POV: Tee Teerawat Darunpakdee
This school reeks of new paint, old money, and egos so fragile they need constant applause to survive.
Eliya Academy's hallways feel less like a place to study and more like a stage no one ever leaves. Every step is measured. Every laugh sounds rehearsed. Even the way people stand feels intentional, like they're waiting for someone to notice.
I tug my hoodie sleeves over my hands, adjusting my backpack higher on my shoulder, and keep my head down.
One more year.
Just one.
Then I'm gone.
Room 1/6. Mathyom 6.
The elite of the elite.
The door creaks when I push it open, and the sound is enough to turn heads. All of them. Thirty pairs of eyes snap toward me like I just walked in late to a show they paid to watch.
Whispers start almost immediately. Low, quick, annoying. I don't need to hear them to know what they're saying.
New transfer.
Wrong place.
Doesn't fit.
Good.
"Mr. Teerawat?" Ms. Pim looks up from her desk, glasses slipping slightly down her nose as she glances at the clock. "Late on the first day?"
"Yeah," I say, voice flat.
No explanation. No excuse.
I don't care enough to give one.
Her lips press together for a second, like she's deciding whether to push it. Then she just sighs and gestures toward the class. "Take a seat."
I don't rush. There's no point.
I scan the room, ignoring the way people keep looking at me a second too long. There's one empty seat in the back corner. Perfect. Out of the way. Easy to disappear.
I start walking.
"And isn't that the guy from St. Gabriel's?" someone whispers, not nearly quiet enough.
I don't react.
Halfway down the aisle, I feel it.
That shift.
Like the room tilts slightly, but not because of me.
Because of him.
Sun Suwannasuk Sawannakul.
He's sitting near the middle like the space was built around him. Legs crossed, posture loose in that practiced way that isn't actually relaxed. His watch catches the light every time he moves, flashing just enough to draw attention.
Everything about him is loud. Not in volume. In presence.
His hair is dyed gold, bright enough to look unnatural, but it works on him in a way that's irritating. His smile is easy, polished, the kind that probably convinces people of things they shouldn't believe.
He looks like someone who's never had to try for anything in his life.
And worse—
He knows it.
Ugh.
His eyes lift as I pass.
Sharp. Focused.
Not curious. Not impressed.
Evaluating.
Like I'm something new he hasn't decided what to do with yet.
I hold his gaze for a second.
Just enough.
Then I look away first.
Not because I lost interest. Because I don't have any to begin with.
Moon Metharom sits next to him, calm in a way that doesn't feel fake. Her attention stays on her notebook, filled with equations written so neatly it almost looks printed. She barely reacts to anything around her, including him.
Interesting.
Behind them, a girl leans forward slightly, watching everything like it's entertainment. Shine Supaporn, if I remember right. There's something sharp in her expression. The kind that collects information just to use it later.
I reach the back and drop into my seat, slumping low.
Out of sight.
That's the goal.
The teacher starts talking again. Calculus. Numbers filling the board in neat lines that are supposed to matter.
I tune it out.
Instead, I pull out my sketchbook, flipping it open to a blank page. My pencil moves without much thought, lines forming into something jagged. A skyline. Crooked buildings stacked too close together. No symmetry. No polish.
Better than staring at this place.
Sun's voice cuts through the room every few minutes. Not loud, but placed perfectly so people hear it anyway. Comments tossed at just the right moment. Jokes that land exactly how they're supposed to.
People laugh. Of course they do.
He doesn't even need to try hard for it.
That's the part that gets under my skin.
I keep my head down, focusing on the page.
Still, I notice things.
The way he leans back like he owns the room.
The way people look at him before they speak, like they're checking if it's okay.
The way everything seems to orbit him without him asking for it.
It's too much.
Too clean.
Too perfect.
I've seen people like that before.
They shine so bright it looks real—until it doesn't.
I glance up once.
He's already looking at me.
Of course he is.
There's a smirk there, subtle but intentional. Like he's waiting for something. A reaction. A challenge. Anything.
I don't give him one.
I drop my gaze back to the page, pressing the pencil down a little harder than before. The line darkens, sharper now.
Let him stare.
I'm not part of whatever game he's playing.
Classes blur together after that. Math. Literature. Thai history. Moon corrects the teacher once without hesitation, her voice calm but certain. No one questions it.
Figures.
Time moves slower than it should.
By the time the bell finally rings, I'm already packing my bag. I don't wait. I don't linger.
I just want out.
I stand, sliding the sketchbook back inside, and head for the door.
"Wait."
His voice.
Of course.
I pause without turning around, fingers tightening slightly on the strap of my bag.
"We have an announcement," Sun says, smooth as ever.
The room quiets instantly.
Naturally.
"The student council is recruiting helpers for the Cultural Fest," he continues. "I'm heading the committee."
A few people react right away—whispers, interest, attention snapping back to him like always.
"Obviously," someone mutters, half-joking, half-serious.
He keeps going, tone light but edged. "So, if you're interested…"
There's a shift.
Subtle.
Intentional.
"…you better have a personality."
Laughter breaks out across the room. A few claps follow like he just said something worth remembering.
I don't turn around.
But I can feel it.
His attention.
Focused. Waiting.
Like he expects something from me.
A reaction.
A challenge.
Anything.
I don't give him that either.
I push the door open and step out into the hallway, letting it close behind me without looking back.
Let him have his spotlight.
Let him think he's the center of everything.
People like that don't notice when something stops revolving around them.
Not until it's too late.
I adjust my bag and keep walking.
Stars that burn too bright don't last.
And something about him—
That glow feels a little too loud to survive for long.
___