The bench's worn wood held the afternoon heat against his thighs, the grain pressed into the skin through his thin joggers. Cool metal armrests slick under his palms. He should have worn shorts. But he hadn't thought about what to wear this morning. He hadn't thought about much of anything except the ceiling fan's rhythm and Godji's voice, low and humming, until the song blurred into sleep somewhere after midnight.

Five days. Five nights of lying awake in the dark, listening to Godji breathe in the room next to his—then her bed creaking, her soft footsteps padding across the floor, the door easing open without a knock. She never knocked anymore. She just appeared in the doorway, silhouette against the hall light, and asked if he wanted company. He always said yes.

The boba in his hand was sweating. Condensation beaded on the plastic, slid down in uneven trails, pooled in the gap between his thumb and forefinger. He'd been holding it for twenty minutes without drinking. The ice was melting, diluting the milk tea into something pale and watery. He didn't care.

Siyh's sneaker nudged his. "You gonna drink that or baptize the bench?"

He blinked. Looked down at the cup. Looked at her. "What?"

"The boba." She gestured with her own cup—half empty, straw punctured, the seal long gone. "You've been staring through it since we sat down. Did you even hear what I said about Professor Likhit's pop quiz?"

Phuwin frowned. "There's a pop quiz?"

"That's what I said. Ten minutes ago." She didn't sound annoyed. She sounded tired for him. "You were nodding."

"I was nodding?"

"With your eyes open. It was creepy. I thought you were having a stroke."

He tried to smile. It came out small, crooked. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize. Just drink your boba before it turns into sweet tea soup."

He lifted the cup, finally, and sucked at the straw. The pearls were still there, soft and chewy, but the tea was lukewarm and too sweet. He swallowed anyway. The sugar hit his tongue and did nothing.

Siyh was scrolling on her phone again, one leg crossed over the other, her free hand absently twisting a strand of hair. The afternoon light caught the gloss on her nails—a pale coral, fresh from yesterday. She'd done them while they watched a movie at her place. Godji had made popcorn. Siyh had laughed at something on screen, and Phuwin had felt, for a moment, almost normal.

That moment had passed.

The bench sat at the edge of the arts building's main walkway, shaded by an overhanging fig tree that dropped small, dry leaves onto the concrete. A few students drifted past—backpacks slung over one shoulder, phones in hand, the usual afternoon migration between classes. Someone laughed, sharp and bright, somewhere near the fountain. The sound carried, then faded.

Phuwin's gaze drifted to the arts building entrance. The double doors were propped open, letting in the warm air. He could see the edge of the bulletin board inside, layered with flyers for club meetings, lost backpacks, room swaps. He'd hung posters there before. He'd painted the backdrop for last semester's drama production. He'd kissed Pond in the stairwell two weeks ago, pressed against the wall, breathless and laughing.

He looked down at his ring. The diamond caught the light, threw a small rainbow against his knee.

He turned it. Once. Twice. The metal was warm against his finger.

"You're doing it again," Siyh said.

"Doing what?"

"That thing. Where you stare at the ring like it's going to tell you the answers to the universe."

"I wasn't staring."

"You were. Your eyes went all distant. Like you were trying to see through it." She put her phone down on her thigh. "Phuwin."

He looked up.

"Are you okay?"

Her voice was soft. Not the teasing tone from a moment ago. This was the voice she used when they were alone, when the jokes ran out and the real questions settled into the space between them.

He opened his mouth to say I'm fine. The lie was right there, easy, practiced. He'd been saying it all week. To Godji. To Santa. To Pond, who had looked at him over breakfast this morning with those dark eyes and asked if he needed to stay home today, and he'd said no, he was fine, he just hadn't slept well.

Pond had kissed his forehead and let him go.

Phuwin had walked to campus carrying the lie in his chest like a stone.

"I don't know," he said instead.

Siyh waited. She didn't push. That was what he loved about her—she knew when to press and when to let the silence hold the space.

"I keep thinking about the painting," he said. "The historical one. Empress Phuwin."

"I figured."

"And the things Santa said. About what it meant. About whether—" He stopped. The words felt too big for his mouth. "Whether I can even give Pond what he might want someday."

Siyh set her phone down completely. Turned to face him, one knee up on the bench, her full attention on him. "We talked about this. In the classroom."

"I know."

"It's history, not prophecy. I meant that."

"I know you did."

He sucked at the boba again. The straw made a hollow sound—gasping for the last of the tea. He set the cup down on the bench beside him, let the condensation soak into the wood.

"It's not just that," he said. "It's everything. The ring. Pond. My mom looking at me like she finally sees me. The hearing being over. And I'm supposed to be happy. I am happy. But I can't sleep. I lie awake and my brain just—" He gestured vaguely. "Circles."

"That's called anxiety, babe. It happens."

"I know what it's called." He wasn't annoyed. He was tired. "I just don't know how to make it stop."

Siyh was quiet for a moment. Then she reached over and took his hand—the one with the ring. Squeezed. "You've been through a lot. In like, two months. More than a lot. It makes sense your brain is still running laps."

He nodded. Swallowed. Looked at their hands, his pale fingers curled in hers.

"Godji stayed again last night," he said. "She sang that old lullaby. The one about the moon and the lotus pond."

"The one she used to sing when we were kids?"

"Yeah. I fell asleep to it. But then I woke up at three and couldn't go back under."

"Did you wake her?"

"No. I just lay there and counted her breathing."

Siyh squeezed again. "You could have called me."

"It was three in the morning."

"I would have answered."

He knew she would have. That was the worst part. That so many people would have answered, and he still couldn't reach for them.

The sun shifted. The shadow of the fig tree slid across the bench, cooling the wood. A breeze stirred the dry leaves on the ground, sent them skittering across the concrete in soft, clicking bursts.

Phuwin picked up his boba again. Drained the last of the watery tea. Chewed a pearl. It was too soft, almost falling apart. He swallowed anyway.

"Do you ever think about the future?" he asked. "Like, really think about it?"

Siyh tilted her head. "Sometimes. When I'm not drowning in homework."

"What do you see?"

She considered it. "A house with a big kitchen. Maybe a dog. A job I don't hate waking up for. You, coming over for dinner. Santa making terrible puns. Pond—" She smiled. "Pond being annoyingly perfect. I don't know. Something simple."

"Simple sounds nice."

"It is nice. We'll get there." She bumped his shoulder with hers. "One day at a time."

He let himself lean into her, just slightly. The bench was hard, her shoulder solid. The warmth of her arm seeped through his hoodie sleeve.

They sat like that for a long moment. The campus murmur hummed around them—footsteps, voices, the distant chime of a bell tower striking the hour. Someone jogged past, sneakers slapping concrete. A bird called from the fig tree above, sharp and insistent.

Phuwin closed his eyes. The warmth of the afternoon pressed against his eyelids. The boba's sweetness lingered on his tongue, cloying and faintly chemical. He breathed in. Out. In. The rhythm was steady. His pulse slowed a fraction.

Then a shadow fell across him.

He opened his eyes.

A figure stood in front of the bench—blocking the sun, hands on hips, a grin as wide and trouble-stamped as the grin that had shown up at his door every semester since freshman year.

"Well, well, well," Marc said. "My best buddy and soulmate."

Phuwin sighed.

Marc dropped onto the seat across from them, landing hard enough that the bench groaned. He was already talking before his ass hit the wood—that was Marc's way. The words came first, the air followed.

"You two look like someone cancelled boba day and told you finals start tomorrow." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, that grin never faltering. "Missed me?"

"Marc." Phuwin's voice came out flat. Tired. "What do you want?"

"Wow. Cold. Ice cold. Freezing." Marc pressed a hand to his chest, mock-wounded. "And here I was, walking all the way from the admin building, sweating in this heat, just to see my favorite people."

Siyh didn't look up from her phone. "We're your only people."

"Incorrect. I have many people. I'm beloved."

"You're annoying."

"Same thing."

Phuwin watched the exchange without really participating. Marc's energy was a familiar current—loud, relentless, impossible to ignore. Normally he would have matched it, thrown a joke back, let himself get pulled into the orbit of Marc's chaos. But today the current felt distant, like watching a wave from behind glass.

Marc's eyes narrowed. He was looking at Phuwin now, really looking, the grin softening at the edges. "You good?"

"Fine."

"Liar."

Phuwin didn't argue.

Marc sat back, stretched his arms over his head, cracked his neck. The sun caught the sweat on his temple. He'd definitely walked fast to get here. "Okay. Well. I'll save the serious talk for later. Right now I have news."

Siyh finally looked up. "Good news or bad news?"

"Excellent news. Life-changing news. News that will make you want to kiss me on the mouth."

"I'd rather kiss a cactus."

"A cactus doesn't have my charm." Marc reached into his bag—a battered canvas thing covered in pins and faded patches—and pulled out a stack of papers. Bright neon green. Thick. He tossed them onto the bench between Phuwin and Siyh with the casual confidence of someone dropping a bomb.

Phuwin looked at the stack. Didn't touch it. "What is that?"

"Posters."

"For what?"

Marc's grin widened. "My camp."

Silence.

Siyh set her phone down. Slowly. "Your what?"

"My camp. The one I've been planning since last semester. The one I told you about at least four times while you were both nodding and pretending to listen." He pointed at the posters. "It's happening. Two weeks from now. And you—" He jabbed a finger at Phuwin, then Siyh. "You and Santa and Jungkook and Mavior are all coming."

Phuwin blinked. "We are?"

"You are. I already told the principal and your teachers. It's official. You're on the roster."

Phuwin's brain stalled. The words landed but didn't quite stick. "You told the principal?"

"And the teachers. And the activities coordinator. And the guy who runs the snack stall near the gym because he's my uncle and he's giving me a discount on fried chicken." Marc shrugged. "It's happening. You're welcome."

Siyh was staring at the posters like they might bite her. "Marc. We have classes."

"It's during the break."

"We have assignments."

"You'll survive."

"We have—" She stopped. Gestured vaguely. "Lives."

"And now you have camp. It's called balance."

Phuwin looked down at the neon stack. The top poster read CAMP ADVENTURE 2026 in bold black letters, with a cartoon mountain and a campfire and a smiling sun. It looked like something a middle schooler designed. It looked exactly like Marc.

"You're serious," Phuwin said.

"As a heart attack."

"You already signed us up."

"I did."

"Without asking."

Marc's grin didn't waver. "You owe me. Every party you forgot to invite me to last semester. Every group hangout I found out about through Instagram stories. Every time you two went to get boba and didn't text the group chat." He counted on his fingers. "You owe me at least three social debts. This is me collecting."

Siyh made a sound—half laugh, half groan. "That's not how debts work."

"It is now."

Phuwin picked up one of the posters. The paper was cheap, slightly damp from Marc's bag. The ink smelled fresh. He turned it over. Blank on the back. "You want us to hang these?"

"All over campus. By tomorrow." Marc said it like it was the most natural request in the world. "I'd do it myself, but I have a meeting with the activities board in an hour, and then I need to confirm the bus rental, and then I have to call the campsite about the bonfire permit." He ticked each item off with visible satisfaction. "I'm busy. You're free."

"We're not free," Siyh said. "We're sitting here, decompressing."

"You can decompress while walking. It's called multitasking."

Phuwin stared at the poster in his hands. The cartoon sun was smiling at him. He felt a laugh building in his chest—unexpected, almost foreign after the weight of the past hour. It came out as a snort, then a chuckle, then something that almost sounded like his real laugh.

"Well," he said, "if it isn't Marc being the serious one today."

Marc's eyebrows shot up. "I'm always serious."

"You're never serious."

"I'm serious about fun. That's a different kind of serious."

Phuwin stood, the posters in one hand, his empty boba cup in the other. The bench creaked as he shifted his weight. He looked down at the stack—neon green, absurd, completely Marc—and felt something loosen in his chest. Not much. Just enough.

He sighed. A real sigh, not the heavy one from before. "Fine."

"Fine?" Marc's face lit up.

"Fine. I'll hang your stupid posters."

"Yes!" Marc pumped a fist. "That's my best buddy. That's my soulmate."

"Don't push it."

Siyh was still sitting, watching Phuwin with an expression he couldn't quite read. She stood slowly, brushing off her shorts. "You're actually going to do this."

"Might as well." He grabbed his bag from the bench, slung it over his shoulder. "It's something to do."

Something flickered in her eyes—concern, maybe, or recognition. She knew what he meant. Doing something was better than sitting still, letting the thoughts circle. She nodded. Grabbed her own bag. "Fine. But you're buying me another boba after."

"Deal."

Marc clapped his hands together. "Beautiful. Love to see teamwork. Love to see friendship. Love to see my plan coming together." He was already backing away, phone in hand, typing something. "I'll text you the details. And Phuwin—"

Phuwin looked up.

Marc's grin softened. Just a fraction. "I'm glad you're coming. It'll be good for you."

Phuwin didn't know what to say to that. So he just nodded.

Marc smiled—real, quick, gone—and turned, jogging down the walkway toward the admin building, his bag bouncing against his back.

Phuwin watched him go. The neon posters were warm in his hand. The campus hum continued around him—footsteps, voices, the distant echo of a bell.

Siyh stepped up beside him. "You okay?"

He looked at the posters. Looked at the arts building entrance. Thought about the ring on his finger, the weight of the past five days, the way Godji's lullaby still lingered at the edge of his memory.

"I will be," he said.

And he meant it.