The morning after the Studio Night arrived without mercy.
Sunlight shoved its way through the thin dorm curtains, far too bright for a girl who'd fallen asleep with a headache made of alcohol and someone else's name on her conscience.
Soung Ka Byar surfaced slowly.
First came the dryness in her mouth.
Then the dull throb at her temples.
Then the heavy, sinking dread in her chest before she even remembered why.
She lay there for a moment, eyes closed, trying to breathe past the fog in her head.
Flashes came in fragments, like scenes from a movie she'd watched drunk:
The studio full of lights and noise.
The taste of cheap liquor.
Klar's laughter.
The circle of cups.
The balcony.
Cold air.
A warm hand in her hair.
A face too close.
A kiss—
a real one—
and the wrong name lodged between her teeth.
Her stomach flipped.
She sat up too fast and immediately regretted it as the room tilted.
"Great," she whispered. "You're hungover and emotionally stupid."
Her phone blinked on the nightstand.
She didn't want to look.
She picked it up anyway.
Five Scarlet Thread notifications.
Three missed calls from Soe.
One unread message from Min Yatu.
She opened the last one first.
Min Yatu:
"You alive?"
Nothing else.
No accusation.
No question.
Just that.
And somehow, that hurt more.
She typed.
"I'm sorry."
Then deleted it.
Typed again.
"About last night…"
Deleted it again.
Her fingers hovered over the screen.
She locked the phone, dropped it onto the bed, and pressed her hands over her face.
"I can't do this," she muttered. "Not before coffee."
A soft knock on her door made her jump.
"Ka Byar?" came Soe's voice. "It's me."
She swung her legs over the side of the bed and opened the door.
Soe stood there with a small plastic bag dangling from one hand and concern written all over her face.
"You look like death that tried to shower and gave up," Soe said gently.
Ka Byar tried to smile.
"Feels accurate."
Soe stepped in and closed the door behind her.
"I brought hangover medicine," she said, lifting the bag. "And bread. You didn't respond to my calls."
"I didn't want to know what the internet was saying about me yet," Ka Byar said, sinking back onto the bed.
Soe sat beside her.
"You don't have to check Scarlet Thread."
"I already did."
Soe winced.
"How bad?" Ka Byar asked.
Soe exhaled slowly.
"There's a lot of guessing," she said. "About who you were on the balcony with. Some say Min Yatu. Some say Naya. Some say both, because this university has no concept of restraint."
Ka Byar closed her eyes.
"Do they have photos?"
"Silhouette only," Soe replied. "Thankfully. No clear faces. Just you and a 'tall, dark figure'."
"That could be a lamppost," Ka Byar murmured.
"It could," Soe said. "But it isn't."
Silence settled between them.
Finally, Ka Byar whispered, "I… kissed him."
Soe didn't pretend not to understand.
"Min Yatu?" she asked.
"Yes. But I didn't think it was him."
Soe blinked. "Then who— oh."
"Naya," Ka Byar finished, voice breaking.
There.
It was real now.
Spoken out loud.
Soe stared at her with something like heartbreak.
"For a second," Ka Byar continued, fingers digging into the blanket, "I wasn't on a balcony. In my head I was back in the studio. The way he stands. The way he talks. The way he looks at me like he's… trying to pull something out of me."
"And Min Yatu…?" Soe asked softly.
"I think he knew," Ka Byar whispered. "He knew I used him."
Soe's shoulders sagged.
"Do you… like Naya?" she asked carefully.
Ka Byar's throat tightened.
"I don't know what I feel," she said. "I'm scared of him. Grateful. Angry. Proud when he praises me. Humiliated when he ignores me. It feels like standing at the edge of a cliff that keeps moving forward every time I think I've stepped back."
"And Min Yatu?" Soe pressed gently.
She saw the way his name made Ka Byar flinch.
"He feels like…" Ka Byar struggled for words. "A storm that somehow keeps trying to cover me instead of crush me. I feel… seen. But also guilty. And now I've ruined it."
Soe looked at her with a softness that made everything worse.
"You didn't ruin it alone," she said. "Alcohol helped."
"That doesn't make it better."
"No," Soe agreed. "But it explains."
Ka Byar stared at the wall.
"What do I do?" she asked.
"First?" Soe said, opening the plastic bag. "You drink water. And swallow this."
She handed Ka Byar a packet of medicine and a bottle.
"Then?" Soe continued. "You go to class. You act like your lungs still work. You don't hide, because that tells them they won."
"And after that?" Ka Byar whispered.
Soe hesitated.
"After that… you talk to him."
Which him
hung in the air between them like smoke.
Both knew who she meant.
Both avoided saying it.
The campus at mid-morning felt like it had eyes everywhere.
Students walked in clusters. Heads bent together. Laughs too sharp. Phones constantly lifted, checking for updates.
Ka Byar walked through it all with her sketchbook hugged to her chest like a shield.
Every now and then, she caught fragments:
"—on the balcony—"
"—saw them lean in—"
"—it was him, I swear—"
"—if it was Naya, I'm dropping his class—"
"—no, I ship her with—"
She shoved the words away as best she could.
She was halfway to the Fine Arts building when she saw him.
Min Yatu leaned against the side of a column, half in shadow, half in sun. His hands were in his pockets. His hair looked like he'd run his fingers through it too many times. He was staring straight ahead, not pretending to be anywhere else.
He saw her.
She saw him.
For a moment, there was nothing but the space between them, heavy with last night's mistake.
Soe shot her a look.
"This is your moment," Soe murmured. "I can give you privacy."
Ka Byar's pulse raced.
"What if he doesn't want to talk to me?" she asked.
"Then at least you tried."
Soe peeled off toward a bench under a tree, giving them distance but not deserting her entirely.
Ka Byar walked forward.
Each step felt like a trial.
She stopped a few feet away from him.
"Hi," she said.
His eyes flicked over her face, taking in the exhaustion, the embarrassment, the stubbornness.
"You okay?" he asked.
She hadn't expected that to be his first question.
"I don't know yet," she said honestly.
He nodded once.
"That's fair."
Silence.
She felt her heart pounding in her throat.
"About last night…" she began.
"You were drunk," he said, cutting her off. "You mistook me for someone else. It happens."
The casual tone was fake. She could hear the strain underneath.
"It shouldn't have happened," she whispered.
"No," he agreed. "But it did."
"I'm sorry."
He gave a bitter half-smile.
"You say that a lot."
"Because I keep doing things that deserve it."
He tilted his head, watching her.
"Do you regret it?" he asked quietly.
"The kiss?" she asked.
"Everything," he said. "All of it. This week. This mess. Me."
His eyes didn't waver.
That hurt.
"Yes," she said first, her chest tightening. "And no."
"That's not an answer," he said.
"It's the only honest one I have."
He exhaled slowly.
"You kissed me," he said softly, as if reminding her, in case she'd forgotten.
"I know."
"I've been trying not to think about it," he continued. "Badly."
She swallowed.
"You didn't deserve that," she whispered. "You didn't deserve to be… used because I can't control my feelings."
"Is that what you think happened?" he asked.
Her shoulders tensed.
"Isn't it?"
He looked away, jaw clenched.
"What if I tell you," he said, "that I don't care why you did it? That I just care that you did."
Her breath hitched.
"That's not healthy," she said.
"Probably not," he agreed. "But I'm not exactly a model of emotional stability."
She almost laughed.
Almost.
"Do you…" she hesitated. "Do you hate me?"
He snorted softly.
"Do I look like I hate you?"
"You look like I hurt you," she said.
He didn't deny it.
"Yeah," he admitted. "You did."
Her eyes stung.
"I'm sorry," she whispered again.
"You'll keep saying that," he said. "But you won't stop being the reason my life got complicated."
"That sounds like a complaint."
He met her eyes again.
"It's not."
Something in her chest twisted.
He took a slow breath.
"Ka Byar," he said, voice quieter now, "I don't want you to pretend last night didn't happen. But I won't make it heavier than it already is. So here's what we're going to do."
She waited.
"You focus on surviving this week," he said. "You deal with Naya. Klar. The rumors. Being the center of a storm you didn't ask for."
"And you?" she asked.
He shrugged.
"I'll be around. Interfering. Getting in the way."
"That's not a plan," she murmured.
"It's the best one I've got."
Her lips trembled in something that almost looked like relief.
"So… we're not… ruined?" she asked.
He studied her.
"Not yet," he said. "But we're not normal either."
She could live with that.
Maybe.
"Thank you," she said.
"For what?"
"For staying."
He rolled his eyes.
"Don't make it sound noble. I'm selfish. I can't walk away from something that keeps dragging me in."
She thought of the kiss again.
The way he'd kissed her back.
She thought of who she'd wanted it to be.
Shame crawled over her skin.
She wanted to speak.
To confess.
To fix.
To stop whatever this was from turning ugly.
But before she could say anything else, a voice called from the building entrance.
"Min Yatu, we're late!"
A friend waved from the door.
He glanced over his shoulder, then back at her.
"I have to go," he said.
She nodded.
He took a step, then stopped.
"Ka Byar?"
"Yes?"
"Next time you kiss me," he said, "make sure you know it's me."
Her breath caught.
"Next time?" she repeated.
"I said if," he corrected.
Then walked away, leaving her clutching her sketchbook so tightly her fingers hurt.
In the afternoon, Fine Arts felt like a courtroom.
The studio was unnervingly quiet as students set up their easels. Conversations were reduced to low murmurs, eyes flickering between Ka Byar, Klar, and the empty space where Naya would stand.
Soe stayed beside Ka Byar, a steady presence.
Klar sat two rows ahead, posture perfect, phone tucked away for once.
When Naya entered, the room straightened instinctively.
He wore a dark shirt again, sleeves rolled, expression completely neutral.
If he'd seen any Scarlet Thread post, it didn't show on his face.
"Today," he said, "we're going back to fundamentals."
A wave of confusion rippled through the group.
They were used to emotional autopsies, brutal critique, assignments that tore their insides out.
"Still lifes," he continued. "Objects. Light. Shadow. You have ninety minutes."
"No trauma?" someone whispered.
"No confessions?" another muttered.
"No," Naya said calmly. "Just observation."
It felt like a punishment somehow.
Or a mercy.
Ka Byar couldn't tell.
He arranged a series of objects on a table — a glass bottle, an old camera, a ceramic figure, a stack of books, a half-crumpled cloth.
"Draw what's in front of you," he said. "Not what you feel about it. Not what you think it means. Simply what is."
Charcoal scratched. Pencils moved.
For the first time in days, the focus shifted — away from rumors, away from Scarlet Thread, away from Ka Byar.
She tried to lose herself in the assignment.
Line.
Shadow.
Proportion.
But her mind wouldn't sit still.
Every time she glanced up, she was aware of him.
The way he moved through the room.
The way he stopped behind students, silent.
The way his presence made air feel denser.
He didn't come near her easel.
Not once.
She told herself that's what she wanted.
Distance.
Safety.
But when the ninety minutes were over, her hand felt restless. Her chest felt emptier than usual.
He collected the sheets in silence.
Shuffled through them at the front.
"This is better," he said. "Most of you remember how to look. We can build from here."
He didn't single her out.
Didn't use her drawing as an example.
Didn't even glance at her longer than anyone else.
For some reason, that stung more than criticism ever had.
As class dismissed, she stayed seated, packing slowly.
She told herself to leave.
To go to Soe.
To go to the library.
Anywhere else.
But her legs didn't move.
Naya was stacking papers when he finally spoke.
"Soung Ka Byar."
Her head snapped up.
"Yes, sir."
"Stay a moment."
Her heartbeat quickened.
The room emptied slowly.
Klar lingered by the door, shamelessly peeking, until Naya's gaze flicked to her.
She left.
Soe hesitated by the hallway.
Ka Byar gave her a small nod.
"I'll be okay," she mouthed.
Soe didn't look convinced.
But she walked away.
When they were alone, the studio felt too large and too quiet at the same time.
Naya set the drawings aside.
"We need to talk," he said.
The phrase made her stomach twist.
"About what?" she asked, though she already knew.
"The party," he said. "The balcony. The rumors. The way this department eats people alive when they smell blood."
She swallowed.
"It's my fault," she said.
"Partly," he replied. "But not entirely."
That surprised her.
"I shouldn't have gone," she muttered.
"It's not a crime to attend a party," he said. "It's a problem when you forget who you are there."
"That's what I'm trying to figure out," she said. "Who I am there. Who I am anywhere."
He watched her for a long moment.
"Did you kiss him?" he asked.
Her heart stopped.
He didn't say a name.
He didn't need to.
Heat rushed to her face.
"That's none of your business," she whispered.
"It is," he replied calmly, "if it affects how you walk into my class. How you carry yourself in this department. How much you let this place rewrite you."
Her fingers curled around the edge of the stool.
"I made a mistake," she said.
"Which one?" he asked.
"Kissing him," she whispered. "Thinking of you."
Silence.
The words hung between them like a live wire.
He didn't flinch.
But something in his eyes changed.
"You're drunk," he said. "You miscalculated. It happens."
"That doesn't excuse it," she said.
"I'm not excusing it," he replied. "I'm contextualizing it."
She laughed weakly.
"Is that what you do? Turn everything into a lesson?"
"Yes," he said. "It's the only thing I'm good at."
She didn't believe that.
"And what's the lesson here?" she asked bitterly. "Don't drink around rich, beautiful boys with too many feelings?"
"The lesson," he said slowly, "is that you are standing at a dangerous intersection."
"Between what?"
He held her gaze.
"Between wanting to be seen," he said, "and letting attention define you."
Her throat tightened.
"You are not their story," he continued. "Not Scarlet Thread's. Not Klar's. Not Min Yatu's. Not mine."
His voice softened on the last words.
"You are not a rumor," he said. "You are a person. An artist. And if you forget that, they win."
She blinked hard, willing the tears not to fall.
"I don't know how to separate those things," she whispered. "Who I am. What they think I am. What you see."
"What I see," he said, stepping closer, "is someone who could become extraordinary, if she stops trying to prove she deserves to be here."
He stopped at a respectable distance.
His next words were almost too quiet.
"And what I feel," he said, "is irrelevant."
Her breath caught.
He'd never admitted to feeling anything before.
"Is it?" she asked softly.
"Yes," he said. "Because I am your professor. And if I let my feelings control the way I treat you, I fail you more than any rumor ever could."
Her heartbeat thundered.
She didn't move.
"From now on," he said, "we keep a strict line. No more drifting near it. No more balcony fantasies. No more blurred tension."
She flinched.
"Is that what you think this is?" she asked. "A fantasy?"
"I think," he said carefully, "that you are very young, very overwhelmed, and very starved for validation from the wrong sources."
"That's cruel," she whispered.
"It's honest."
She hated how much of herself she heard in it.
"What if I don't want distance?" she asked impulsively.
His eyes sharpened.
"Then you're even more in danger than I thought."
Silence.
Raw. Uncomfortable. True.
He took a breath.
"You will continue in my class," he said. "You will keep your tutor candidacy. You will not drop out to run from gossip. You are stronger than that."
It was an order disguised as faith.
"And you," he added, "will decide what version of yourself survives this semester."
She bit her lip.
"And you?" she asked. "What will you be?"
He gave a faint, sad half-smile.
"Unpopular," he said. "But not unemployed."
Against her will, she laughed.
Just once.
Sharp.
Real.
It loosened something.
"Go," he said gently. "Before someone invents another story about us being alone together."
She stood.
As she passed him, she hesitated.
"Sir?" she said.
"Yes."
"I don't want you to stop seeing me," she said quietly. "Just… don't let it break me."
His jaw clenched.
"I'll try," he said.
It was the most dangerous promise he'd made her yet.
That night, the campus buzzed quieter.
Scarlet Thread took a breath between posts.
Fewer messages.
Fewer photos.
A lull.
The eye of a storm.
Ka Byar sat at her desk, sketchbook open, pencil hovering over the page.
This time, she didn't draw fear.
She didn't draw insignificance.
She didn't draw want.
She drew something new.
A balcony.
A girl.
Two silhouettes behind her — one sharp, one blurred.
Her own reflection in the glass, staring back like she'd just realized she could be more than the story they made of her.
The girl in the drawing wasn't soft.
She wasn't cruel yet either.
She was standing on a thin line, barefoot, realizing the ground on either side wasn't level.
And as the pencil moved,
Ka Byar understood something:
This wasn't just a love story.
This was the beginning of a transformation.
And love — whatever shape it took —
would not save her from it.
It would shape it.