The Friday evening market behind the train station was a dense, suffocating grid of smoke, neon light, and the deafening bass of modified speakers blasting from the accessories stalls. It smelled like toasted squid, sweet coconut pudding, and the heavy exhaust of idling motorbikes waiting by the curb.
"If we don't buy the fried chive cakes right now, they're going to run out of the spicy vinegar sauce," Mali said, aggressively maneuvering through the crowd by using her heavy school bag as a shield. "Phuwin, stop looking at the vintage shirts. You don't have any money left after buying that stupidly expensive green tea."
"It was premium matcha, Mali," Phuwin argued, his voice raised to compete with a nearby blender crushing ice for fruit smoothies. He was wearing his school uniform trousers but had swapped his uniform shirt for one of Krit's oversized, faded gray band tees. "And the lady at the stall said it aligns your chakras. My chakras are currently in absolute shambles."
"Your chakras are fine, you're just broke," Krit said, appearing from behind a mountain of secondhand sneakers with a giant plastic cup of pink guava juice in one hand and a bag of skewers in the other. He shoved a grilled pork skewer directly toward Phuwin's face. "Here. Eat this. It has enough sodium to make you forget your own name."
Phuwin caught the wooden stick with his teeth, tearing off a piece of the sweet, charred meat. "Where did you get the money for pork? I thought you only had forty baht."
"I found a fifty-baht note in the pocket of these shorts," Krit grinned, patting his thigh. "They're my brother's shorts. Technically, it's an interest-free loan from his laundry basket. Don't tell him."
They drifted toward the edge of the market where the concrete gave way to the gravel walkway bordering the train tracks. A rusted iron fence separated the market from the active lines, where a slow-moving commuter train was currently rumbling past, its yellow windows casting long, flickering rectangles of light across their faces.
They sat down on a low concrete barrier, their feet dangling over the gravel. The air was thick with heat, but every time a train passed, it kicked up a sudden, violent breeze that smelled of warm metal and rain.
"Give me the frog," Krit said, holding out his grease-stained hand toward Phuwin.
Phuwin reached into his pocket and pulled out the cracked plastic keychain. He didn't pass it over immediately; his thumb was currently pressed against the frog's stomach, making it give a tiny, muted squeak.
"How many times did you press it during social studies?" Krit asked, snatching it by the metal ring.
"Forty-two," Phuwin admitted, dropping his chin into his palms. "Every time the teacher said the word 'infrastructure,' my thumb just moved on its own. I think I broke the spring inside."
"You didn't break it, you just exhausted its emotional capacity," Krit said, shaking the keychain near his ear like a mechanic diagnosing an engine. He tossed it back into Phuwin's lap. "It's fine. It still has at least a hundred squeaks left before the festival next week."
Mali sat down between them, carefully balancing three small plastic bags of chive cakes on her knees. She handed a wooden toothpick to each of them. "He's going to be at the festival, you know."
The words didn't explode. They just dropped into the space between them like a heavy stone into deep mud.
The train had fully passed now, its tail-lights disappearing into the dark curve of the tracks, leaving only the distant, muffled thud of the market music behind them.
Phuwin's toothpick hovered an inch above a chive cake. "How do you know?"
"Ploy told me in the restroom after fourth period," Mali said quietly, her eyes fixed on the plastic bag as she stirred the dark vinegar sauce. "His basketball team is running the game booth near the old gym. The one where you have to throw the balls at the tin cans. She said he's on the afternoon shift."
Phuwin didn't say anything. He carefully jabbed the toothpick into a piece of the fried dough, lifting it up, watching a drop of the black sauce fall back onto the plastic.
Seventeen is an age where your entire universe can be mapped out by a conversation in a school restroom. A single sentence from a girl you barely know can rewrite your entire weekend itinerary, turning a simple school festival from a fun afternoon into a strategic minefield.
"We don't have to go," Krit said.
Phuwin looked up, surprised. Krit was chewing on his pork skewer, his eyes fixed stubbornly on the dark train tracks across the gravel. His face didn't have its usual smirk; the sharp, defensive lines of his jaw looked unusually serious under the dim yellow streetlamp.
"The festival is stupid anyway," Krit muttered, throwing the empty wooden stick into a nearby trash bin with a sharp flick of his wrist. "It's just a bunch of middle-schoolers selling soggy fish balls and the garage band playing the same three songs out of tune. We can just take the bike and go to the pier instead. We can buy the big tub of ice cream from the wholesale store."
"Krit, your brother's bike doesn't even have a headlight that works past eight o'clock," Mali pointed out, though her voice was incredibly gentle.
"I'll buy a flashlight," Krit countered. "I'll tape it to the handlebars. It's fine."
Phuwin looked from Krit's stubborn profile to Mali's soft, concerned eyes. He could feel the familiar, heavy ache starting to creep up from his stomach, the cold realization that he was a burden—that his stupid, broken heart was currently hijacking their Friday night, their plans, and their conversations.
"Do you guys ever get tired of me?" Phuwin asked.
The question was so quiet it was almost swallowed by the low rumble of another approaching train in the distance.
Mali stopped chewing. Krit slowly turned his head, his eyes narrowing as he stared at Phuwin's face.
"Like, honestly," Phuwin said, his fingers tightening around the wooden toothpick until the cheap bamboo bent slightly. "I've been talking about the same guy for six months. I cried in the chicken shop, I broke Mali's lab manual, and now you guys are planning to skip the school festival—the one thing we've been talking about since midterms—just because I can't handle seeing a guy throw a basketball at some tin cans."
He gave a small, wet laugh, looking down at his worn sneakers.
"I'm annoying," Phuwin whispered. "If I were you guys, I would have left me at the station three days ago. I would have just stopped replying to the group chat."
The train arrived then. It was an express line this time, not stopping at their small platform, its massive steel body tearing through the night air with a deafening, metallic shriek and a roar that shook the very concrete they were sitting on. The wind blew violently, whipping Mali's hair across her face and sending an empty plastic cup clattering across the gravel.
They sat in the middle of the noise, three dark figures washed in the periodic flashes of the train's white lights.
The train roared past, its sound slowly fading into a distant click-clack, click-clack.
Krit reached over, took the bag of chive cakes from Mali's lap, and took a massive, aggressive bite out of one. He chewed loudly for five seconds before looking at Phuwin.
"You are annoying," Krit said simply.
"Krit!" Mali hissed, elbowing him hard in the ribs.
"No, he needs to hear it," Krit said, completely unbothered as he swallowed. "He's incredibly annoying. His voice notes are too long, his taste in matcha is pretentious, and when he's sad, he looks like a wet golden retriever that someone left outside a convenience store."
Phuwin blinked, his chest tightening.
"But if we left you at the station," Krit continued, leaning forward until his face was inches from Phuwin's, his breath smelling faintly of sweet pork and chili, "who else is going to let me wear their expensive jackets? Who else is going to fail math with me so I'm not the only one getting scolded by Sanan? Mali is too smart, she's no fun."
"Hey!" Mali said.
"It's a ecosystem, Phuwin," Krit said, his hand reaching out to slam heavily against Phuwin's shoulder, a solid, painful blow that made him wince. "We need the dramatic one. Without you, we're just two normal kids eating fried chive cakes by the train tracks. We'd be boring. We'd look like those kids who actually study for the SATs."
Mali let out a soft laugh, reaching over to pull Phuwin's head down until it rested against her shoulder. Her hair smelled like the herbal shampoo her grandmother made, clean and slightly bitter.
"We're going to the festival," Mali said firmly into his hair. "We're going to buy the tickets, we're going to eat the fish balls, and if he looks at you the wrong way, Krit is going to 'accidentally' knock over his entire stack of tin cans with the basketball."
"I'll do it with my head," Krit promised, his eyes lighting up with that familiar, terrifying menace. "I'll dive right into the booth. It'll be a legendary disruption."
Phuwin stayed tucked under Mali's arm for a long moment, the rough fabric of her school uniform scratchy against his cheek. He reached into his pocket, his fingers finding the cracked frog, and gave it one final, solid squeeze.
Squeak.
"Okay," Phuwin sniffled, lifting his head and wiping his eyes with the hem of Krit's big gray t-shirt. "But if Krit gets arrested by the student council, I'm not bailing him out."
"Don't worry," Krit grinned, reaching for the last chive cake. "Mali has the savings account. She's our financial backer."