The first time they kissed, Bangkok cried with them.
Loop 9, 6:42 p.m.
They had spent the whole day chasing each other through the city like children who had discovered the world was made of mirrors. After You → skytrain → Chatuchak weekend market that shouldn't exist on a Saturday → boat down the Saen Saep canal → dinner at a street stall that only appeared in the loop → and finally Silom Road as the sky cracked open.
The rain came sudden and violent, the way Bangkok rain always does: one second humid dusk, the next second the heavens emptying every bucket they own.
They ran for shelter under the awning of a closed gold shop, but the wind drove the water sideways. Within seconds all three were soaked. Lingling's black hoodie clung to her like ink. Orm's sunflower dress turned translucent, petals dark. Miu's camera hung heavy around her neck, lens cap lost somewhere between Surasak and Chong Nonsi station.
Orm laughed first, head thrown back, mouth open to the rain. The sound was the exact laugh from Side A, only now it was real and right in front of Lingling.
Lingling stared, water streaming down her face, and thought: I can't do almost anymore.
She stepped forward, cupped Orm's wet cheeks with both hands, and kissed her like the world was ending at midnight.
Orm made a small shocked sound that turned into a sigh, arms flying around Lingling's neck. The kiss tasted like rain and mango sticky rice and seventy-two hours of wanting.
When they broke apart, foreheads still touching, Orm whispered, "Again."
So Lingling kissed her again, slower, deeper, until the city disappeared and there was only the drum of rain on metal and the soft noises Orm made against her mouth.
Miu stood two steps away, camera forgotten, heart breaking open in real time.
She had filmed this kiss forty-three times already, always from across the street, always alone. Seeing it this close was worse. Seeing it and not being part of it was unbearable.
Orm noticed first. She pulled back just enough to look past Lingling's shoulder. Her eyes soft, lips swollen, raindrops clinging to her lashes like tiny stars.
"Miu," she said, voice steady despite everything. "Come here."
Miu shook her head once, small. "This is your moment."
"It's ours," Lingling said without turning around. "All three of us or none."
Miu's breath hitched.
Then Orm reached out one hand through the rain, palm open, waiting.
Miu walked forward like she was walking off a cliff.
The second kiss was messier, three mouths learning new angles, rain sliding between them, Orm in the middle because she was smallest and because neither Lingling nor Miu could stand not touching her. Lingling tasted salt that wasn't rain. Miu's camera bumped awkwardly between them until Orm laughed into the kiss and took it off her neck, hanging it on a shop sign instead.
They kissed until the rain slowed to a whisper and the streetlights flickered on Silom flickered on, orange and trembling.
They kissed until the cassette in Lingling's pocket began to smoke.
It started as warmth against her hip, then heat, then actual smoke curling out of the Walkman. Lingling jerked away, yanking the headphones off.
The tape was glowing faintly red, plastic warping.
"No!" Miu shouted, reaching for it.
Too late.
The Walkman burst into flame in Lingling's hand. She dropped it with a cry. The cassette hit the wet pavement and kept burning, chemical blue fire that didn't care about rain.
Orm screamed.
Miu fell to her knees, trying to smother the flames with her jacket, but the tape burned straight through denim, through skin, through time itself.
A sound like tape stretching, screeching, rewinding at 100× speed filled the street.
The rain stopped mid-drop.
The streetlights froze.
And the world snapped backward.
Lingling woke in her bed, 7:30 a.m., December 2 again. The Walkman on the nightstand was pristine. The cassette inside was cool.
Her lips still tasted like Orm and rain and almost.
She rolled over and screamed into her pillow until her throat was raw.
Loop 10 began with Lingling running.
She left the apartment at 7:45, still in pajamas, sprinted to the BTS, arrived at After You at 8:59 dripping sweat instead of rain.
Orm was already there, eyes red, staring at her own unburned cassette like it had betrayed her.
They didn't speak. They just crashed into each other, arms tight enough to bruise, foreheads pressed together.
"I remember," Orm whispered.
"Me too," Lingling whispered back.
They stayed like that until Miu walked in at 9:17, camera around her neck, face pale as old film.
"I felt it burn from across the city," Miu said. "We're running out of almosts."
That was the day they started counting.