Nara's composure doesn't waver, but Fah feels the subtle tensing of her girlfriend's body beside her. They exchange a glance loaded with unspoken understanding before approaching Phat with measured steps, the gravel crunching beneath their shoes in an uncomfortable rhythm that matches Fah's accelerating heartbeat.
"Here?" Fah asks, glancing around at the scattered students moving through the parking lot. The thought of having this conversation in public makes her stomach twist into knots.
Phat shakes his head, a conflicted expression crossing his face. "Not here," he mutters, pushing himself away from the car. "Let's go somewhere more private."
The walk to the small garden tucked behind the faculty building feels endless. Each step seems to echo in Fah's ears, her palm growing damp against Nara's. The garden—usually a sanctuary of peace with its stone benches and flowering shrubs—now feels like a courtroom awaiting judgment. The late afternoon light filters through the canopy of leaves above, casting dappled shadows that dance across Phat's troubled features as he turns to face them.
"How long?" he finally asks, his voice cracking slightly on the second word. "How long have you two..." He trails off, unable or unwilling to complete the question, his hands gesturing vaguely between them.
Fah feels the weight of his gaze like a physical burden. The gentle breeze carries the sweet scent of nearby plumeria blossoms, a jarring contrast to the heaviness of the moment. She opens her mouth to speak, but the words dissolve on her tongue, leaving only a bitter taste of anxiety.
Nara steps forward, her shoulders squared with quiet dignity. "How long have we had feelings for each other?" she completes his question, her voice steady despite the tremor Fah detects in her fingertips. "Does it matter?"
Phat's face crumples, the mask of composure slipping to reveal raw hurt beneath. "Of course it matters," he says, his voice a blend of confusion and accusation. "We've been friends for years, Fah. Years. And now suddenly you're—" He cuts himself off, running his fingers through his hair in frustration.
The garden around them seems to hold its breath. A butterfly, vibrant orange against the emerald foliage, flutters between them before disappearing into the shelter of a nearby bush. The irony isn't lost on Fah—how something so delicate can navigate the world with such freedom while she feels trapped in this moment, pinned by Phat's wounded gaze.
"It wasn't sudden," Fah finally says, her voice barely audible above the distant chatter of students. She swallows against the tightness in her throat. "Nothing about what I feel for Nara was sudden."
Phat's eyes narrow, skepticism etched into the furrows of his brow. "I saw you," he says abruptly, the words tumbling out like stones. "Few weeks ago, by the east wing corridor. I was going to the library and I saw you two... kissing."
The memory of that moment floods Fah's senses—the cool wall against her back, Nara's warmth pressing close, the intoxicating scent of jasmine in Nara's hair, and the sweet surrender of their lips meeting in a stolen moment they thought was private. Her cheeks burn with the realization that Phat had witnessed their intimacy.
"I stood there watching, unable to move," Phat continues, his voice hollow with disbelief. "At first I thought I was seeing things. I kept telling myself it couldn't be real. Not Fah. Not with..." His gaze flicks briefly to Nara before returning to Fah. "I couldn't accept it. I still can't."
A heavy silence descends upon them, thick with unspoken words and tangled emotions. Somewhere in the distance, a group of students laugh, the sound jarring against the tension surrounding them.
Nara's hand finds Fah's, their fingers intertwining in a silent declaration. The simple gesture sends warmth coursing through Fah's veins, steadying her racing heart.
"I've had feelings for Fah since the first day I saw her in Professor Sakchai's literature class," Nara admits, her voice soft yet unwavering. "The way she spoke about Kawabata's novels with such passion... it was like watching someone reveal their soul piece by piece."
Fah turns to Nara, surprise widening her eyes. This confession—so plainly stated yet profound—catches her off guard. She'd never known the exact moment Nara's feelings had begun, and hearing it now, in this garden of confrontation, makes her heart flutter despite the tension.
Phat's expression shifts, a complicated blend of pain and resignation washing over his features. He looks away, focusing on a small stone fountain whose gentle trickle seems to mock the turmoil of their conversation.
"You never even noticed, did you?" he says finally, his voice so quiet that Fah has to lean forward to catch the words. "All these years. All the coffee shops I suggested because I knew they were your favorites. All the times I stayed up helping you study for exams when I should have been studying myself." He laughs, a hollow sound that scrapes against the afternoon air. "The birthday gift last year—that collection of poems by Angkarn Kalayanapong that took me three months to track down because you mentioned once, just once, that you loved his work."
The realisation dawns on Fah like a slow, painful sunrise. Each memory he mentions reconfigures itself in her mind—casual moments she'd interpreted as friendship now revealing hidden depths of meaning she'd never perceived. The box of poems, wrapped in handmade paper with pressed flowers, had seemed like a thoughtful gift from a dear friend. Now she understands the hours of intention behind it, the silent declaration it represented.
"Phat," she whispers, her voice catching on his name. "I didn't know."
"Of course you didn't," he responds, rubbing the back of his neck. "I never had the courage to tell you directly. I thought I had time. I thought... eventually, you would see me. Really see me." He glances at their joined hands, Fah's fingers still intertwined with Nara's. "But you were seeing someone else all along."
A fallen plumeria blossom rests near his foot, its white petals tinged with yellow at the center—perfect despite having fallen from its branch. Phat nudges it gently with his shoe, a gesture so forlorn that Fah feels a sharp pang of guilt twist through her chest.
"I was going to tell you," he continues, looking up at the canopy of leaves above them. A shaft of sunlight catches his face, illuminating the sheen of unshed tears in his eyes. "After the mid-term break. I had it all planned. Dinner at that riverside place you mentioned wanting to try. I even practiced what I would say." His voice breaks slightly. "Three years, Fah. Three years of loving you in silence."
The weight of his words settles over the garden like evening dew. Fah feels Nara's hand tighten almost imperceptibly around hers—not possessive, but reassuring. The gentle pressure grounds her as memories cascade through her mind: Phat waiting outside her classes, his patient smile when she'd arrive late to their study sessions, the way he'd remember tiny details about her preferences that she herself had forgotten mentioning.
"There's more," Phat says after a long moment, his voice steadier now despite the visible effort it takes him to continue. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, worn notebook with a blue fabric cover—the kind sold at the university bookstore, nothing special except for the careful way his fingers cradle it. "I've been planning something. For months now."
He opens the notebook, and Fah catches glimpses of his neat handwriting filling the pages, interspersed with what look like sketches, lists, and tiny pressed flowers flattened between the sheets. Her curiosity rises despite the heaviness in her chest.
"After graduation," he continues, flipping through the pages with a kind of reverent sadness, "I was going to take you to Chiang Mai. Not just anywhere in Chiang Mai—to that writer's retreat you mentioned in second year, the one tucked into the mountains where Nopporn Vanitchapichai wrote his most famous works."
Fah's breath catches. She'd mentioned that place once, maybe twice, during a late-night conversation about their dreams. The retreat was famous among literary circles but notoriously exclusive, accepting only established writers or those with special recommendations.
"You remember that?" she asks, her voice small against the rustling leaves above.
Phat nods, a sad smile touching his lips. "I remember everything you say, Fah." He turns the notebook toward her, revealing a detailed itinerary written in his meticulous hand. "Three days at the retreat. I contacted Ajarn Supachai, who knows the director. He agreed to write us a recommendation. I've been saving from my part-time job for over a year."
Fah's eyes trace over the carefully planned schedule—morning writing sessions overlooking the mist-covered valleys, afternoon workshops with local poets, evenings by the fireplace with tea and literary discussions. It's perfect—so perfect that she feels something crack inside her chest at the thoughtfulness behind it.
"That's not all," Phat continues, turning to another page where a pressed jasmine flower sits beside a sketch of what appears to be a garden path. "I found the exact spot where Nopporn proposed to his wife, under the ancient banyan tree on the property. I thought..." His voice falters, then steadies. "I thought it would be the perfect place to tell you how I felt. How I've always felt."
He flips another page, revealing a small photograph of a silver ring with a single moonstone set in an intricate band of twisted silver. The moonstone catches a sliver of sunlight, sending prismatic flecks dancing across the page. It's not an engagement ring—Phat isn't that presumptuous—but a promise, a beginning, a physical manifestation of the future he had imagined for them. The stone's milky surface seems to hold galaxies within it, worlds of possibility that now collapse under the weight of reality.
"It reminded me of that night during the Loy Krathong festival last year," Phat says, his voice taking on a dreamlike quality. "We were by the river, watching the krathongs float away. You pointed at the moon's reflection on the water and said it looked like the universe was both above and below us." His finger traces the edge of the photograph. "I wanted to give you something that would remind you of that moment. Of us."
Fah remembers that night with startling clarity—the scent of incense and marigolds, the warm breeze carrying fragments of prayer and laughter across the water. She remembers standing beside Phat as they released their krathongs, watching the tiny boats of banana leaves and flowers drift away, carrying their wishes into the current. She remembers feeling content, peaceful.
But she also remembers how her heart had leapt just two weeks later when Nara had first approached her after class, how a simple conversation about literature had left her breathless in a way she'd never experienced before. How their fingers had accidentally brushed over a shared book, sending electricity coursing through her veins. How Nara's voice, soft and melodic, had followed her into her dreams that night.
"I never saw it," Phat continues, his eyes fixed on the photograph. "How could I have been so blind? All those times you mentioned Nara in conversation, how your eyes would light up when she entered a room." He closes the notebook gently, as if putting to rest a living thing. "Three years I spent planning a future with you, and it took her what—three months?—to capture what I never could."
The truth of his words hangs in the air between them, undeniable and raw. Fah feels Nara shift beside her, a nearly imperceptible movement that communicates volumes: discomfort, sympathy, perhaps even a hint of pride intermingled with guilt.
"It wasn't a competition," Fah says softly, though she knows her words offer little comfort. "What happened between Nara and me wasn't... planned. It wasn't something either of us sought out deliberately."
"Wasn't it?" Phat looks directly at Nara now, his expression not accusatory but genuinely questioning. "Did you know about my feelings for her?"
Nara meets his gaze steadily. "I suspected," she admits, her voice calm but not unkind. "The way you looked at her, how attentive you were to her needs—it wasn't hard to see."
"And yet you pursued her anyway."
Nara's eyes soften, her usual composure giving way to something more vulnerable than Fah has ever witnessed in public. The dappled light shifts through the leaves above, painting her face in a mosaic of light and shadow that seems to reveal both sides of her—the confident, self-assured woman and the person beneath who feels deeply, painfully.
"Yes," Nara admits, her voice barely above a whisper. "I pursued her despite suspecting your feelings." She releases Fah's hand and takes a step toward Phat, her movements measured and deliberate. "And for that, I am truly sorry."
The admission hangs in the air, surprising both Phat and Fah. Nara—who never apologizes easily, who holds herself with such careful dignity—now stands before them with her defenses lowered, her usually immaculate posture softening at the edges.
"I watched you both for weeks before I ever approached Fah," Nara continues, her gaze steady on Phat's face. "I saw how you carried her bag when it looked heavy, how you'd bring her favorite oolong tea during exam week, how your eyes followed her across rooms." She pauses, swallowing visibly. "I recognised your love for her because it mirrored my own growing feelings."
A small bird lands on the branch above them, its wings creating a momentary flutter that draws their eyes upward. For a second, they are united in this simple distraction, three humans connected by the beauty of an ordinary moment amid their extraordinary pain.
"I told myself you hadn't made a move," Nara continues when the bird flies away. "I convinced myself that your hesitation meant you wouldn't act on your feelings, that perhaps they weren't as deep as they appeared." Her fingers find the jade pendant at her throat—a nervous habit Fah has come to recognise. "It was a convenient lie I told myself to justify what I wanted."
Phat's expression shifts subtly, surprise replacing some of the hurt in his eyes. He clearly hadn't expected this level of honesty, this willingness to acknowledge fault.
"There was a day in October," Nara says, her voice taking on a reflective quality. "You were both sitting under the big banyan tree near the humanities building. You were reading something to her—I couldn't hear what—but I remember how animated your face was, how perfectly attuned you were to her reactions." She shakes her head slightly, as if still seeing the scene. "I stood there watching, and I felt two things simultaneously: admiration for the depth of your devotion, and a searing jealousy that physically hurt."
Fah tries to recall this moment, searching her memory for this ordinary day that had meant so much to both Phat and Nara while she herself had simply lived it, unaware of the currents of emotion swirling around her. Was it the day Phat had brought her excerpts from that contemporary Thai poet he'd discovered? Or perhaps when they were studying Hemingway's minimalism for Professor Sakchai's class?
The realization that she has been the unwitting center of such profound feelings from both sides leaves her dizzy, as if the ground beneath the garden has tilted slightly on its axis.
"I almost walked away that day," Nara continues, her voice threading through the garden like silk. "I nearly convinced myself to bury my feelings and leave you both to what seemed inevitable." She glances at Fah, a flash of vulnerability crossing her features. "But then in Professor Sakchai's class the next week, Fah spoke about the concept of wabi-sabi in Japanese literature—finding beauty in imperfection and impermanence—and something in me broke open."
The memory crystallizes in Fah's mind: standing before the class, her voice growing steadier as she explained how embracing transience could lead to a deeper appreciation of life's fleeting moments. She remembers scanning the room and finding Nara's eyes fixed on her with an intensity that had made her stumble over her words.
"I told myself that life is too short for hesitation," Nara says, her gaze returning to Phat. "That if I felt something so powerful, I had to act on it or risk living with regret." She takes a deep breath, squaring her shoulders slightly. "It was selfish. I knew it even then."
Phat stands very still, his notebook now closed and clutched tightly in his hand. The pages of plans and dreams hidden from view but not forgotten.
"Would you have done anything differently," he asks after a long moment, "if you had known for certain how I felt?"
It's a question that cuts to the heart of the matter, and Fah finds herself holding her breath, suddenly desperate to hear Nara's answer.