Time slips through my fingers like water. I spend it in my room like I always do: forums, the game, forums, the game, sleep, repeat. Every moment is like the last... Until one night when Mom asks me to come eat with her and Dad in the dining room.
Dinner is a battlefield of tiny sounds. The clink of forks against plates. The scrape of a chair as Mom leans forward. The faint hiss of the new dish washer.
Mom is smiling at me across the table, the kind of smile that stretches too wide, like a balloon about to pop. Her hands are folded in front of her, fingers laced tightly, and I can see the faint shimmer of the wedding ring she's worn since before I was born.
"There's a boy," she starts, her voice soft but insistent, like waves that keep pushing against the shore even when the tide is low. "I think you'll like him."
Dad doesn't look up from his tablet, but his scoff is loud enough to hear over the ambient sounds of the evening.
Mom ignores him, leaning closer. "Tom is a nice boy," she says, her words careful, like they've been rehearsed. "He works in tech, has a good job. And he's Thai—he's Busaba's son. You remember her, from church?"
I don't say anything. What good would it do? When Mom gets something like this into her head there's no use fighting her.
Her smile falters for half a second before snapping back into place. "You'll have so much in common."
I stare down at my plate. The pork belly glistens under the kitchen light, the sauce pooling at the edges like liquid gold. I spear a piece with my fork, but it feels heavy in my hand, like I'm holding something more than food.
"I'm not really looking to meet anyone," I mumble.
The words fall flat, sliding off the table and disappearing into the hum of the dish washer.
"That's exactly why you should go," Mom says, her tone too bright, like sunlight bouncing off a mirror and blinding you. "It's just one evening. It'll be good for you."
Dad snorts again, his eyes never leaving the screen. "She'll just embarrass herself," he mutters.
My chest tightens, the air in the room suddenly thick and sticky, clinging to my skin like spiderwebs.
"I'm sitting right here," I say, my voice sharper than I meant.
Dad finally looks up, his expression unreadable. "So? Am I wrong?"
"Chaiyan," Mom snaps, her smile cracking.
But he doesn't say anything else, and the silence that follows is louder than anything.
°‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𓆉𖦹*ੈ‧ 𓇼 ₊˚𓆝･:*.ೃ࿔⋆🐚‧°
Mom follows me to my room after dinner, her footsteps soft and hesitant, like she's afraid I'll slam the door in her face.
I don't. I haven't since I was fifteen.
She stands in the doorway, her hands wringing together, and I can feel her eyes scanning the room—the empty mugs on my desk, the notebooks piled in the corner, the faint glow of my paused game on the monitor.
"It's just one evening," she says again, quieter this time. "Just dinner. You don't have to marry him."
Her laugh is small and forced, like it's trying to fill the space between us but doesn't quite make it.
I don't look at her. My fingers twitch towards the keyboard, itching to unpause the game and dive back into the reef where the fish don't ask questions and the coral doesn't care how long you've been drifting.
"Fine," I say finally, the word tumbling out like a stone falling into water.
Mom's smile reappears, softer now, but still too big for her face. "You'll see," she says, her voice full of something that sounds like hope. "You might surprise yourself."
She leaves me in the sanctuary of my room again. But the text comes through a few minutes later.
Saturday, 7 PM. Tom will meet you at the restaurant.
No question mark. No option to say no. Not even the name of the restaurant so I can prepare myself.
I stare at the screen until the letters blur, then toss my phone onto the bed.
The glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling seem dimmer tonight, their edges smudged and uneven, like someone tried to erase them but couldn't finish the job.
I close my eyes and imagine Tom. I picture him sitting across from me at a tiny table, his hair combed neatly, his smile polite but thin. I imagine him asking me what I do for fun and me fumbling through an answer, tripping over words like stairs that are too high.
I imagine him laughing, not unkindly, but enough to make me feel small.
I imagine him looking at me the way people always do: like I'm a strange fish caught in the wrong net.
°‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𓆉𖦹*ੈ‧ 𓇼 ₊˚𓆝･:*.ೃ࿔⋆🐚‧°
Saturday comes too quickly, but also not quickly enough.
Mom knocks on my door as I'm pulling on a sweater, her timing as precise as always. She steps inside without waiting for me to say anything, her smile already in place.
"Is that what you're wearing?" she asks, her voice light but edged with something sharp.
I glance down at the sweater. It's soft and gray, the kind of thing that doesn't ask for attention. "It's fine," I say.
Mom shakes her head, stepping closer to smooth the hem of the sweater like it's wrinkled. It's not. "At least put on some lipstick," she says.
"I don't like lipstick."
"Just a little," she insists, pulling a tube of pale pink from her pocket like she planned for this. "It'll brighten your face."
I don't argue. There's no point.
I swipe the lipstick across my lips, the waxy texture unfamiliar and uncomfortable. How many animals were harmed testing it before it was spread across my lips? What is the death toll of my smile?
"You look beautiful," Mom says, her smile softening, and for a moment, I almost believe her.
°‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𓆉𖦹*ੈ‧ 𓇼 ₊˚𓆝･:*.ೃ࿔⋆🐚‧°
The city is too bright tonight, the headlights bouncing off the pavement like restless fireflies. Mom drives in silence, her hands gripping the wheel tightly enough to make her knuckles pale.
"You'll have fun," she says as we pull up to the restaurant. "Tom's a nice boy. He's kind."
I nod, because it's easier than saying anything else.
The door closes behind me with a heavy thunk, and the sound carries through the air like a final note in a song I don't want to hear.
It's raining. It's always raining here.
The restaurant is a chain called Bun Intended, one of those places where the menus are laminated, and the booths are upholstered in cracked vinyl that sticks to your skin. It smells like too much butter and something fried past the point of recognition. The kind of place Mom would never choose for herself but thinks I'd like because it's "casual."
I step inside, clutching my bag against my side, and let the noise hit me. There's laughter spilling from every direction, clattering dishes, the sharp thwack of a tray dropped in the kitchen. The lights are fluorescent, humming faintly above me, their glow harsh and unrelenting.
I weave through the crowd, clutching my bag against my side like armor. My feet stick slightly to the floor, the linoleum tacky under my soles, and the air smells like frying oil and something too sweet to name.
Tom is easy to spot. He's sitting at a booth in the corner, his hands resting neatly on the table. He looks like the kind of person who calls ahead for reservations even when he doesn't need to. When he sees me, he stands and waves, his smile stretching wide enough to make my chest tighten.
"Mai, right?" he asks, though there's no one else I could be.
I nod.
"It's nice to meet you," he says, extending his hand. His grip is firm, but his palm is clammy, and I can't tell if it's nerves or the humidity in the room.
"You too," I say, my voice barely audible over the din.
We sit, and for a moment, neither of us speaks. Tom reaches for the menu, his movements precise and deliberate, like he's rehearsed this.
"This place has great food," he says, his tone warm but generic. "Have you been here before?"
I shake my head. "No."
"Ah, well, they do a mean burger," he says, his grin broadening. "And the fries are awesome."
The waiter comes by before I can respond, and Tom orders confidently—a burger, medium rare, with extra pickles. He asks for a soda without looking at the drink menu. When the waiter turns to me, I panic and order the same thing, even though I don't like pickles.
"So," Tom says once the waiter leaves, leaning forward slightly. "What do you do?"
The question is a blow to the chest, knocking all the air out of me.
"I, um..." I hesitate, my fingers twisting the edge of the napkin in my lap. "I'm not working right now. I'm... between things."
"Ah," he says, nodding like he understands. His smile tightens just enough for me to notice. "What are you interested in?"
"The ocean," I say before I can stop myself.
His eyebrows lift. "The ocean?"
I nod, my words tumbling out in a rush now, as if I can cover the awkwardness with enthusiasm. "I love marine life. The ecosystems are so complex, you know? Coral reefs, kelp forests, even the open ocean—there's so much we still don't understand. And the deep sea, it's like this whole other world..."
I trail off when I see him start to fidget.
"That's... cool," he says finally, his tone careful, like he's not sure if I'm joking. "I don't know much about that kind of thing, but it sounds interesting."
"It is," I say, though the word feels hollow now.
Tom launches into a story about his recent trip to Hawaii, about snorkeling and seeing "the biggest fish I've ever seen in my life." He laughs, describing how it startled him, how he almost dropped his camera in the water.
"Do you know what kind of fish it might have been?" he asks, grinning.
I hesitate, trying to gauge if he actually wants an answer. When he doesn't move on, I say, "Probably a parrotfish, if you were near the reef. They're common in Hawaii. They use their beaks to scrape algae off the coral."
"Wow," he says, blinking. "You really know your stuff."
The words are polite, but there's something in his tone that makes my stomach twist, like I've said too much.
He laughs, the sound sharp and quick, and takes a sip of his water. "I bet you'd be great at trivia night," he says, his smile wide again.
I try to smile back, but it feels like my face might crack.
The laughing is too much...
I'm eight years old now, no longer at the restaurant. I'm sitting cross-legged on the floor of the classroom. It's show-and-tell, and the other kids are taking turns holding up their toys and trophies, their voices bright and loud, each one trying to outshine the last.
When it's my turn, I stand up, clutching my notebook to my chest. It's filled with drawings of fish, page after page of colorful scales and sleek fins, each one labeled with careful handwriting.
"This is a humphead wrasse," I say, flipping to the first page. "They can change their sex, and they live in coral reefs."
There's a pause, just a beat, before someone giggles.
"She just said 'sex'" someone whispers.
I don't look up. I keep going, my voice shaking but steady. "And this is a manta ray. They have the biggest brains of any fish."
The giggling grows louder, turning into full-blown laughter.
"She talks funny," one of the boys says, his voice cutting through the air like a knife.
"Why is she talking about fish? That's so weird."
I freeze, my hands gripping the notebook so tightly the edges of the pages curl. The teacher says something, her voice calm but detached, like she's trying to herd cats.
But the laughter doesn't stop. It swirls around me, echoing in my ears, growing louder and louder until it drowns out everything else.
"Mai?" Tom's voice breaks through the mocking laughter in my head, and I realize he's asked me a question.
"Sorry," I say quickly. "What?"
"I was asking if you've ever been to the aquarium downtown," he says, his smile faltering slightly.
"Yeah," I say, though the memory feels like it belongs to someone else. "I worked with the squid, trying to teach it language."
Tom's eyebrows shoot upward. "What? How do you do that?"
This time I know he doesn't want the answer. "I don't remember," I lie. "I was just a research assistant."
"Oh."
The conversation limps forward, Tom filling the silences with anecdotes that bounce off me like rain on a tin roof.
When the waiter comes by to refill our waters, his hand slips, and a few drops splash onto the table. Tom laughs it off, waving his hand dismissively, but the sound of his laughter grates against my ears.
"I'll be right back," I mumble, pushing my chair back too quickly.
"Take your time," Tom says, his voice light, but his relief is palpable.
The bathroom is cold and bright, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly above me. I stand in front of the mirror, staring at my reflection.
The lipstick Mom made me wear is still there, perfectly intact, but it looks wrong, like it belongs to someone else. My sweater is rumpled from where I've been twisting it in my hands, and my hair has flattened against my scalp.
I take a deep breath, then another, but it doesn't help. The air feels too thin, too sharp, slicing through my lungs.
I tell myself I'll go back to the table. Just one more minute.
I stare at my sweater, pulling at the hem like I can smooth out the wrinkles, but they don't disappear. They multiply, folding over themselves, each one a quiet reminder of how out of place I am.
Tom is waiting at the table. I tell myself I need to go back. Just sit, smile, nod—easy things, things normal people do without thinking.
But the thought of his smile, stretched too wide and too polite, makes my stomach twist. The way he laughed at me was the way everyone does. I'm tired of being the butt of humanity's joke.
The noise hits me like a wave when I step back into the dining room. Laughter rolls across the room, clattering dishes break against the walls, and the buzz of the lights presses against my temples.
Tom's at the table, scrolling through his phone, the glow from the screen painting his face in faint blue light.
When he sees me, he puts the phone down quickly, his smile reappearing like a reflex.
"Everything okay?" he asks as I sit down.
"Yeah," I lie, folding my hands in my lap to hide their trembling.
The waiter brings our food, plates clattering softly against the table. The burger looks enormous, its juices pooling onto the plate. I pick up a fry and nibble at the end, the salt stinging faintly against my tongue.
As we eat, Tom launches into a story about his college days—frat parties, pranks, a professor he didn't like. His voice rises and falls in waves, but I'm not listening. The words skim across the surface of my mind like skipping stones, leaving only the tiniest of ripples.
I focus on my plate instead, watching the grease from the burger spread like an oil slick. My napkin is crumpled in my lap, damp from where I've been twisting it in my hands.
"I was so drunk," Tom says, laughing. "I barely made it to class the next day."
I nod, forcing a small laugh of my own, but it feels like choking.
He leans forward slightly, his elbows resting on the table. "What about you? Did you party much in college?"
"Not really," I say, my voice tight. "I don't really like—"
I cut myself off, the words trailing into silence.
Tom's expression doesn't change, but I catch the faint flicker of confusion in his posture.
"Gotcha," he says, leaning back, feigning polite disinterest.
The conversation moves on, Tom filling the silence with more stories about his life, his friends, his work. Each one is like a brick placed into a growing pile between us, building a wall I don't have the energy to climb.
As the night drags on, the restaurant feels smaller, the walls pressing in, the noise swelling until it drowns out everything else. Tom's voice is still there, rising and falling like the tide, but I can't make out the words anymore.
My chest feels tight. There's a band around it that's slowly tightening. The lights overhead blur and stretch, their edges glowing faintly in the corners of my vision.
"Mai?" Thom's voice cuts through the static, sharp and sudden.
"Sorry," I say quickly. "What?"
"I was asking if you wanted dessert," he says, his smile faltering slightly.
"Oh," I say. "No, I'm okay."
The lie slips out easily, practiced and smooth, but my hands are still shaking in my lap.
The waiter comes back a moment later with the check, and Tom picks it up without hesitation, his movements brisk and practiced.
"Do you want to split it?" I ask, though I already know what he'll say.
"Nah," he says, waving a hand. "Don't worry about it."
The thought of thanking him feels too heavy, so I just nod.
As he scribbles his signature on the receipt, I glance at the door again. It feels impossibly far away, like the horizon on an endless sea.
Finally, we stand to leave, but Tom hesitates, his hand hovering awkwardly at his side. I can see the calculations behind his eyes—shake hands, hug, a pat on the back?
He settles for a smile, his teeth gleaming faintly in the fluorescent light.
"This was fun," he says, and I wonder if he means it.
"Yeah," I say, the word dry and brittle on my tongue.
We walk out together, and the cold and sharp air cuts through the haze that's been clinging to me all night. Tom waves once before walking away, his figure disappearing into the blur of headlights and shadows.
I stand on the sidewalk for a long moment, staring after him. My chest feels hollow, like a shipwreck stripped bare by the current.
I glance at my watch—Mom wouldn't let me bring my phone, not after last time. I still have almost an hour before they come pick me up.
°‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𓆉𖦹*ੈ‧ 𓇼 ₊˚𓆝･:*.ೃ࿔⋆🐚‧°
The beach isn't far. The sand is cold and damp beneath my feet, the kind that clings to your skin and refuses to let go. The ocean stretches out in front of me, dark and endless, the waves whispering secrets I'll never understand.
"Maybe I'll just stay here," I whisper back, though the words are swallowed by the wind.
The waves don't answer. They just keep moving, pulling at the shore, trying to take it with them.
It stretches out in front of me, dark and endless, the waves curling and crashing with a rhythm that should feel natural. Should feel right. But tonight, something is off.
The water moves too deliberately, each wave folding into the next like someone is pulling invisible strings beneath the surface. It's subtle, almost imperceptible, but the longer I watch, the more wrong it feels.
I sit at the edge of the shore, my shoes half-buried in the damp sand. The cold presses through the fabric and bites at my skin, but I don't move. The salt in the air is sharp, clinging to the back of my throat, and every breath tastes like something ancient and forgotten.
The waves roll in again, their peaks smooth and polished, as if they've been rehearsing this moment for centuries.
I close my eyes and listen.
Two small, one large. Pause.
The sound of the water is steady, but beneath it, there's something else. A faint, hollow echo, like a drumbeat coming from deep within the earth.
I count the seconds between each set, my lips moving silently. Two small, one large. Pause. The pattern repeats, over and over, too perfect to be chance.
I press my hands into the sand, grounding myself against the unease crawling up my spine. The ocean doesn't care about patterns. It moves where it wants, how it wants, indifferent to the rules we try to impose on it.
But this... this feels intentional.
There's a rhythm, a pulse to the movement, like the ocean is breathing in time with some invisible metronome. The waves come in sets—two small, one large, then a pause, just long enough to make me doubt myself.
"Stop it," I whisper, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. "Stop making sense."
The waves don't listen. They just keep moving, their rhythm unbroken.
The ocean isn't speaking to me. It's speaking despite me. It's telling its secrets to the sand, to the air, to itself, and I am nothing but an intruder trying to eavesdrop on a conversation I was never meant to hear.
I dig my fingers deeper into the sand, the grains slipping between them. The waves keep coming, their pattern unchanging, and the steady pull of the tide feels like a hand wrapping around my ankle, tugging me toward the water.
"Why?" I whisper, my voice swallowed by the crash of the surf.
The ocean keeps breathing, its rhythm steady and relentless.
I don't know how long I sit there, watching the water. The world around me fades into the background, the distant hum of the city and the occasional bark of a dog becoming nothing more than static.
All that's left is the ocean, its rhythm, and me.
The waves crash again, and for a moment, I think I can see something in their movement. A shape, a shadow, a flicker of meaning just beyond my reach. But it's gone before I can grasp it, leaving me with nothing but the cold sand and the steady beat of the water.
I let out a shaky breath and stand, my legs stiff and trembling beneath me. My shoes feel heavier now, weighed down by the damp sand clinging to them.
The ocean doesn't care that I'm leaving. Its rhythm doesn't falter, doesn't acknowledge me at all.
The waves are still whispering when the car horn shatters the quiet. It cuts through the night like a jagged edge, sharp and sudden, leaving the world uneven in its wake.
I flinch, my pulse spiking as the headlights sweep across the sand, painting the beach in harsh, artificial light. The ocean doesn't stop its rhythm. Two small, one large. Pause.
The car door slams, and I hear her voice before I see her.
"Mai!"
Mom's silhouette appears at the edge of the parking lot, her figure rigid with irritation. She's clutching her coat tightly around her, the wind pulling at her scarf like it's trying to unravel her.
I stand slowly, brushing the damp sand from my clothes. My shoes are soggy, grains of sand grinding against my heels with every step.
"I told you to meet me at the restaurant!" Mom's voice rises above the crash of the waves, each word sharp and clipped. "I've been driving around looking for you!"
"I'm sorry," I say, though the words feel hollow, drowned out by the sound of the ocean behind me.
Mom glares at me, her eyes narrowing in the dim light. "What are you doing here, anyway? It's freezing!"
"I lost track of time," I mumble, staring down at my feet.
Mom exhales sharply, her breath visible in the cold night air. "Lost track of time? At the beach?"
I nod, the sand shifting beneath my shoes. The rhythm of the waves still beats in my ears, steady and unrelenting. Two small, one large. Pause.
Mom shakes her head, her frustration spilling out in quick, breathless sentences. "I was worried something happened. This isn't responsible, Mai. You can't just wander off and—"
Her words blur together, each one blending into the next until they're just noise. The ocean hums beneath her voice, louder and louder, the rhythm pressing against my thoughts.
Two small, one large. Pause.
"Are you even listening to me?" Mom's voice cuts through the fog, sharp and brittle.
"Yes," I say quickly, my head snapping up. "I'm sorry. I should've... I didn't mean to worry you."
Her eyes soften, just slightly, but her frown doesn't disappear. She looks at me closely, her gaze searching, as if trying to piece together a puzzle she doesn't have all the pieces for.
"You're not a child anymore, Mai," she says, quieter now but no less firm. "You need to take responsibility for yourself."
"I know," I whisper, though the words feel like a lie.
She lets out another sigh and gestures toward the car. "Come on. Let's go home."
I follow her to the car, the sand slipping beneath my feet with every step. The wind tugs at my hair, cold and relentlessly trying to turn my head, but I don't look back at the ocean.
The car is warm, the heat blasting from the vents and filling the small space. Mom grips the steering wheel tightly as she drives.
She doesn't say anything for a long time, the silence heavy and pressing, broken only by the hum of the engine and the faint sound of the wipers brushing against the windshield.
I stare out the window, my breath fogging the glass. The city lights blur past in streaks of white and red, but all I can see is the ocean.
Two small, one large. Pause.
The pattern beats in my chest, steady and unrelenting, like a second heartbeat I didn't know I had.
Mom clears her throat, breaking the silence. "How was the date?" she asks, her tone cautious.
"It was fine," I say quickly, too quickly.
She glances at me, her eyebrows knitting together. "Fine?"
I nod, keeping my eyes on the window. "Yeah. Fine."
She doesn't push, but the silence that follows feels louder than her questions.
When we pull into the driveway, the house looks smaller than I remember, its windows dark and unwelcoming. I step out of the car, the cold air rushing to meet me again, and pause before heading inside.
"Mai," Mom says, her voice softer now. "Next time, just don't lose track of time, okay?"
"Okay," I say, though I know I can't.
She nods and turns toward the house, her steps slow and measured. I follow her inside, the warmth of the house pressing against my skin like a reminder that the world inside isn't real.
The ocean's rhythm is, though. It follows me, unbroken and steady, echoing in my mind as I climb the stairs to my room.