Phuwin woke to the ceiling fan turning above him, its blades pushing warm air across his bare shoulders. The sheets were tangled at his feet, the cotton damp with sweat, and for a long moment he lay still, staring at the familiar crack in the plaster above his bed, trying to remember why his head felt like it was wrapped in wet wool.

The ache was already there before his eyes opened. A dull, pounding thing settled behind his eyes, and when he tried to swallow, his throat was raw, like he'd been screaming.

He sat up too fast.

The room tilted. The walls breathed in and out, and his stomach lurched, a hot rush climbing his throat. He clapped a hand over his mouth, swung his legs off the bed, and stumbled across the room, his bare feet slapping against the wooden floor as he burst through the bathroom door and dropped to his knees in front of the toilet.

The porcelain was cold against his palms. He heaved, nothing coming up but bile, his body convulsing in waves that left him shaking. The fluorescent light hummed above him, harsh and white, and he squeezed his eyes shut, gripping the rim like it was the only solid thing left in the world.

When it finally stopped, he slumped back against the wall, the tile cold against his spine, his chest heaving. His reflection stared back at him from the mirror across the room—tired, pale, his brown bangs plastered to his forehead with sweat. He looked like someone who hadn't slept in days.

Maybe he hadn't.

He pushed himself up on shaky legs, gripping the sink for balance. The water ran cold over his wrists, and he cupped his hands, splashing it across his face. The shock of it helped, just a little. He pressed his palms to his cheeks, let the water drip down his chin, and stared at himself in the mirror.

His hand.

He held it up, turning it over, looking at his bare ring finger. He knew, even before he looked, but the confirmation still hit him like a fist to the chest. No gold band. Just skin. The lighter weight where the ring had been, the faint tan line that was already starting to fade.

Maybe it was a dream. Maybe none of it happened. Maybe he'd wake up again and Pond would be beside him, and everything would be fine.

He moved before he could think, out of the bathroom and across his bedroom, his feet carrying him to the dresser where his jewelry box sat. He pulled open the drawer, then the box itself, his fingers scrambling through the compartments. The velvet slot where the ring used to rest was empty. He dug through the other drawers anyway, tossing aside folded shirts and old sketchbooks, searching for something he already knew wasn't there.

Nothing.

He sank onto the edge of his bed, staring at his empty hands. The jewelry box sat open beside him, its velvet lining dark and accusing.

And then the pounding in his head started again.

He stumbled backward, his spine hitting the wall, and slid down until he was sitting on the floor. He clutched his head, fingers digging into his scalp, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps as the memories came crashing back.

Screaming at Pond. His own voice, raw and furious. I can't do this anymore.

Throwing the ring. Watching it spin through the air, catching the last of the sunlight before it hit Pond's chest and fell to the ground.

Crying in Siyh's arms. The dampness of her shirt against his cheek, her hand in his hair, her voice repeating it's okay, it's okay, we'll fix it even though he knew they couldn't.

Falling into Santa's arms. The way Santa held him, steady and warm, while the world fell apart around them.

He gasped. His hands dropped from his head, falling into his lap. He stared at the wall across from him, at the painting he'd done of the river near camp, and felt the truth settle into his bones like cold water.

It wasn't a dream. It was real. All of it.

He'd called off the wedding. He'd thrown the ring. He'd told the love of his life he couldn't do it anymore.

Phuwin pulled his knees to his chest and pressed his forehead against them, the silence of the room pressing in around him like a weight. The ceiling fan turned overhead, pushing warm air across his bare shoulders, and somewhere in the house, Godji was moving around in the bakery below, the faint clatter of pans and the smell of fresh bread drifting up through the floorboards.

He sat there for a long time, his back against the wall, his knees drawn up to his chest, the empty slot in his jewelry box a cold fact he could no longer deny.

The ring was gone. And so was Pond.

When he finally stood, his legs were numb, and he had to grip the dresser for balance. He pulled on a clean oversized hoodie, the fabric soft and familiar against his skin, and ran his fingers through his hair, trying to make himself look less like someone who'd spent the night crying.

It didn't work. His eyes were still red-rimmed, his cheeks still pale, the bruise of exhaustion dark beneath them.

He looked at his reflection in the mirror and tried to smile. It came out wrong, a grimace that didn't reach his eyes.

"You're fine," he told himself. His voice cracked. "You're fine."

He didn't believe it.

But he had to go to campus. Everyone was back from the camp trip today, and if he stayed in his room, if he let himself spiral into the quiet and the empty ring slot and the memory of Pond's face when the ring hit his chest, he'd never leave again.

So he grabbed his bag, shoved his phone inside, and walked out of his room without looking back.

The campus was all heat and noise when he arrived. Sun-scorched concrete, the chatter of students, the sharp scent of cut grass. It was almost jarring, how normal everything looked. How the world had kept spinning while his had fallen apart.

He spotted Santa and Siyh near the front gates, and something in his chest loosened just a little. He crossed the yard, and when they saw him, Siyh's face crumpled with relief, and she ran to him, pulling him into a hug so tight he could barely breathe.

"You're okay," she said, her voice muffled against his shoulder. "You're okay."

He hugged her back, burying his face in her hair. Santa joined them a moment later, his hand landing on Phuwin's shoulder, and Phuwin let himself be held, let himself breathe.

"How are you feeling?" Siyh asked when she finally pulled back, her hands still gripping his arms.

"I'm doing okay," he said. The lie tasted bitter on his tongue. "I'm doing okay."

Santa smiled, but it was careful, measured. "When are you and Pond going to talk?"

Phuwin's stomach dropped. He looked away, at the students streaming past them, at the sun beating down on the concrete. "I don't know," he said. "Please don't bring him up."

Santa's smile faded. He opened his mouth, closed it, and nodded. "Okay."

And then the girls were there.

They descended on him like a flock of birds, their voices high and excited, their phones already out. "Phuwin! Phuwin! Are you and Give a thing now? We saw the video! Everyone's talking about it!"

Phuwin blinked. "What?"

"You and Give! At the camp! The kiss! Is it true? Are you together?"

The kiss. The one on his cheek. The one he'd been trying to forget.

He forced a smile, the same smile he used when girls crowded around Pond and asked for photos. "I guess so," he said. "There's been flirting. I'm not sure yet."

The girls squealed. "Thank you so much!" they shrieked, and then they were gone, running off toward their friends, no doubt spreading the news like wildfire.

Phuwin's smile dropped the moment they were out of earshot.

When he turned, Siyh was staring at him with a look that said what the fuck, Phuwin?! Her arms were crossed, her jaw tight, and for a long moment, she just stood there, staring at him like she'd never seen him before.

"Weren't you the fucking person who cried because you said you loved Pond so much?" she said, her voice low and sharp. "Weren't you the one who spent the entire night sobbing into my shoulder about how you couldn't live without him?"

Phuwin opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Siyh shook her head. "I can't—" She didn't finish the sentence. She just turned and ran, her footsteps pounding against the concrete as she disappeared into the crowd.

Santa watched her go, then looked at Phuwin, his expression unreadable behind his glasses. "Shit," he muttered. "Siyh, wait up!"

He ran after her, leaving Phuwin standing alone in the middle of the yard, the sun beating down on his shoulders, the weight of what he'd just done settling into his chest like a stone.

He turned to leave—and saw Pond.

He was sitting on a bench near the cafeteria, surrounded by a crowd of girls so large it took up half the yard. They pressed in around him, phones out, voices high, and Pond was laughing, letting them crowd him, letting them take photos. His face caught the sunlight, and his smile was bright and easy, like he didn't have a care in the world.

Like he hadn't been shattered two days ago.

Pond looked up. Their eyes met across the yard, and for a moment, everything went still. The noise, the heat, the crowd—all of it faded, and it was just the two of them, staring at each other across the sun-scorched concrete.

Phuwin's throat closed. His heart hammered against his ribs, and he felt the familiar ache rise in his chest, the same ache he'd felt when he woke up and found his ring finger bare.

He rolled his eyes. Turned. Walked away.

The bathroom was cold and quiet when he got there, the fluorescent light humming overhead, the sharp bite of bleach stinging his nose. He locked himself in the last stall, dropped his bag on the floor, and emptied it out, his hands shaking as he searched through the contents.

His sketchbook. His pens. His wallet. His keys.

And then his fingers closed around it. Cold metal, a familiar weight.

Pond's chain.

He pulled it out, holding it up to the light, the gold catching the fluorescent glow. He'd taken it that night, before Pond came back to the cabin—the night Give kissed his hand. He'd slipped it off the nightstand while Pond was in the shower, hidden it in his bag, and never told anyone.

He pressed it to his chest, the metal cold against his skin, and closed his eyes.

"God," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I love you so much, Pond. I hope you know that."

He stood there for a long moment, the chain clutched in his hand, the silence of the bathroom pressing in around him. Then he heard footsteps—voices, laughter, the door swinging open—and he shoved the chain back into his bag, zipped it shut, and stepped out of the stall.

He washed his hands at the sink, avoiding his reflection, and left.

Later, he was sitting at a table in the yard, the afternoon sun warm on his shoulders, when he felt it.

Arms around his waist.

He turned, and Give was there, smiling down at him, his arms wrapped around Phuwin's middle like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"What are you doing?" Phuwin asked, his voice flat.

"Finally courting you," Give said, his grin widening.

"What?"

Give pulled out his phone, tapping the screen. "I saw the video. It was sent to me." He turned the screen toward Phuwin, and there it was—the girls from earlier, their excited voices, Phuwin's smile, his voice saying I guess so. There's been flirting.

Phuwin's cheeks burned. "I didn't—I didn't know they were recording."

Give smirked. "You didn't know about this?"

Phuwin shook his head, his throat tight. He could feel the stares, the eyes on them from across the yard. Give's friends were standing nearby, one of them holding a phone, clearly recording.

And then Give kissed his cheek.

It was quick, barely a brush of lips against skin, but it felt like a brand. Phuwin froze, his hand flying to his shoulder, stepping back so fast he nearly stumbled.

People were staring. Give's friend was still recording. Phuwin's stomach turned, a hot rush of nausea climbing his throat.

"I can't do this," he said. His voice came out small, broken. "I can't."

He ran.

He ran past the tables, past the staring faces, past the sun-scorched concrete and the sharp scent of cut grass. He ran until his lungs burned, until he was at the edge of campus, near the science term building, where the air thickened with the sour smell of garbage and rotting fruit.

He made it to the garbage can just in time.

He threw up, his body convulsing, his hands gripping the warm metal of the bin. When it finally stopped, he slid down against the wall, his back against the rough brick, his head falling back.

"Phuwin," he said to himself, his voice ragged. "Stop letting this shit get in your head. You're fucking in love with Pond. It's always been Pond."

But even as he said it, he knew it wasn't true. Not entirely.

He pulled out his phone, his fingers shaking as he opened his messages. The thread with Give was there, full of words from yesterday— I think I'm falling for you, I can't stop thinking about you, what do you dream about? —and Phuwin stared at them, his chest aching with a confusion he couldn't name.

He tapped the screen, his fingers hovering over the keys. He typed out the words, one by one.

I don't like you like that, Give.

His thumb hovered over the send button. The cursor blinked. The garbage smelled sour and rotten beside him, and somewhere in the distance, a class bell rang, the sound thin and far away.

He pressed send.

The message flew out, leaving him staring at the screen, his heart pounding in his ears.

He closed his phone, set it down beside him, and let his head fall back against the wall. The sky above him was blue and empty, and the silence pressed in around him, heavy and cold.

He'd done it. He'd told Give the truth.

But the truth didn't feel like relief. It felt like losing something he'd never had, and he didn't know if that was worse.