Morning light pushed through the curtains in thin gold lines, falling across the empty dent in the mattress where Godji had slept. Phuwin blinked at the clock on the bedside table—6:45—and the shape beside him was just the rumpled sheet, her side already cool to the touch.
He sat up too fast, head swimming, the memory of last night's exhaustion still heavy in his bones. His project. The assignment. Seven AM. The words collided in his chest and he was already swinging his legs off the bed, feet finding the floor before his brain caught up with what his body knew: he was late. He was going to be late.
His bag lay open on the desk where he'd thrown it last night. He shoved the stack of printed pages into it—the project, the assignment, the folder of source material—one hand already fishing for a hairband he didn't have, his bangs falling into his eyes as he moved. Bathroom. Toothbrush. Paste. The mint hit his tongue and he brushed hard, fast, spitting into the sink and rinsing with a handful of water that dripped down his chin. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, grabbed his phone, and was taking the stairs two at a time before he remembered to breathe.
“Mae Godji!” He hit the bottom step and skidded past the kitchen doorway, where the smell of fresh coffee and something baking—maybe pandan, maybe coconut—curled through the air. She was at the counter, wiping her hands on her apron, and she turned just in time to catch him as he grabbed a piece of bread from the basket.
“Good morning to you too, baby. Slow down—”
“Can't. Late. Love you.” He was already at the front door, slippers slapping the tile, bag bouncing against his hip.
“Phuwin! Did you eat? Phuwin!”
The door swung shut behind him. The morning air hit his face, still cool, the street just beginning to stir. He checked his phone: 6:48. Twelve minutes. It usually took forty-five.
He ran.
His slippers slapped the pavement in an uneven rhythm, his bag thumping against his back with every stride. He could feel his lungs start to burn by the time he reached the first intersection, but he didn't slow down. He couldn't. The project was his entire semester grade—the assignment too. If he missed the deadline, if Professor Thanirkynian didn't accept it—his stomach dropped and he ran harder, pushing through the ache, his bangs sticking to his forehead.
“Come on, come on,” he muttered, his own voice barely audible over his breathing. “I need this. Ajahn. Please. I tried getting here as fast as I can. I need this.”
He turned the corner and the campus gates came into view. The clock on the faculty building read 7:01. One minute past. One. His heart hammered as he sprinted through the courtyard, past the early-morning clusters of students who turned to watch him pass, past the cafeteria where the metallic clatter of trays and the sharp scent of fried food drifted out through the open doors. The hallway stretched ahead of him, the classroom door at the far end already closed.
He reached it at 7:02. His hand hit the door before he could stop himself, pushing it open, the wood slamming against the wall with a crack that made every head in the room turn.
The professor looked up from his desk, glasses glinting in the hot pool of light cast by the desk lamp. Dust motes hung suspended in the still air. The room was silent.
“Khum Phuwin.” The professor's voice was calm, measured. “You are late.”
“I know. Ajahn, I know. Please. I ran all the way here.” Phuwin stepped forward, his voice coming out too fast, too breathless. “The project—I have it right here. It's complete. I just—the bus, Ajahn, it took too long, and I thought I could make it, and I came as fast as I could, please, just—two minutes. It's only two minutes.”
The professor rose from his chair, slow and deliberate, and walked around the desk. He began moving toward the back of the room, where the bins for submissions sat against the wall. “The project was due at exactly seven o'clock. Not seven-oh-one. Not seven-oh-two. Seven o'clock.”
“But Ajahn, I'm the valedictorian candidate. This project is—it's huge for my grade. If you don't accept it, I—” Phuwin's voice cracked. He swallowed hard. “ You can't do this to me. Please. Please, Ajahn.”
The professor turned, his shadow stretching long across the floor. He stopped in front of the bins, one hand resting on the edge of the nearest stack of papers. “That is precisely why I am not accepting it, Khum Phuwin. The deadline was clear. You knew it. Everyone in this room knew it.” He gestured toward the class, a sweep of his hand that took in the rows of silent students. “I have a class to teach. You may leave now. I will see you another time.”
The words fell in Thai, flat and final, and Phuwin stood frozen as the professor turned his back and began collecting papers from the bin. The room swayed. The edges of his vision blurred.
A tear slipped down his cheek before he could stop it. He wiped it with the back of his hand, quick and sharp, then another followed, and another. He turned and pushed through the door, shoving past a group of students coming in, their voices a muffled hum he couldn't parse. He heard someone call his name—maybe Siyh—but he kept moving, down the hallway, his footsteps uneven, his breath hitching in his chest.
The courtyard was bright, too bright, the morning sun stinging his eyes. He slowed near the edge of the path, his hand gripping the strap of his bag so hard his knuckles ached. The tears were falling freely now, and he couldn't wipe them fast enough.
“Phuwin!”
He heard the footsteps before he saw them. Three figures hurrying toward him—Siyh, her sharp face tight with concern. Santa, his glasses catching the light, calm expression already cracking. Jungkook, soft-eyed, reaching out a hand.
“What happened?” Siyh was in front of him now, her hands on his shoulders, steadying him. “What's wrong? Talk to me, baby.”
He couldn't get the words out. They caught in his throat, thick and hot, and all that came was a sound—a broken, ugly sob that tore out of him and made his whole body shake. “I—I came late. I fucking came late to turn in my work.” His voice was barely a whisper, cracking at the edges. “And now I can't—I can't make my older sister proud of me. Why is it always fucking me? Why is it always me?!”
Siyh pulled him close, her arms wrapping around him, her hand cradling the back of his head. She was smaller than him, but she held him like she was the only thing keeping him upright. “Hey. Hey. It's okay. It's going to be okay.”
“It's not.” He pressed his face into her shoulder, the fabric of her shirt soaking up his tears. “It's not okay. The project—I need that grade. I need it, Siyh.”
She rubbed slow circles on his back. “Listen to me. Listen. I'll go talk to the professor. I'll tell him that the work I submitted yesterday—that project—I'll tell him it was actually yours. That you gave it to me by accident. It'll be fine.”
Phuwin pulled back, shaking his head, his face blotchy and wet. “He already graded it, Siyh. He already fucking graded the projects. He brought down my grade so much. So much.” His voice broke again. “He looked at it and he just—he took everything away.”
Siyh's jaw tightened. Her hand came up to his face, thumb brushing the tears from his cheek. She pressed a kiss to his forehead, lingering, soft. “I'm sorry, baby. I'm so sorry. But listen to me. You are the bestest friend I have ever had. You do anything for the people you love. You gave me your project without a second thought because I forgot mine. Do you know how rare that is?” Her voice was low, fierce. “I am so proud of you. So proud. And I love you. And right now, we need to tell Mae Godji what happened. And then you're going to stay home until you feel better. Until you're happy again. Until you're the bright, joyful Phuwin I know. Okay?”
He didn't answer. He just nodded, his throat too tight for words, and let himself fall into her arms again, his shoulders shaking as she held him.
Across the courtyard, at a table near the cafeteria entrance, Pond sat frozen.
He had emptied a full cup of coffee on his thigh without noticing. Taehyung was saying something, some joke about Jungkook, but the words slid off him like water. All he could see was the scene at the far end of the path: Phuwin crying. Siyh wrapping her arms around him. Her lips pressing to his forehead. Her hands cradling his face.
His hand hit the table. Hard. The sound cut through the chatter around him, and the heads at his table turned, his friends looking at him like he'd lost his mind.
“Bro, what the hell?” one of them said.
Taehyung followed his gaze and let out a low whistle. “Ah.”
“Look at that,” another friend said, grinning. “Phuwin's got himself a girl now. That Siyh chick. They look cozy, huh? You better go get your malewife before you're watching them kiss each other.”
Pond's jaw was tight, his fist still pressed into the tabletop. He ran his other hand through his hair, tugging at the ends, staring at Siyh as she smiled at Phuwin—that soft, quiet smile—and said something in Thai that he couldn't hear from here. Something that made Phuwin look up at her with those red-rimmed eyes.
Something twisted in his chest. Dark. Hot.
And then a high-pitched chorus of voices rose behind him, and he didn't need to turn around to know what was coming.
“Pond! Omigod, Pond!”
“Can I get a picture with you?”
“Please sign my notebook!”
“Pond, over here!”
A crowd of girls was descending on the table, phones out, notebooks waving, bodies pressing in from every direction. He cursed under his breath, his eyes still fixed on Phuwin, on Siyh, on the space between them that he couldn't cross.
He pushed back from the table, grabbing his bag. “I'm out.”
“Running away from your problems again?” Taehyung called after him, laughing.
Pond didn't answer. He was already moving, his friends scrambling to follow, the girls surging after them in a wave of giggles and flashing screens. He broke into a run, weaving through the courtyard, past the benches and the fountain, past the corner where Phuwin was still standing with Siyh's arms around him.
He didn't look back. Not once.