Archive of Our Own

I

The unflinching sunlight pierces through Pran’s eyelids first, followed by ringing in his ear, an unpleasant taste in his mouth, and an unforgiving headache that makes him want to dig inside his consciousness and lay to rest again.

Pran’s body knows what time it is even before the alarm goes off. He moves his arm across his bed and shuts his phone before it can make his ears bleed. Groaning, he rubs his eyes and pulls himself up, his hands supporting his head.

Pran has always been known to have a relentless schedule: waking up at 6, meditating for twenty minutes, having a bath, making breakfast, being on call with his parents, and when the clock strikes 7:45, leaving for school, a mere five-minute walk from his hostel, reaching well before time. Today, however, with a pounding headache and a heart that still feels tender and raw and untethered, Pran wants to strike off everything from his schedule and make a home for himself inside his bed: unmoving, unbothered, and unknown. His attendance won’t take a hit if he were to follow his heart’s whims.

What would his mother say? Pran thinks, looking at himself in the mirror after dragging himself out of bed to his bathroom. Pran himself can hardly believe that he got so drunk he can’t remember most of the night. She has always been so afraid of Pran’s sparkly clean reputation being ruined, always been so controlling of everybody that he hangs out with to make sure that their fingerprints don’t smudge the ink with which she has written his life. If she were here, she’d faint with disbelief. Her eighteen-year-old boy, who is so close to finishing high school and yet taking the risk of drinking on a school night with illegally acquired alcohol which makes him too hungover to attend school the next day.

Then again, Pran’s mother never approved of his choices: whether it be his hobbies or friends. What is another addition to that list?

Pran’s mind, a traitor, flashes images of his guitar and of a smile with such force that he grips his basin tight, takes a deep breath, and pushes those images deep into his subconscious.

Forgetting is the only way Pran can survive.

Wanting to forget is the only reason Pran has gaps in his memory from last night.

Not being able to forget is how he managed to get into that circumstance in the first place. Pran may not remember much of last night but he vividly remembers the chain of events that led to him saying yes to his classmate’s invitation. He remembers the late autumn sun gently shining. He remembers taking a deep breath in and focusing on how wonderful being present in the moment felt. He remembers humming a new tune for the first time in years on his five minute walk back to his room.

Pran remembers looking at a large group of loud boys, and consciously searching for the one who always managed to attract his attention the most. And then: he remembers a sound so achingly familiar emitted by a man in a tank top and loose shorts, that he does not remember how and why he reached out to him, tapping him on his shoulders, pleading to the universe to let that man be him. Please let it be him.

The man was not him. Was not Pa—

Snap. Pran stops his thought spiral there, snapping the rubber band on his wrist. Losing himself in this thought spiral wouldn’t be helpful, he knows. His therapist would not approve of this, but he tries scrubbing his mind clean of all the thoughts of him. Trying to forget is the only way that he can survive. Pran’s heart has never been his, so it’s impossible for it to not feel moored by the person who holds it, but Pran’s mind is the one thing that he holds; the one thing he can keep in check.

Drinking on a school night was a mistake he would make sure to not repeat. Still, Pran can’t help but think that there is only one person who would feel happy for him for drinking for the first time ever: happy that he is experiencing life in such a manner the way any teenager does, happy that he took the chance to experience life instead of shielding himself from everything his parents warned him against. Inexplicably, forcibly, Pran is filled with a different kind of yearning. He wants to pick up his phone and tell that person everything.

Pran snaps the rubber band on his wrist, focuses on the sting, and tries to erase his mind of what that particular person would say to him should Pran share this with him.

There is no use in exploring the what-ifs: the sooner he shakes himself out of the stupor, the better. His hungover state is affecting his ability to deal with his thoughts; is making him stick to those thoughts until he goes tumbling down its spiral staircase.

When Pran finally locates his phone, a pit in his stomach tears open. There are several messages from his classmate, Lin, and messages from three unknown numbers.

With his back to his door, Pran shakily opens them, one by one. Even though this was his first time getting drunk, he had hoped, at least, that he wouldn’t fall victim to drunk texting, of all things. Having unknown numbers in his inbox is scary enough, but the back of Pran's neck pricks with a flood of embarrassment. The messages seem like replies to messages that he has sent out.

The first one, the latest one says, Nice to hear from you, Pran! We have to hang out soon! It was fun meeting you last night, to his very incoherent message "waiii, this is pran! it was nice to meet you tonight!" to Wai’s number. Sighing in relief, Pran opens the second message, that says something along similar lines by another person he remembers meeting: Louis.

It’s okay, he tells himself. It’s just people he met last night. Apparently, the drunk version of him got chatty instead of more reserved. It’s only when he opens a text chain from the third unknown number that his blood runs cold and the ground underneath his feet rips open again.

At 1:32am, Pran had written: I am drunkkkkk! I am havign fun! I made firends! you’d be so pruod of me! Why did I never attend those parties with you before?

The message in reply to that, sent at 1:51am says: Good for you, buddy! We’ll definitely go to parties together in the future, but for that, you’ll have to tell me who you are!

There is only one person who would be proud of Pran for making friends; only one person who invited him to parties before.

The sinking feeling in his chest becomes paramount. It is impossible. Impossible that he texted that one person in the middle of the night. How did he even get his number? It has to be impossible. Pran still must be dreaming in his lethargic state. There is no way he did something so incredibly inane. Maybe this is the wrong number after all. Maybe he just messaged some poor person in the middle of the night. Because the other option seems unthinkable, unattainable.

Pran needs to fill the gaps in his memories; needs to find evidence for the horrifying feeling creeping at the back of his throat.

***

It has been two years since Pran was transferred. Two years, and yet, Pran’s traitorous mind searches for familiar eyes lit up with a smile in any room that he enters.

A thirteen-year-old habit is tough for anybody to break out of, and Pran isn’t even sure he wants to break out of his. The greedy part of him wishes that the habit sticks to him, until one day those same fierce eyes meet his and stretch into a grin so familiar that its radiance would seep into Pran’s skin and make a home for itself there.

Instead, Pran’s eyes meet Lin, one of the only people in his class that Pran would call his friend. Lin waves her hand, and Pran makes his way to her.

“Didn’t think you’d show up today,” Lin says, grinning widely. “You had no intention of stopping last night.”

Pran winces. “I don’t remember much of what happened last night,” he admits. “I need to ask—”

“What do you mean you don’t?” Lin gasps, interrupting him, then starts digging through her backpack. “Do you not remember the game we were playing? Spill one secret or drink?”

Immediately, Pran is on high alert. “What secrets did I spill?”

Lin snorts. “None. Why do you think you got so drunk? After that though… aha!” She spreads Pran’s palm open only to hand him a sticky note and—

“Where did you get that? What is that— What? Lin, this number, I think I— Oh god.”

Lin immediately looks concerned. “Why are you panicking? Yesterday you couldn’t stop talking about him after the game.”

“I’m not supposed to be talking about him,” Pran whispers, feeling his heart climb to the back of his throat. “I am not supposed to be thinking about him, Lin.”

“You clearly were thinking about him, still,” Lin says, her eyebrows raised. “You missed him. You wanted to talk to him.” When Pran doesn’t say anything, simply staring at the numbers written on the yellow paper in front of him, engraving them behind his eyelids, Lin puts her hand on Pran’s arm. “Didn’t you?”

“So you found his number for me?”

“I wasn’t the only one who found it,” Lin says slowly as if talking to a small child. “Do you not remember that too?”

Pran breathes out of his mouth.

“We were wasted, and we both looked for it on the internet together. Found it from his Facebook, actually. It was surprisingly easy to find. You asked me to keep that picture, or is it a makeshift guitar pick and his number for safekeeping.”

“I texted him last night, Lin,” Pran whispers, taking sips of his water. His mouth feels dry regardless. He texted Pat; he somehow memorised his number and texted him despite giving that sticky note to Lin for safekeeping. “Lin, what did I do? Why did I text him? How could I have done that? I tried being responsible and I tried— how could I have done that?”

Lin breathes out of her mouth, coming closer. “Can I pat your back?”

Pran nods and tries taking deep breaths. There is no way anybody would find out it was Pran who texted him; no way anybody would know that Pran somehow acquired his number. Realistically, he knows that everything is going to be fine, but in a much more real sense: the uncertainty of the present moment is horrifying.

He shoves the guitar pick and the yellow paper inside his pocket, turning away from Lin. Before his Maths teacher settles into their classroom, Lin softly says, “You like him. This Pat of yours. You like him, don’t you? You want to talk to him. So do it! Talk to him. What’s the worst that could happen? What would you lose?”

Pran huffs a laugh, an ache prominent in his chest. All these years, he didn’t even try thinking of Pat’s name or saying it out loud and now, Lin casually mentioning it starts an incantation of his name in Pran’s mind. Pat, Pat, Pat. He remembers Pat from 2 years ago, grinning at him from behind the drums. “What’s the worst that could happen if we play together at the Christmas fest? The teacher selected us anyway, not that we had any control over it. What would we lose?” And now look where they are.

Pran shakes his head. Everything, he wants to reply. He would lose everything, again.

At least Pran can satisfy himself with the thought of both Pat and Pran seeing the sky change colours at the same time. If his mother found out, once again—

Pran shudders at the thought of it. He has to learn how to be satisfied with the distance, no matter how much he itches to talk to Pat; itches to hear his voice only to quench the need of knowing that Pat is okay. He cannot give in to the temptation of somehow texting Pat again.

***

When he gets back home, he texts Pat: Apologies for that message. I contacted the wrong person.

Pat replies immediately. No worries, dude. Glad you were having fun. :)

Pran looks over his doorknob. Today, he does not feel like changing the sign from the sad smiley face to the happy one.

***

In all actuality, Pran knows that the safest way out of this situation is to delete Pat’s number entirely.

Pran ends up saving Pat’s number as “Photocopy Guy (New)”. Should his parents check his phone, he can say: Oh, I need to photocopy notes regularly and he changed his number recently, so…

If — and this is very hypothetical, this if — Pran were to contact him again, and they became something akin to acquaintances again, and if Pat were to call Pran when he is in front of his parents, Pran can say: Oh, I think my notes are photocopied and ready, so I will just go and get them.

In this hypothetical situation, if Pat and Pran are close again, Pran knows that he would trust Pat enough to tell him what he has saved his number under. If his mother were to pick up the phone, Pat, in this hypothetical situation, would play along.

So technically, Pran has found a way to counteract all his worst-case scenarios. Just in case it happens, which they won’t because these are just that: grand hypothetical scenarios made out of nothing but pure want. They are just hypotheticals.

(Pran also knows that his resolve of not contacting Pat again is mere seconds away from crumbling. He knows that but refuses to acknowledge that. He just needs a little push; a push and he will go tumbling down the cliff, falling into the abyss yet again, despite knowing how it would end. He’d go through everything he has just on the off-chance of meeting Pat again.)

When Pran tells Lin that, she simply sighs, and pinches her nose. “I think you should call him,” she says. “You have thought of the worst-case scenario and found a way out of it. Why are you denying yourself this now?”

“I don’t think I deserve this.”

“Bullshit,” Lin scoffs.

To be honest, Pran does not know why he is telling her things he has never told anybody: not even himself.

“Of course, you do,” she continues, when Pran does not respond. “Tell me the real reason. Your parents trying to find out is just the tip of the iceberg, isn’t it? It never stopped you before. There is something underlying that.”

And that’s when Pran realises: he likes telling Lin things about Pat because she is the only one completely detached from the reality of it. She is the only one who wouldn’t look at Pran’s memories of Pat with scorn on her face. She is the only one who would look at what Pran feels for Pat and take it as a schoolboy crush, a puppy dog love rather than the cosmic battle it really is.

Besides, nobody has been able to read Pran this well, especially not since—

“No,” Pran denies, sipping his grape soda. “Can we— can you help me out with the physics homework please?”

Lin shakes her head but takes the notebook out of Pran’s hand anyway.

***

The core of it is this: Pran is utterly, inexorably scared.

Scared of Pat picking up the phone. Scared of Pat ignoring the call. Scared of Pat saying hello and Pran saying hello and Pat recognising his voice and cutting the call right then and there. Scared of Pat and him being stuck in a stilted small conversation. Scared of Pat pretending that things are fine. Scared of Pat acknowledging what went wrong. Scared of facing the truth of his feelings, something he has been trying to dust under his carpet for too long and never succeeded. Scared of his life crumbling all over again.

Most of all, he is scared of falling apart at the sound of Pat’s voice. It has been so long since he has seen him, even longer since he has heard his voice. Has his voice changed? Has his face changed? Has he grown any taller? Pran is scared of facing the changes that might come along with meeting Pat again and having proof of the awful thought that he missed out on all the ways that Pat grew. What if Pat is entirely different from how he was? What if Pran no longer knows him the way he once did?

Pran misses Pat with such ferocity that when he left, it felt like a piece of his limbs were chewed on and torn off. Now, his limbs are useless and half of his body does not belong to him. Pran does not know what to do with any part of himself.

Pran does not say any of that to Lin.

Lin rubs circles between his shoulder blades as though she understands what he means.

***

Ultimately, it happens when Pran is in the middle of a mock test sitting beside Tim who thinks of this as an opportune time to disturb him.

“Do you have the photocopy guy’s number?” asks Tim. “I can ask him if he is there and get your notes photocopied.”

“Please just call him from my phone,” Pran says almost absent-mindedly, without looking up, almost snapping at him. He does not want to be rude, but he also wants to establish a non-verbal boundary of not wanting to be disturbed during a mock test.

“Sorry, dude,” Tim says, grabbing Pran’s phone from beside him.

It is only when Tim says to his phone, “Hello, till what time will you be there at the shop?” that his words begin processing in Pran’s mind, tilting his world all over again.

With a start, Pran pushes his chair back, slamming his palms on the flat surface of the desk.

The phone, Pran mouths. Give it to me!

“What?” Tim asks.

The phone! Pran points to it, and then back to himself. Give it to me.

“What are you saying, Pran?”

Pran leaps out of his chair, eliciting another “Pran! What are you doing?” only to press his hand on Tim’s mouth, seconds too late. He grabs the phone in his hand, pressing it close to his beating heart.

Pran can recognise the timbre of Pat’s voice out of the very little that leaks out of his phone: his sound so loud, Pran can hear it even over the clamorous beating of his own chest. If Pat called Pran’s name even in the most crowded place, Pran would still be able to hear it.

He presses the phone to his ear, only to hear Pat say, as though in a hurry, as though with a sense of urgency, “—an? Pran? Ai Pran? Did I hear that right? Is that you? Is that really you? Can you hear me? Please… please tell me if you hear me, Pran. You don’t have to say anything else, just, please. Please.”

In front of Pat’s wants, Pran’s self-preservation is abysmal.

“Pat,” Pran breathes out, and it feels like coming home. “Hi.”

II

“Are you and the photocopy guy, like, dating?” Tim asks, hooking his arm around Pran’s shoulders, causing Lin to fall into a coughing spree and Pran to let out a startled, excuse me?

“I am just saying, like,” he shrugs his shoulders. “Like, I don’t know, he sounded so desperate to just say your name. And then you stood there talking to him for hours.”

Hours, mouths Lin.

“It was two minutes!” 1 minute and 12 seconds, to be exact.

Pran meets Lin’s eyes and quickly glances away from her pointed look and grits out, “I had wrongly saved someone else’s number like that,” he says.

“So,” Tim’s grin turns lazy. He pulls Pran closer, fondly patting his forehead. “Who was he? Your boyfriend? The guy you were raving about that night?”

“No,” Pran lies. “He was just a friend.”

“Just a friend, huh?” Lin teases. “What did the two of you talk about?”

Pran had said hi, and Pat had said hi after moments of dumbfounded silence, and then Pran had said, sorry, my friend contacted the wrong number, and Pat had asked, is this your number, Pran? to which Pran had hesitated long before answering, yes, and Pat had asked, so it was you who messaged me the other night? and Pran had said, sorry, yes, it was me, Pat, sorry, but Pat paid no heed to that, instead he asked, how are you, I am hearing your voice after so long, Pran. How— how are you? and Pran had taken a measured breath in, and out, and said, I am good. And you? To which Pat had said, good too, but how did you have my number? Wasn’t your phone taken away or something? Because I have been c— and Pran had asked, you have been what? and Pat had said, nothing. Just. I don’t know, and Pran had said, well, I had your number saved on my phone, and Pat had asked, astonishingly sounding heartbroken, you had my number and you didn’t reach out before you got drunk or after it? and Pran had been stunned to silence for a few moments before Pat had sighed and said, you know what? Can I call you tonight? Can we please talk? I need to know if you’re okay, and I— yeah, and Pran’s tongue, always listening to his heart’s whims, had said, yes, of course, and Pat had said, okay, good. I’ll call you before your bedtime, and Pran had said, I’ll be waiting.

It was just— it was just that! Pran has repeated the conversation in his head five times already. There was nothing more to it, nothing less. There was nothing weird or strange about it! It wasn’t— this was completely, utterly fine and totally under his control!

Technically, most of the things he was scared about didn’t even happen. Pat sounded the same, talked in the same manner. Pran did not fall apart at the sound of Pat’s voice. Pran may not know a lot of things but he knows Pat. Even this short conversation proved that the Pat he knew and the Pat he talked to, aren’t entirely, inexplicably different. Pat smears his forearms with all his feelings to show the world. If he stopped caring for Pran, then Pran would know it as clear as the day.

Pat still cares for him, not in the same capacity as Pran, of course (Pran knows when to be realistic), but with the same intensity as Pran’s care.

Things are fine. Pran does not know why he is sweating so much or why his heart feels like it is trying to beat out of his chest, but things are obviously very much fine.

“Nothing,” Pran answers, clearing his throat.

“On a scale of 1-5, how much are you freaking out right now?”

“A solid 6,” Pran replies with a definite nod. “I am actually going to go up to my room now, to clear up some stuff. Let’s review the mock paper tomorrow?”

Pran runs away before fully hearing their reply.

***

Pran sleeps at ten pm, a fact that has remained unchanged throughout his years of schooling. A fact that Pat knows.

So, come 8:30 pm, Pran dutifully sits on his sofa with his phone right beside him, casually scrolling through an article he has no interest in actually reading. There is a high possibility that Pat may have forgotten his bedtime entirely, or, he might just call Pran 10 minutes before it. That didn’t stop the sound of any notification startling his heart, making him jump. This behaviour is entirely uncouth and uncalled for, but this matter also concerns Pat. Most of Pran’s logic gets thrown out of the window in front of him.

At 8:50 pm sharp, Pran’s ringtone echoes into his large, empty room. Pran jumps, his heart rate picking up, and he does not even have to look at the caller to know who it is.

When Pran picks up the phone, he suddenly finds himself entirely without the courage to say something. Anything.

Pat, it appears, is quiet too. They stay that way, breathing each other’s presence in, giving space to fully absorb the reality of each other’s existence in their lives again.

“Is it really you?” Pat asks in a whisper. “Are you truly Pran?”

“Pat,” Pran sighs, his lips stretching into the briefest smile. “It’s me.”

“Wow,” Pat says, “it just feels unreal. Getting to talk to you like this.”

Pran can understand. It feels unreal to him too. He does not know how he went from lying about it not being Pat’s number to being adamant that he would never talk to Pat to… this. In front of Pat — not that Pran would ever say this out loud — his resolve is made of the most fragile glass. One word from Pat and it shatters to the floor.

“Me, too,” Pran says, quietly. He shuts his laptop, and walks all the way to his balcony, revelling in the warm breeze of an autumn night.

“So,” Pat starts, then stops. It is a little awkward, but then again, Pran expects that. There is no socially accepted protocol for talking to your estranged friend (of sorts) after you have been forcefully removed from his life. Inexplicably, Pran trusts Pat fully to make this not awkward. “How have you been?”

“Good,” Pran says. “You?”

“Good, too,” Pat says, clearing his throat.

There is a lull in the conversation. Somehow, Pran’s stomach clenches with nervousness. He thinks: what if my trust in Pat is unfounded? What if Pat has changed? What if the conversation dies out and Pat never contacts me ever again? What if—

There is a sudden sigh on the other end of the call before Pat breaks through the awkward glass wall between them, “Ah, shit, Pran. It has been so weird here without you. Like so weird. I have to tell you so much. Do you remember Marc? Do you know who he finally got together with? Do you know Khun Nok finally, finally resigned? I keep looking at your seat to tell you things and you are never there and it has been so, so strange. I have nobody to compete with now. I have become lazy because you are not there. Take responsibility.”

A laugh bubbles out of Pran’s chest. “Who did Marc end up with? What made Khun Nok resign? I thought he lived at school. I have nobody to compete with as well, it’s been so easy to get to number one now, not that it was that difficult before.”

“Hey! Do you not remember five years ago? You cried because I got more in history than you!”

“That was five years ago,” Pran says, petulantly. “And I didn’t cry, I just got overwhelmed!”

“Sounds like someone who wants to deny the fact that he was crying,” Pat says, and Pran can hear the grin in his voice, can picture the smile on his face.

Pran shakes his head, finding extreme comfort in the fact that they can talk like this, now. “What is your GPA now?”

“4.68,” Pat says, and Pran can hear the pride in his voice. He can imagine Pat puffing his chest out, hooking his arm around Pran’s shoulder, pulling him closer. Suddenly, desperately, Pran wants to see Pat. Wants to trace his gaze over Pat’s familiar face and memorise all the changes.

“Huh,” Pran says, smirking. “And you’re boasting about that. Mine is 4.73.”

“That’s not fair,” Pat says, “Your GPA was the same as mine when we were together.”

“Well, obviously I improved whereas your growth stayed stagnant,” Pran says.

“What can I say,” Pat’s voice turns coy. “You inspired me every single day. Without my inspiration by my side, I lost all interest.”

“Shut it,” Pran says, a half-warning.

“Why?” Pat asks, pouting. “Why would I? I am hearing your sweet voice after so long. How can I stop now, Pran?”

Pran feels his cheeks heating. He presses his palm on his cheek to calm himself down and then realises that there is nobody he has to try hiding his reactions from.

“Shut up,” Pran says, clearing his throat, a wide smile on his face anyway. “What is wrong with you?”

“Everything,” Pat says, his tone strangely sincere. “Everything since you’ve been gone.”

Me, too, Pran wants to say but bites his tongue. Everything has been wrong with me since I have left.

Before Pran can even try clearing the air out, Pat jumps in, the candour in his voice fully erased. “So, I was telling you about Marc and Khun Nok, right? What happened was—”

***

“So, uh, where are you?”

“I can’t tell you,” Pran replies, glancing at his watch. It is nearing 10, and Pran feels sleepy, already, but he is not hanging up first. “Not because of— not because of my parents,” he assures.

“Then why?”

“I know you, Pat. You will definitely try ‘accidentally’ coming here, no?” Pran says. “I have relatives living here, near my hostel. They don’t keep a check on me, but if they accidentally end up seeing you, it won’t take long before it reaches my parents.”

“So it is because of them,” Pat says. “In a way.”

“Everything is because of our parents, no?” Pran says, ignoring the twinge of guilt that comes with talking badly about them.

Pat only laughs. “Indeed,” he says. “Hopefully we don’t continue this cycle? We can teach our kids to like each other, instead.”

“Our children,” Pran whispers.

Pat hums out an affirmative. “Well, obviously my kids would be as competitive as I am, but not because they have to live up to the standards that I set or because they hate your kids. Your kids would also be as competitive as their father for the same reason, yes?”

Oh, Pran thinks, and then shakes his head. The lack of sleep is messing with his head. Of course, Pat means kids as in their kids, individually, not their kids as in their kids. That would be preposterous.

“Of course,” Pran says. “They’d be better than yours at everything, the way I am better than you at everything.”

“That is completely untrue!”

“My 4.73 GPA says otherwise.”

“Mine will be 4.80, this time. You have your mid-sem exams coming up as well, don’t you? Let’s see who does better then.”

“Obviously, I will,” Pran says.

“It is so on,” Pat says. “Do you want to bet?”

“Bet on what?”

“If I get a higher GPA than you after the mid-sem exams, you will tell me where you are, and I will promise to not come there.”

“And if I win?”

“Then I will let you do whatever to me,” Pat says, half-teasing, half-serious.

“I accept the terms,” Pran says, dutifully.

“Isn’t that wonderful? So tell me, Pran. Can you see the moon where you are?” Pat asks.

“Yes.”

“Raise your fist to the moon. I am doing the same. With the moon as our witness, our fistbump is entirely valid, thus solidifying our deal. If you want to back off because you are scared, do it now.”

“You wish I were backing off,” Pran says. “I’ll see you in hell, Pat.”

“I’ll save you the most comfortable seat right by my side.”

***

“So, you know the night I got drunk?”

“You mean the night you just couldn’t resist texting me?”

If only Pat knew just how true his words were. “Yup, exactly,” Pran says, then sighs. “Look, I am really, really sorry about that. I— I didn’t really think you’d want to hear from me. After— well, after everything. So, I thought I could just pretend it wasn’t me.”

“Are you kidding me, Pran?” Pat whispers. “I— when the text came in, I thought it was you. I had to play it cool so I don’t look like a fool in case it truly is a stranger. I always want to hear from you, Pran. You don’t know how the past two years have been for me. I always dreamt that I’d run into you or you’d find me, somehow.”

“You did?”

“Obviously,” Pat says. “I hoped for that. I tried calling you so many times after taking your number from the others at school.”

Pran breathes out. “How have they been for you? The past two years? A relief, I’m guessing.”

“Let’s go with that explanation of it,” Pat laughs. “I didn’t have to worry about my grades or monitor your achievements so I could find a way to beat them.”

“Me, too,” Pran says. But, he’d rather have that pressure on him than never be in contact with Pat again.

“I hated it, though,” Pat says. “It was the worst.” Before Pran has a chance to respond, he says, “Anyway, what were you saying? What about the night you got drunk?”

“I got drunk for the first time the other night,” Pran reveals.

Expectedly, Pat gasps. “Oh my god, look at you?” he says. “So grown up! Baby’s first time getting drunk! How do you feel?”

Pran ignores the use of the word baby and feels his heart grow ten times fonder: a feat he thought would be impossible to reach. “Good,” he says. “I would not recommend it on a school night, but it was a good experience.”

“Oh yeah, it was a school night!” Pat laughs out loud. “I am so happy for you! You deserve to experience every good thing in life, at least once. Proud of you for doing that. You must have lots of friends there, no?”

“Uh, no,” Pran admits. “There is just Lin. And Tim, maybe.”

“Are they nice people?”

“Oh, they’re great,” Pran says. “Nobody but you and Lin have tried so hard to be my friend. Tim just followed her and we are now friends because of Lin. Then, she introduced me to her friends, Wai and Louis, from the neighbouring school, but I guess we are acquaintances till now rather than friends? That’s about it.”

“Lin sounds nice,” Pat says. “Are you— like, do you like her? Romantically?”

Pran sputters in reply. “No,” he says. “Not at all!”

“Wow, no need to get so defensive!”

“Like, that would be possible, Pat!”

“Ah,” Pat replies. “What about Tim, then? Or anybody else? Have you been dating someone?”

“No,” Pran says, slowly. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up at the sudden shift in the conversation. “How— uh, how about you?”

“It has all been silent and dead since you’ve been gone,” Pat says. “Who would I even date?”

Me, says the annoying voice in Pran’s help. He bites his tongue instead and laughs out in reply.

***

“Can I talk to you again? Like after this?” Pat asks, after announcing very loudly that it is half-past ten and Pran needs to go to sleep otherwise he will be “grumpy” again — an unfair accusation, as far as Pran is concerned. “I mean, it is totally cool if not, but I— well, it was nice, catching up with you. And we would have to update each other on our bet unless you think it’s stupid—”

“Yes,” Pran interrupts, without hesitation. “Of course. I’d love to.”

“Oh, great!”

“Yeah, cool!”

“So, uh, see you soon?”

“See you.”

When Pran goes to bed that night, he changes Pat’s contact to Lin (New), after taking permission from her and informing Pat about the same. This is not going to be a singular occurrence: him talking to Pat. It feels surreal: living a moment that you’ve been dreaming of for so long. But because Pat definitely wants to talk to Pran again — not just as a mere acquaintance but as a friend — it’s better if his name is changed to something that Pran can easily explain if at all Pat calls him or messages him regularly when his parents are around.

Pran simply wishes that the day Pat calls him again comes soon. For the first time in months, Pran sleeps with a smile on his face.

III

‘Soon’, according to Pat’s definition, means the very next day.

Pran wakes up (he isn’t grumpy despite going to bed late: something he takes great pride in telling Pat) with a series of messages from Pat. Later, in the evening, Pat asks whether he can call Pran, and Pran lets him, despite abhorring any kinds of calls during his meal preparation time.

“You’re cooking? Don't they provide you with food?”

Pran would rather not eat with the other hostel mates in the unsanitary canteen with food he has no control over. Pran tells him that, expecting to be laughed at, but Pat simply hums, and says, it is good that you have that time for yourself.

It’s not that Pat wasn’t attractive before: he was a forceful balance of rowdy and thoughtful, loud and beautiful, ever since Pran understood what the feeling inside his chest upon seeing Pat meant. However, now, he is somehow even more thoughtful, even more understanding, making Pran’s chest feel like it might just explode from containing all the feelings inside of him. Pat is softer than what Pran remembered — but his warmth is just the same, more than enough to easily thaw the ice around Pran.

Pat fits into his daily schedule with surprising ease, as though he always belonged there. On several occasions, Pran ends up studying together with Pat on the other end of the call. Despite being in different schools, their board of education is the same, thereby their syllabus, making it easier for them to relate to each of the topics that they’re talking about and share different outlooks based on their teacher.

Every day, Pran finds himself eager to know more of what Pat has to say, eager to look at his world through Pat-coloured lenses. They are closer now than they were before, something that was impossible for Pran to have even imagined, considering how far away they are from everybody else’s watchful eyes.

Pran’s heart, the eternal sufferer, experiences something it has never even thought of experiencing before: impatience. Pran finds himself jittery if Pat doesn’t reply to his messages in two hours or four; he finds himself rupturing with intense longing even if he is in the process of talking to Pat. His heart still lurches inexplicably any time that he sees his phone light up. Before he knew how to satisfy his greed, knew how to be pleased with what he had, never asking for more, but now it seems as though his rapacity has no bounds. It is but a bottomless pit, impossible to satiate.

On several occasions, Pat and Pran end up talking together when they are surrounded by the people they trust: in Pran’s case, it is Lin and Tim, and in Pat’s case, it is Paa. The first time it happens, Pat and Pran end up very loudly arguing about a picture with an optical illusion. Pat keeps seeing a dog in the picture, somehow, but Pran knows in his bones that the only two animals in the picture are a seal and a horse. Paa agrees with him as well!

Lin keeps looking at him as though he has grown another head. Pran does not blame her: these days, it feels as though a weight holding his body down has been lifted. It is not that he is depending on Pat for his happiness; it just feels relieving to know that the door to Pat has not fully been shut.

“There can be different interpretations of the picture,” Pat says. “It’s just your perspective of it, but that does not mean that mine is wrong.”

“Well, obviously,” Pran says. “But I am sure that you’re the only one who thinks it is a dog.”

“Ask your friends. What do they think it is?”

Pran shakes his head but relents anyway. Lin squints her eyes and says, “That is a dog!”

Tim however, thinks it's a dolphin.

“At least your friends are smart,” says Pat. “Now, I can be assured that you’re in good hands.”

“Now, I know who got the smart genes in the family,” Pran retorts.

Whinging and groaning, Pat complains about how unfair Pran is being, and then with more whinging on Pat’s part, he reveals that he has a family event to attend to, and has to regretfully get off the call, but he promises to call him again tonight.

When the call ends, Pran purposely does not look at his friends. He knows that Lin is going to be staring at him all-knowingly and that Tim is going to be smirking at him. Pran, although grateful for the people he’s started calling his friends just a week ago, does not want to bear the brunt of his friend’s watchful eyes.

“So,” Lin says, seemingly uninterested. “The badge on your bag has been a smiley for five straight days now. That is a record. It usually fluctuates every two or three days.”

Pran hums, flicking through his textbook. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“I had,” Lin says, and Pran can hear a smile so clearly in her voice. “I always notice things.”

“What else have you noticed?”

Lin shrugs her shoulders. “I am no expert, but I am guessing that your screen time has shown a significant increase from your usual 3 hours to 5-6 hours, no?”

Pran’s average screen time for the last week was 6.4 hours. He has spent a large part of his time talking to Pat or texting Pat or watching the videos Pat sends him or finding memes that might make Pat laugh. It’s not his fault. He does not reply, and in its stead, focuses his attention on packing up his things from the table.

Right before he leaves, Lin shouts out, “You can run from us, but not from your feelings!”

***

Pran had realised two years after moving to a whole new city and having to set his roots here in the soil he never wanted to, that his conversations with his parents had become stilted, awkward.

His therapist, when he’d started seeing her a year ago, had said, some people may feel angry at their parents for suddenly uprooting their life from one city without their explicit consent. I wonder if you felt that way too, and Pran had said nothing in reply. He had felt nothing at that time. He felt entirely detached from the reality of what had happened: how it had happened. For him, it was simple: he had gone against his mother’s wishes, something he could have avoided, and received punishment for the same, something he deserved. There was no place for feelings in that set of consequential events.

However, three months ago, when Pran had been missing home a little more than usual, his mother had called whilst he was in the middle of going over old photographs from the Christmas fest on his laptop whilst cradling a warm cup of tea.

Pran’s father was not home, his mother had said.

“Hm,” Pran had replied, feeling his heart rate pick up. It is the first time they’d be talking alone, without his father present. He wasn’t a mediator — far from it, as he always took his mother’s side — but it was nice to have him diffuse some of the tension that inevitably sneaked up on Pran and his mother.

“So,” his mother had said, clearly looking for ways to connect with Pran. “What were you doing before I called?”

“I was just looking at some old photographs.”

“That’s nice,” his mother had said. “I hope you weren’t looking at your pictures from the old school,” she’d laughed, her voice striking like daggers in his chest. “I can’t imagine you missing those people. Good riddance, is it not?”

All of a sudden, Pran felt nausea creeping up on his spine. His head felt flaring hot, and his only response in that split second was to snap his laptop shut and throw his cup of tea on the floor.

Regret came in later, much after guilt. But superimposing it all was the red glare of anger, seeping through its cracks every time he did as much as thought about his parents. He has always been angry about it. It was always there, bubbling underneath the surface, out of his awareness.

Pran is still angry. He does not think that anger is ever going to go away. But, he will wrangle it until it fits delicately under his tongue, for nobody else to see, for only him to taste.

Today, his mother comments, “You’ve been looking happier lately,” to which his father loudly agrees, and nudges his elbow into her waist to say, “why, son? Have you been dating someone? Didn’t care to inform your parents, did you?”

“Do you think I need a partner to be happy?” Pran asks. “Can’t I just feel happy?”

“Well, of course, you can,” his mother says. “It’s just unusual, that’s all.”

“Unusual for me to be happy? Why?”

Pran’s mother’s eyes sharpen, even though the smile on her face remains the same. “That’s obviously not what I meant. It is unusual for you to carry happiness on your face, that is all. Don’t twist my words.”

A horrifying voice resonates in Pran’s mind: you are the reason I am that way. He stuffs it in a box and hides it in the cob-webbed chambers of his mind. It is hurtful and harmful; saying it would help nobody.

Pran bites his tongue and nods, keeping his head down until the conversation turns into something simpler. Frustration seems restless in his body that day.

It is the first day that he calls Pat up instead of waiting for his call. Pran waits to feel anxious about calling Pat first, but that feeling never comes. Instead, what he ends up feeling is a strange sense of contentment.

“Hi,” Pat calls out, softly. “Is everything okay?”

“No.”

“How can I help?”

“Please tell me about your day. In detail.”

Pat dramatically clears his throat and very loudly cracks his knuckles. “Are you ready for the wildest ride ever?”

“Always.”

***

“Do you still play?” Pat asks one night.

Pran blinks away from his screen. “Play what?”

“The guitar.”

Pran huffs, shutting his notebook and his pen. Every so often, when they’re studying together, Pat becomes so bored that he feels a compulsive need to talk about any random topic that he thinks would benefit from Pran's input. It becomes Pran’s duty, then, to steer them both in the right direction.

It does not hurt to indulge Pat a little, though. “I don’t know where my guitar is. My mom must’ve thrown it away, I think.”

“Well, I, uh-- I am sure that’s not true,” Pat gently says. “I would have loved hearing you play, you know?”

Pran huffs, shaking his head. He knows now, that all his showy displays of playing the guitar were just a way for him to stick a neon sign on his forehead saying, notice me, notice me, without being explicit. If Pran wasn’t in love with Pat, he would have kept his hobby a secret from everybody. Pat is the only person apart from himself that he has wanted to play for.

“Why?”

“You’re my favourite musician, after all!”

“Yeah, right.”

“It’s true!” Pat says. “When you become famous and sell a hundred million copies of your album, don’t forget your lowly friend, okay? I will be your number one fan, after all.”

To forget Pat is impossible. The songs Pran has written have the love that he feels for Pat interwoven inside all its notes; love at its epicentre. They are your songs, Pran wants to say. All my songs are for you. How can I forget you? Instead, he bites his tongue again and clears his throat.

Before Pran can reply with something that does not reveal his deepest feelings, a loud sigh interrupts him.

“You always do that,” Pat says. “Biting your tongue around me. Aren’t you tired of tasting blood in your mouth?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like you’re always holding yourself back,” he says. “I don’t…” and then, softly, “I don’t like it.”

Pran’s heart skips a beat. “Why?”

“Because… I guess I feel like I am allowed to be myself with you,” Pat says, and then breathes loudly out of his mouth. “I want you to feel free, too.”

Pran did not think that Pat would notice his habit of holding back in conversations. He has done that ever since he was young: not just with Pat but with everyone. It is only with Pat that he does not have to hold back as much as he does. Only with Pat that he feels like he can breathe.

“I do.” Pran feels the nervousness that this conversation brings him all the way to his fingers. He clenches, then unclenches his fist, breathes in, then out again. The only thing he can’t be honest about in front of Pat is acknowledging the feelings that overwhelm him on most days. “I feel like I am allowed to be myself, too.”

“You do?”

“Yes, of course,” Pran assures. “I only bite my tongue because it is stupid, what I am about to say.” And also, revealing all the feelings I have. And also, I love you, did you know?

“I don’t care,” Pat says. “If you are okay with it, and if you want, you can just… be yourself with me, here. I won’t think it’s stupid.”

“Okay,” Pran says. “I will keep that in mind.”

“Okay,” Pat replies. His voice is soft now, and Pran can hear the smile in it. “Good.”

***

Pran’s school has a mandatory co-curricular club for all high-schoolers. The options, however, were limited: drama, music or dancing. The art club was already full when Pran had joined, much to his dismay. As much as Pran wanted to join music, his wounds were fresh and his fingers had a phantom pain attached to them. The drama club was the only apt option left for him.

Pran did not regret choosing it — that is where he’d met Lin and Tim, after all — but now, with a script shoved in his hand and the task of acting it out being a determinant of their GPA, the regret creeps in, just a little.

Pat, when he hears about it, snorts out loud. “Serves you right for thinking you could beat me.”

“I have beaten you,” Pran reminds him. “On several occasions.”

“But you won’t be able to,” Pat teases. “Not this time. You can’t act for shit. Just read a few lines for me, come on.”

Pran’s role in the play is quite secondary: just another one of the main lead’s admirers, coincidentally her best friend. He decides to humour Pat, just a little bit.

Pran clears his throat, picking up the script in his hand. “Manaow,” he reads out, cringing internally. “Manaow, won’t you look at me? Won’t you talk to me? We are friends first, are we not?”

“You’re so good,” Pat says, insincerely. “Keep up the good work! I will definitely win our bet if you act this way.”

“You’re such an asshole, Pat.”

“I am your asshole,” Pat replies. “Okay, so, how do you feel about switching on your camera? I can actually help you out here, with your expressions and your voice modulation.”

Pran almost trips over his feet in the rush of running to his mirror. His hair looks okay: not ideal, but not the worst either. His clothes look presentable, too. He checks in with himself: does he want to talk on video right now? Does he want to see Pat right now? Can he deal with the impact of how it will feel like to see him again?

The answers to all those questions are yes.

When Pran sees Pat for the first time in years, it feels like a piece of him has been restored to completion. Pran clenches his fist so tight that his palms have moon-shaped indents, thus changing the course of his fate right there and then.

Pat looks… he looks good. So good. That itself is a gross understatement; his boyish charm has been shaped into something more defined, unfiltered and unrestrained. His hair is the same, his eyes still fierce, and his smile still radiant. Pran wasn’t remembering it wrong; his smile can really, truly light up a thousand suns. How do people see Pat every single day and not fall in love with him?

“Pran,” Pat calls out. His gaze is intense, his eyes unmoving from where it seems to be stuck on Pran. “You look… you look so good.”

Despite knowing that Pat is a huge flirt with an uncouth mouth, Pran’s blood has the sheer audacity to rush to his face.

Pran clears his throat, chooses not to respond to that statement, and says, “I’ve mailed you the script.”

A laugh spills out of Pat’s mouth. “Always getting down to business, huh? I am seeing my estranged rival after so long. Let me memorise your face before we start talking about that?”

“Why would you even want to memorise my face, Pat?”

Pat shrugs his shoulders, leaning in closer to his screen. “I like memorising people and things that look pretty.”

“Can you shut up?”

“Can you make me?”

Pran’s heart is a slippery thing. He’s never quite had a hold on his heart, to begin with, and now it feels like it wants to leap out of his chest and plaster itself onto the screen that separates him from Pat.

“Besides, I love looking at your face—” Pat says, with utmost seriousness.

Pran’s heart skips a beat.

“— when you are on the verge of losing! Hah!” Seemingly satisfied with looking, Pat leans back, smirking.

But Pran’s mind is still stuck on the initial part of the statement: I love looking at your face. I love looking at your face.

“I am opening up the script now. You’re lucky I am helping you. I do still think that I will win our bet, regardless, so think of this as… grace marks.”

Pran rolls his eyes, getting out of his stupor, and deadpans, “Grace marks.”

“Hey! I’ll be your lucky charm, you know?”

“More like a jinx.”

“Have you ever met a jinx this hot?”

Well, that is true.

“So, what role are you playing?”

“Ken,” Pran replies. “He has been in love with his best friend for a long time, but Manaow, his best friend, does not think of him that way.”

“Hm,” Pat appears to read something from his screen. “So, based on the character description, he has always felt that way but realised it when he saw Manaow with Mick — the actual love interest. He ends up confessing to her every Tuesday of the week, hoping she accepts it, at least once.”

“Ken is greedy and selfish. Even though he does not try actively sabotaging their relationship, he also does not give up on his feelings for her.”

“Why would he?”

“Because he is in love with her,” Pran says.

Pat raises his eyebrow. “You don’t like Ken.”

“I hate him,” Pran says. “I do not respect him. When you’re in love with someone, you respect their wishes. You care about them as much as you care about yourself; sometimes even more. If he cared for her, he would’ve given up and let her be happy with whomever she chooses. He would’ve rooted for her, despite how much it hurts him or would have distanced himself from her if it hurt him more. He would have supported himself keeping her in mind, not confessed to her every single week, completely invalidating her wishes.”

“Yes,” Pat replies. “I agree with you, fully. But, you’re talking about your beliefs, here. Your character is not you. The thing with your character is that he is in love with someone to who he can never belong. Do you know how heartbreaking it is to be in that place?”

“Yes.”

“So, empathise with him. His greed is your opinion of him, but for him, his love is what explains his actions. Love is at the centre of his character. Don’t scorn him. You’ve got to bring that yearning into the picture here along with the aspect of selflessness. For your character, his lack of greed is not making him want to actively sabotage Manaow here. He is being selfless by not harming her happiness. And even though we know that it’s just plain wrong, it is important to look at this the way he looks at his actions. Don’t focus on his selfishness here. The most integral part of his character is his longing for Manaow. That is what drives him,” Pat says. “Come on, you play Manaow and I’ll play Ken. I’ll show you how it’s done.”

“Okay,” Pran whispers.

In an instant, Pat’s demeanour changes. He goes from self-assured to pitiful; his eyes widening, his mouth curving into a pout. “Manaow,” he reads out, “Manaow, won’t you look at me? Won’t you talk to me? We are friends first, are we not? We can be lovers, can we not? Manaow, why do you look away from me?”

“This isn’t possible, Ken,” Pran reads his lines. “You know it isn’t. I can’t love you; I can never love you.”

“Yes, you can,” Pat says, desperation in his eyes. “Of course, you can! You have to, Manaow! I don’t know what to be without you. You can’t just leave me alone like this. Who will I be without you by my side?”

Pat has the same flow practising lines here as he does when he is explaining a physics concept to Pran. The same zeal, the same attentiveness. It is so attractive to watch that Pran finds himself mesmerised by him. On several occasions, Pran forgets to read his own lines, fully lost in the aura Pat emanates. Pran also fully misses out on how Pat’s performance changes; moving towards something real, as though he is about to dunk his head in a pool of something inconceivable yet something entirely expected; something that makes more and more sense for Pat at every passing minute.

When they are done reading lines, Pat clears his throat and leans forward. “So, how do you feel now that we read the lines together?”

“I still hate Ken as a character but I get that he is in love.”

“Love. He is in love, isn’t it? What else can it be but love?” Pat laughs, humourlessly. “It has to be love. Now, you have to make sure your character feels that way too. In this context, you would probably feel like you might just go a little bit insane if the person you’re in love with does not reply to you. That if you don’t see them for a second, a minute, an hour, you might just cease to exist on the spot.”

Pat’s voice turns softer, then: his words spoken not with careful consideration of analysing a character, but as though revealing something personal, if the frenzied look in his eyes is anything to go by.

“You have this urge to be by their side with such tenacity that everything else fades into the background. Nothing else matters to you,” Pat says, a faraway look in his eyes. “Nothing but them. You want them. You can’t imagine living your life without them by your side. It is as though the lines on your palms are engraved with their name. It’s like, your love for them is the only thing in your marrow, the only thing that carries you, that helps you grow and become a better person. Do you know the kind of love I am talking about?”

Pran has to take a shaky breath in. Of course, he knows the kind of love that Pat is talking about. However, even though Pran might not be the most observant person out there, he knows that this is not about his character anymore.

“Yes, I do. But, Pat?”

“Hm?”

“It looks like you are talking about yourself, rather than my character here,” Pran says, slowly.

Pat lets out a high-pitched laugh. “Obviously not! Why do you say that? This is only fiction, Pran. I have always wanted to love someone like that, but it never exists outside of fiction. Trust me, I know because I have fallen in love so many times. Can anyone ever experience something like this? Outside of fiction, has anyone ever? Forget everyone, have you?”

“I have,” Pran confesses. “Of course, I have.”

“What? Who would you even experience this for?”

“Someone I love,” Pran says. Every cell in his body achingly turns in the opposite direction from the conversation. “Haven’t you?”

“Haven’t I what?”

“You keep bragging about falling in love many, many times. Have you never experienced this with someone you love before?”

Pat looks taken aback at the question. Panic overtakes his features. The frenzy that surrounded him from before immediately dims: it’s not gone, but it is faint. He looks away from Pran, and his eyes widen a little before the panic seems to seep into his skin, a little. “Shit,” he says and does not elaborate. Shit, he repeats and keeps repeating, now unable to look Pran in the eye.

Pat has had or at least has tried having, multiple partners in the past. He is never someone to hide how he feels. He is not a coward — not like Pran, walking around with a bloody mouth and bitten tongue. It makes sense for him to have experienced this in the past, but not realise this till now. It just doesn’t hurt any less for Pran.

"I can't believe I didn't realise," Pat says, looking at Pran, wide-eyed and tongue-tied.

“Well, obviously,” Pran says, swallowing roughly.

“It was not obvious to me! But now that I think about it, it makes the most sense.”

“What does?”

At this question, Pat looks dejected. He keeps looking at Pran with big, hurtful eyes.

“Why do you look so disappointed? What is so bad about experiencing it?”

Pat comes back to himself at Pran’s question, blinking rapidly at the screen. There is a monumental shift in just a moment: his dejection morphing into something more patient, something more hopeful.

Pat’s mouth stretches into a warm, fond smile and he whispers, “Nothing. Nothing is wrong with experiencing it.”

“Then, what?”

“Nothing,” Pat whispers, still looking at Pran, almost… fond. “Nothing, at all. But Pran?”

“Hm?”

“Do you think… do you think a person could feel something like this for someone like me?”

“Someone like you?”

Pat misunderstands his question. Pran wanted to understand what Pat meant by someone like him. Pran would never admit it out loud, but anyone would be privileged to be in love with someone like Pat. However, Pat understands the question as, no, nobody can feel it for you.

“I am not that bad,” Pat insists. “I know you think I am a slob but I promise I have improved! Since you left, I have been sort of making an effort but I am getting there! I am helping you with your homework despite it meaning that I will lose. Also, look, you were wondering where your guitar was, right?”

At Pran’s confused nod, he produces Pat’s old guitar from underneath his table. “Look, I have kept it all this while because I knew how much it meant for you.”

“You… you’ve kept my guitar?”

“Of course,” Pat softly replies. “I needed to have something to remember you by, Pran. When you… when you left, your guitar is the only thing that helped me.”

The turn this conversation has taken is a little too much for Pran to even comprehend. He cannot deal with the overwhelming feelings that threaten to drown him now; Pran pushes it aside in a box later to analyse and cry about.

“Please continue what you were talking about, before.”

“Right. So I am also considerate, one might say. I am not that bad, not really. I still remember all your favourite orders and all your favourite art supply brands. I know your first ever email password too: pransobored. So, I think, I pay attention to details. Do you… do you think someone can feel this way for me, too? Or something like this? Do you think that is possible?”

It is — something that Pran knows because he lives through the reality of it. He almost bites his tongue before remembering their conversation from a few days ago. “It is,” he replies.

Pat’s face automatically lights up. “Do you really think so?”

“I know so.”

IV

“Have you told this person of yours that you love them?”

Pran digests Pat’s words, and sighs, but does not take his eyes off of his notebook.

“Ai Pran, I know you heard me! Why don’t you answer that?”

“It’s not relevant to what we’re doing right now.”

“It very much is!”

“Why do you care?”

“Why shouldn’t I care? You’re… you’re my friend. What if this person is like the worst?”

“Have you?” Pran snaps, looking up. “Have you told your person?”

Pat pushes his lower lip out, his eyebrows crinkled together, petulant and soft. “No,” he says.

“Why not?”

Pat looks away. “Never mind. Let’s mind our business and go back to studying again.”

Apparently, minding one’s business does not last for longer than fifteen minutes.

“With the person that you love,” Pat starts, “how do you… feel?”

Pran pinches his nose, sighs into his mock physics paper, and slowly looks at Pat on his phone screen, at the earnest look on his face. This is not the first time Pat has asked about the person Pran is in love with, but after their conversation about feeling absolutely hopeless about somebody, Pat has taken it as his life’s mission to extract every bit of information that he can find about Pran’s lover, especially about how he feels.

Pran does not understand why: did it seem like it was impossible for Pran to feel this way about somebody?

He shakes his head and breathes in through his mouth. Things have been utterly weird ever since their conversation. Sometimes, Pat drifts off in the middle of their conversation, staring blankly at the screen with a small smile on his face. Sometimes, Pran catches Pat staring at him, and when he meets Pat’s eyes, he almost always jumps and looks away and ends the call abruptly.

Pat simply does not seem to be himself around Pran. It is extremely unsettling to get used to.

In response to Pat’s question, Pran deflects as usual. “Is this question something really, very important when we’re writing a test?”

“Oh, come on. You never tell me how you feel about them! Or anything about them, really!”

“You never tell me about your crush too!”

Pat pushes his bottom lip out. “Ai Pran,” he draws out a whine. “That is very, very different.”

“Different how?”

It takes a moment longer for Pat to fully understand what Pran asked, and even then, he resigns himself from meeting Pran’s eyes to looking down, biting the inside of his cheek. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

“It is really not important.”

“You’ve been weird ever since that day,” Pran says. “I don’t get what happened.”

At this, Pat seemingly jumps in his chair, and drops his phone, thus making sure that Pran can never see what causes the simultaneous crashes and ow-s.

“Are you okay?” Pran asks, concerned, at the third crash he hears. “Should you be calling for help?”

“I am fine!” Pat says, almost placing his phone on the stand again, but his fingers give out and his phone falls on the desk with a clatter.

Pran presses his lips together and chooses not to comment.

“I am fine! Very, very fine, actually!” Pat says two minutes later, almost out of breath. “Sorry, I don’t know what happened.”

“It’s okay,” Pran says. “Let’s just get back to studying? I have a test to beat you in, after all.”

***

Like any other person appropriately confident about his abilities, Pran has thought, in detail, about what he would want Pat to do when he wins their bet.

It ranges from making Pat sing for him (because he can’t sing) or making Pat cook for his family (because he can’t cook). It ranges from making Pat perform a K-Pop dance sequence (Pat can very much dance and it is ridiculously attractive to watch — what? Pran is in love with Pat and he does not just want to watch him make a fool of himself) to the very cliched concept of asking for 3 IOUs, redeemable at any time.

The perfect opportunity arises when Lin comes running to him with Tim casually walking behind her, a big grin plastered on her face. “Did you hear about the drama club planning a semester-end trip to Kanchanaburi?”

“To Kanchanaburi?”

“Yes!” Lin exclaims. “It’s going to be great — being so away from school and the dorm, just all of us, together. You’ll come along, right?”

“I’ll have to talk to my parents,” Pran slowly says. Even though it would be the first time he is travelling to a city by himself, it would not be a concern for him to gain permission from her since Kanchanaburi is so far away from home. But that is not what Pran is thinking of, and it definitely won’t be the deciding factor for him going to Kanchanaburi.

Pran meets Tim’s eyes, who pointedly looks at him with raised eyebrows, as though he can tell what cogs are running in Pran’s mind.

What Pran is thinking of is quite objectively the most reckless plan ever.

But, Pat brings out the courage in Pran, and if meeting him again is something to go by, then Pran knows that he does not want to lose Pat ever, ever again — no matter what it takes from him. He was a fool, just two months ago, where he thought he could forever survive in a world that has not been touched upon by Pat’s light. He was a fool to think that such a world could even exist in the first place. Pat is in everything that Pran sees, everything that he touches. Out of the handprints engraved on the sculpture that is Pran’s being, Pat’s are the ones that matter the most.

Any outside pressure can break the sculpture, but cannot erase those handprints.

Pran wants to keep it that way.

Evaluating his options thoroughly, Pran makes a plan that can simply just not go wrong.

***

“Have you been sleeping enough lately?” Pat asks, biting the lid of his highlighter.

Pran decidedly keeps his eyes trained on his eyes. “Yes. Why do you ask?”

“Why do you ask, he says. You look so exhausted today. Do you want to postpone our study session to some other day?”

“No!” Pran rubs his face and leans forward. “I was just on a call with my parents, speaking to them about a few things.”

“Ah,” Pat replies, giving a half-nod, half-smile. Talking about their parents is still awkward, to say the least. It always brings about unpleasant memories, and it seems like not talking about them in detail is a mutual non-verbal agreement that they’ve come to. An agreement that Pran wants to keep, but can’t in this context.

“So, I talked to my mother about returning home for university.”

Jaw-slacked, Pat mutters, “You did what?”

“You heard me,” says Pran. The blessing had come in the form of Wai. After meeting with him twice over call, Pran’s mother had finally, fully approved of his one, singular friend. She adores Wai, and when Wai had over-exaggerated about all his friends going to Bangkok for university upon Pran's insistence, and utterly bad-mouthed engineers as well, she had visibly softened at the idea of Pran being home, attending university with Wai.

“You mean to say, I’ll probably get to see your pretty face in person, soon?”

In a completely juvenile sense, Pran blushes. “Sooner, if I win the bet.”

“What?”

“So, I finally figured out what I want you to do when I win our bet,” Pran says. “I want you to bring me my guitar.”

Pat’s eyes widen. “I can send it to you even when you don’t win the bet, Pran.”

“You don’t get it,” says Pran. “I want you to book the tickets for the 13th of next month for Kanchanaburi, book tickets in the Riverside Inn, and bring my guitar to me in person.”

“You… really want to meet me? In-person?”

Pran looks away from Pat’s big, imploring eyes. It is embarrassing enough for him to admit to himself just what he wants and what he desires. He swallows the mortification and takes a sharp breath.

Yes, more than anything. “Nope,” Pran purses his lips. “I just want you to bring me my guitar in person.”

“Ah, ah, you do want to meet me,” Pat grins. “I can see it in your eyes. I can see your lovely dimples shine out in reply. If my dear friend wants to see me so badly, who am I to refuse?”

“Pat. I am serious right now. Would that be okay with you? To come all the way to Kanchanaburi?”

“I will do anything to see you again,” says Pat, strangely sincere, his tone so different from the playful one he had just a moment ago. “You must think I am exaggerating, but I am really not.”

“I believe you,” Pran softly says.

Pat’s eyes return to their mischievous state. “But for that, you’ll actually have to win, right?”

“Oh, that really would not be an issue. Trust me.”

Pat shrugs his shoulders, bringing his highlighter to his mouth again. This time, Pran does not look away. “Who knows? Maybe I can purposely lose the bet. I like letting my sweetheart win, after all.”

“Sweetheart, my ass! You’re just trying to make an excuse because you know that I can’t beat you. Dumbass.”

“A chance to see you again versus my pride. It’s a tough call.”

It would not have been a tough call, before. “Is it really?”

“Of course! My pride is nothing if it means I can see you.”

“Pat… shut up.”

“Don’t get so flustered,” Pat grins, wolfishly. “Let’s leave it all up to fate. But hey, can I change what I want from you if I win the bet?”

Pran, still extremely flustered, not being able to recover from Pat’s comments, shrugs his shoulders and mumbles an incoherent affirmative back.

These days, it’s not just Pat’s questions that have gotten invasive — his flirting has gotten ten times worse as well. Pran knows that none of this is real, but he catches himself grinning whenever he sees his reflection, thinking of Pat. Catches himself recalling an echo of Pat’s words in his mind. Catches his heart picking up pace at inopportune times, just because he has thought of Pat again.

This conversation is only going to make all of that a hundred times worse.

Pran would not give it up for anything in this whole, wide world.

***

“How are your studies going?” Pran’s mother asks. “Do you need some help from me or from your dad?”

“Everything is good,” Pran replies. “I have some very good study partners with me.” There is Lin and Tim with him at school and on several occasions, Wai joins them too, if they are to meet off-campus. And of course, Pat. How can Pran forget Pat? His primary companion when it comes to studying together. Together, they’re pretty formidable.

Pat had even said on one occasion: it’s a good thing brain fusion isn’t a thing yet otherwise we’d be undefeated in the country. Pran had thought that his statement was an overreach, but it was a touching sentiment regardless. Out of everybody, Pat would choose to fuse his brain with Pran’s.

“Hm, it’s good that you have someone like Wai,” his mother says. “He must help you out a lot if that smile on your face is anything to go by.”

At this, the smile on Pran’s face immediately falls. Wai is very much of a distraction when it comes to studying — his primary objective is making other people laugh, not studying. The smile, it seems, had come along with the thought of Pat. It’s a good thing his mother can’t read minds.

“Did you think about Kanchanaburi? Can I go there after the semester ends?”

Their parents make eye contact and nod simultaneously. “We will need some details for safety reasons, but we think you deserve a break, right? It’s been way too long for you there. It must be tiring for you to be in one place for so long. Let’s figure everything out when we come over there after your exams end.”

Pran’s parents are right, but not in the way they think they are. It has been too long for Pran to be here. It has been tiring for him to be at any place that does not have Pat. It’s about time he is reunited with the only person who holds his heart, without even knowing.

***

Soon, it’s exam season and somehow, despite all odds, Pran still manages to create a twenty-minute time slot, just to catch up with Pat. Their exam timetable is different, so studying together does not fit with either of their schedules, so they end up talking about their days, about whether they’ve eaten, about everything and nothing in particular. Some days, their talks don’t consist of anything in particular. It is peacefully coexisting with the other person on the other end of the line while Pran does his chores.

One day, Pat again asks, “How do you feel when you’re around the person you love?”

“Are you publishing scientific research on this?”

“Pran, please.”

Pran can hear the almost-defeat in Pat’s voice, propelling him to say: “I feel… comfortable.”

“Hm?”

“Hm,” Pran nods. “Talking to them feels like coming home. I would rather look at them than look at the beautiful things around me. Liking them feels like the most obvious thing in the world. But, I am also terrified of feeling this way.”

“Terrified.”

“Terrified,” Pran reveals. “It is hard to—” hard to see a future with him because of other uncontrollable, extraneous factors. Everything would be worse, somehow, if they were to tell me that they love me too; it would only make me want to burst out of my skin. But it won’t be possible because they are not— Pran knows that they are— “I don’t think I can ever tell them how I feel, but then again, I would choose this, over and over again, no matter how it ends.”

“That person does not know how lucky they are. Being loved by you,” Pat whistles, soft and slow. “What a privilege.”

“How about you? How do you feel around your person?”

Pran hears the grin in Pat’s voice as he says: “I feel the same when I’m around them. Except, I am not terrified. It must be love, right?”

Pran tries speaking past the painful lump in his throat. His throat should have gotten used to the lump being ever-present, but it keeps growing and growing. “Yeah,” he whispers. “It must be.”

The revelation of Pat’s feelings is a familiar ache. Pran is used to the bruise in the centre of his chest and is friends with it on most days. Pat could never see him like— Even if he were into men, Pat would never—

Surely, he must have the same worries that Pran does, if Pat even considers him a prospective partner. But he doesn’t. He couldn’t. And that is all right.

Despite their time being spent with each other reducing and the familiar bruise on his chest burning a bright purple, Pran’s feelings — now stronger than ever — remain unchanged, unphased. Every night, Pran goes to bed with the same thought in his mind: he chooses to love Pat Napat; a choice he would always make, in all circumstances.

V

Pran’s parents come over on the last day of his exams. Having them in his vicinity again makes him lose most of the courage that he had mustered around Pat. It begins with Pran avoiding Pat’s text, then avoiding their scheduled call, and by the time Pran recognises it for the avoidance strategy it really is, it has been four days since Pran has heard Pat’s voice or even texted him. Pran’s blood runs cold with that realisation. He hates how his courage is contingent on his parents being around. Pran knows that there is a personal hatred there, knows that Pran’s mother loves him immensely and wants to do what is right for him — the right here including staying away from the entire family — but that does not change how he feels about being forced to comply with a choice that should not have existed in the first place. But to know that he was choosing to avoid Pat again, the way he did during their former years of schooling… It destroys all the effort that Pat and Pran both took into saving their relationship.

On the last day of his parents being here, Pran musters up his same old courage again and picks up the call the moment it starts flashing Pat’s name.

“Oh, thank god,” Pat says. “How are you? Is everything okay?”

“I’m sorry,” Pran says. “I should have— I— yeah. This wasn’t right. I should have picked up your call. I am sorry.”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Pat says. “Breathe. It’s all right. I was just a little worried but I know how busy we’ve been lately, and your parents must be with you, right? You don’t have to apologise because there is no reason for that. Have you been well?”

“I have,” Pran says, settling into his chair after locking the door behind him. He has about thirty minutes before his parents come back, and around fifteen minutes to talk to Pat if he leaves a fifteen-minute margin. “Have you? How was the exam?”

“My last four exams were not good. I think it's because I didn’t hear the voice of my good luck charm.”

“Your good luck charm,” Pran deadpans.

“Mh-hm. Without him, my nights were lonely and my day, cold. At least that changes from today, and hopefully, my last exam tomorrow will go well.”

“You should have worked hard in the first place,” Pran teases. “Then, you would not need a good luck charm.”

“You wound me, Pran,” Pat says. “It would be less painful if you drove a sword through me.”

“Why don’t you get a drama degree along with finishing high school,” Pran suggests. “Become an actor; you’ll be great at that.”

“Well, obviously. I can be great at anything I put my mind to.”

Pran can’t argue with that. Pat is dedicated if he needs to be. The summer after Pran started learning his guitar, Pat dedicated all his day to playing the drums. Soon, they would have duets with each other without even making eye contact. The summer after that, Pat would tell him that he learnt how to play the drums only so he could play with Pran. And the summer after that—

“I agree,” Pran simply says, breaking his train of thought. “Did your parents allow you for a trip to Kanchanaburi?”

“Hey! How do you know that you’re going to win?”

“I just do.”

Besides, Pran knows Pat. Regardless of the outcome of the bet, Pat would accidentally find a way to come to Kanchanaburi just because he knows where Pran would be.

“If you were to win, which may or may not happen, then yes, I have acquired permission from my dad and I have friends willing to come with me too.”

“Okay, good. See you, then.”

“Okay,” Pat says. “See you. I mean— probably! See you probably!”

“Sure,” Pran says. “Probably.”

***

Quite unpredictably, Pran loses the bet. He feels a little bad, but it is nothing compared to the sheer joy on Pat’s face at the realisation: a joy that seemed to shine brighter when he realised that Pran isn’t actually sad about the outcome. They’ve been making bets for so long that Pran knows better than to attribute his loss to his shortcomings. The words that Pat had said before: I like making my sweetheart win, ring inside Pran’s mind. Pran would, hypothetically, do everything to make his sweetheart smile: including losing a bet. Not that he would ever admit it.

“So, I’ve thought about what I want you to do now that I’ve won the bet!”

“And what is that?”

“I want you to learn a dance routine and upload it to—”

“Absolutely not!”

Pat presses his lips together and smiles in reply. “Fine. You got me! I knew you’d say that, so that wasn’t the real thing anyway. What I really want you to do is to book the tickets for the 12th of this month, that is, three days from now, for Kanchanaburi, and find whatever resort you see fit, so I can bring you your guitar on the 13th.”

“Are you being serious?”

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

Pran looks at Pat’s handsome face, his steadfast gaze, and his steady smile. “No,” he says, at last. “But do you really want to waste your win on this?”

“Would you rather learn a dance routine and upload it to YouTube?”

“Would you rather meet me than ask me to do something embarrassing?”

At this, Pat’s eyes soften immeasurably. “Well, isn’t that obvious? Besides, I’ll have plenty of wins in the future, too. I’m not worried.”

“You should be worried, Pat. You should be very, very worried.”

***

Pran leaves alongside Tim, Lin and their drama team on a dewy morning, three days later. His stomach feels like it’s simultaneously heavy and light. He still has a day before Pat arrives here, and another day before they meet, which would be Pran’s second last day here. The limited time frame of their meeting is not what Pran prefers, but he also knows that it is probably the safest, should things really get as bad as before.

Lin keeps throwing him warm, supportive glances when she thinks that Pran is not looking.

“You know,” she says, “I am so proud of you. Two and a half months ago, you would not even say his name. But, look at you now! Figuring out a plan to meet him in secret and everything!”

Pran knows that he would be teased ruthlessly if he were to talk about how it is Pat who makes him courageous. Instead, he shrugs his shoulders and attempts a grin in her direction.

“You’re nervous?” Tim asks, resting his chin atop Pran’s head from behind his seat.

“Yeah,” Pran answers. But, he is trying to reframe his experience into something more manageable. He is not nervous: the butterflies in his stomach are merely jumping out of sheer excitement! He feels untethered yet moored, and so what if he sees Pat in two days? It does not change anything!

(Except, Pran is pretty sure that he is not coming out of the experience unchanged.)

Pran’s roommates include Tim, Gus, and Jay. He is not a fan of sharing his personal space with three other people, two of them he does not even fully know, but it is okay. None of that discomfort takes the centre stage in front of the anticipation curling his stomach.

Usually, Pran finds a kind of solidarity in listening to Tim talk dreamily about Lin. There is someone quite as pathetic and hopeless as him in matters of love and beyond. But today, he finds that he can barely hear his voice over the roaring of his blood rushing through his head.

Tim does not mind though, far from it. He nudges their shoulders together and says, “What will you do when you meet him?”

“Nothing,” Pran replies. What else can he do? There is no social acceptable protocol for seeing your rival turned friend turned estranged friend turned close friend in any of the books.

“What do you mean? Won’t you tell him how much he means to you?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because he feels the same,” Tim nods, “I am sure of it.”

“That really is not possible,” Pran says. “Trust me. No way Pat would—”

In a flash, their conversation from two days ago plays in Pat’s mind.

“What is your type?” Pat asks, “like what type of person do you like? Romantically?”

Someone annoying yet considerate. Someone who breaks Pran’s life down only to help him reconstruct it the way he likes. Someone who would learn to play the drums just so he could duet with Pat. Someone who makes risks seem worth it. “Someone with fierce eyes and a kind heart,” Pran says, at last. “And you?”

Pat grins, leaning forward. “Someone with dimples and the sweetest smile,” he says. “It’s only a bonus if we are equally matched in basically everything we do.”

Pran blinks back to reality, clearing his throat. “Pat would never like me,” he says, this time unconvincingly.

Tim grins at him toothily, “Whatever you say.”

***

Somehow, the day passes by Pran smoothly. He tries his best to limit the time spent on his phone in front of his peers and friends, but Pat has started a 24-hour countdown, of him reaching Kanchanaburi. Who can blame Pran if he can’t stop smiling?

The drama club and he spend the day sightseeing, noting the different trails they can go to, tomorrow. Pran pays them half attention, clicking pictures only to share with his parents and Wai.

When Pran reaches his hotel room that night, he sees a voice message from Pat. He plays it over and over again until the words seem to be engraved in his mind.

Hi. Can you believe by this time tomorrow, we would have been in the same city? And by this time the day after tomorrow, we would have met already? Can you believe that? I cannot wait to see you. I hope everything goes according to plan.

***

Predictably, nothing goes according to plan.

The next day, when they are out for lunch, and Pran knows that Pat is here, in the city, Pran thinks he sees someone like Pat from the corner of his eyes. He keeps staring at the person without even realising it, until that man turns around only for him to not be Pat, only to give Pran a stink eye.

It would have been funny in retrospect if that was the first time it happened.

“Hey, you’re staring again,” Lin says, pulling him along the trail. “I’m constantly worried that you’ll fall.”

Pran mutters an apology, only for Lin to shake her head. “Just ask your loverboy where he is. And if you truly feel like it, we can avoid that place so you don't run into him.”

Pran (17:18)

What are you doing for dinner tonight?

Lin (New) (17:18)

i am soooo tired today 😖😖😖😖

Going to stay at the room and order room service probably.

How about you? Oh wait, dont tell me that you want me to come over 😘

if so i am tying my shoelaces right NOW

Pran (17:20)

Shut it.

See you tomorrow.

Lin (New) (17:20)

😘😘😘💕💕💕💕

***

There is an open mic at the restaurant they go to that night, for dinner.

Lin says, “Come on, Pran! You have to take part!”

Flabbergasted, Pran lies, “I don’t sing.”

“Yeah, right,” Tim says, hooking his arm around Pran’s shoulder. “You could sing so well even when you were drunk!”

Pran sighs loudly, resisting the urge to rub his cold palm over his warm face. Just how else did he embarrass himself without even remembering?

“I don’t— I don’t think I will,” Pran says, and his friends leave it at that because they are kind and mindful of what he wants. When Pran watches different people come up to the stage and perform, Pran becomes unsure of what, exactly, he wants. There is freedom being on stage as well: a thrill he so dearly misses. Being in Kanchanaburi has given him such an enormous sense of autonomy that he can taste it in his mouth. It makes him want to give up all reserves and listen to his heart with more care.

Lin catches his eye and tilts her head, as though she can read through him and raises her eyebrows. Pran bites the inside of his cheek and goes back to his soup and noodles. He wonders what Pat would say if he were here. He would read through Pran as well, looking past his skin and muscles and bones just to read what is in the centre of his chest demanding attention. Pran has not sung in front of people in so long, excluding the night he got drunk, that he probably does not even remember how to perform. If Pat were here, he’d say: who cares? You’re not going to see these people ever again! You can easily outperform all those other singers before you without even practising. Everyone here wants to hear you sing, Pran! Pran would deny the latter half of the statement, but agree wholeheartedly with the first half, looking into Pat’s eyes full of understanding and reassurance, thinking to himself: for you, I’ll sing for you, and sign himself up for the open mic.

The chair makes a shrill, scraping sound when he gets out of it. The time spent between signing up for the event and actually being on stage in front of everyone is a blur. He thinks, at one point Lin comes to squeeze his arm, but he is too busy lost in the process of remembering the exact cords of the song — of Pat’s song, a song with Pat’s name woven between its notes — because he cannot fuck this up, even though Pat has never heard it before. Pat is in Kanchanaburi tonight; and even though he isn’t physically present here, at this exact location, Pran wants Pat to hear just how much he means to him, even if the meaning is cowering behind words.

There is loud cheer and applause when the person before Pran finishes singing.

“It’s your turn,” the organiser tells him as the host introduces him, and all of a sudden, Pran is pushed on stage. The lights on the makeshift stage are too harsh for him to see anyone in the audience — an extremely fortunate outcome for Pran. He holds the unfamiliar guitar tightly in his hand, checks its tuning and sighs out loud.

“Good evening, everyone,” he says. “This is the first restaurant in which I’ve performed. May I present a song I wrote so nobody will know if I sing it wrong?”

Pran hears scattered laughter, which eases most of his tension. “I had written this song when I was fifteen, so it is bound to be… not perfect. All my life, I was told not to be friends with this one guy. But isn’t forbidden fruit always sweeter? Anyway, this song is for him: the person I couldn’t be friends with who became one of my closest friends over the years. He isn’t here right now, but I’m hoping that this song reaches him regardless.”

Pran hears a loud, whoo! which he immediately recognises to be Tim, and then, he strums the first chords of the song. The start of the strong brings up core memories for him. He had written the first half of the song looking outside his window at Pat’s silhouette behind his curtain, and the second half of it in utmost fury after yet another reminder that he could never be Pat’s — not in the way he desperately wants.

Pran’s world soon narrows down to the feel of a guitar after years of holding one; the thrill that comes with being on stage; the words that flow out of his mouth with utter ease. Simply singing this song feels liberating. He had always imagined Pat being the first person who listens to his song, but this is infinitely better. There is nobody here who would recognise Pran’s song for what it is, no consequences that would follow it too. If Pat were here, listening to this, he would know. Know everything that Pran has tried so hard to keep wrapped under his tongue. And Pran would let him.

He is going to see Pat tomorrow, he realises towards the end of the song. Tomorrow, and then they’ll separate again, only to meet after six whole months. It feels unbearable — the thought of separating so soon. They deserve better, don’t they? Making these plans and keeping it all in secret is terrible — a burden that suffocates the entirety of him. Just how long will he have to think of the worst-case scenarios every time he so much as wants to talk to Pat? They deserve so much better than the situation they are in.

Pran wills himself to not cry at the end of the song, over the applause he hears. The gentle thudding of his heart reminds him that this was a positive outcome, not a negative one, and yet, he feels on the precipice of breaking down right there, in the middle of the stage.

The force of Pran’s feelings hit him hard. He wants to lock himself in a room; he wants to scream it out here, in front of these people until his lungs turn brittle, just how much he loves Pat; he wants to whisper it in Pat’s ears, a piece of his heart so sacred that only he deserves to know. Most of all, he just wants to talk to Pat; just wants to hear his voice. There are several things that he wants to do, but all he can do, at that moment, is hand the guitar to the organiser and run up the stairs, stopping short only when he reaches the rooftop.

The rooftop is almost empty, save for the few people using it as a smoking area. The night is cool, the gentle breeze cradling Pran’s face. Slowly, Pran gulps down the air, focusing on just his breath, moment by moment. His eyes still feel wet when he blinks, but this time, he makes no attempt to stop the tears that want to flow free.

Pran is struck by how unfair the situation really is. He wants to confess his love, wants to shout: look world, this is the enormity of what I feel for Pat. There is nothing you can do about it. He may only be 18 and have most of his life ahead of him, but he knows that he would never be able to love someone the way he loves Pat. Pran is sure that he wouldn’t even want to.

Pran grips the railing tightly and breathes in again. Suddenly, he realises that all he wants to do right now is talk to Pat. He locates his phone in his pockets, texts Lin that he'll be downstairs in a few, and dials the number he has come to remember.

When the line starts ringing, the rooftop gets flooded with an irksome ringtone.

All at once, every hair on the back of Pran’s neck stands upright. His eyes fill with new, unshed tears. Just to confirm what he hears, Pran disconnects the call and dials the number again. The same ringtone, now less irksome, floods the rooftop.

Pran breathes out the disbelief, and clutches his chest, pressing his lips shut in case a sound escapes his mouth. He can’t turn around, can’t look at Pat; can’t look at his most innate wish materialising in front of him, like a dream come true.

The sound of the ringtone gets louder until it stops, and soon, Pran hears light footsteps slowly shuffling closer.

“Pran,” he hears, a voice so blisteringly familiar, and that is all it takes for his self-control to jump off of the ledge, as Pran turns around and immediately crashes his entire body weight into Pat’s being.

Pran holds him tightly, irrationally afraid for a brief moment that Pat is a mere illusion created by the enormity of those feelings: a fear that lasts for a millisecond until Pat holds him tighter, puffs out in disbelief and starts rubbing his open palm along the span of Pran’s back.

They stay entangled as one until Pran loses track of the time. It could be seconds, minutes or even hours. All he knows is that the world around him is soft and warm; and that Pat fits into his arms like that was the purpose of his body all along: making sure it is wide enough to accommodate all of Pat. He could stay an eternity here, in Pat’s embrace.

When they break apart, Pran’s face is tenderly held by Pat, his thumbs wiping away so much of the moisture gathered there. Pran still does not look up, keeps his eyes trained on the Hawaiian shirt Pat seems to be wearing but keeps his hands wound tightly around Pat’s waist, and pushes his face into Pat’s hands.

Love me more, he thinks. Please, love me more.

Slowly, Pran raises his eyes to look at Pat— really look at him, his face unmarred by the unpleasantness of the screen they are usually separated by. He sees a stream of tears flowing down Pat’s eyes as well, and he looks at Pran with nothing but sheer affection in his eyes.

“Shhh,” says Pat, wiping the new set of tears that gather under Pran’s eyes. “I don’t think meeting me again is so bad that it would make you cry so much.”

“Shut up,” Pran mutters, weakly punching the side of Pat’s shoulder and then, trying to replicate Pat’s movements. He holds Pat’s face between his hands and wipes his cheeks with his thumbs. Pran notices all of Pat’s expressions there: first, full of surprise, and then, a settled kind of contentment, fondness, a little too huge for the night to shoulder.

“Your wish is my command, good sir!” Pat says, mimicking zipping his lips and throwing the zip away.

Pran huffs a laugh at Pat’s antics, and slowly wills himself to breathe in, and out.

“Hi,” whispers Pat, when he notices Pran feeling a little more in control, without so much as stepping away from their embrace.

“Hi,” Pran replies, “I still can’t believe you’re here. Why are you here? How— I think a little warning would have been nice!”

“I could ask you the same thing!”

“But I told you that I was going out for dinner. Meanwhile, you told me that you were staying in your room because you’re exhausted!”

“I was,” Pat pouts, “and then, Korn and the others forced me to come with them for dinner.”

Pran remembers Korn from Pat’s conversations about him: his peer in a neighbouring school who also wants to study engineering at University. “Korn is here? You came with him?”

“Yup,” Pat grins, “you’re here as well. This is all that matters to me.”

“Asshole,” says Pran, without any heat behind those words, reluctantly smiling. “I’m glad you’re here, too.”

Pat’s smile gets wider. “Well, of course, you are! Do you have to go back or can you stay here with me for some time?”

“I can stay here,” Pran says. He would much rather stay here, with Pat, away from the world.

“So,” Pat starts. “You wrote a song for me?”

“Ah,” Pran says, and then the reality of it all comes crashing. He somehow manages to untwist his limbs from Pat’s and holds the railing for life yet again. Pat knows. Even the most oblivious person cannot miss the big neon sign of emotions Pran had out on display. Pat knows. There is absolutely no way that Pat missed that. Pat knows. “You heard that, huh?”

Pat nudges their shoulders together, tilting his head from the fold of his arms. “Yeah, yeah I did. Did you mean it?”

“What? The song?”

“Mhmm, and everything you said before it, too,” Pat says, a sense of urgency behind his words. “Did you mean it?”

Pran bites his lips before slowly nodding. “Yes, I did.”

“Am I really one of your closest friends?”

“Yes.”

“But, is that all we are? Friends?”

With breakneck speed, Pran turns to Pat, who is already staring at him, his eyes awfully unguarded. Pran’s feet remain glued to the concrete floor, but Pat moves closer, entangles their fingers together, and Pran keeps looking at those locked fingers, shell-shocked. He feels like he is at the edge of a cliff, one word from Pat and he knows he’d go tumbling down into the wilderness. He just does not know whether he would be alone in his endeavour or not. Pran really hopes not, but he would also just prefer staying in the safety of being on land instead of flying in the air.

Pran clears his throat. “Why?” he asks. “Do you not want to be my friend?”

Pat shuffles in closer, taking in Pran’s hands with him, pressing them against his chest. Thud. Thud. Thud. Pran does not know if the heartbeats he feels are Pat’s or his own. Both of them seem to superimpose over every other sense.

“No,” Pat whispers, his eyes roaming all over Pran’s face and stopping at his lips.

“Then, what?”

Pat briefly closes his eyes and rests his forehead against Pran. Thud. Thud. Thud. “You… the person that you were talking about. The one you felt so much for. Who is that person, Pran? Who are they?”

“You must know,” Pran whispers. “You must.”

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Pran sees Pat take a measured breath. “What if I am wrong?”

“You can’t be.”

“Okay,” says Pat. “Okay,” he says again, this time decisively, and then, Pran barely has a moment to breathe before he feels warm lips meeting his, with the same desperation that Pran feels spilling out of his fingers.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.

Pran pulls him by his waist, pouring in all the years of love he had bottled up into his bottomless well of a heart. If this is the only chance he gets, he wants to make sure that Pat knows just how much he means to him. How long has he wanted this? How long has he imagined Pat pulling him for a kiss? Nothing could have prepared him for the reality of it. Pran does not know what he is doing, and neither does Pat, but they figure it out, somehow. Find a rhythm in sync with their beating hearts. Nothing in his imagination could be comparable to the way Pat feels in the present — his palms holding Pran’s face as though he is something to be cherished, something to be… loved; how it feels to have Pat’s body against his; how the night was made for just the two of them.

Nothing could have prepared Pran for the sheer terror that crackles into his skin just moments after the unadulterated joy. If this kiss is any indication, then Pat likes him. A dream and a nightmare come to life.

What is the point of it all if they can’t be together despite their feelings? This should have never happened.

When Pran slowly pulls away, Pat’s lips chase him, until he dazedly opens his eyes, blinking, as though waking up from a dream. Pat’s mouth twists into a radiant smile, too large for his face to contain. Pran’s eyes hurt just looking at it.

Immediately, Pat notices the change in Pran’s stance. His eyebrows pinch in concern, the smile slowly falling from his face. Pran hates being the reason for Pat’s frown but he cannot help the dread in his marrow from returning. He wants to pull himself from Pat’s grasp and wants to run, run, and run. His feet try moving, but his heart is glued to the moment here. This is everything that Pran has ever wanted, but he also knows that there is no way this could work, even if Pat and Pran wanted it so desperately. There is a whisper of hope in his mind. If they love each other enough, that voice says, things could work out. If you both want it. But when has only love been enough? When has love changed their family’s minds? There is no way that Pat would think it is worth it. And even if it does, when has—

“Hey, hey, hey,” Pat soothingly says. “Hey. Come back to me.”

Pran shakes his head and tries pulling himself away from Pat. He can’t stay here, in the light of Pat’s unending kindness.

“You want to leave?” Pat asks. Pran, unable to talk past the lump in his throat, nods.

“Can you stay here with me? Please? Just for a little while?”

In front of Pat’s wants, Pran’s self-preservation is abysmal. He nods, once, watching Pat’s face break out with relief.

“Pran,” Pat says. “You’re the only one I want as well. I like you so much, my heart hurts with it sometimes. You know that, right? You must know.”

Pran feels a fresh set of tears fill his eyes again.

“Is it really so pathetic hearing this from me?”

“No,” Pran says. “I wrote you a song,” he says, pitifully. “A song. Nothing can be more pathetic than that.”

“Nothing can be more beautiful than that,” Pat corrects, kissing Pran’s forehead. “Talk to me, then. What is it?”

“I don’t— I can’t. Pat. What is the point?”

“What is the point of my feelings for you? Is that what you’re asking?”

Pran takes a shuddering breath.

“Pran,” says Pat. “I need you to listen to me very, very carefully. In the last two years, the loneliness your absence brought along felt like it would suffocate me one day. Hell, I started talking to your guitar as though it was you. And then, you came into my life again, and everything around me started making sense again. You are an integral part of who I am, Pran. That is the point of my feelings. You don’t— we don’t have to do anything about our feelings for each other. But you deserve to know this.”

“Every classroom I go to, my eyes turn to find yours before I realise,” Pran says. “Some days, I missed you so much that I felt like coming to Bangkok again, despite my parent’s wishes. Everywhere I went, I thought I was seeing you. You deserve to know that, too.”

“Okay,” Pat says, seemingly processing Pran’s words. “Okay, okay, okay. What’s wrong then?”

“Are you scared?” Pat asks, when Pran cannot reply, and presses his hands over his chest again. “I am, too. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so much for another person. I have this urge to be by your side with such tenacity that everything else fades into the background. Nothing else matters to me. Nothing but you. That’s how I feel, all the time. Don’t you feel the same?”

Slowly, Pran nods. “I like you, too,” Pran whispers. “I like you so much. But it is terrifying. Even if we feel this way, how will we make things work? Our parents, they…”

“What matters is us, Pran. Do you think it would be worth it, to try? Our minds fused together could make us the most powerful person in all of Thailand, remember?” Pat laughs wetly. “I think we can figure this out, somehow. But do you think it would be worth it? Just to try?”

The reality of the situation seeps in, slowly. Here is the irrevocable truth: Pran likes Pat, and Pat likes him too. He can either walk away from here, walk away from Pat only to pretend that this never happened for the safety of his heart, he can stay here and tell Pat that he does not want anything to do with him again. In both those options, he imagines himself crawling back to Pat, one way or another. All his roads lead back to Pat, he knows.

The third and the final option is being upfront about what he desires, right here and now, placing his heart in Pat’s open palms.

Pran’s fear does not automatically vanish, but he trusts Pat more than he trusts himself. Trusts him more than life itself. The thought of giving it a try is terrifying, but the thought of giving up even after he knows how Pat feels makes him shiver under his skin. They deserve a try at it, don’t they? Even if it does not work out the way they want. Even if it—

“Pat,” says Pran. “I am terrified. But I think my feelings for you will always be bigger than the fear.”

Pat gasps in disbelief, his mouth stretching into another warm grin. Pran leans forward to plant a kiss on his cheek.

Pran almost bites his tongue again, clears his throat, and forces his mouth to say, “I like you. Let’s figure this out together?”

“I like you,” Pat says, a tone of finality in his voice. “Nothing else matters. Let’s figure this out together.”

Tomorrow will bring with it a new set of challenges, new ways of figuring out how to keep their hearts in check without making a mess of it for their parents to see. But tonight, they pull each other into a tight embrace, promising to hold each other’s hands through it all.