Phuwin's straw dragged against the bottom of his boba cup, hollow and loud. He tilted it, let the last tapioca pearls roll into his mouth, and set the empty cup on the courtyard table beside Santa's half-finished iced coffee.
"You're going to suck a hole through that cup," Santa said without looking up from his phone.
Phuwin shrugged. The afternoon sun pressed warm against his shoulders, and the courtyard hummed with the usual chaos—groups scattered across the grass, someone's speaker playing lo-fi, a gaggle of first-years laughing too loud near the fountain. He pulled his bottom lip between his teeth and let his gaze drift across the lawn.
He found Pond immediately. Like his eyes already knew where to look.
Pond stood near the far bench, surrounded by a cluster of girls. Five of them, maybe six. One of them—tall, sharp jawline, hair pulled back in a high ponytail—had her hand on his bicep. Not touching. Gripping. Like she was testing the firmness of a cut of meat.
Phuwin's thumb moved to his ring finger. Found the diamond. Turned it once.
"Pretty girl," Santa said, deadpan, still not looking up.
"Which one?"
"All of them. They're all pretty. That's the problem, isn't it?"
Phuwin didn't answer. The girl with the ponytail laughed at something Pond said, her head tipping back, her hand still on his arm. Pond was smiling that easy smile—the one he wore like armor, like a uniform. The one that said *I'm the most popular man on campus and I know it.*
Phuwin had seen that smile a hundred times. Before the engagement, before the hearing, before the balcony under the stars. It used to make him roll his eyes. Now it made something curl tight in his chest.
"He's not doing anything wrong," Phuwin said quietly.
"I know."
"He's just standing there."
"I know."
Santa finally looked up. His glasses had slipped down his nose, and he pushed them back with one finger, studying Phuwin with that calm, observant patience that made him such a good friend.
"Doesn't make it easier, though," Santa said. Not a question.
Phuwin's jaw tightened. He kept his eyes on Pond. On the way the girl's fingers curled around his bicep like she had a right to it. On the way Pond's laugh rang out—genuine, warm, the laugh Phuwin heard in the dark when they were tangled together.
The laugh he thought belonged to him now.
A shadow fell across the table.
"Excuse me."
Phuwin looked up. A girl stood at the edge of their table—younger, maybe a first-year, with wide eyes and a nervous smile. She was staring at his hand.
"I'm sorry to bother you," she said, "but that ring—where did you get it?"
Phuwin blinked. He looked down at his hand. The diamond caught the light, scattering it into tiny rainbows across the tabletop.
"It's custom," he said. His voice came out flat.
"I can tell." She leaned closer, squinting. "The setting—that's not mass-produced. Is that platinum?"
"White gold."
"It's gorgeous. Like, seriously. That rock must have cost—" She stopped herself, flushing. "Sorry. I just. I noticed it across the courtyard. It's so bright."
Phuwin's thumb found the diamond again. Turned it. Once, twice.
"Thank you," he said.
The girl hesitated, clearly wanting to ask more, but something in his face must have told her not to push. She smiled, nodded, and walked away.
Santa watched her go, then turned back to Phuwin. "You're wearing a beacon."
"I know."
"It's going to get attention."
"I know."
"That's the point of a ring, isn't it?" Santa said, and his voice was gentle now. "To show people you're taken."
Phuwin looked across the grass again. The girl with the ponytail had moved closer to Pond. Her hand was still on his arm. Another girl was holding out her phone, clearly asking for a photo. Pond posed for it, easy and practiced, his smile never slipping.
Then his eyes found Phuwin's.
Across the distance—twenty meters of trampled grass and afternoon light—their gazes locked. Pond's smile flickered. Something crossed his face. Guilt, maybe. Or fear. Or that other thing, the one that made Phuwin's jaw tighten: the look of a man who knew he was caught and didn't know how to fix it.
Phuwin held his gaze for one heartbeat. Two.
Then he looked away.
"I'm going to head somewhere," he said.
Santa didn't argue. He just slid Phuwin's untouched slushie closer to himself and said, "Text me if you need me."
Phuwin stood. His bag was heavy on his shoulder. The empty boba cup sat on the table, condensation pooling beneath it. He picked up the slushie Santa had pushed aside—blue raspberry, melting at the edges—and walked.
He didn't look back.
Behind him, he heard the sound of footsteps on grass. Someone calling his name. He didn't stop.
---
The courtyard gates were crowded. A group of students milled near the entrance, phones out, laughing. Phuwin wove through them without slowing, his headphones already in his ears. The world muted. The bass dropped.
Daniel Caesar's voice filled his head, smooth and aching.
*Oh, you got power. Superpowers.*
*Do you even know how to wield them?*
Phuwin's feet found the rhythm of the sidewalk. The slushie was cold in his hand, the cup sweating against his palm. He took a sip. It burned his teeth with sweetness.
*All God's children are special—it's not like you.*
*No, not like you.*
He sang the words under his breath. Not loud enough for anyone to hear, but enough to feel them in his chest. The way the song built, the way the melody wrapped around the ache—it fit. It fit too well.
The streets opened up in front of him. Shopfronts and awnings, the smell of grilled meat from a street cart, the distant roar of traffic. He walked without thinking, letting his feet carry him past the familiar landmarks—the convenience store where he bought boba after class, the alley where Santa had once tripped over a loose cobblestone and spilled coffee all over his white shirt, the bench where Pond had first kissed him.
That one made him pause. Just for a second.
He kept walking.
---
Ahead, a street vendor had set up a cart with a red and white umbrella. Shaved ice. The machine hummed as the vendor scraped a block of ice into a paper bowl, drizzling it with condensed milk and strawberry syrup.
Phuwin stopped. He dug coins out of his pocket and bought one. The cold seeped through the paper bowl, numbing his fingers. He took a spoonful, let it melt on his tongue.
Sweet. Cold. Simple.
He didn't know where he was going. He just knew he hadn't stopped walking yet, and that felt good. The movement. The breeze. The way the city noise filled the space where his thoughts should have been.
---
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
He ignored it.
It buzzed again.
Phuwin set down the shaved ice on the ledge of a planter box and pulled out his phone. Three notifications, all from the same contact.
**Pond (3):** Where did you go?
**Pond (3):** Phuwin.
**Pond (3):** Please answer.
Phuwin stared at the screen. The font was small. The words kept swimming.
He typed back slowly, one thumb navigating the keyboard.
**Phuwin:** Walking. Need air.
The reply came instantly.
**Pond (3):** I'm at the gate. I can't find you.
**Pond (3):** I saw you leave. I tried to follow.
**Phuwin:** I know.
**Pond (3):** The girls—they followed me. I couldn't shake them.
**Phuwin:** I know.
**Pond (3):** Are you mad?
Phuwin read the message three times. His thumb hovered over the keyboard.
Was he mad?
He thought about the girl's hand on Pond's bicep. The way she laughed. The way Pond's smile flickered when their eyes met. The guilt in his face.
No. He wasn't mad.
He was something else. Something quieter.
**Phuwin:** Not mad. Just needed to move.
**Pond (3):** Say the word and I'll come find you.
**Phuwin:** And leave all your fans?
**Pond (3):** In a heartbeat.
Phuwin's mouth twitched. Almost a smile.
**Phuwin:** I know.
**Pond (3):** Where are you?
**Phuwin:** Somewhere on a street. There's a mango tree. I just bought shaved ice.
**Pond (3):** That's not an address.
**Phuwin:** You'll find me.
He pocketed the phone. Picked up the shaved ice. Took another spoonful.
He'd turned down a quieter street now, away from the main road. The buildings here were older, their facades faded, their awnings striped and patched. A stray cat was sleeping on the hood of a parked scooter. The air smelled like jasmine from someone's garden wall.
Phuwin stopped under the mango tree the text had mentioned. It was old, its roots cracking the pavement, its branches heavy with green fruit not yet ripe. He sat down on the low wall beneath it, the stone warm from the afternoon sun, and let himself breathe.
---
His phone buzzed again.
**Pond (3):** I'm sorry.
**Phuwin:** For what?
**Pond (3):** For making you feel like you had to leave.
**Pond (3):** I should have walked away from them the second I saw you.
Phuwin read the message. Read it again.
**Phuwin:** You don't have to do that.
**Pond (3):** Yes I do.
**Pond (3):** You're my fiancé.
**Pond (3):** They don't matter.
Phuwin's chest tightened. The word *fiancé* did something to him every time. Made him feel seen. Made him feel real.
**Phuwin:** I know they don't matter.
**Phuwin:** I'm not jealous, Pond.
**Pond (3):** Then why did you leave?
Phuwin looked up at the mango tree. A bird landed on one of the branches, tilted its head at him, and flew away.
**Phuwin:** Because I wanted to miss you.
He sent it before he could second-guess himself.
There was a pause. A long one. He watched the three dots appear, disappear, appear again.
**Pond (3):** You're going to kill me.
Phuwin smiled. A real one this time.
**Phuwin:** Get used to it. You're stuck with me.
**Pond (3):** Best thing that ever happened to me.
**Pond (3):** Can I call you?
Phuwin's thumb hovered. The street was quiet. The shaved ice was melting in his hand. He wanted to hear his voice. But he also wanted this—the silence, the distance, the way missing him felt like a kind of proof.
**Phuwin:** Give me an hour.
**Pond (3):** I'll be here.
**Phuwin:** Go back to your fans. Let them take their pictures.
**Pond (3):** I'd rather wait under a mango tree with you.
Phuwin's heart stumbled.
**Phuwin:** How do you know there's a mango tree?
**Pond (3):** You told me.
**Phuwin:** I said "somewhere on a street."
**Pond (3):** You also said there was a mango tree. I'm paying attention.
Phuwin pressed his lips together. The smile wouldn't go away.
**Phuwin:** One hour.
**Pond (3)::** I'll be counting.
Phuwin pocketed his phone. Finished the shaved ice in three quick bites, the cold making his temples ache. The paper bowl went into a nearby trash can. He wiped his hands on his jeans and stood, brushing dust off his thighs.
The street stretched ahead of him, quiet and golden in the late afternoon light. He could hear music from somewhere—a radio playing in a shop, the tinny sound of a ballad he almost recognized.
He didn't know where he was going. But he knew he'd find his way back.
The ring on his finger caught the light as he slipped his hands into his pockets. The diamond was warm against his skin.
He'd earned this. This distance. This trust. This person who would wait.
Ahead of him, the sun was starting to lower, painting the rooftops in shades of amber and rose. Phuwin started walking again, his footsteps steady on the pavement, the song still playing in his headphones, the world opening up around him.
He had an hour.
He was going to use every minute of it.