stopped. The words felt hollow. Useless. "I didn't know it was that bad."
"It's bad." Principal Somchai leaned back in her chair. "Her parents are considering pressing charges. The university's legal team has already contacted me. There will be a disciplinary hearing. There may be an expulsion vote." She paused. "I'm not going to lie to you, Phuwin. This is serious."
Godji's hand found his again. This time, she didn't squeeze. She just held on, her thumb tracing slow circles on his knuckles.
"But," the principal continued, "I am also not going to ignore the evidence that she provoked you. Repeatedly. Systematically. And that the school failed to intervene before it escalated." She looked at Ryu's parents. "Your daughter has been the subject of three separate complaints this semester alone. Two from other female students who said she threatened them over a boy. One from a teaching assistant who caught her altering another student's assignment."
Ryu's mother's face went white. "That's a lie—"
"It's documented." The principal's voice was flat. "I have the files."
The room went very quiet. Phuwin could hear the hum of the fluorescent lights, the distant sound of a lawnmower somewhere outside, the soft rhythm of his own breathing. He looked down at his hands. They were still shaking.
"What happens now?" His father's voice cut through the silence. He stepped forward, his hand still on his wife's back. "What's the process?"
Principal Somchai folded her hands again. "The disciplinary committee will convene in three days. They will review the evidence—the witness statements, the social media posts, the medical reports from both students. They will hear from Phuwin, from Ryu's family, and from any relevant faculty. Then they will vote on a recommendation to the university board." She paused. "The range of outcomes includes a formal warning, suspension, or expulsion."
Phuwin's stomach dropped. Expulsion. The word hung in the air like a blade.
"And the police?" Godji's voice was steady, but Phuwin could feel the tension in her hand. "Are charges being filed?"
"That depends on Ryu's family." The principal looked at them. "Do you intend to press charges?"
Ryu's father spoke for the first time. His voice was low, rough, like he hadn't used it in hours. "We haven't decided." He looked at Phuwin, and there was something in his eyes that wasn't anger—it was exhaustion. "My daughter is in a hospital bed with a broken face. She can't see out of her left eye. She might not be able to use her hand properly again. Do you understand what that means for her? For her future?"
Phuwin's throat tightened. "I'm sorry." The words came out small, genuine. "I'm sorry she got hurt. I'm sorry I hurt her. But she—" He stopped, swallowed. "She pushed me to a place I couldn't come back from. And I know that doesn't excuse it. But I need you to know that I didn't wake up today planning to hurt anyone."
Ryu's father held his gaze for a long moment. Then he looked away, his jaw working. "We'll decide after we talk to her doctors."
Principal Somchai nodded. "That's fair. In the meantime, Phuwin will be suspended pending the hearing. He is not to set foot on campus until the committee reaches a decision." She looked at him. "Do you understand?"
Phuwin heard the words land. Suspended. Pending hearing. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. He nodded instead—a small, jerky movement that made his head feel loose on his neck. "I understand."
Principal Somchai studied him for a moment. Then she closed the folder and set it aside. "You'll receive formal documentation by tomorrow morning. Your access to campus systems will be revoked effective immediately. If you need to retrieve belongings from your locker or the art studio, you may do so today, accompanied by a staff member." She paused. "I recommend you take that opportunity now, while we finish the paperwork."
Godji's hand found his knee under the desk. Squeezed once. A question.
Phuwin cleared his throat. "Can my friends come with me? To get my stuff?"
The principal considered this. "One friend. And your aunt."
It wasn't everything he wanted. But it was something. He nodded again, slower this time, and pushed himself to his feet. His legs held. Barely. Godji rose with him, her hand sliding from his knee to the small of his back, a warm pressure that kept him upright.
His mother stepped forward. "Phuwin—"
He didn't look at her. Couldn't. The shadow of her hand still burned on his cheek, not the pain—that had faded to a dull throb—but the shape of it. The fact that it had happened at all.
"I'll be outside," he said. Not to her. To the room. To no one.
Godji guided him past the desk, past the chairs, past Ryu's parents who parted like water around a stone. His father said something—his name, maybe, or "wait"—but Phuwin kept walking. The door handle was cold under his fingers. He pulled it open, and the hallway air hit him like a wave, sterile and fluorescent and emptier than it had been before.
They were still there.
Siyh stood first. She'd been leaning against the wall, her arms crossed, her jaw set, and the moment the door opened she was moving—not running, but walking fast, her eyes scanning him like she was cataloging damage. Her gaze stopped on his face. On the red mark blooming across his cheek.
"Who," she said. One word. Flat. Dangerous.
Phuwin shook his head. "Not now."
"Who."
"Siyh." Santa's voice cut in, quiet but firm. He stepped forward, Perth still beside him, and laid a hand on her shoulder. "Later."
She looked at Santa. Then at Phuwin. Then she exhaled, long and controlled, and pulled him into a hug—not gentle, not careful, the kind of hug that pinned his arms to his sides and pressed his face into her shoulder. "I'm going to kill someone," she muttered into his hair. "Just so you know."
Phuwin's laugh came out wet and broken against her collarbone. "Not today."
"Fine. But I'm putting it on my calendar."
She let him go, and Jungkook was there, his hand squeezing Phuwin's shoulder, his eyes saying everything his voice didn't. Then Santa, who pulled him into a brief, hard embrace and whispered, "Perth's got the car. We're parked behind the science building."
Phuwin pulled back. "I need to get my stuff from the studio. The principal said I can take one person. And Godji."
"I'll go," Santa said. "Siyh, you stay with the group. Make sure no one talks to the press."
"Press?" Phuwin's stomach dropped.
Santa's expression didn't change. "There were phones, Phuwin. Lots of them. Someone already posted the video. The university's PR team is probably having a very bad afternoon, which means reporters might show up asking questions." He adjusted his glasses. "You're not talking to anyone. Not today. Not until we know what the legal situation is."
Phuwin stared at him. Santa. His best friend of six years. The one who always knew the right thing to do, who had a plan when everyone else was falling apart. He looked so calm. So in control. Phuwin wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake him, just to see if anything rattled loose.
Instead, he nodded. "Okay."
He turned to find Pond.
Pond was still at the end of the hall, exactly where he'd been before Phuwin walked into the office. His hands were still in his pockets. His face was still pale. But his eyes—his eyes were fixed on Phuwin with an intensity that made Phuwin's breath catch. He looked like he'd been holding himself together by will alone, and the moment Phuwin met his gaze, something in his shoulders loosened.
Phuwin walked toward him. The hallway felt longer than it had before. Each step took effort, like wading through water. But Pond didn't move. He waited. Let Phuwin close the distance.
When he was close enough to see the faint scratch on Pond's jaw—when had that happened?—Phuwin stopped. "I'm suspended," he said. "Pending a hearing. Three days."
Pond's jaw tightened. "I heard. I was—" He stopped, his voice cracking. "I was listening. Through the door. I know I shouldn't have. But I couldn't just— I couldn't stand out here not knowing."
Phuwin reached out. His hand found Pond's, which was still in his pocket. He pulled it out, slowly, and laced their fingers together. "It's okay."
"It's not." Pond's voice was rough. "Your mother hit you. And I was— I was standing here, doing nothing."
"You were doing exactly what I needed you to do." Phuwin squeezed his hand. "You were here."
Pond's eyes were glassy. He blinked, hard, and looked away. When he looked back, his expression had hardened into something resolute. "I'm coming with you. To the studio. To your aunt's place. Everywhere."
"The principal said one friend—"
"I don't care what the principal said."
Phuwin almost smiled. Almost. "Santa's already coming."
"Then I'll wait at the car. Or I'll follow you. I don't care. I'm not letting you out of my sight again."
The words hit Phuwin somewhere soft, somewhere he'd been keeping guarded. He looked down at their joined hands, at the contrast of his pale fingers against Pond's tanned ones, and felt the tears threaten again. Not sad tears. Something else. Something he didn't have a name for.
"Okay," he said. "But if the principal gives you trouble—"
"I can handle the principal."
Godji appeared at Phuwin's elbow. She'd been talking to Siyh, low and quick, but now she turned and assessed the two of them with a single sweeping glance. "Santa's getting the car. Siyh and Jungkook are going to round up anyone who might have useful footage. Perth's going with them." She looked at Pond. "You're coming with us."
It wasn't a question.
Pond nodded. "Yes, ma'am."
Godji's mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close. "Good. Let's move."
They walked together, a small procession, down the hallway and out the side door that led toward the art building. The afternoon hit Phuwin's face like a wall: hot, bright, full of sounds he'd stopped hearing—birds, traffic, the distant shout of someone playing music from a dorm window. The world had kept spinning. He'd forgotten it could.
The art studio was empty when they got there. The afternoon light slanted through the high windows, catching dust motes suspended in the air, and Phuwin's easel stood in the corner where he'd left it. The portrait of Pond was gone—already framed, already hung in the hall for the festival that felt like it had happened in another lifetime. All that remained was a palette with dried paint, a jar of brushes, and his portfolio bag leaning against the wall.
Phuwin crossed to it. He unzipped the bag, checked the contents: sketchbooks, pencils, a half-finished watercolor of the campus fountain. Things that mattered. Things he could carry.
He zipped it closed and slung it over his shoulder. "I'm ready."
Santa appeared in the doorway. "Car's out front. Perth's circling the block in case anyone's taking photos." He looked at Phuwin. "Siyh and Jungkook are already on their way to Godji's. I told them to meet us there."
Phuwin nodded. "Thank you."
"You don't have to thank me."
"I know. But I'm saying it anyway."
Santa held his gaze for a moment. Then he nodded, once, and stepped aside to let them pass.
The car ride was quiet. Godji drove, her hands steady on the wheel, her eyes on the road. Pond sat in the back seat with Phuwin, their thighs touching, his arm around Phuwin's shoulders. Santa sat in the passenger seat, his phone out, typing messages in quick bursts.
Phuwin watched the city slide past the window. The buildings blurred together. He thought about his mother's hand on his face, the sting of it, the way his father had said I'm sorry like the words were stones he'd been carrying for years. He thought about Ryu in a hospital bed with a broken face, about the nerve damage the principal had mentioned, about the video that was probably already circulating through every group chat on campus.
He thought about Soònào.
He hadn't thought about her in the office. He'd been too busy surviving. But now, in the back of Godji's car, with Pond's arm around him and the city blurring past, her face rose in his memory—the curve of her smile, the way she'd laughed when he told a bad joke, the sound of her voice saying his name like it was something precious.
She would have known what to do. She would have told him to breathe. She would have made him tea and sat with him until the shaking stopped.
He pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the window and let his eyes close.
When he opened them again, they were pulling up to Godji's shop. The gate was open. The lights were on inside. And standing on the porch, her arms crossed, her face unreadable, was Siyh.
Godji parked. The engine clicked as it cooled. No one moved.
Then Phuwin opened the door. He stepped out onto the gravel, the portfolio bag heavy on his shoulder, and looked up at the shop. At the window of his room above. At the life he'd built here, in the space between the bakery counter and the second-floor ceiling.
It was still standing. He was still standing.
He didn't know if that counted as winning. But he was still standing.
Behind him, Pond's door opened and closed. A hand found his. Warm. Familiar. Grounding.
"Come on," Pond said, soft. "Let's go inside."
Phuwin held onto his hand and walked toward the door.
The door swung open before Phuwin could reach for the handle. Siyh stood in the frame, her phone pressed to her ear, her eyes scanning him with that same cataloging precision from the hallway. She said something into the phone—quick, sharp, in Thai—and then lowered it.
"Jungkook's bringing food," she said. "Santa's parking the car. Perth's keeping watch for anyone who followed us." She stepped aside, holding the door open. "Get inside."
Phuwin crossed the threshold. The familiar smell hit him first—sugar, flour, the faint tang of brewed coffee from this morning's batch. The bakery was clean, the display case mostly empty, the chairs stacked on tables for the evening. It looked the same as it always did. Like nothing had happened. Like the world hadn't cracked open and swallowed him whole.
Godji's hand landed on his shoulder. "Upstairs. Now. We need to talk before everyone gets here."
He nodded, but his legs didn't move. He stood in the middle of the bakery floor, the portfolio bag still slung over his shoulder, and stared at the counter where he'd served customers that morning. Had that been today? It felt like a lifetime ago.
"Phuwin." Godji's voice was gentle but firm. "Come on."
He followed her up the narrow staircase. The steps creaked under his weight, the same creak they'd made for as long as he could remember. At the top, the hallway stretched toward his room, the door ajar, the light from his window spilling across the floor.
He stepped inside and stopped.
His room was a mess. His sketchbooks were scattered across the desk, his clothes draped over the chair, the sheets on his bed twisted and tangled from the Morning he had left 1 day ago. The bear Pond had bought him sat propped against his pillow, its button eyes staring at the ceiling. The photo frame on his desk—Soònào's face, her smile, her eyes that were the same shape as his—caught the light.
He crossed to the desk. Set down the portfolio bag. Picked up the frame.
His sister looked back at him. She was seventeen in this photo, her hair longer than his, her smile wider, her arm slung around the shoulder of a friend he'd never met. She looked happy. She looked alive.
"I don't know what to do," he whispered to the glass.
The frame didn't answer.
Behind him, Godji cleared her throat. He turned. She stood in the doorway, her arms crossed, her face softer than it had been in the office. "Sit down, baby. We need to talk about what happens next."
Phuwin set the frame down carefully, facedown, so he didn't have to see her eyes anymore. He sat on the edge of his bed. The mattress dipped, the springs groaning.
Godji didn't sit. She paced, her footsteps muffled by the rug. "The hearing is in three days. That gives us time to prepare. I'm going to call a lawyer tomorrow morning—a good one, someone who handles university cases. We need to know exactly what we're walking into."
"What if they expel me?"
"Then we fight it." She stopped pacing, looked at him. "But first, we need to talk about your parents."
Phuwin's stomach turned. "I don't want to talk about them."
"I know you don't. But they're here. And they're not going anywhere until this is resolved." She paused. "Your father asked for my number. He wants to talk. Without your mother."
"Why?"
"Because he knows he fucked up." Godji's voice was flat. "Because he watched his wife hit his son and didn't stop her. Because he's been carrying guilt for three years and now it's eating him alive." She sat down on the bed beside him, the mattress tilting under her weight. "You don't have to talk to him. Not today. Not ever, if you don't want to. But I'm telling you because I promised I wouldn't keep things from you."
Phuwin stared at his hands. They were still shaking. He pressed them flat against his thighs to make them stop. "She slapped me."
"I know."
"In front of everyone. In front of you. In front of—" His voice cracked. "Why would she do that?"
Godji was quiet for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was careful. "I think she's been holding onto something for a long time. Grief. Guilt. Anger. And when you brought up Soònào, it all came out the only way she knew how." She reached over and took his hand. "That doesn't make it okay. It doesn't make it your fault. But I think—" She stopped, choosing her words. "I think she doesn't know how to be your mother anymore. And she's been pretending she does, and today the pretending broke."
Phuwin let the words settle. They felt true. They also felt like they didn't matter. "What am I supposed to do with that?"
"Nothing. Tonight, you're going to eat whatever Jungkook brings, you're going to let your friends crowd around you, and you're going to sleep in your own bed." She squeezed his hand. "Tomorrow, we figure out the rest."
He wanted to argue. He wanted to say that he couldn't just sit here while his life fell apart. But the exhaustion was pressing down on him, heavy and warm, and the bed was soft, and Godji's hand was steady in his.
"Okay," he said.
Godji stood. "I'm going to make tea. Stay here. Your friends will be up in a minute."
She left, the door clicking shut behind her. Phuwin lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling fan. It was still. He reached over and pulled the bear against his chest, holding it the way he'd held it in the nurse's office, his fingers finding the same worn spots in its fur.
The door opened again. He didn't look up. He knew the footsteps.
Pond crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, his weight making the mattress dip. He didn't say anything. He just reached out and laid his hand on Phuwin's ankle, a warm pressure through the fabric of his tights.
"Siyh's yelling at someone on the phone," Pond said. "Santa's making a list. Jungkook's on his way with dumplings." A pause. "Perth is standing guard outside the bakery like a bouncer."
Phuwin let out a sound that was almost a laugh. "He doesn't have to do that."
"I don't think anyone's telling him what to do right now."
Phuwin turned his head to look at him. The light from the window caught Pond's face, highlighting the worry lines around his mouth, the dark circles under his eyes. He looked exhausted. He looked like he hadn't slept in days.
"You should go home," Phuwin said. "Rest."
"I'm not going anywhere."
"Pond—"
"I'm not." Pond's voice was firm. "I told you. I'm not letting you out of my sight again."
Phuwin held his gaze. The words sat between them, heavy and warm. He didn't know what to do with them. He didn't know what to do with any of this. But he knew, with a certainty that surprised him, that he didn't want Pond to leave.
"Okay," he said again.
Pond's hand moved from his ankle to his knee, a gentle squeeze. Then he lay down beside him, his shoulder pressing against Phuwin's, his hand finding Phuwin's and lacing their fingers together over the bear's soft belly.
They lay like that, in the slanting afternoon light, as the sounds of the bakery drifted up through the floorboards. Godji's voice, low and calm. Siyh's, sharp and indignant. Santa's, measured and steady. The clatter of dishes, the hiss of the kettle, the distant hum of the refrigerator.
Life, still happening. The world, still spinning.
Phuwin closed his eyes and let himself be held.