Phuwin's fingers trembled as Fourth held out the phone. The screen glowed with Pond's reply — three dots still pulsing, a message already sent and waiting. Fourth's eyes were soft, patient, no judgment in them. Just presence.
He took it. Read it.
I'm sorry for last night. Your lip — I keep seeing it. Please let me know you're okay.
The words blurred. Phuwin blinked, hard, and the screen sharpened again. His thumb hovered over the keyboard. Are you okay? he'd typed last night, drunk, and never sent. And now Pond had beaten him to it — had reached first across the wreckage of the parking lot, across the blood and the crowd and the viral video that was probably circulating through every group chat in Bangkok.
"Phu."
Satang's voice, quiet. Then his weight on the couch beside Phuwin, the warmth of his arm sliding around Phuwin's shoulders, pulling him sideways until Phuwin's cheek pressed against Satang's collarbone.
"It's okay," Satang murmured. "Whatever you're feeling. It's okay."
Phuwin let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. It came out shuddery, wet, and Satang's arm tightened. Fourth took the phone back — gently, like he was handling something fragile — and set it face-down on the coffee table.
"You don't have to reply right now," Fourth said. "Or at all. Okay?"
Phuwin nodded against Satang's chest. Satang's hand moved in slow circles on his back, tracing the ridges of his spine through the thin fabric of his shirt. The gesture was so familiar, so grounding — Satang had always been the one who held without asking, who knew when to touch and when to stay still.
But the phone was still there. And Pond's message was still glowing inside it.
Phuwin pulled back slowly. Satang's hand fell away, but his eyes stayed on Phuwin — watchful, ready.
"I need—" Phuwin's voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "I need a minute."
Satang nodded. Fourth opened his mouth, closed it, nodded too.
Phuwin grabbed his own phone from the charger on the end table and stood. His legs felt unsteady, like the floor had tilted a few degrees and hadn't righted itself yet. He walked past the couch, past Fourth's outstretched hand, and into the hallway that led to the bedroom.
"I'll be back," he said, not turning around. The door clicked shut behind him.
The bedroom was dim, curtains drawn against the late morning sun. His bed was still unmade from the night before — the sheets tangled, the pillows dented where he and Fourth and Satang had collapsed in a heap of exhaustion and cheap wine. The room smelled like sleep and the faint ghost of Satang's cologne.
Phuwin sat on the edge of the bed. The springs groaned under his weight.
He opened his gallery app.
His thumb scrolled — past screenshots of schedules, past fan edits he'd saved for reference, past a photo of the skyline from his balcony. And then he was there.
The folder.
He didn't have a name for it. It wasn't labeled. It was just the first folder in his gallery, the one he'd created fourteen months ago, two months after the breakup. He'd told himself it was reference material — he and Pond still worked together sometimes, still had to stand next to each other at events, still had to look like they were fine. He needed to remember what Pond looked like in certain lighting, certain angles, so he could adjust his own positioning.
That was the lie.
He opened the folder.
The first photo was from March — Pond at a brand event, laughing at something off-camera, his head tipped back, the column of his throat exposed. Phuwin had been standing twenty feet away, pretending to check his phone, and he'd taken it without thinking. The second was from April — Pond at a café, bent over his laptop, a strand of dark hair falling across his forehead. Phuwin had been across the street, behind a parked van, his heart hammering so loud he was sure someone would hear.
He kept scrolling.
May: Pond leaving the gym, towel around his neck, sweat darkening the collar of his tank top. June: Pond at a photoshoot, backlit, his profile sharp against a white backdrop. July: Pond at a convenience store, buying water, the curve of his bicep visible through the thin fabric of his sleeve. August: Pond at the studio, dancing alone, his body moving like liquid through the dim light — Phuwin had watched from the shadows for forty minutes that night, had filmed three separate clips, had gone home and watched them until his phone died.
September. October. November. December. Every month of the past year, documented. Every angle of Pond's face, every posture of his body, every expression that crossed his features. Happy. Tired. Focused. Vulnerable. Handsome. Always, always Handsome.
His thumb stopped on a photo from three weeks ago. Pond at the river, standing by the railing, looking out at the water. His back to the camera. The curve of his shoulders, the way the evening light caught the gold of his skin, the soft wind tugging at his hair. Phuwin remembered taking this one — remembered the ache in his chest, the way his hands had shaken, the way he'd whispered Pond's name under his breath like a prayer.
The bedroom door was still closed. The city hummed outside. And Phuwin sat on the edge of his unmade bed with a year of obsession laid out on his screen, and he didn't delete a single one.
He closed the app.
The screen went dark. In the reflection, he saw his own face — puffy from crying, split lip healing, eyes red-rimmed and hollow. He looked like a man who'd been chasing a ghost for so long he'd forgotten what it felt like to be seen.
He stood. His legs were steadier now.
The bathroom was cool and quiet, the tiles cold under his bare feet. He turned on the shower — let it run until steam filled the room, fogging the mirror, blurring the edges of everything. He pulled off his shirt, his sweats, his boxers, and stepped under the spray.
The water was hot. Almost too hot. It hit his shoulders and ran down his chest, over the bruise that was still fading from Tame's grip on his wrist, over the ache in his ribs from the fight. He pressed his palms against the tile and let the water pour over his head, into his eyes, down his face.
His lip stung.
He raised his hand and touched it — the swollen curve where Pond's knuckles had connected. It was almost healed now, the scab soft, the tenderness fading. But the memory was still sharp: the shock of impact, the taste of copper, the way Pond's face had crumpled the second he realized what he'd done. The way he'd dropped to his knees on the asphalt and reached for Phuwin like nothing else in the world existed.
Phuwin pressed his thumb against the bruise. Felt the throb. Let it ground him.
He stayed under the water until it started to cool, until his fingers pruned and his thoughts stopped racing. Then he turned off the shower and stepped out, dripping onto the mat, the steam curling around his ankles.
He dried off with a towel that smelled like lavender — Satang must have used it last night — and pulled on a pair of baggy black sweats and a loose white tank top. The fabric was soft, worn, comfortable. He grabbed his crossbody bag from the hook on the bathroom door, stuffed his wallet and charger inside, and slipped on his jacket — an old denim one he'd had since university, frayed at the cuffs, familiar as a second skin.
He took a breath. Let it out. Opened the bedroom door.
Fourth and Satang were sitting together on the couch, shoulders touching, both on their phones. Fourth was smiling at something on his screen — probably Gemini, the way his face softened when he looked at it — and Satang was typing one-handed, the other hand resting on his own thigh, probably Winny on the other end of that message.
They looked up when the door opened.
Satang pocketed his phone first. Fourth followed, tucking his into his back pocket as he stood. They crossed the room in unison — no words, no discussion — and wrapped themselves around him.
Satang's arms came around his waist from one side, Fourth's from the other, and Phuwin let himself be held. Let himself be small and safe between them, their warmth bleeding through the denim, their heartbeats steady against his shoulders.
"Okay," Fourth said, his voice muffled against Phuwin's hair. "We've got you."
Satang squeezed once, twice, then pulled back just enough to look Phuwin in the eye. "Where are we going?"
Phuwin blinked. "What?"
"We're going somewhere," Satang said, like it was obvious. "You just showered and put on your going-out jacket. We're going somewhere. The only question is where."
Fourth grinned. "I vote food. And then maybe food again."
"You always vote food."
"Because food always wins."
They were joking. For him. Phuwin felt something crack in his chest — not breaking, but opening. A fissure letting light in.
He looked at them — Fourth, with his easy smile and his phone full of love messages from Gemini; Satang, with his steady hands and his quiet way of being exactly what was needed. His best friends. His lifelines.
He didn't want to think about Pond's message. Or the gallery. Or the parking lot. Or the way his heart still stuttered every time he remembered the look on Pond's face when he'd dropped to his knees.
He just wanted to forget. For a few hours. Just forget.
"I don't care where," Phuwin said, and his voice came out steadier than he expected. "I just want to do something fun. Something that doesn't involve my phone or my thoughts or—" He gestured vaguely at the bedroom behind him. "Any of it."
Fourth and Satang exchanged a look. The kind of look that meant they were already coordinating, already planning, already on his side.
Fourth grinned first. Wide and bright and infectious.
Satang's grin followed — slower, softer, but just as real.
And then Phuwin felt it. A grin of his own, spreading across his face, pulling at his healing lip, aching and unfamiliar and so, so welcome.
"Let's go," he said.