META'S POV:
The coppery, rusty taste of blood flooded my mouth, thick and metallic, coating my tongue. My jaw ached, my cheek throbbed. "I said I didn't steal her money! Someone must have put it in my bag!" I tried to speak calmly, to explain, to make them understand, but the words felt like pebbles rattling in an empty tin. No one believed me. Not a single soul. Was it because my family was poor? Was it because of my face, sharp and shadowed, already deemed villainous, like something ripped from a drama? They just kept blaming me, piling accusations onto things I'd never done. A knot of cold despair tightened in my gut.
"Just tell the truth, Meta, and your punishment will be simple. Stop making it complicated." Even my teacher, Ajarn Malinee Srithara, her face a mask of condescending pity, didn't believe me. I was the one getting beaten, I was the one at fault. Why was the world like this? Why did no one ever believe me? Why was money always the center of everything, always the scales tipping against me?
"But I never did what you're trying to blame me for!" I tried to reason out, my voice growing hoarse, but it was useless. I saw it in their eyes—the disgust, the judgment, the smug satisfaction of condemnation. They were ready to crucify me for a crime I hadn't committed. Hope, a fragile, flickering flame, guttered and died within me. I was utterly, devastatingly alone.
Then, a sudden, jarring sound. The heavy wooden door of the Principal's office was rudely flung open without a single knock, slamming against the wall with a deafening CRACK! I flinched, my bruised body tensing, expecting more punishment, more accusations. But then a voice, clear and unwavering, sliced through the stifling air.
"I know who the real culprit is!"
Every head snapped towards the doorway. I looked too, my vision blurred by pain and unshed tears, making the figure a hazy silhouette against the brighter hallway. It was a girl, with a sharp, short boy cut, standing there with an impossible defiance. I didn't recognize her. I'd never seen her before. My teacher, Ajarn Malinee, immediately went pale, her face draining of color as if she'd seen a ghost. Her previous composure fractured, replaced by a nervous, almost panicked tremor.
"What are you saying, child? There are a lot of students pointing at Meta! Stop lying in front of the school Principal! You will be punished for lying in front of everyone!" Ajarn Malinee's voice rose, shrill and desperate, trying her best to scare this unknown student. I saw the girl hesitate, her small frame rigid. She took a deep, shuddering breath, gathering herself.
Then, a sound like a thunderclap. "SMACK!!!" A loud, brutal slap echoed through the room, the sharp crack of her two hands hitting her own face, reverberating off the walls, silencing every gasp. My eyes widened. She had just slapped herself. Hard.
"I'm not lying and I have evidence in my hand!" she declared, her voice trembling but defiant.
Ajarn Malinee immediately stood, her eyes wide with fury, and practically lunged towards her. "Stop pretending you have evidence, child! You can now leave if you will not stop saying nonsense!" She tried to physically push the girl out of the office, her grip on the girl's arm tight, her face contorted.
"I'M NOT SAYING NONSENSE, YOU LYING BITCH!!!"
The words, raw and unfiltered, detonated in the quiet room. Everyone, including me, was absolutely frozen, utterly shocked. My jaw dropped. Did she just call the teacher a bitch? I whispered to myself, unable to believe what I'd just heard. The Principal, who had been observing the scene with a stern, impassive face, now slowly stood, her expression hardening, clearly dissatisfied with such blatant disrespect.
"WHAT DID YOU CALL ME?!" Ajarn Malinee shrieked, her voice reaching a crescendo. The girl, small against her towering fury, looked terrified. Her eyes were wide, her lips trembling, but she held Ajarn Malinee's gaze. She was trying her best to be brave. And in that moment, seeing this unknown girl stand against her, despite her fear, something shifted within me. She was the first person, aside from my family, who had ever stood up for me like that.
"I call you a lying bitch," she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper, yet it cut through the tension like a knife, "because I have a picture of you putting that money inside that boy's bag!"
Ajarn Malinee's eyes went wide with pure terror. She immediately clapped a hand over the girl's mouth, trying desperately to silence her and drag her out the room. "What are you saying?!" she hissed, her voice frantic. But as she struggled, the girl, with a surge of unexpected strength, wrenched her arm free and, with a desperate, fluid motion, threw something towards me.
It was a small, chunky camera, and a glossy, rectangular piece of paper. The camera landed with a soft thud on the floor, but the paper fluttered directly into my lap. I knew that camera—it was called a Pol... a Polaroid camera. And the film she'd thrown to me was the picture itself: undeniable, stark proof of how my teacher, Ajarn Malinee Srithara, had, during breaktime, slipped a wad of money into my bag.
"Let me see," the Principal commanded, her voice dangerously quiet, extending a hand for the film. I shakily handed it to her. Her eyes scanned the image, and with each passing second, her face grew darker, a storm gathering behind her gaze.
"Ajarn Malinee Srithara!" The Principal's voice was now a thunderous roar, echoing the fury of my dream. "Let go of the child and explain this to me!"
My teacher immediately released the girl, her face crumbling. She started to beg, to babble excuses, tears streaming down her face. She claimed she did it because she was 'uncomfortable' with me, because I 'looked troublesome,' and that I 'always stayed alone' and even 'scared' my classmates. The Principal listened, her expression cold, then unleashed a blistering lecture. She reminded Malinee that as a teacher, she was responsible for making the classroom a safe and accommodating place for everyone, no matter their background or how they looked. She was a shame to all teachers out there, a disgrace to have the nerve to frame an innocent student.
The ringing of my phone's alarm, a stark, digital sound, cut through the oppressive atmosphere of the dream, pulling me back to the sterile quiet of my university condo. I lay there for a moment, the taste of blood still phantom in my mouth, the echo of that girl's defiant shout still vibrating in my ears. I still remembered her, even if I couldn't quite recall her face anymore – just the overwhelming feeling of a sudden, unexpected light piercing through my darkest moment. I still owed her a big one. But then, the memory twisted. The day that incident happened was the day I last saw that girl, because she was hit by a car just outside our school. Based on the rumors, she died. I never saw her in the school after that. Even if I wanted to properly thank her, she was already gone. What the hell was I dreaming about?
Suddenly, the image of Thyme, happily eating, popped into my head, and the intensity of that bad dream slowly started to recede. His uninhibited joy over food, the way he'd practically inhaled that fried rice – it was so absurdly normal, so utterly now, that it pushed back the suffocating grip of the past. The lingering metallic taste in my mouth faded, replaced by a strange, almost sweet aftertaste of... something ridiculous.
I forced myself upright, a cold sweat slicking my skin. The dream always left me hollow, that same helpless rage churning in my stomach. The injustice, the whispers, the feeling of being condemned for something beyond my control. My eyes flickered to the digital clock on my bedside table. 7:45 AM. Damn. Football practice. I had almost forgotten, lost in the depths of that recurring nightmare.
I swung my legs off the bed, the familiar chill of the polished floor grounding me. My condo was always neat, everything in its place. I walked to my closet, pulling open a drawer to reveal my meticulously cleaned and arranged football cleats, laces neatly tucked in. The faint scent of leather and grass clung to them. I pulled on my practice gear, the familiar fabric a small comfort against the lingering unease.
I arrived at the football field. The morning sun was already beating down, glistening off the dew-kissed grass. Some of my teammates were already practicing, their shouts echoing across the green expanse. I immediately went to the bench, dropping my bag with a soft thud and pulling off my shirt, the cool air a welcome shock against my skin. I needed to stretch, to burn off the lingering tendrils of that dream. My best friend, Non, Witsanukonchai Thepphachon, arrived later than me, a whirlwind of panicked energy. He was running as fast as he could so he wouldn't be late, but he was late. Our captain, a man who believed in strict discipline, immediately caught him. Non was sentenced to a grueling warm-up: stretching, then running ten laps around the field before he could even think about joining practice. I watched him grimace, a familiar camaraderie in our shared misery of morning drills.
We were halfway through our practice, the rhythm of the game a steadying force, when a familiar voice, shrill with panic, sliced through the air. "Move away!" It was distant at first, then closer, louder, cutting through the usual field sounds. I didn't recognize it at first, but then an image, vivid and impossible to shake, popped into my head: the smiling snotty kid while eating. The Master of Food Who Smiles While Eating. That was definitely Thyme. And when I turned around, my eyes scanning the chaos, I noticed him, a flash of white uniform, moving directly towards me, a human wave of furious admirers and angry girls hot on his heels.
"Hey, Snotty Kid, what are you doing here?" I called out, my voice surprisingly calm despite the impending human avalanche. What the hell was this kid doing? He was like a magnet for trouble, and somehow, I was always drawn into his orbit.
"I don't have time to explain!" he screeched back, his voice thin with desperation. Before I could even react, he grabbed my arm. His grip was surprisingly strong, like a vise, and he yanked me forward, pulling me into his frantic, chaotic escape. "Wait! What are you doing?!" I tried to dig my heels in, but then I turned, saw the sheer, terrifying number of students converging on us, and my eyes flickered with a rare moment of something that looked suspiciously like comprehension, perhaps even a flicker of alarm. This wasn't just a handful of obsessed fans; this was a mob. He was running for his life. Without another word, I matched his frantic pace, pulling him alongside me towards the bench. We grabbed my bag with a casual sweep, a practiced motion despite the chaos, and then veered towards the parking lot. I noticed he spaced out for a moment, his eyes wide and unfocused, but I didn't know why. There wasn't time to ask. The roar of the crowd was getting closer.
When we were finally inside the BMW, the plush leather seats a stark contrast to the chaos outside, I tried teasing him, just to see him squirm. I slowed my movements, deliberately taking my time, and it was funny how worried he was, constantly peering out the window, convinced his chasers would find us. He was a bundle of raw nerves, and for some reason, watching him like that... it almost made me forget the nightmare, the anger, the constant feeling of being trapped.
I drove the car without any real destination. He just said we needed to go anywhere his chasers wouldn't find us. The entire ride was strangely quiet after the initial burst of panic. The engine purred, the city lights blurred into streaks, and the only sound was the gentle hum of the tires on the asphalt. The silence was thick, but not uncomfortable. It was a shared space, a fragile bubble of calm.
"Why are you being chased by those students? What trouble did you cause, Snotty Kid?" I asked, breaking the silence, the teasing tone a familiar shield against anything too serious. I didn't hear any response for a while, so I turned my head towards him. That's when I noticed he had fallen asleep. His head was leaned against the window, his breathing soft and even. He looked utterly exhausted, perhaps from the adrenaline, or maybe just from the relentless weight of his own fears. Why is this guy so endearing? He looks like a gentle lamb, completely vulnerable in his sleep. A small, involuntary smile tugged at my lips. It was a genuine smile, a rarity for me, seeing him so utterly peaceful, so unburdened by the chaos that defined his waking hours.
I decided to pull the car over to the side of the road for a moment, the quiet hum of the engine the only sound. I reached into the back seat and grabbed a soft, cashmere blanket, a leftover from some forgotten road trip. Gently, carefully, I leaned over and covered Thyme with it, tucking it around his shoulders. I don't know why I wanted to be kind to this kid. It was only the second time we'd met, and he was annoying, but my heart and my mind were telling me to take care of him. It was a strange, undeniable urge. I don't know why, but he was like a peaceful place, a sanctuary. Every time I was with him, I felt relaxed, as if all my problems, all the swirling shadows of my past, would simply vanish. The quiet hum of the engine, the soft warmth of the blanket, his peaceful breathing beside me... it was a stillness I hadn't realized I craved.
I don't know how long I had been driving after that, maybe three hours, but I didn't care. I'd been driving instinctively, following a whisper in my mind, a pull towards a place I'd never consciously visited. I decided to go to Hua Hin Beach. Although it's 190-220km away from Bangkok, a significant drive, something inside me, an insistent, aching longing, wanted me to go there. I'd never been to this beach before, not truly, but the name echoed in my memory like a half-forgotten song.
We finally arrived. The first thing I saw was the shimmering expanse of the Gulf of Thailand, the morning sun painting streaks of gold across the horizon. The salty air filled the car, carrying with it a strange sense of déjà vu. And then, without warning, a wave of inexplicable emotion washed over me. I felt happy, yes, a strange lightness, but at the exact same time, a profound, aching sadness. My vision blurred. My tears, unbidden, started to run down my cheeks, hot and sudden. I pressed a hand to my face, confused. Why was I crying?
"Where are we?" Thyme's voice, soft and groggy from sleep, cut through my confusion, pulling me back from the edge of my overwhelming feelings. I turned my head towards him, still wiping furiously at my own wet cheeks. His eyes, still adjusting to the light, widened in alarm when he saw me.
"Why are you crying?" he asked, his voice laced with genuine concern, a stark contrast to his usual anxious tone.
"Hu...a...Hin Beach?" Thyme stammered, his gaze drifting past me, out the window, and towards the glittering ocean. His voice trailed off, a soft gasp escaping his lips, as if the name itself had unlocked a hidden vault. His eyes, wide and suddenly glassy, fixed on the shimmering horizon, and then, like my own, tears began to fall, silent tracks tracing paths down his cheeks.
"Why am I crying?" he whispered, almost to himself, his voice thick with a raw, desperate confusion, a sound like a broken gasp. His hands flew to his face, wiping furiously, helplessly, but they wouldn't stop, just kept coming, a silent, heartbroken cascade. "It hurts... it hurts so much, but I don't know why! It's like my heart is breaking, but nothing is broken!"
"I..." I wanted to say something, anything, but my own throat was tight, a knot of confusion and sorrow. My words were lost in the overwhelming tide of emotion that was engulfing both of us. I was just as confused, as lost in this inexplicable sorrow, as he was. Without thinking, without a single plan, I unbuckled my seatbelt and leaned across the console, pulling Thyme into a tight embrace. I didn't know why, but hugging him felt so warm, so incredibly comfortable. It was as if I'd been missing that kind of warmth, that specific, safe embrace, for a lifetime.
"Wh... Whyy do I feel so sad, Meta? As if I lost so-something important to me?" Thyme asked, his voice muffled against my shoulder, the words trembling with the force of his unidentifiable grief. He clung to me, his small hands clutching the back of my shirt, his body shaking, as if I were the only thing grounding him in this storm of emotion. I couldn't reply to him. I didn't know what to say. We were being buried, side-by-side, in the depths of emotions we couldn't name, couldn't understand.
"I've never been in this place before," he murmured, his voice cracking, pulling back slightly to look at the vast beach, his eyes still streaming. "But why do I know it? Why does it feel like... I've been here before? Like a forgotten whisper in my mind?"
I felt stunned. He was articulating the very thoughts, the very sensations, that were swirling through my own mind. My gaze was fixed on his tear-streaked face, seeing my own bewilderment reflected there. Why was I feeling the same? Why were we thinking the same?
Is this place related to the two of us somehow? I wanted an answer. A concrete, undeniable explanation for this shared, heartbreaking moment. But there was no one to answer it. Just the two of us, weeping silently in a quiet car parked by a beautiful beach, haunted by a past we couldn't recall but felt in every fiber of our beings. The sun was rising, painting the sky in vibrant hues of orange and pink, but all I could see was the reflection of tears on our faces, shimmering like fragile pearls under the dawning light.