The plastic table at the back of the chicken shop was perpetually sticky, no matter how many times the kid in the oversized apron wiped it down with a grey rag. It smelled like old grease, cheap chili sauce, and the sharp, chemical tang of the air conditioner that spent its days rattling violently in the corner, fighting a losing battle against the Bangkok heat outside.
"I am a ghost," Phuwin announced. He didn't look up from his phone. His thumb was hovering over the screen, trembling just enough that the blue light flickered across his face. "I have passed away. Please don't invite my family to the funeral. Just bury me with my headphones and tell everyone I died doing what I loved."
"Which was what? Crying over a guy who uses a cartoon frog as his profile picture?" Krit didn't even look up from his own screen. He was aggressively tapping through a game, his fingers moving with the precision of a surgeon. "Move your elbow, by the way. You're blocking the sweet chili."
"Krit. Seriously." Phuwin finally dropped his phone face-down on the laminate with a dull thud. He looked exhausted, the skin under his eyes dark and smudged, his school uniform tie loosened so far it looked like a noose. "He unadded me. Like, completely. I went to check his story to see if he was at the arcade, and the little grey icon was just… gone. Who does that? Who just erases a person?"
Mali reached across the table, picked up a single, perfectly golden french fry, dipped it in a pool of ketchup, and shoved it into her mouth. She chewed thoughtfully, squinting at the ceiling as if calculating the exact trajectory of Phuwin's mental collapse.
"A coward," Mali said simply. "That's who. Also, you said you were going to block him three days ago. I literally watched you press the button, Phuwin. I have a video of it."
"That was different," Phuwin groaned, dropping his forehead directly onto the table. The impact made the plastic cups rattle. "That was a tactical block. It was supposed to make him realize my absence and suffer. This is an aggressive unadding. It's a declaration of war."
"It's a declaration that he's tired of you sending eight-minute voice notes at two in the morning," Krit muttered. He finally lost his game, a loud GAME OVER sound effects blaring from his speaker before he hastily shoved his phone into his pocket. He leaned forward, resting his chin in his hands, staring at Phuwin's messy hair. "Hey. Ghost boy. Lift your head. You're getting grease in your bangs."
"Good. Let it consume me."
"Mali, give me the ice," Krit said, reaching for her cup.
"Don't you dare," Phuwin shot up instantly, glaring at Krit with wide, bloodshot eyes. "If you drop a piece of ice down my shirt again, I'm leaping out of this window."
"We're on the ground floor," Mali pointed out, wiping her hands on a napkin. "You'd just land on the delivery guy's motorbike. And then you'd have to pay for the noodles."
"See? This is what I'm talking about," Phuwin said, his voice rising, drawing a sharp look from the elderly woman sitting two tables over. He didn't care. He was too deep in the theatre of his own misery. "My heart is in actual, physical pieces. I can feel the shards scraping against my lungs. And my two best friends are worrying about noodle logistics and sweet chili sauce. I am surrounded by sociopaths."
Krit rolled his eyes, but his hand moved. He didn't say anything comforting—that wasn't their language—but he reached out, grabbed Phuwin's phone, and slid it across the table, entirely out of Phuwin's reach.
"Hey!" Phuwin lunged for it.
"No," Krit said, his voice dropping its usual mocking edge for a split second. It was a firm, solid wall. "You're done for the day. If you look at that screen one more time, your eyes are going to turn into raisins. Eat a piece of chicken."
"I'm not hungry. Love has destroyed my appetite."
"You literally ate half my burger ten minutes ago," Mali said.
"That was emotional eating!"
"It was theft," she corrected, but she reached into her bag and pulled out a small, slightly crushed pack of strawberry milk, sliding it toward him. "Drink it. It's the sweet kind you like."
Phuwin stared at the milk box. His lower lip quivered just a fraction—the dramatic, ridiculous Phuwin trait that usually made them laugh—but then, the air in the space between them seemed to shift. The theatrical weight fell away, leaving something smaller, thinner, and much more fragile.
He didn't grab the milk. He just stared at the little red straw taped to the side of the box.
"He didn't even hesitate," Phuwin said. His voice wasn't loud anymore. It was just the sound of a seventeen-year-old boy who had suddenly realized he wasn't the main character in someone else's script. "We talked every single day for five months. I know his middle name. I know he hates the texture of tomatoes. I know he cries when his dog gets a haircut. And he just… clicked a button. And I'm gone."
The air conditioner gave a particularly loud, wet rattle.
Mali's hand stopped mid-air, her fingers hovering over the napkin dispenser. Krit, who had been about to make another joke about Phuwin's bangs, froze. His mouth stayed slightly open, the sarcastic comment dying right on his tongue.
The chicken shop was suddenly very loud. The sound of the fryer bubbling in the kitchen, the muffled traffic from the main road outside, the murmur of the old woman talking to her grandson two tables over—it all rushed in to fill the silence at their table.
For five long seconds, nobody knew what to say. Because at seventeen, you know how to roast your friends, you know how to sneak out of afternoon assembly, and you know how to cheat on a chemistry quiz. But you don't know how to fix a hole in someone's chest.
Mali looked at Krit. Krit looked down at his own fingernails.
"Do you think…" Phuwin started, his voice cracking slightly before he cleared his throat, looking up at the two of them with an expression that made Mali's stomach drop. "Do you think he ever actually liked me? Or was I just… there because he was bored?"
The question hung over the sticky plastic table like a heavy, humid cloud.
Krit cleared his throat. He didn't look at Phuwin—looking at him when he was actually, genuinely hurt felt like looking directly into the sun. Instead, Krit reached over, grabbed Phuwin's phone again, and stuffed it deep into his own backpack, zipping it shut with a loud, aggressive zip.
"He's an idiot," Krit said. His voice was rough, completely stripped of the menace tone. "That's the answer. He's just stupid."
"Krit's right," Mali said quickly, leaning forward, her eyes fierce. "He's literally a brick. A hollowed-out brick. And if he ever comes near our school gate again, I'm going to accidentally trip him into the drainage ditch."
Phuwin blinked, a single stray tear finally escaping and tracking down his cheek. He wiped it away furiously with the back of his hand, leaving a smudge of grease from the table on his cheekbone. "The drainage ditch has frogs in it."
"Exactly," Mali said. "He can hang out with his profile picture."
A tiny, involuntary sound came out of Phuwin's mouth—half a sob, half a laugh. He looked at Mali, then at Krit, who was still staring stubbornly at the wall but had quietly pushed the basket of remaining french fries two inches closer to Phuwin's side of the table.
"You guys are terrible at comfort," Phuwin sniffled, reaching out and finally taking the strawberry milk.
"We're giving you free fries and threatening property damage," Krit said, his usual smirk slowly, carefully creeping back onto his face like a shield. "That's premium service. Most people have to pay for this."
"I'm still sad," Phuwin warned, inserting the straw into the box with a sharp pop.
"We know," Mali said softly, reaching over to tug at his loose tie until it looked semi-normal again. "Now eat the food before Krit steals it back."