The Sports Day…

The school grounds were a chaotic blur of colors and noise. Students darted from one corner to another, shouting, laughing, chasing victory in every competition. Teachers raised their voices over the frenzy, struggling to maintain a semblance of order as whistles blew and announcements blared through the speakers.

But amidst the storm of excitement, Sorawit's eyes were locked onto only one person.

Wichian.

While the rest of the world buzzed like static, Wichian sat quietly under the shade of a tree, knees drawn up, sketchbook in hand. His pencil moved in graceful, deliberate strokes, capturing something only he could see. In that moment, he wasn’t a student at a sports event. He was an artist—serene, distant, unreachable. The noise couldn’t touch him. Time couldn’t reach him. He was in his own world.

And Sorawit—he was drowning in it.

Every time he saw Wichian sketching, something inside him paused. It was like watching a spell unfold. Wichian’s brows furrowed in focus, his lashes casting faint shadows on his cheeks, his lips slightly parted in concentration. He looked... peaceful. Beautiful. Like something Sorawit had no right to look at—but couldn’t look away from it.

He hated this feeling. He hated how Wichian could do this to him without even trying. He hated how, in that moment, Wichian was a stranger and yet the only person who made his heart beat like this.

“Wit! When shall we execute our plan?” Tor’s voice cut in, sharp and sudden.

But Sorawit didn’t even blink.

He didn’t hear him.

He couldn’t.

Because he was staring at Wichian—at the calm in his expression, the grace in his movements—and something inside Sorawit ached in a way he couldn’t explain.

A plan? What plan?

His world had narrowed to the boy who was never meant to mean this much.

“Wit… Wit!” Tor nudged him again.

“Huh?” Sorawit blinked, snapping back to reality.

“When should we carry out the plan?” Tor whispered.

“After lunch. Once he leaves to meet his mom, we move.”

---

Lunchtime…

Mr. and Mrs. Pong arrived at the school and went straight to the badminton court. There stood Wichian, warming up in his red t-shirt, black shorts, and the sneakers his mom had given him.

“Wit!” Mrs. Pong called.

“Mom!” Wichian smiled brightly and ran over.

“You thought we wouldn’t come?” she teased.

“There’s still time for the match…”, said Wichian 

“I didn’t want you skipping lunch. Come, let’s eat first.”

“Mom… I’m not really hungry.”

“No excuses.” She smiled and called out, “Honey! Get Wit. Let’s eat together.”

Mr. Pong called Sorawit, who answered quickly. “Dad, I’m right behind you. No need to call,” he chuckled.

“You should’ve just come to us then,” Mr. Pong teased.

“Oh, I thought you were here for your new son. Didn’t want to intrude,” Sorawit replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

A moment of awkward silence passed. Wichian and Mrs. Pong exchanged a hurt glance, but they said nothing.

“Wit, stop. Let’s just have lunch,” Mr. Pong said, brushing it off.

As the family walked to lunch, Sorawit gave a subtle signal to Pete and Tor. They nodded. The plan was on.

---

Back at the badminton court…

Lunch was over, and the four returned to the court.

“Mom, Dad, sit here. The match is about to start,” Wichian said as he headed toward the net.

“Did everything go according to plan?” Sorawit whispered to his friends.

“We did it. He’ll regret stepping into this match,” Tor said smugly.

Wichian stretched, adjusted his shoes, sipped his energy drink, and readied himself. The final match between the red and blue teams was about to begin. Sorawit, from the blue team, sat watching.

The whistle blew. The match began.

From the start, something felt off. Wichian’s shots were weaker than usual, his aim slightly off. He tried to push through but soon noticed the strings on his racket were loose. He couldn’t fix it mid-match and had no spare.

Still, he played on, pushing through the disadvantage.

By halftime, the score was 15–23. Wichian was trailing.

He ran to his seat and quickly restrung his racket. While doing so, he glanced at Sorawit and his friends—and saw the smirk.

He knew. They were behind it.

But he didn’t react. No anger. No disappointment. Just focus.

---

Second Half Begins…

With a freshly tightened racket, Wichian began to turn the tide. One point. Then another. 25–26.

On the sidelines, Sorawit whispered, “Why hasn’t the medicine worked yet?”

Flashback:

While Wichian had lunch with his parents, Pete had loosened the racket strings, and Tor had slipped sleeping pills into Wichian’s energy drink.

End flashback.

“It’ll kick in any moment,” Tor reassured.

Soon, Wichian began to falter. His vision blurred, his limbs felt heavy. He rubbed his eyes between serves.

He glanced at Sorawit—who was laughing.

"Wit… It’s you again, isn’t it?" Wichian murmured to himself, eyes narrowing.

He smashed a furious shot. 26–26.

Only two minutes remained.

The crowd roared. The atmosphere was electric.

Despite his body screaming for rest, Wichian fought through the haze. His eyes reddened, but he refused to blink. He refused to surrender.

Final shot.

It landed.

He won.

The red team cheered. Mr. and Mrs. Pong jumped to their feet, clapping loudly. But Wichian’s eyes found only Sorawit.

And then he smiled.

Not a smug smile. Not a “told you so” smile.

A soft, vulnerable, brotherly smile.

“We won, brother,” that smile seemed to say.

It hit Sorawit like a punch to the chest. For the first time, he saw his brother smile at him. Not in spite, but in bond.

“Wit! He won!” Pete whispered. “What now?”