Morning came slow and heavy, like the universe was reluctant to press "next" on whatever this story was turning into.
By the time sunlight spilled through the tall windows of Yangon Learning University, the campus was already awake—not with energy, but with noise.
Phone screens lit up like tiny altars.
Whispers buzzed along corridors.
Scarlet Thread had updated.
Again.
Ka Byar knew it before she even unlocked her phone.
She could feel it in the way people looked at her as she crossed the courtyard—too quickly, then away. Like staring at a painting that made them uncomfortable.
She sat alone on a bench outside the Fine Arts building, her sketchbook on her lap, her phone warm in her hand.
She opened the app.
SCARLET THREAD – 07:12 AM
"THE TUTOR GIRL'S DOUBLE LIFE: CLASSROOM MUSE OR BALCONY SIN?"
Last night's Studio Night witnessed our favorite Fine Arts chaos again.
Balcony. Silhouettes. Intensity.
And today?
Multiple sources "confirm" that Professor N.T. was seen leaving the Fine Arts building late — the same night a certain tutor candidate stayed behind for "extra practice."
Just how far does "mentorship" go at YLU? 🎨🍷
Comment below:
Team Naya? Team Min? Team Girl-Run-Now?
The comments were worse.
"If she's playing both, I respect the hustle."
"She's getting more storylines than the actual syllabus."
"Someone protect that girl or stop her, I can't decide."
"N.T. always has a favorite…"
Ka Byar locked her phone and pressed it face-down on the bench.
The words didn't just sting.
They crawled.
Under her skin.
Into her blood.
Around her thoughts.
She wanted to scream that nothing had happened.
She also wanted to scream that something almost had.
"Reading poison in the morning," a quiet voice said beside her, "is not good for your health."
She didn't jump.
Only one person talked like that.
"Soe," she breathed, exhaling.
Soe Hlaing May sat down gently beside her, tucking her skirt under her knees. Her hair moved like ink on silk when the faint wind touched it.
"You saw it?" Ka Byar asked.
"Everyone saw it," Soe said carefully. "It's like a ritual now. Wake up, check messages, check Scarlet Thread, decide who's dying socially today."
"And it's me," Ka Byar said.
Soe watched her.
"It's you again," she corrected softly.
Ka Byar tried to laugh and failed.
"I didn't even do anything," she whispered.
Soe tilted her head.
"Didn't you?"
Her heart lurched.
She thought of the balcony. The almost-kiss with Min Yatu last episode, the confusion, the whisper of Naya's name in her head. The way Naya had stood too close in the studio later. The way his eyes had looked at her like she was both a challenge and a temptation.
"No," Ka Byar said quickly. "I mean—not what they think."
Soe's gaze softened but didn't let go.
"You're allowed to be confused, you know," she said. "You're allowed to want things and not know what to do with that wanting."
"I'm not allowed to drag people into it," Ka Byar muttered.
"You didn't create this system," Soe replied. "You just walked into it. They're the ones twisting every breath you take."
Ka Byar stared at the Fine Arts building.
"Sometimes I think," she said slowly, "that if they're already going to paint me as something… I might as well choose the shape."
Soe's eyes widened slightly.
"That sounds dangerous," she whispered.
"It sounds… inevitable," Ka Byar replied.
For a moment, the silence between them felt heavier than any rumor.
Then Soe nudged her shoulder lightly.
"There's a general assembly this afternoon," she said. "Whole department. The Dean and the Board are going to 'address recent incidents.'"
Ka Byar's stomach dropped.
"They mean me," she whispered.
"They mean all of us," Soe said, but even she couldn't make it sound convincing.
The Assembly That Pretended to Be About "Policy"
By noon, the Fine Arts auditorium was full.
Rows of students.
A low murmur.
Faculty scattered along the sides like static guards.
Ka Byar sat in the middle section beside Soe, her knees bouncing. Min Yatu was two rows back, sitting with his friends but not really with them. Klar sat in the front row, elegantly poised, phone tucked away now that the show was live.
On stage, the Dean, Daw May Khin, adjusted the microphone.
Her voice rang out, clear and controlled.
"Good afternoon, everyone. Thank you for coming on short notice."
The lights hummed overhead.
"As you all know," she continued, "Yangon Learning University has always valued excellence—not just in skill, but in conduct. Lately, there have been… disruptions… to the academic environment."
No one breathed.
"These disruptions," she went on, "have come in the form of rumors, unauthorized online forums, and inappropriate speculation about the personal lives of both students and staff."
A quiet ripple moved through the student body.
Scarlet Thread.
They didn't say it.
But everyone heard it.
"Let me be clear," May Khin said. "We do not base disciplinary actions on gossip. However—"
Her gaze swept the hall once.
"—we do react when such gossip affects safety, mental health, and the reputation of this institution."
Ka Byar's skin prickled.
It felt like every spotlight had turned and pinned her in place.
"We've received reports," the Dean continued, "of students being harassed, photographed without consent, and publicly shamed in anonymous posts."
That part wasn't just Ka Byar.
That hit everyone.
Her hand tightened around the edge of her seat.
Beside her, Soe slid their fingers together and squeezed gently.
"We will not tolerate bullying disguised as 'tea'," May Khin said sharply. "We will not tolerate invasions of privacy. And we will not tolerate the misuse of staff-student relationships in any form."
There it was.
The shift.
The room stiffened.
Ka Byar's breath caught.
"Professors," she continued, "are expected to maintain professional distance at all times. Any faculty member who violates boundaries—real or perceived—will face consequences. Any student who attempts to exploit or manipulate such dynamics will also face consequences."
Ka Byar felt like she'd been slapped without being touched.
Her mind screamed: Are they talking about me? About him? About both of us?
A few heads turned in her direction.
Quickly.
Guiltily.
Min Yatu's jaw clenched.
He glared at the back of the heads in front of him, as if his anger could cut through their skulls.
At the far side of the hall, near the wall, Naya Thone stood with the other professors. His posture was relaxed. His expression was calm. Too calm.
But his hands were in his pockets. Tight.
He didn't look at her.
He didn't look at anyone.
He looked straight ahead.
"As of next week," May Khin finished, "we will begin investigations into harassment reports. Online or offline. Anonymous or not. In the meantime, I suggest you all remember: the internet forgets nothing. But it also proves everything."
She stepped back from the microphone.
Muted applause.
Scattered.
Uneasy.
Klar whispered something to Hsu.
Hsu smirked.
The assembly ended with the taste of static in the air, like lightning wanted to strike but couldn't find the right target yet.
The Boys Who Didn't Know When to Shut Up
On the steps outside the auditorium, the tension released itself in ugly little bursts.
Groups formed.
Speculation thickened.
"She didn't say names…"
"But we all know who it is."
"Do you think Naya will get fired?"
"Do you think that girl will get expelled?"
"The tutor one?"
"Yeah. The balcony girl."
Ka Byar walked faster.
Soe stayed close.
They were almost past the main cluster of talking students when a guy from another department—Communications, maybe—laughed too loudly.
"Man, if I could get a professor to look at me like that, I'd take the risk," he said. "Forget midterms, let me major in N.T.'s attention."
Someone snickered.
"Better be born as that girl then," another muttered. "What's her name? Soung… Soung something?"
"She's not even that hot," a third boy said. "Just looks all soft and troubled. Must be his type."
The words hit like gravel thrown at her back.
Ka Byar stopped walking.
Her shoulders tensed.
Soe tugged her arm gently.
"Don't," Soe whispered. "Not today. You've taken enough hits."
But before Ka Byar could decide whether to keep moving or scream—
A fourth voice joined in.
Cold.
Sharp.
"Say her name again," Min Yatu said.
The small group of boys turned.
He stood a few steps above them, hands in his pockets, gaze dark.
One of them forced a grin.
"Relax, man. We're just joking—"
"Say her name again," Min Yatu repeated.
Silence.
The boy cleared his throat.
"What, you her bodyguard now?"
Min Yatu's jaw flexed.
"No," he said softly. "But I'm not going to stand here while you talk about her like she's not a person."
"Aren't you one of the reasons she's trending?" one of the others muttered. "Balcony Yatu?"
Laughter.
Not from Min Yatu.
He stepped down a step.
"You done?" he asked quietly.
It wasn't a threat.
It felt like one.
They stared at him.
"Oh relax," the first guy scoffed. "You rich boys are so dramatic. You got your kiss, let the rest of us at least laugh about—"
He didn't finish the sentence.
Because that was where Min Yatu's patience ended.
His fist connected with the guy's jaw in a clean, sharp punch.
Gasps exploded through the group.
The boy stumbled back, clutching his face.
"Are you insane?!" someone shouted.
Soe flinched.
Ka Byar's heart shot into her throat.
"Say something like that about her again," Min Yatu said calmly, shaking his hand out, "and I'll show you what insane really looks like."
"Yatu!"
A friend grabbed his arm, trying to pull him back before it escalated.
Teachers were already turning.
Someone was already filming.
"You're crazy," the boy spat through his hand. "All this for some stupid—"
"Don't say it," Min Yatu warned.
The boy didn't.
He backed away, muttering curses under his breath.
The crowd began to buzz.
Phones typed.
Screens recorded.
Another story.
Another angle.
Another storm.
Min Yatu turned—
and locked eyes with Ka Byar.
Her expression was torn between gratitude and horror.
She didn't move toward him.
She didn't look away.
He swallowed.
Then walked off in the opposite direction.
The Staff Room That Smelled Like Old Coffee and Regret
Upstairs, in a cramped staff room that always smelled faintly of instant coffee and reproach, professors had their own kind of assembly.
Daw May Khin sat at the head of the table, looking more tired than stern now. Files and printouts lay spread in front of her.
Scarlet Thread screenshots.
Anonymous reports.
Student complaints.
Naya Thone sat slightly apart from the others, one leg crossed neatly over the other, hands clasped loosely.
On the surface, he looked completely composed.
Inside, his thoughts were a mess of calculations.
"This is getting out of hand," one lecturer sighed. "Students are fighting, crying, skipping class—over gossip."
"This is not just gossip," another argued. "They're naming faculty. They're drawing lines where there may be connections."
May Khin tapped one of the printed pages.
"This one concerns you," she said quietly, looking at Naya.
He didn't flinch.
She read aloud:
"N.T. clearly has a new favorite. Same pattern as before. Private sessions. Extra attention. Now rumors. When will administration intervene?"
The room shifted.
"Naya," May Khin said gently, "I know you care about your students. But you have to see how this looks from the outside."
"I do," he said.
"And?" another professor pressed sharply. "Is there something going on?"
Naya's gaze cooled.
"No," he said. "There isn't."
"You expect us to just take your word?" the man scoffed.
"Nyo Lin," May Khin warned. "Enough."
Naya didn't bristle.
He simply straightened slightly.
"You wanted honesty," he said. "Here it is. I push my students. I see more than they're comfortable with. I recognize potential and I don't let them stay small. That has always been misinterpreted."
"Some students say you cross emotional boundaries," someone said.
He exhaled.
"I cross complacency," he replied. "Not boundaries."
"Still," May Khin said quietly, "I'm asking you—for everyone's sake—to be more careful. Be mindful of what could be misconstrued."
He looked at the pages again.
The balcony rumors.
The late studio sessions.
Her name tangled with his.
He saw it.
He hated that he saw it.
"Understood," he said.
"And this girl," one of the older lecturers added, "Soung Ka Byar… is she really worth all this chaos?"
The question hit a nerve.
Naya's voice dropped.
"Yes."
They stared at him.
He didn't explain.
He didn't soften it.
"She is," he repeated. "Because if this place chews her up and spits her out, we lose more than just one student."
"What do we lose?" someone asked skeptically.
"Proof," he said simply, "that this department can still produce something honest."
The room fell quiet.
May Khin studied him for a long moment.
"Be careful with her," she said. "Or let her be. One of the two."
He didn't answer.
Because he already knew which one he would fail at.
The Studio at Dusk
By late afternoon, the Fine Arts studio was mostly empty.
Shadows stretched long across the floor.
Light fell in thick, golden bands from the windows.
The world outside shifted to evening.
Ka Byar stood at an easel, alone, staring at a blank sheet of paper.
She had told Soe she needed to work.
She had told herself she needed to work.
But nothing came.
Not fear.
Not want.
Not rage.
Not faces.
Just a blank, cold numbness buzzing under her skin.
She picked up a piece of charcoal.
Put it down.
Picked it up again.
Her thoughts circled:
Min Yatu's fist connecting with a jaw.
The look in his eyes when he saw her.
The assembly.
The hints.
The whispers.
The feeling she had when Naya stood a step too close.
She wanted… something.
She didn't know what.
Noise at the door snapped her out of it.
The handle turned.
She knew it was him before he spoke.
"Staying late again," Naya said, walking in.
She swallowed.
She didn't turn immediately.
"I thought we were supposed to keep distance now," she said faintly.
"We are," he replied. "And yet here you are. In my studio."
"I'm not here for you," she said, turning slightly. "I'm here for this."
She gestured to the paper.
"Good," he said. "Then we're both safe."
They both knew that was a lie.
He closed the door softly behind him.
Not locked.
Just… closed.
He moved with that same adjusted calm—the kind he wore in staff meetings and assemblies when people were watching him.
No one was watching him now.
"What are you working on?" he asked.
"Nothing," she said honestly.
"Nothing looks heavy," he said, nodding toward her frozen hand.
She exhaled.
"Do you ever get tired," she murmured, "of everyone looking at you like you're the villain in their story?"
"Yes," he said. "Often."
His honesty surprised her.
"What do you do?" she asked.
"I stop caring," he said. "Mostly."
"And when you can't?"
"Then I work," he replied. "So that when they talk, at least they're talking about someone who did something worth noticing."
She looked back at her paper.
"That's what I'm trying to do," she said. "But lately it feels like I'm just… existing for other people's entertainment."
He walked toward her slowly.
"You're not entertainment," he said softly. "You're a catalyst."
"For what?"
"For change," he said. "In yourself. In them. In me."
That last word slipped out quieter.
She noticed.
Her pulse stumbled.
He reached her easel and stopped beside her, close enough that she could smell the faint trace of his cologne, the faint smell of graphite and paper that clung to him.
"Draw," he said. "Anything. Something. Start moving."
"I don't know how to start anymore," she whispered.
"Yes, you do," he said.
He reached out—slowly, deliberately—and took her hand. Not to hold it. Just to uncurl her fingers from around the charcoal.
His touch was warm, firm, precise.
Every nerve in her hand lit up.
He guided her fingers around the stick again.
"First line," he said. "Just one."
She let him move her wrist across the page.
A single, steady stroke.
Her breathing slowed.
He stepped behind her now, close but not pressing, hands guiding hers.
"You're shaking," he murmured.
"I told you," she whispered. "I don't know how to start."
"That's fear," he said. "Not lack of skill."
"What am I afraid of?" she asked.
He didn't hesitate.
"Being seen."
Her chest tightened.
He added, more quietly:
"And liking it."
Her throat burned.
His breath skimmed the side of her neck as they moved.
She should have pulled away.
She didn't.
Line by line, a figure began to appear on the page.
Not fully defined.
Not a face.
Not Min Yatu.
Not herself.
Something in-between.
Something… evolving.
"You're changing," he said.
"You said that before," she replied.
"It's still true."
"Into what?"
"Into yourself," he answered simply.
They both knew that wasn't all he meant.
His hands slowed.
Then stilled.
He didn't step back.
Her heart was pounding so loudly she was sure he could hear it.
He released her hand.
She didn't move.
The studio felt too small for the two of them.
Too full.
Too charged.
He spoke first.
"In the staff meeting today," he said, "they asked me if you were worth the trouble."
She swallowed.
"What did you say?"
"I said yes."
Her breath caught.
"Why?" she whispered.
He moved around to stand in front of her.
"Because," he said, "if this place breaks you, it proves them right. And I refuse to be part of that story."
His eyes held hers.
Dark.
Tired.
Sharp.
Her walls—thin and tired from a week of surviving—shuddered.
"Naya," she whispered.
He stepped closer.
Too close.
"You shouldn't say my name like that," he said quietly.
"Like what?"
"Like you're asking me not to walk away," he replied.
Her lungs fluttered.
"Should you walk away?" she asked.
"In every possible version of this," he said, "yes."
He didn't.
She didn't step back.
The distance between them shrank into something thin and dangerous.
"You're my professor," she said, half reminder, half plea.
"I know."
"You're supposed to keep me safe from this place."
"I know."
"Are you?" she asked.
He inhaled slowly.
"I'm trying," he said.
She believed him.
That was the problem.
His hand lifted, almost of its own accord, stopping a finger-width away from her cheek. He didn't touch her.
He just hovered there, like his body was fighting itself.
Her eyes dropped to his mouth for half a second.
His breath hitched—barely.
She looked away.
"This is wrong," she whispered.
"Yes."
"It doesn't feel wrong."
"I know."
His voice had that rough edge now—the one she'd only heard when he was talking about art that mattered too much.
Her heart pounded hard enough to hurt.
"Naya…" she said again, helplessly.
"Ka Byar," he murmured.
The sound of her name in his mouth almost undid her.
He leaned in.
Just a little.
Enough that she could feel it—
the warmth between them, the question hanging in the air like a drop of ink about to fall.
If she tilted her head up—
If he let his hand close that final space—
Something irreversible would happen.
Her thoughts screamed.
Her body screamed something else.
Her fingers curled into the fabric of her own skirt.
She could see it—
the version of herself that didn't stop him.
The girl who let the rumors come true.
Who let herself belong to the drama.
Who let the villain story begin here, in this room, with this man and this moment.
She wasn't that girl.
Not yet.
She closed her eyes.
"No."
The word came out small.
But it was there.
Solid.
Naya's jaw clenched.
He didn't move back immediately.
Her hand rose—not to pull him in, but to press against his chest.
There.
A barrier.
Thin, but real.
"Don't," she whispered. "Please don't. Not today."
His shoulders tensed beneath her palm.
"Why not?" he asked quietly.
"Because I don't know who I am yet," she said, voice shaking. "And if you touch me like that, I'm scared who I'll become."
The honesty shook the room.
His eyes closed for half a second.
When he opened them again, the storm had cooled—not gone, but locked away.
He stepped back.
Slowly.
Carefully.
As if each inch of space was a decision.
"As I said," he murmured, "you're changing. I'm… not helping."
"You are," she said. "Just… not always in ways that feel safe."
He looked like she'd hit him.
He straightened his sleeves, reaching for his composure again.
"We keep the line," he said quietly. "From now on. No more blurred… anything."
"You said that last time," she reminded him.
This time, his smile was bitter.
"And you're still here," he replied. "Drawing. Waiting for me to show up."
She didn't deny it.
She couldn't.
He moved toward the door.
"Sir," she said softly.
He paused.
"I don't want to be your weakness," she said. "I want to be your proof."
He stared at the closed door for a moment before answering.
"Then don't break," he said.
And left.
Night and the New Shape of Her Reflection
The dorm felt too quiet that night.
Soe sat cross-legged on Ka Byar's bed, a half-finished reading packet on her lap.
Ka Byar stood at the mirror, still in her uniform, hair messy, eyes dark.
"You're not talking," Soe said softly. "That's never a good sign."
"I don't know what to say," Ka Byar replied.
"Start with anything."
She stared at herself.
"I almost did something," she said finally, "that would have changed everything."
Soe's chest tightened.
"With who?" she asked, even though she knew.
Ka Byar didn't say it.
She didn't need to.
"The line?" Soe whispered.
"Yes."
"Did he…?"
"He didn't kiss me," Ka Byar said. "I didn't let him. I think that's the only thing keeping this entire building from collapsing."
Soe closed her eyes briefly.
"I'm proud of you," she said.
Ka Byar's laugh was thin.
"Don't be," she whispered. "You don't know how much I wanted to let it happen."
Soe looked at her in the mirror.
"You're not a bad person for wanting," she said. "You're just… human. And lonely. And very, very tired."
"And dangerous," Ka Byar added quietly.
Soe frowned.
"Who told you that?"
"Naya," she said. "And he's right."
She turned away from the mirror and sat on the edge of the bed, staring at her ink-smudged hands.
"I think," she said slowly, "that something inside me is changing. Hardening. Every time they talk about me. Every time I'm forced to defend myself. Every time I almost do something I can't take back."
Soe listened.
"And I'm scared," Ka Byar whispered. "Because this place doesn't want me soft. It wants me sharp. It wants me strategic. It wants me to play…"
She exhaled.
"And part of me is starting to want that too."
Soe reached for her hand.
"The world will always be happy if you turn yourself into a weapon," she said gently. "Especially if they're the ones who aimed you."
"Tired of being the target," Ka Byar murmured. "Thinking about becoming the arrow."
Soe's grip tightened.
"Promise me one thing," she said.
"What?"
"That if you become sharp," Soe whispered, "you won't forget you used to be kind."
Ka Byar's throat closed up.
She didn't promise.
She didn't refuse either.
She just looked at their joined hands.
"I don't know who I'm going to be by the end of this semester," she said.
Soe smiled sadly.
"Whoever you are," she said, "I'll still be beside you. Even if you scare me a little."
For the first time all day, Ka Byar's chest hurt in a good way.
She squeezed back.
Outside the window, YLU glowed with artificial light and bad intentions.
Inside, a girl sat on a bed and realized she was standing on a cliff inside herself:
One step forward, and she fell into love that wasn't really love.
One step sideways, and she fell into ambition that wasn't purely art.
One step back, and she disappeared.
She pulled her knees to her chest and whispered into the dark:
"I won't break."
What she didn't add—
what she didn't dare say—
was the truth that had begun to bloom in the corners of her mind:
If she had to break something,
maybe it wouldn't be herself.
Maybe it would be everyone else's idea of who she should be.