Arthit exhaled sharply, the conversation with Direk grounding him in reality, at least for now. It had pulled him back from the edge of irrational hope, stripping away the absurd certainty that the child's 'Emma' was his mother. There were plenty of Emmas in the world, and if his mother were still here, wouldn't she have come back for him? For Direk? And yet, despite his attempts at logic, the timing rattled him. The eerie coincidence of the Donut situation overlapping with the child's story left an uncomfortable weight in his chest.
But he forced himself to let it go. He didn't ask questions. He didn't pry. Eventually, he shoved thoughts of Emma to the back of his mind and fell back into the monotonous rhythm of daily life. Direk had always been better at acceptance. He was almost fully convinced his mother was gone, while Arthit was still stuck somewhere in between—half believing, half rejecting.
Maybe it was stubbornness. Maybe it was desperation. He refused to take the word of a stranger, some fortune teller Direk had consulted. How reliable could they be? Why should a nameless mystic be the one to decide whether or not his mother still existed in this world?
And yet... part of him still clung to the impossible. He wanted to see her. To speak to her. To hold on to whatever fragments of her remained. He knew it wasn't logical, so he tried not to think about it. He buried the yearning deep, forced himself to forget, drilled it into his mind that she was gone. But no matter how much he tried, hope had a way of creeping back in, poisoning his resolve. It was a vicious cycle—a self-inflicted deception.
Meeting ghosts had made him realize that the dead didn't always move on. So was it so foolish to believe, even just a little, that his mother might still be out there? The dream of her haunted him, teasing him with the illusion of life even when he knew better. And then, like a cruel joke, this kid had to go and mention an Emma.
He had needed an escape. Three days in Bali, hiding from the world, licking his wounds. But now he was back. Back to Thailand, back to the questions, back to the nagging thought that refused to die. His muscles ached as he dragged himself through the streets, exhaustion pressing down on him like a heavy fog.
When he reached his apartment, he dumped his bag unceremoniously onto the floor and headed straight for his neighbor's door. He knocked. A beat passed before it opened, revealing the usual occupant, staring at him with the same unreadable expression.
"Who's Emma?"
A flicker of confusion crossed the man's face. "...What?"
Arthit sighed, suddenly feeling foolish. "Never mind. But if you're going to talk to her, call her something else."
"Why?"
"I don't know. Just don't call her Emma."
"...You heard?"
"Yeah."
"When?"
"The other day."
"Ah." A pause. "Slipped up."
"Why?"
"Nothing." His tone was final, dismissive. He moved to close the door, but Arthit stuck his hand out, forcing it open just a fraction. The man looked at him again, perplexed but unbothered.
"I can't change her name," he finally said. "Emma is Emma. That's what I've always called her."
"Always? Since when?"
"A long time."
"How long?"
"Since I was a kid."
There it was. Not his mother. Relief and disappointment tangled inside him. If he had let himself believe otherwise, if he had built up that hope only for it to shatter, it would have been unbearable.
"So who is she? A wandering ghost?"
"A friend."
"Friend or ghost?"
"Friend."
"Your imaginary friend?"
"Yeah."
"What?"
"My imaginary friend."
"You're serious?"
"Yeah."
Arthit narrowed his eyes. "You actually see her?"
The man's gaze didn't waver. "Strange, huh?"
"Yeah. It's strange. At least you know that."
"I know. So, what do you want?"
"Help me with something."
"No."
"I'll treat you to drinks."
"No thanks. I can afford my own."
"Smartass." Arthit scowled. He was frustratingly calm, indifferent, like a ghost himself. "Help me out."
"Busy."
"You're heartless. You've been like this since the Min case."
"Yeah."
"Damn it, can't you just help me this once?" Frustration flared as the man moved to close the door again. Arthit shoved it open, stepping inside before he could be shut out.
His neighbor stiffened, clearly uncomfortable. "Gonna use force?"
"Do I look like that kind of person?"
"Yeah."
"Well, stop slamming the door in my face. What's your deal?"
"..."
"Are you helping or not? If not, I'll have North talk to you instead."
"Unfair." A frown.
"What's it gonna be?"
A long pause. "What do you need help with?"
"You can talk to ghosts, right?" Arthit asked, watching closely. His neighbor nodded. "Then talk to my mom."
A flicker of surprise crossed his face. "Your mom?"
"Yeah. See if she's still around."
Another pause. "What if she's not?"
"Then I can finally let go."
The silence stretched between them. Arthit had made up his mind during those three days in Bali. If his mother was out there, he'd find her. If not, he'd accept reality. But he needed to know for sure. He refused to let fortune tellers or whispered superstitions dictate his closure.
"Can we do this in the evening?" his neighbor finally asked.
"Why not now?"
"Got urgent work."
"Fine."
"Okay."
Arthit turned on his heel, heading back to his room, bracing himself for what was to come. But as he lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, he realized something. His hope still leaned toward believing she was still here. That thought alone made his stomach twist. He pulled out his phone and called North.
"What's up?"
"North, can your friend be trusted?"
"Which one? I don't have just one friend."
"My neighbor."
"Trusted for what? What's this about?"
"He can see ghosts, right? He has a sense?"
"Oh yeah, he's legit. Remember the Min case? He described the spirit and even nailed the culprit's description—black shirt, short hair. Spot on."
"Do you think he'd lie to me?"
"What? No, he wouldn't lie."
"How strong is his sense? Can he see all spirits?"
"Not sure. He said his sense isn't that strong."
"Then can he even be relied on?"
"Relied on for what?"
"Never mind."
"What the heck? I don't even know what you're talking about."
"But he wouldn't lie, right?"
"No. Why? Are you trying to boost your luck or something?"
Arthit hung up. At least he could trust one thing—his neighbor wouldn't lie. If he couldn't see anything, then maybe, just maybe, it was time to move on.
☆☆☆☆☆
Daotok felt a creeping sense of unease settle in his chest as he thought about the favor he had just agreed to. Helping the cigarette seller guy— what had he gotten himself into? He didn't even want to be involved in the first place, but if North had his hands in it, then there was no way Daotok could refuse. North had a way of dragging him into things, intentional or not. Talking to his mother, huh?
"You don't even sense anyone around when you talk to him, do you?" Emma's voice cut through his thoughts. Daotok glanced at her, perched on the bed, watching as he packed his things. He had decided to work at a café today, hoping a change of scenery would help clear his mind.
"I still have the necklace on," he replied, zipping up his bag.
"What if his mom isn't with him?"
"Then I'll just tell him the truth."
"She could be anywhere in the world."
"Exactly," he said, slinging the bag over his shoulder before heading out.
He hopped on his motorbike and made his way to his usual café. By the time he arrived, it was already two in the afternoon. He immersed himself in his work, sketching and refining details on his tablet, completely losing track of time. When his phone vibrated against the wooden table, he barely glanced at it at first. But when he eventually checked, he found an onslaught of unread messages from an unfamiliar contact.
[ARTHIT]: Hey.
[ARTHIT]: How much longer?
[ARTHIT]: It's already 6 P.M.
[ARTHIT]: Now it's 6:30.
[ARTHIT]: It's 7 P.M now. What evening are you talking about?
[ARTHIT]: Hey, I knocked on your door, and you didn't answer.
[ARTHIT]: Are you ditching me?
Daotok frowned. From the name and the tone, it had to be the cigarette seller guy. His profile picture gave nothing away—no face, just some random image.
[DAOTOK]: Where'd you get my Line?
[ARTHIT]: North.
[ARTHIT]: So what's the deal?
[DAOTOK]: Not done with work yet.
[ARTHIT]: How much longer?
[DAOTOK]: Probably a while.
[DAOTOK]: Can we reschedule?
[ARTHIT]: No.
[ARTHIT]: I can't focus on anything else now.
[ARTHIT]: Where are you?
[DAOTOK]: Starbucks.
[ARTHIT]: Behind the university?
[DAOTOK]: No. The XXX branch.
[ARTHIT]: That's so far.
[ARTHIT]: Do we really need to do this?
[DAOTOK]: Not much.
[ARTHIT]: Can't you just look and tell?
[DAOTOK]: It's not that simple.
[DAOTOK]: I need details too.
[DAOTOK]: I've never even seen your mom before.
[ARTHIT]: Alright.
[ARTHIT]: I'm coming.
[DAOTOK]: Coming here?
[ARTHIT]: Yes.
Daotok put his phone down with a sigh. It didn't take long before the cigarette seller guy showed up, sliding into the seat across from him. His clothes were damp, his hair sticking to his forehead. A glance outside confirmed it—it was pouring. He pushed his wet bangs back and shot Daotok a look of clear irritation.
"So, can we start now?"
"Yeah." Daotok didn't look up from his screen, fingers still working on his tablet.
"North said you saw a woman behind me before."
"When was that?"
"At some party or something. North said you two were on a video call."
Daotok paused for a moment before letting out a short exhale. "That? I told North I was joking."
"Were you joking, or were you hiding something?"
"Joking."
"For real?"
"I have no reason to lie."
"Maybe my mom didn't want you to tell me. Or maybe you're sparing my feelings?"
"Why would I need to spare your feelings?" His voice was as flat as ever, his eyes still locked on the tablet screen.
"Yeah, don't bother. It's annoying."
Daotok gave a small nod. "Tell me the details."
"Like?"
"How did she die?"
"Cancer."
"When?"
"Seven years ago."
Daotok fell silent for a moment. Seven years was a long time. "Have you consulted anyone else? Like a fortune teller?"
"Yeah, they said her time was up or couldn't find her."
"Couldn't find her?"
"Yeah. Why?"
"Why can't they find her?"
"How should I know?"
Daotok hummed in thought. "If they said her time was up, why don't you believe it?"
"I just don't."
"So, you believe me?"
"At least North said you're trustworthy, but I'm not sure about the others I've asked before," the guy admitted, taking a sip of his coffee. "How strong is your sense, really? North said it's not that sharp."
Daotok hesitated. He had told everyone that before—but only because he kept wearing the bracelet that suppressed his sensitivity. It was easier that way. He was too lazy to deal with sensing or seeing spirits constantly. Only the ones that resonated strongly with him, like P' Donut, could slip through the suppression.
"North doesn't know the full story," he admitted quietly.
"So, is it actually strong?"
"Well... yes," he murmured. His grandmother had once told him his sensitivity was unusually high, to the point where he could even pick up on people's emotions.
"Min said you can sense emotions too."
"Yeah."
"How does that work? Reading minds?"
"No. Just feelings that people don't express outwardly."
"Oh," the guy nodded. "Don't go reading my feelings."
"I won't." Daotok didn't enjoy reading emotions—it was exhausting. Worse than that, he ended up feeling what they felt, which made it all the more unbearable.
"So, can you look now? Is there anyone with me?"
Daotok glanced at his screen. He still had work to do. Once distracted, it was hard to get back into the right mindset. "Let me finish my work first."
"Fine," the guy huffed, clearly irritated.
After another thirty minutes, Daotok set his tablet aside and reached for his bracelet. The moment he slid it off, the oppressive weight of unseen presences rushed back. Spirits outside, someone sobbing across the street, three figures fighting over offerings near the shop—this was why he avoided removing it.
He scanned the space around them. "What does your mom look like?"
The guy handed him a photo. Daotok studied the image—a woman with sharp foreign features.
"She's not here."
"What?"
"Your mom isn't here," Daotok answered truthfully, his fingers tightening around the thin bracelet in his hand. A breath slipped past his lips as he quickly slid it back onto his wrist, the weight of its presence grounding him.
The sudden onslaught of sensitivity was overwhelming, pressing against his mind like waves crashing against fragile cliffs. He hated feeling this raw, this exposed.
Arthit frowned, unconvinced. "You're sure?"
"Yes. I've looked," Daotok said, but even as he spoke, doubt crept in. He had only glanced around, skimming the surface rather than delving deep. What if she was here but didn't want to be seen? Spirits could be elusive when they chose to be. He hesitated before sighing and sliding the bracelet off once more, shutting his eyes as he concentrated.
It was exhausting, like reaching through thick fog, sifting through presences that weren't meant to be touched. Daotok rarely did this unless necessary— too many things tried to latch onto him when he opened himself up. But he had agreed to help, and he wasn't one to do things halfheartedly.
The air around him shifted, an invisible ripple moving outward. The moment his defenses lowered, the spirits noticed. Some edged closer, their murmurings a tangled mess of emotions and voices. He ignored them, pushing past the noise. More entities flickered into his awareness, but none were her. When the strain became too much, he pulled back abruptly, slipping the bracelet onto his wrist and drawing a steadying breath.
"You look like you're about to pass out. What the hell did you just do?"
Arthit's gaze sharpened, taking in Daotok's pallor.
"Nothing," he muttered, rubbing his temple. "Honestly, there's no one following you."
Arthit exhaled sharply, frustration bleeding into his features. "Really?"
Daotok nodded, lifting his cup to his lips, the warmth of the drink doing little to ease the lingering exhaustion.
"What if she's not following me?" Arthit mused, his voice quieter now.
Daotok remained silent, watching as uncertainty flickered across the other man's face.
"She might be with my dad... or somewhere else. She could be anywhere, right?"
"If that's the case, you'll have to check every place she might have been attached to in life," Daotok explained. "Spirits don't wander aimlessly. They stay tied to people, places, or objects they held close when they were alive. Grandma Puangthong used to say that the dead linger where they left the strongest echoes of themselves."
"Attached? You mean like places they liked visiting?"
"Not exactly. More like their home. Where they lived."
Arthit stilled. "Home?"
"Yeah."
A shadow passed over his face before he exhaled slowly, looking away. Daotok could tell he was reluctant to suggest returning there. Not that Daotok wanted to go either.
"Since we've come this far, could you help me a little more?" Arthit asked finally.
Daotok hesitated, then sighed. "Do I get to say no?"
"No." Of course.
Daotok pinched the bridge of his nose, already expecting this answer. "Fine."
"Are you free tomorrow?"
"No."
"The day after?"
"Got classes."
"Saturday?"
Daotok considered for a moment before nodding. "Should be fine."
"Alright. Next Saturday, I'll take you to my house."
"Great," Daotok muttered, rising from his seat. He stepped outside, only to be met with the steady sound of rain against pavement. The downpour showed no sign of easing.
"How'd you get here?" Arthit asked, stepping up beside him.
"Motorbike."
Arthit raised a brow. "You're going to ride in this?"
"Yeah."
"Want a ride with me?"
Daotok hesitated.
"Consider it payback for helping me."
"What about my bike?"
"Leave it here. It won't get stolen."
He mulled it over, then shook his head. "I'll wait for the rain to stop."
"Suit yourself." Arthit shrugged, turning on his heel and walking off into the night. Daotok exhaled, stepping back inside. He ordered another drink and turned his attention to his work, letting the hours bleed into one another. Before he knew it, it was almost midnight.
By the time he left, the rain had finally stopped. He rode home at a leisurely pace, his mind too cluttered to rush. The moment he stepped into his room, he put his things away, took a quick shower, and checked his phone. A new Line notification waited for him. Someone had added him again. Daotok froze as he read the messages.
[☁]: In two months.
[☁]: I'll be back in Thailand.
[☁]: Don't block me.
[☁]: If you block me, I'll just make another account.
There was no profile picture, but the name alone was enough to send his stomach plummeting. His fingers hovered over the screen. Then, without hesitation, he blocked them again. Let them make as many accounts as they wanted. He would just keep blocking them. He exhaled a shaky breath, trying to ignore the way his chest tightened.
"It's okay." But it wasn't. And as much as he wanted to convince himself otherwise, the ghost of the past's voice still lingered in his mind, whispering of things best left forgotten.
Daotok's heart pounded at the mere thought of him. His face, his voice—it was all still so vivid, seared into his mind like a permanent scar. He had told himself a million times to forget, convinced himself that time would erase the remnants of what once was. But it was impossible.
Emma knew. She always knew. But she never said it aloud, as if they had a silent agreement, an unspoken promise that he wouldn't go back. More accurately, a promise he had made to himself. For a while, he believed he was doing better. Then the news came—he was coming back. And everything crumbled again.
He broke a weeks-long streak of staying away from cigarettes. Lighting one up, he inhaled deeply, letting the toxic comfort seep into his lungs. He had thought quitting was a good sign, proof that he was moving on. But now, here he was again, slipping back into old habits, burning through imported, overpriced cigarettes like they were his only lifeline.
Stepping onto the balcony, he exhaled a thin stream of smoke and watched as it blurred the moon's soft glow. Then he averted his gaze. He hated the moon. Because once, he had called him his moon.
Back then, he had been warmth itself—like morning sunlight touching his skin, like an R&B melody on a rainy afternoon, like the lingering sweetness of a caramel macchiato. It was ridiculous, really, how deeply he had loved him. So much so that he had been blind to everything else. Daotok sighed, watching as the cigarette burned down between his fingers.
The taste lingered on his tongue, a bitter reminder of his own weakness. He feared getting addicted again—not just to the nicotine, but to the memories that came flooding back with every drag. It was the same with beer, the same with everything he used to numb himself. They were all proof that he still thought about him, proof that he hadn't truly let go.
He stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray, his gaze flickering to the knife lying on the table. The rain had stopped, at least. That was something. Otherwise, he might have spiraled even deeper.
"Time to sleep," he muttered under his breath, though he knew sleep wouldn't come easily.
And it didn't. He tossed and turned, staring at the ceiling for what felt like hours before giving up entirely. If sleep wouldn't take him, then work would have to be done. He spent the night buried in it, exhaustion dulling the edges of his thoughts. Morning passed in a haze of restless naps, and by afternoon, he forced himself out of his apartment, seeking distraction.
He finally got the tattoo he had been planning for months—a white hawk, a tribute to his father. The session took hours, but when it was done, he admired the new ink on his upper arm with a satisfied smirk. He liked it. Already, he was thinking about the next one. The way each new mark on his skin felt like reclaiming a part of himself was almost addictive.
Restless, he rode aimlessly on his motorbike before ending up at a mall, where he sat through a painfully dull movie, barely keeping his eyes open. Still, he endured all ninety minutes. Afterward, on impulse, he stepped into a salon and asked for a color that wasn't common. By the time he left, his hair was a striking shade of blue.
It felt strange, seeing his reflection with such a bold change, but not bad. Just... different.
When he got home, Emma took one look at him and sighed. "Every time you get shaken, you do something like this."
"Really? Every time?"
"Not exactly, but Michael—" she paused, correcting herself, "you tend to do odd things when you're creatively stuck or off balance. Or sometimes just for fun."
"So strange that it's normal now? Do you think I'm weird?"
Emma raised a brow. "Weird? Normal people don't sleep in closets."
"Why not? Closets are nice and dark."
This morning, he had slept in the closet because the sunlight streaming through his window was unbearable. He didn't have an eye mask, and covering himself with a blanket was too hot. The solution? Sleeping in the closet. Simple. Logical.
"Wasn't it hot in there?" she asked.
"A little. But I left the door cracked open. Didn't want to suffocate to death."
Later that day, he met up with the cigarette seller guy as planned. The man eyed his newly dyed hair but didn't comment. Instead, he opened the driver's side door of his sleek red sports car. Daotok hesitated for only a second before sliding into the passenger seat. The engine roared to life, and they were off.
"You're too calm, you know that?" the man remarked.
"Why?"
"Most people complain that I drive too fast."
"It's fast."
"And you're not scared?"
Daotok glanced at the blur of passing scenery. He had thought his father drove fast, but this man was on another level. If there was a race in his head for reckless drivers, the cigarette seller guy would be at the top. But fear? No. If anything, he understood. People like them didn't fear death.
And if this man trusted his own skills behind the wheel, then Daotok had no reason to doubt him. Before long, they pulled up to a sleek, modern house. He followed the man inside, admiring the clean architecture. Maybe he should take a course on home design.
"Direk, he's here," the man called out. A tall man, likely in his forties, approached. Daotok guessed this was Direk, though he wasn't sure if he was the man's father or something else. He offered a polite smile and a wai, which was returned.
"You're sure about this?" Direk asked.
"Yeah."
"Alright, do what you need to do."
Daotok exhaled slowly and removed his bracelet, concentrating. He expected to sense someone lingering near Direk, but... nothing.
"No one's following him," he muttered.
"What kind of husband doesn't have his wife following him around?" The cigarette seller guy snickered—until Direk smacked him upside the head. Daotok shook his head and moved through the house, searching. But there was nothing. Only spirits lurking outside, watching curiously. One tried to climb the fence when Daotok met its gaze, but it failed.
"She's not here," he said finally.
A heavy silence fell. Then, in a quiet voice, the man asked, "Then where do I find her?"
"Probably where she passed."
His companion stiffened, face unreadable. "So I have to take you to my hometown?"
"If you want my help, that's where we should start."
As exhaustion settled deep into Daotok's bones, he sat on a garden bench, closing his eyes. But before he could fully rest, he inadvertently tapped into someone's emotions. A sudden, suffocating weight crushed his chest—a sorrow so profound it left him gasping.
Why... Why is he so sad? It was a wound buried deep, one that had never been allowed to heal. Overwhelmed, Daotok clutched his chest as hot tears spilled down his cheeks. He didn't cry easily—not for himself. But now, he sobbed freely, because the pain he felt wasn't his own.
And it was heartbreaking. Emma's voice echoed in his mind. "People who never cry are the ones whose wounds never heal.'
Daotok choked back another sob. "Yeah... it is."
☆☆☆☆☆
Arthit poured a glass of water, intending to bring it to the kid who had gone out of his way to help him search for his mom. The kid looked pale, as if he was on the verge of collapsing. It probably wasn't easy, trying to sense spirits like that. Arthit could see the exhaustion in his eyes, but it was more than just physical weariness. There was something else weighing on him.
"Can we trust him?" Direk's voice cut through the silence as he entered the kitchen.
Arthit glanced at him, giving a small nod. "We can. He's the same one who helped solve Donut's case last time."
Direk wasn't convinced. "What if we don't find anything this time?"
"Then I'll let it go," Arthit answered, his voice steady but heavy with the burden of the situation. He had gone this far, and if they didn't find any leads now, then it was time to move on.
"Really?" Direk asked, clearly skeptical.
"Yeah, it's gone this far," Arthit repeated, his gaze distant as he thought about the endless search. The idea of finally letting go was a heavy weight he didn't know if he was ready to carry.
Direk sighed, looking out the back window. "Do we really need to take him to California?"
Arthit hesitated before replying. "Probably. Honestly, it's the most likely place she'd be."
Even though the house in California belonged to him, Direk, and his mom, Arthit wasn't eager to take the kid there. The thought of going back to that place stirred up too many memories, ones he wasn't ready to confront. But there didn't seem to be any other choice.
"Fine. Do what you need to do to find peace," Direk said, his tone resigned, before his gaze shifted back outside. "Is he crying?"
Arthit blinked, his heart skipping a beat at the sight. Sure enough, the kid was sitting on the same bench from earlier, his head down, shoulders shaking slightly. The sight of him crying left Arthit even more confused. What the hell? Why is he crying all of a sudden?
"What did you do to him?" Direk's voice was sharp, an accusing edge to it.
"I didn't do anything," Arthit replied, frowning as he picked up the glass of water and headed outside. As he approached, the kid rubbed his eyes roughly and looked up at him, his expression full of vulnerability.
"Crying?" Arthit asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Yeah," the kid muttered, taking the glass of water from him.
Arthit's frown deepened. "What's wrong with you, crying out of nowhere?"
The kid's voice trembled slightly as he spoke. "It's you."
"Huh?" Arthit stared at him, bewildered.
"It's because of you," the kid explained, his voice barely above a whisper.
Arthit blinked, his irritation growing. "What?"
"I'm sorry," the kid said, his eyes full of apology.
"What are you even talking about?"
"I'm sorry. I accidentally read your feelings."
Arthit went silent at that, the realization dawning on him. He remembered the kid mentioning that he could sense unexpressed emotions, but the thought of someone digging into his feelings made his blood boil. He hated that kind of vulnerability. Hated anyone knowing what he really felt.
"Who told you to stick your nose into my emotions?" Arthit snapped, his patience wearing thin.
"I didn't mean to," the kid said, looking genuinely sorry, but still clearly affected by whatever he had felt. His voice was quiet, almost like he was retreating into himself.
Arthit exhaled, trying to calm himself down. The kid had gone out of his way to help him, after all, and yelling at him wouldn't be fair.
"Why are you crying, then?" Arthit asked, softer this time, his tone reflecting a mix of curiosity and concern.
The kid's voice was barely audible as he responded. "Because I felt it too. Why are you so sad?"
Arthit's heart twisted slightly at the answer. "Am I really that sad?"
The kid nodded, his eyes wide. "Yeah. I don't cry often, you know. This is the first time in years."
Arthit couldn't help but feel a strange mix of frustration and guilt. He wasn't used to being so exposed, especially to someone so young and so...sensitive. "Crying on someone else's behalf? You're kind of an idiot, aren't you?"
The kid didn't respond immediately, but his eyes stayed locked on Arthit with a strange intensity. Then, finally, he spoke, blunt and unapologetic.
"Yeah, I am."
Arthit met his gaze for a moment, trying to process the feelings swirling inside him. It wasn't just the kid's ability to read emotions that unsettled him —it was the fact that he could see through the walls Arthit had carefully built around himself.