He started the engine again, the car lurching forward with a low growl.

“Do you even understand what you’re doing?” Wichian asked, his voice rising. “It’s not just about the presentation, Wit! What will your dad think when he finds out? He’s already told you he’d send me away in two months. What more do you want from me?!”

Wit didn’t flinch. His eyes remained forward, face unreadable.

“Can’t you just leave me alone for these last two months? That’s all I’m asking.” Wichian’s voice cracked. “What if your dad changes his mind because of this? Don’t you want me out of your house so badly?”

For a moment, something in Wit flickered. A quiet, unexplainable ache surged in his chest.

“I’ll be gone soon,” Wichian said, softer this time. “So stop tormenting me. Just wait. Two more months… and I’ll disappear.”

Wit’s throat tightened. He spoke without looking at him. “Then… promise me you’ll leave for good after graduation. Only then I’ll stop.”

There was silence. Then Wichian turned his face slightly, expression blank.

“I promise. I won’t steal your dad. I won’t take my mom away from him either. After I graduate, I’ll walk out of this family. Forever.”

Wit should’ve felt relief. But the words didn’t comfort him. “Walk out of this family.” That phrase echoed in his mind like a curse. He should’ve smiled, should’ve felt like he’d won—but instead, his heart ached.

“Fine. But don’t think this changes anything,” he said, colder than ever. “I still hate you.”

Wichian’s chest tightened. He didn’t respond.

After a few seconds of silence... 

“…And why did you do that to Paul?” Wichian asked. “I saw you taking his phone. What were you trying to do?”

Wit’s jaw tensed. “Nothing. None of your business.”

But deep down, he knew—even if he tried to explain why he deleted Wichian’s number from Paul’s contacts, he wouldn’t have the words.

“Fine. Forget it. Pull over. Let me drive. You’re underage—and if we get caught, you’ll get fined.”

Wit scoffed. “As if you have a license?”

“I don’t,” Wichian said calmly. “But it’ll still look better if I’m behind the wheel. If your dad finds out you were fined for reckless driving… he’d be disappointed.”

That struck harder than expected.

Wit glanced at him for the first time since the drive began—just a quick glance—but enough to see the worry in Wichian’s eyes. Quietly, he pulled the car over.

They switched seats without a word.

Wichian drove this time, calm and steady, the wind no longer roaring.

“…What about your car?” Wichian asked after a long silence.

“I asked the driver to take it home. He’s probably behind us now,” Wit muttered.

But neither of them looked back.

At Sorawit’s House:

The soft hum of a car engine pierced the quiet afternoon. Mr. Pong and Mrs. Vamika, seated in the living room, exchanged a quick glance and hurried outside, smiles already forming at the corners of their lips. They had been waiting for Wichian.

But their smiles faltered the moment they saw who stepped out first—Sorawit.

Dressed neatly, his expression unreadable, Sorawit closed the car door with a soft thud. Wichian remained inside, sitting motionless in the passenger seat, his eyes fixed on the floor of the car as if trying to summon the strength to face what waited outside. After a long pause, he finally stepped out—reluctant, shoulders tense, and gaze carefully avoiding his parents.

The sight stunned both Mr. Pong and Mrs. Vamika. Their sons… arriving together?

A wave of conflicted emotions swept through them—was this a sign of bonding? Or had something gone terribly wrong? Their hearts fluttered with cautious hope, but shadows of unease crept in. Wichian looked exhausted. Sorawit, stone-faced.

Moments later, another car—Sorawit's own—pulled up behind. It was empty, save for the two drivers.

Mrs. Vamika stepped forward quickly, worry clouding her features. “Chian, sweetheart… what happened to your eyes? You look… upset. Is something wrong?”

Before Wichian could answer, Mr. Pong turned sharply to Sorawit. “Wit! Why were you with him? Didn’t you have school today?”

“I... I didn’t go to school,” Sorawit replied quietly. “I just… I went to attend Phi Wichian’s presentation. To support him.”

Mr. Pong narrowed his eyes. “Are you sure? You didn’t… cause any trouble, did you?”

Sorawit tensed. His fists curled slightly at his sides. The silence that followed was thick.

But Wichian stepped in, voice subdued, “No. He didn’t do anything. I… I just messed up my presentation a little. That’s why I didn’t get first place. I came second.”

Relief washed over their parents’ faces.

“Oh, thank God,” Mr. Pong sighed, placing a gentle hand on Wichian’s shoulder. “Is that what’s got you down? Chian, it’s alright. You don’t always have to be first. Sometimes, being second teaches you a lot more than winning ever could.”

“Yes, darling,” Mrs. Vamika added warmly. “Don’t let it trouble you. Now come inside, have some lunch. Your father has something planned for us after.”

With awkward smiles and nods, the family slowly moved indoors and gathered at the dining table. The clatter of dishes and soft conversation filled the air—but Wichian’s mind was far from the room. Each bite he took felt heavy.

Across from him, Sorawit kept his gaze fixed on his plate, never once looking up. Not even when Wichian stared straight at him, his eyes full of pain and unspoken questions.

How could he sit there so calmly… after everything?

Wichian’s mind spun with flashes of the ruined presentation, the sting of Paul’s disappointment, and the way Wit had stood there like a ghost at the edge of it all—present but never fully reachable.

“Boys,” Mr. Pong suddenly announced, setting his spoon down with a smile, “Take a little rest after lunch. I’ve booked us some evening tickets. We’re going to the movies.”

There was a beat of hesitation from both of them—but they nodded, offering faint, automatic smiles.

No one said it aloud, but the tension at the table remained—quiet, invisible, but impossible to ignore.

-------------

Around six in the evening, the family stepped into the cool darkness of a luxurious cinema hall. Mr. and Mrs. Pong, flanked by Wichian and Sorawit, found their seats in the middle row. The lights dimmed, and the film—a whimsical fantasy filled with magical creatures and epic quests—began to unfold on screen.

It was exactly the kind of story Wichian adored, his eyes glued to the vibrant scenes. But Sorawit, sitting beside him, looked increasingly restless. He slouched deeper into his seat, suppressing a yawn. Dragons, prophecies, chosen ones—it all felt like noise to him.

Half an hour in, Sorawit leaned closer to his stepfather and whispered, “Bathroom,” before slipping away from the aisle.

Outside, the dim lighting of the hallway felt like a relief. But as he turned the corner, a familiar figure froze him in his tracks.

Paul.

Their eyes locked.

The calm in Sorawit shattered like glass.

“You really don’t get it, do you?” Sorawit hissed, voice low and sharp. “Even after I deleted his number… you still found a way to follow him?”

Paul blinked, completely thrown off. “What are you talking about? I’m here for the movie. Not for you. Not for Wichian. Just… wait.....”