The fluorescent light above his table buzzed like a trapped fly, flickering every few seconds in a rhythm Phuwin had stopped noticing an hour ago. The cafeteria corner smelled of stale pizza and floor cleaner, the two odors tangled so thoroughly that he couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. He kept his eyes on the sketchbook, pencil moving in short, deliberate strokes, tracing the curve of a jaw he'd drawn a dozen times this week alone.

The ring was cold against his wrist, hidden in the cuff of his hoodie, the metal pressing into the thin skin there with every shift of his hand. He'd gotten used to the weight of it on his finger—the way it caught light, the way it felt like part of his body now. But today he'd tucked it away, sliding it up his arm like a secret, and the absence of it on his hand felt louder than the buzzing light above him.

Two girls appeared at the edge of his table, their shadows falling across the page. He didn't look up. He kept drawing, the pencil scratching against paper, waiting for them to take the hint and leave.

"Phuwin, right?" The first girl leaned in, her voice pitched bright and curious. "We saw you at the gate yesterday. With that guy—Give?"

His pencil paused. Just for a second. Then it moved again, tracing the line of a brow, the shadow beneath a cheekbone.

"He's so tall," the second girl added, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "And he was totally looking at you. Like, the whole time. Are you guys—is he your type?"

The pencil stopped. Phuwin looked up, his brown bangs falling over his eyes, and met their expectant faces with a flatness that drained the curiosity right out of them.

"I don't know," he said.

The words hung there, empty and final, and the girls exchanged a glance—the kind that said they'd expected something juicier, something they could carry back to their friends. One of them opened her mouth, ready to push further, but something in his expression must have stopped her. She closed it.

"Okay," the first girl said, already stepping back. "Well. See you around."

They drifted away, their voices dropping to murmurs as they walked, and Phuwin watched them go for a moment before looking back down at his sketchbook. The jaw he'd been drawing stared back at him, incomplete, the rest of the face waiting for lines he couldn't find. He pressed his thumb against the edge of the page, feeling the ring shift against his wrist, and started again on the shadow beneath the cheekbone.

Across the cafeteria, a burst of laughter cut through the hum of conversation. He didn't need to look up to know it was Pond—that laugh was unmistakable, loud and genuine, the kind that turned heads and made girls giggle into their hands. He'd heard it a hundred times. He'd memorized its shape without meaning to, the way it started deep in the chest and rolled out like a wave.

He kept his eyes on the page.

The crowd around Pond's table was thick—girls leaning in, phones held up, voices overlapping in a chorus of attention that Phuwin had learned to tune out. He could see them at the edge of his vision, a blur of movement and color, and he could see Pond at the center of it, leaning back in his chair with that easy confidence, gold chain catching the light, biceps straining against his designer t-shirt as he gestured at something on his phone.

Santa was sitting beside him, shoulders angled toward the table, and Phuwin watched him lean in and say something—a few words, low and pointed. He saw Santa's head tilt, a subtle gesture toward the corner where Phuwin sat, and he saw Pond's gaze follow it.

Their eyes met across the room, and Phuwin looked down at his sketchbook so fast he nearly dropped his pencil.

He could feel the weight of Pond's attention from here, a physical thing pressing against the back of his neck, and he kept his head down, pencil moving in tight, controlled strokes that didn't mean anything. He was aware of the girls around Pond's table, aware of the way their voices seemed to rise when they noticed him looking—or noticed Phuwin not looking—and he was aware, too, of the moment when the laughter at that table changed.

It was quieter. More scattered. Like someone had pulled the plug on the energy there.

He heard a chair scrape against linoleum, and he still didn't look up. He kept drawing, the pencil scratching, the ring cold against his wrist, and he told himself he didn't care who had just stood up from that table. He told himself it didn't matter that the footsteps crossing the floor were getting closer, that the noise of the cafeteria seemed to be parting around someone moving through it.

The footsteps stopped beside his table.

"Hey."

Pond's voice was warm, easy, like they'd planned this meeting, like he hadn't just crossed the entire cafeteria to stand over Phuwin's corner table. Phuwin looked up, and there he was—black hair styled perfectly, dark brown eyes soft with something that made Phuwin's chest tighten, that easy smile already spreading across his face.

"What are you drawing?"

Phuwin closed the sketchbook. "Nothing."

"Nothing," Pond repeated, and the smile widened. He moved around the table, and before Phuwin could react, his arms were sliding around Phuwin's waist from behind, his chest pressing warm against Phuwin's back, his chin coming down to rest on Phuwin's shoulder.

"You smell good," Pond murmured, his breath warm against Phuwin's ear. "Like coffee and something sweet."

For a moment, Phuwin let himself feel it—the solid weight of Pond behind him, the strength in those arms, the way the rest of the cafeteria seemed to fall away when he was this close. He could feel the gold chain pressing against his shoulder, could feel the heat of Pond's body through the fabric of his hoodie, and something in him wanted to lean back, to let himself be held.

Then he heard the laughter from across the room. High and bright and pointed. He looked up, and he could see them—the girls around Pond's empty chair, watching, whispering behind their hands, their eyes fixed on the two of them like they were a show.

The warmth in his chest curdled.

"Your fans are staring," he said, and his voice came out flat, the same flatness he'd used on the girls who'd asked about Give. "Go back to them."

He pushed Pond's arms off his waist, the motion sharp and decisive, and he stood up, grabbing his bag from the floor. He didn't look at Pond's face. He couldn't. He just slung the bag over his shoulder and walked, past the table, past the girls with their phones and their whispers, past the noise of the cafeteria that seemed to swallow him whole.

The door swung shut behind him, the sound of it cutting off the noise like a hand clamped over a mouth.

The hallway was empty, fluorescent lights buzzing in the same rhythm as the cafeteria's, and Phuwin walked fast, his sneakers squeaking against the polished floor. He could feel the ring against his wrist, cold and accusing, and he could feel the ghost of Pond's arms still around his waist, the warmth of him fading with every step.

He didn't stop walking until he reached the campus gate, and then he kept going, past the security booth, past the line of parked cars, until the buildings were behind him and the street opened up in front of him, gray and ordinary and empty.

Then he broke into a run.

The pavement slapped against his sneakers, his bag bouncing against his hip, the cool evening air rushing past his face. He didn't know why he was running. He just knew he couldn't stop, couldn't slow down, couldn't let himself think about the way Pond's smile had faltered, the way his arms had dropped, the way the cafeteria had felt like a stage he hadn't asked to be on.

He ran until his lungs burned, until his legs ached, until the gate was a small shape behind him and the street had narrowed into a quieter lane lined with trees. He slid down against a fence, his back scraping against the metal, and he sat there on the damp concrete, panting, his bag clutched against his chest.

The ring pressed cold against his sternum, hidden inside his hoodie, hidden where no one could see it.

He pressed his palm against the spot, feeling the metal through the fabric, and he squeezed his eyes shut. The image of Pond's face hovered behind his lids—the way his smile had slipped, the way his arms had dropped, the way he'd just stood there, watching Phuwin walk away.

He didn't know how long he sat there, breathing hard, the cold concrete seeping through his jeans. The evening air smelled like wet concrete and car exhaust, and somewhere in the distance, a dog barked, and the city hummed its ordinary hum, indifferent to the boy pressed against a fence with a ring hidden against his chest.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

He didn't look at it. He just sat there, eyes closed, palm pressed against the ring, and waited for his heart to stop racing.

The phone buzzed again. Then a third time, insistent, the vibration traveling through the fabric of his jeans like something alive. He knew who it was. He didn't need to look. The rhythm of it—two quick pulses, a pause, one long one—was a pattern Pond had fallen into weeks ago, a habit he'd developed without seeming to notice, like the way he always reached for Phuwin's hand when they crossed a street.

Phuwin kept his eyes shut. The concrete was cold through his jeans, the fence digging into his spine through the thin fabric of his hoodie, and he could feel every point of contact between his body and the world like a map of where he'd ended up. His lungs were still burning, the run having scraped the inside of his chest raw, and each breath came in shallow, careful sips, as if his ribs might crack if he took a full one.

The ring pressed against his sternum, hard and unyielding through the layers of fabric. He'd hidden it there when he'd pulled off his hoodie in the art room that afternoon, sliding it off his finger and tucking it into the pouch of his fist before Siyh could see. The memory surfaced unbidden—her raised eyebrow, the way she'd caught his wrist and turned it over, the ring glinting in the dusty light of the basement. "You're hiding it again," she'd said, not a question. And he'd pulled his hand back, shoved it into his pocket, said nothing.

The phone buzzed a fourth time. He could feel the shape of it through his jeans, the weight of it, the screen lighting up against his thigh. He imagined the messages stacking up—Pond's name at the top of the thread, the little bubbles of gray text growing longer with each one. Where did you go. Are you okay. Phuwin. Phuwin. Please.

He'd seen that panic before. The night of the festival, when he'd slipped away from the crowd and Pond had found him twenty minutes later, breathless, his hand shaking as he'd cupped Phuwin's face. "Don't do that," he'd said, his voice rough. "Don't disappear like that." And Phuwin had nodded, had let himself be pulled into Pond's chest, had felt the rapid drum of his heart through the fabric of his shirt.

He'd done it again. He'd walked out. He'd left Pond standing in the middle of the cafeteria with his arms empty and his smile fading, surrounded by girls who were probably already whispering about it, already dissecting the moment like it was a piece of gossip to be passed around.

The thought made his stomach turn. He pressed his palm harder against the ring, feeling the metal bite into his skin through the fabric, and he let the pressure ground him. The evening air was cool against his face, carrying the faint sweetness of jasmine from somewhere nearby—a garden, a bush, a balcony he couldn't see. The scent was so familiar it hurt, so tangled up with memories of Godji's backyard and late-night conversations that he had to open his eyes just to remind himself where he was.

The street was quiet. A few cars passed in the distance, their headlights sweeping across the pavement before vanishing around a corner. The trees lining the lane were dark shapes against the graying sky, their leaves rustling in a breeze he could feel but not see. He was alone. Completely, utterly alone, in a way that felt both like a relief and a punishment.

The phone buzzed again. This time he pulled it out.

The screen was bright in the dim light, and he had to squint against it. Seven messages from Pond, stacked in a column that grew more frantic with each line. The first was simple: Where did you go? The second: Phuwin. The third: Are you okay? And then the fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, a cascade of punctuation and half-words that looked like Pond's thumb had been moving faster than his thoughts. Please answer. I'm sorry. Whatever I did. Please. Just tell me you're safe.

His thumb hovered over the keyboard. He could type something. Anything. A single word would do— fine, okay, home —and the messages would stop, the panic would settle, the night would go back to being ordinary. But his thumb stayed frozen, hovering, and he could feel the ring pressing against his sternum like a heartbeat that wasn't his.

He thought about the way Pond's arms had felt around his waist. The warmth of him, the solid weight of his chest against Phuwin's back, the way his chin had come down to rest on Phuwin's shoulder like it belonged there. He thought about the laughter from across the room, the girls watching, the way the moment had curdled in his chest before he'd even understood why.

He locked the phone and put it back in his pocket.

The street was quiet again, the jasmine still sweet on the air, the fence still cold against his back. He sat there, ring pressed against his chest, phone silent in his pocket, and watched the sky darken by degrees until the first stars appeared, faint and distant, like promises he wasn't sure he could keep.