Akin scrolls.
Past photos of smiling faces that don't feel real. Past beach trips, birthday cakes, café pictures, and sunsets edited to look warmer than they probably were.
His thumb moves up and up without thinking.
The blue light from his phone reflects on his face.
Outside, rain taps softly against the window.
Inside, his room is quiet.
Not the kind of silence he used to love.
Not the kind that once felt peaceful.
Just... quiet.
A normal kind of quiet.
His desk is messy. Papers are scattered everywhere. A half-finished worksheet sits beside an open notebook. His counselor told him to complete it before their next session.
He still hates that word.
Counselor.
Sometimes it feels ridiculous.
Months ago, he was secretly running an online group for students who wanted to disappear.
Now he has therapy homework.
Life is strange.
His thumb suddenly stops.
There it is.
The post.
Still there.
Buried under months of inactivity.
Untouched.
Unchanged.
His first post.
Back when he thought words could be sharp enough to cut.
Back when he believed he understood pain better than everyone else.
He stares at the screen.
The Starlight Society
Tired of looking at the stars and seeing nothing but darkness?
Feeling like you're drifting alone in a cold, silent sky?
We are a society for those who have seen the emptiness of the universe.
We don't promise to give you light.
We only promise to sit with you in the dark.
No judgment. No lies. Only understanding.
Join us.
Maybe together, we can find a new star to look at.
Akin lets out a small laugh.
It sounds dry and tired.
"A new star to look at," he murmurs.
He shakes his head.
How dramatic.
How embarrassing.
How stupid.
He hadn't wanted a new star.
He had wanted an ending.
That post was supposed to be a signal.
A quiet invitation for people like him.
People who were tired.
People who had already given up.
Back then, everything felt simple.
The storage room behind the gym had been perfect.
Dusty.
Hidden.
Forgotten.
Old trophies lined the shelves, their gold already fading.
A room full of abandoned victories.
A room for things no one cared about anymore.
A room for people like them.
He remembers all of them.
Win and Kao, always holding hands like they were afraid the world would separate them.
Pim and Lita, girls who used to laugh loudly until shame taught them to stay quiet.
Prae, perfect in every way except happiness.
Tom, angry at the world and tired of pretending he wasn't.
Noi, slowly disappearing while everyone looked away.
Ken, always asking questions that sounded casual but felt much heavier.
They all came to him one by one.
And he thought that meant something.
He thought being surrounded by broken people meant he understood them.
He was wrong.
Then Niran came.
Just one message.
A single star emoji.
⭐
That was it.
No explanation.
No dramatic message.
No long confession.
Just one awkward little star.
Akin remembers staring at it longer than he should have.
He almost ignored it.
He wishes he had.
Not really.
But sometimes, it would have been easier.
When they first met in the storage room, Niran looked nothing like what Akin expected.
He wasn't polished or mysterious.
He looked tired.
His hair was messy. His uniform was wrinkled.
His eyes looked heavy, like he hadn't slept properly in weeks.
There was nothing elegant about his sadness.
Nothing poetic.
It was real.
Too real.
And that was what made him dangerous.
Niran didn't fit neatly into Akin's system.
He asked questions.
He listened too carefully.
He cared too much.
Little by little, he ruined everything Akin had built.
And somehow, Akin let him.
Months later, Akin made one final post.
The Society is full.
It was a lie.
What he really meant was:
Something has changed.
Or maybe:
Niran is here, and now nothing feels simple anymore.
Akin locks his phone and places it on the desk.
The room falls quiet again.
Rain.
A ceiling fan clicking softly.
Distant traffic outside.
Normal sounds.
Living sounds.
Things he used to ignore.
Someone knocks on his door.
Two soft taps.
Then a familiar voice.
"Akin?"
Niran.
Even after all this time, hearing his name in Niran's voice still does something strange to his chest.
Warm.
Annoying.
Comforting.
"You said we were ordering dinner," Niran says through the door. "That was twenty minutes ago."
Akin closes his eyes for a second.
There was a time when being needed would have felt like a burden.
A trap.
Now it feels different.
Lighter.
Like something worth staying for.
He glances once more at the phone on his desk.
The old post is still there.
A reminder of who he used to be.
For a moment, he thinks about deleting it.
Not today.
Maybe someday.
Another knock.
"Akin," Niran says again, sounding amused now. "If you don't answer, I'm ordering pineapple pizza."
Akin immediately frowns.
"That's emotional manipulation."
Niran laughs from outside the door.
A real laugh.
Soft and alive.
Something in Akin relaxes.
Not fixed.
Not healed.
Just... better than before.
He stands up from his chair.
The room is still quiet.
But it doesn't feel empty anymore.
"Coming," he says.
And this time, he means it.