"Why am I doing this?" The question echoed in his head like a taunt. "I hate him. I should hate him. So why am I standing here like this, carrying food for him like I care?".

Conflicted thoughts surged through his mind, but beneath them all was a single, undeniable truth—guilt. Guilt that gnawed at his chest, guilt that made his hands move even when his pride screamed no. It was his fault Wichian had a fever. It was his cruel words and actions that pushed things this far. His heart, no matter how much he tried to silence it, couldn’t look away anymore.

He hesitated, then knocked softly on the door.

No answer.

Another knock. Still silence.

"Is he asleep?" he whispered, his voice barely audible. He reached for the doorknob and paused. It turned easily—it hadn’t been locked. He pushed the door open slowly, the hinges creaking with a whisper of tension.

Inside, the room was dim. The air conditioner had been turned off, leaving a heavy stillness in the space. Wichian lay curled under his blanket, pale and shivering, lost in a fevered sleep. His breathing was soft and steady, but his skin glistened faintly with sweat.

Sorawit stepped closer, almost against his own will. His gaze settled on Wichian’s sleeping face, peaceful but fragile. Something in Sorawit's chest twisted painfully. His heart thudded in a rhythm he didn’t recognize—sharp, uneven, confused. He didn’t understand it. He didn't  want to.

He placed the bowl gently on the bedside table and stood there, staring. His fingers lingered, his expression conflicted. He wanted to say something—but words failed him. So instead, he did what he did best.

He hid.

He walked toward the door, pausing for one last glance. Then, as if needing to reclaim control, he slammed the door shut behind him—loud enough to wake the sleeping boy.

Startled, Wichian’s eyes flew open. His body jerked, and he instinctively looked toward the door that had just closed. Then his gaze shifted to the bedside table, where the bowl sat. A small sticky note was attached.

“JUST DON’T DIE. HAVE IT.”

A quiet smile curved with Wichian’s lips, subtle but real. He knew that handwriting. He didn’t need to guess.

Slowly, he pushed himself up and reached for the bowl. The porridge was still warm, and as he ate, a strange comfort settled into his chest. The fever was loosening its grip, little by little.

When he finished, he placed the bowl aside, pulled the blanket up, and laid back down. The note remained on the table like a whisper in the dark—sharp, clumsy, and full of unspoken care.

And with that, he drifted back into sleep—heart warmer than before.

---------

At school, the classroom buzzed with idle chatter as students settled into their seats. Sorawit sat in his usual spot, arms crossed, his face unreadable. The absence beside him felt louder than anything else.

“Wit... didn’t Wichian come to school today?” Tor leaned in, whispering just above the hum of conversation.

“No,” Sorawit replied coolly. “He’s sick. Might be out for a few days.”

“Fever?” Pete blurted out, a little too loud. “Is it because of the meds we mixed in?”

A few heads turned at the sudden volume. Tor’s eyes widened in panic, and he slapped a hand over Pete’s mouth. “Shhh! What the hell, Pete? Are you trying to get us caught?”

Pete pulled Tor’s hand away, frowning. “I didn’t mean to shout,” he muttered defensively.

Sorawit remained calm, almost detached. “Maybe,” he said flatly. “We probably shouldn’t have used anything. What if it had other side effects?”

Tor glared at Pete. “This is on you! You should’ve checked what you were buying before dragging us into this.”

“Oh, come on! How was I supposed to know?” Pete shot back. “They were just sleeping pills. No one said they’d cause a fever or... whatever else.”

Tor looked at Sorawit again, anxious now. “Wit, is he okay? Like, really okay?”

Sorawit’s eyes flickered for a moment, something soft and fleeting behind the usual indifference. “Yeah. I heard my dad say he’s recovering. He should be back in two days.”

Tor let out a long breath. “Thank God... It was just a fever. But what if it had been worse? What if—what if he ended up in the hospital or something? We could’ve been suspended. Worse.”

The classroom fell quiet as the bell rang, signaling the start of the period. Their teacher entered with a stack of books, her voice cutting through the tension like a knife.

As the students turned their attention to the lesson, Sorawit remained still, eyes drifting toward the empty desk that belonged to Wichian. No jokes today. No sabotage. The usual thrill felt hollow.

And for once, the silence in the room wasn’t peaceful. It was heavy—with guilt, with fear, and something unnamed lingering in Sorawit’s chest.

----------

That evening, the house was warm with the scent of home-cooked food and quiet conversation. Wichian stepped inside slowly, still a little pale from the fever, but already looking better. As he entered the living room, he spotted his father and Mrs. Vamika is seated with trays of nutritious food laid out in front of them.

“Chian, if you don’t eat properly, how will you get back to school?” Mrs. Vamika chided gently, holding out a spoonful of soup. “Didn’t you say you want to be the class topper? Then be a good boy and eat.”

Wichian gave a small, tired smile but didn't resist. His appetite was still weak, but he didn’t want to disappoint her.

Mr. Pong chuckled from beside her. “It’s fine even if you don’t go back to school right away. Just get healthy first. You can take a few more days off. I’ll cover for you. I’ve got your back,” he teased, ruffling his son’s hair with fatherly affection.

But behind them—unseen, unheard—the air changed.

Sorawit had just walked in.

His eyes locked onto the scene. his father doting on that boy, their arms around him, fussing over every bite. His breath caught in his throat, his heart racing not with concern—but with heat. A fire roared inside him.

One day. Just one damn day of staying home, and already his dad had taken leave? Already he was acting like Wichian was some fragile prince who deserved royal care?

Sorawit’s jaw clenched.

“You’ll never change, Wichian,” he muttered under his breath, fury bubbling in his chest like lava. “Everything always turns to revolve around you.”

Without a word, Sorawit stormed into the living room, his presence in a sudden wave of cold. His eyes met all three of theirs for a heartbeat—sharp, distant, burning.

Then, he turned away and walked straight to his room.

The door slammed shut behind him like thunder.

Mrs. Vamika flinched. She stood instinctively, about to follow him, but Mr. Pong reached out and gently held her wrist.

“Let him be, honey,” he said softly. “Right now, Chian needs us more. Wit... he’ll understand, eventually. He just needs time.”

But Wichian didn’t feel reassured.

Sitting between the two adults who loved him, surrounded by warmth and comfort, he felt none of it. His eyes lingered on the hallway where Sorawit had vanished, his heart aching with a quiet guilt he didn’t know how to ease.

He knew the look Sorawit had given. Knew it would haunt him all night.

And the worst part?

He couldn’t even blame him.

---------

The next morning:

Sorawit got ready for school and stepped out of his room, only to find Wichian emerging from his room at the same time. Their eyes met—just for a second—but Sorawit quickly broke the contact and looked away.

The air between them was heavy with unspoken feelings as they silently made their way down the stairs.

“Chian! You should’ve rested for at least two more days. What’s the rush?” Mrs. Vamika called out as she noticed him.

“It’s okay, Mom. I’m good to go now,” Wichian replied softly.

“At least have some breakfast, then?”

Watching the gentle exchange between mother and son, Sorawit felt a strange ache inside him. He quietly turned away, trying to slip out the door unnoticed.

“Wit!” Mrs. Vamika’s voice rang out sharply, halting him mid-step.

He turned around, startled.

“Chian, you’ve become so stubborn lately,” she scolded lightly. “You never appreciate your mom’s hard work to cook for you and just reject it like that.”

Then she turned her attention to Sorawit, her tone softening. “Wit, I made a lot of food this morning—for you too, son. Won’t you at least try some? I promise you’ll like it.”

Sorawit stared at her, expression unreadable, as if caught off guard. After a moment, he gave a small nod. “Okay.”

He walked toward the dining room without another word. Both Mrs. Vamika and Wichian looked surprised—but quietly pleased. She quickly followed after him to serve the food, while Wichian stayed back, watching the scene unfold in silence.