For three days, the three-person table in the back of the library stayed broken.
Krit sat two rows over during study hall, his head permanently ducked over a practice workbook, his phone flipped face-down on the wood. He didn't come to the tea shop after school. He didn't steal food. He vanished the exact second the final bell rang, taking his Honda Wave down the narrow alleys before the bus stop even filled up.
On Thursday evening, the monsoon season felt long dead, replaced by the dry, restless heat of pre-exam crunch.
Phuwin stood in front of the small, grease-stained auto repair shop under the expressway.
The shop was loud—a pneumatic wrench whining against a tire rim, metal scraping against concrete, the thick smell of engine oil and exhaust filling the warm evening air. Inside, under a hanging yellow lightbulb, Krit was on his knees, his uniform shirt stripped down to his white undershirt, his forearms coated in black grease as he struggled to pull a stubborn spark plug from a dismantled engine block.
His father, a lean man with graying hair and a towel slung over his shoulder, was leaning against a metal shelf, tapping a wrench against his thigh.
"You're pulling at the wrong angle," his dad said, his voice gravelly from years of smoking. "You'll strip the thread."
"I know what I'm doing," Krit grunted, his face flushed red, sweat dripping off his nose.
Phuwin didn't say anything. He walked past the stacked tires, sat down on an overturned plastic oil crate near the entrance, and set a heavy plastic bag on the concrete floor.
The bag contained three pork skewers, two iced teas, and a thick, hand-written stack of condensed history and communications study notes—all summarized in Mali's neat, microscopic handwriting, with key points highlighted in blue and pink.
Krit's dad looked at Phuwin, then at the bag, and let out a short grunt. He tossed his towel onto the workbench. "I'm getting rice. Don't drop the socket wrench into the oil pan." He walked out the back door, leaving the two of them alone in the yellow glare of the bulb.
The wrench whined once more, then went quiet.
Krit didn't look up. He wiped his sweaty forehead with the crook of his oily elbow, leaving a dark smudge across his brow. "I told you not to come here."
"Mali wrote the history summary," Phuwin said, his voice calm, sitting quietly on his oil crate. "She spent four hours on it yesterday. She said if you fail history, she's going to come down here and draft a blueprint to demolish your garage."
Krit's shoulder twitched, but he kept his eyes on the engine block. "I don't need her notes."
"You do," Phuwin said softly. "Because you're taking the general university entrance exam on Saturday."
Krit let out a harsh breath, tossing the wrench onto the concrete floor with a loud, metallic CLANG. "Phuwin, did you not hear a single word I said in the classroom? I can't afford it. My dad spent six thousand baht on spare parts this morning just to keep the lift working. I'm staying here."
Phuwin leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He didn't yell. He didn't make a speech.
"My mom gave me two thousand baht last week for my birthday," Phuwin said, pulling a plain white envelope from his pocket and setting it on top of the grease-stained plastic bag. "And Mali sold her old architecture drafting kit to a junior for fifteen hundred."
Krit froze. He finally turned his head, his bloodshot, dark-ringed eyes locking onto the envelope sitting on the floor.
"We aren't giving you a loan, Krit," Phuwin said, his eyes completely steady, unblinking. "And we aren't feeling sorry for you. You spent five months buying me cold orange soda and dragging my dramatic, broken self out of bed when I felt like a ghost. You blocked a silver Toyota with a five-baht coin. You held Mali's hand on a third-class train until her fingers stopped shaking."
Phuwin stood up, stepping over the oil stains until he was standing right in front of Krit.
"You're our buffer," Phuwin whispered, his voice thick, but unshakeable. "So you don't get to quit just because things are heavy. If you fall apart, who's going to throw fries at my head when I get stupid?"
Krit stared at the white envelope, then up at Phuwin's face.
His breathing came fast and shallow. He opened his mouth to say something sharp, something sarcastic to push Phuwin away—but looking at Phuwin's unyielding eyes, the wall inside Krit simply caved in.
He covered his face with his grease-stained hands. His shoulders shook once, twice, a raw, silent sob tearing through his chest in the dark, oil-scented garage.
Phuwin didn't hesitate. He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Krit's trembling shoulders, ignoring the black grease that smeared instantly across his clean white uniform shirt.
Krit clutched the back of Phuwin's shirt, his dark fingers digging into the fabric, breathing heavily into the warm, dusty air of the workshop.
"You guys... are so stupid," Krit wheezed, his voice choked and broken against Phuwin's shoulder. "You're both so completely stupid."
"I know," Phuwin said, holding him tight under the humming yellow lightbulb. "Now shut up and eat your pork skewer. We have to study history."