It was an accident. Just a picture.
That's what Ah Chong keeps telling himself. Still, his eyes wander back to it—to that photo pinned on the wall above his desk. How did it even happen? He doesn't know. Or maybe he just doesn't want to.
He stares at it again, for what feels like the hundredth time. His gaze traces the face caught in the frame—sharp jaw, indifferent mouth, eyes half-bored, half somewhere else entirely. Like the world was a dull inconvenience, and they had already mentally checked out of it.
Something in his chest stirs each time he looks.
----------------------------------------------------
The memory of that day burns as vividly as the sun that scorched his back.
Ah Chong had wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, his uniform clinging damply to his skin. Even the strap of his camera, hanging heavy around his neck, was slick with sweat.
I'm in hell, he thought bitterly. "Why did I even agree to this? It's not like anyone cares about the school paper…" he grumbled aloud, unable to keep his frustration contained.
He stood alone in the middle of the parade square, tasked with capturing shots of the campus and candid photos of students for the school magazine. When he first joined the Photography Club, he'd imagined freedom—roaming the school, taking pictures of whatever caught his eye. But that illusion shattered the moment he learned the club also handled the school's publication.
"The photos you take are amazing, Ah Chong! We need you," Wan Qing's voice echoed in his head, her praise still too sweet to ignore.
He sighed. Maybe he really was a pushover—especially when flattery was involved. That's probably how he ended up staying in the Photography Club even after announcing he'd quit. The seniors had begged, clinging to him with desperate smiles and dramatic gestures. And Ah Chong always had a soft spot for people in need—so he gave in, as always.
Click. Click. Click.
By now, he was shooting on autopilot. After a few perfunctory shots of the sun-bleached trees and rough—cracked pavement, he lifted his camera toward the classroom block, adjusting his focus to catch the symmetry of the windows.
Then—he froze.
Through his lens, on the second floor, a boy sat at his desk, half-slouched, his chin resting in his hand as he stared absently out the window. The light cut across his face just right—soft, serene, golden.
Ah Chong's breath hitched. He didn't press the shutter at first. He just stared, the edges of the world blurring around the figure framed in his viewfinder.
Beautiful…
The word slipped into his mind before he could stop it.
Before he knew it, his fingers pressed down on the button with a click.
The shutter sound snapped him back into his body. His stomach dropped as if he'd just done something he shouldn't have.
"Oh," he breathed out—too loud. Too real.
He quickly lowered the camera, heart thudding wildly against his ribs. Heat rushed up the back of his neck, burning hotter than the sun had all afternoon. His heart was racing so fast—Was it the heat? This heat must have melted his brain too, he couldn't even think properly.
Ah Chong swallowed hard and risked lifting the camera again, just a little.
The boy hadn't moved. Still staring out the window, eyes half-lidded, like he was physically present but mentally very far elsewhere. There was something magnetic about the way he was merely just existing there with that look, bored with the world and his surroundings.
Ah Chong felt his pulse in his ears.
Just one more, he told himself. One more and I'll stop.
His finger hovered, guiltily—
When the boy turned, casually tilting his head towards Ah Chong's direction was enough to send him into a panic. Their eyes didn't meet but the possibility of it alone denoted every rational thought in Ah Chong's brain.
He yanked the camera down and bolted.
His shoes slapped against the parade square tiles as he scrambled toward the main building, heart pounding so hard, he could feel it in his ears. He didn't stop until he was inside the quieter labyrinth of first year's classrooms and notice boards, back pressed against a wall like a man fleeing from a crime scene.
The crime? Taking a photo.
It was just a photo. A totally innocent, school-magazine-appropriate photo.
Of a boy.
A very distracting boy.
"Fuck!" Ah Chong hissed under his breath, dragging both hands down his face. His camera thudded softly against his chest. "Oh my god…What is wrong with me?"
A nearby first-year student passed by—probably coming back from the restroom. The student shot him a confused glance. He snapped upright. He quickly waves a hand to indicate that he's fine.
The student blinked and walked away casually.
When the student was out of sight, Ah Chong exhaled slowly, thunking his head back against the wall. The image of the boy flashed in his mind again—unfiltered, unposed, unaware. And somehow, that made it worse. "Haha…this is nothing. Just, uh. Heatstroke? Yeah, it has to be that." He mumbled to himself. A weak laugh escaped him.
Then another.
And then—without warning—it spiraled into a full, useless chuckling fit, the kind that came when a person was seconds away from internally combusting. His shoulders shook. He clapped a hand over his mouth, wheezing laughter into his palm like a kettle screaming steam, praying no one magically turned the corner.
He would've looked insane.
Eventually, the laughter fizzled out, "…I need help," he whispered to the ceiling.
"Hey, you!" A loud voice boomed towards Ah Chong.
Striding toward him was Cone—one of the Literature teachers and homeroom teacher of the second-year classes. Tall, rail-thin, perpetually wearing his tragically iconic 'cat-eye' glasses. Except they didn't look like cat eyes at all—more like two traffic cones flipped sideways. Hence the name: Cone.
"Why aren't you in class?" Cone squinted, now looming.
"Ah—Teacher!" Ah Chong shot both hands up in surrender, waving them like he was flagging down a helicopter. "I have special permission! I'm Ah Chong from Class 2–2." To emphasize, he held up the camera dangling from his neck, " I'm taking pictures for the school magazine!"
Cone's face lit up. "Aiya! Yes, Ah Chong! I know you. You smart boy, always top in your class. Not to mention, talented! You are one exceptional boy eh, no wonder you can get special permission!" Cone laughs. He delivered a proud back pat—except it was more like a spine-rattling smack.
"Okay okay! Carry on!" Smack again.
Ah Chong bowed stiffly, forcing a smile.
Once Cone was finally out of sight, "…Fuck," he exhaled.
He turned and began walking a familiar path—the one that led to the Photography Club room. The door clicked shut behind him. The club room was quiet, dim, the warm afternoon light seeping through the windows in soft rectangles of gold He dropped into a chair at the center table.
The camera hanging from his neck felt heavier than ever.
Slowly—he lifted it.
Playback.
There it was.
The boy wasn't looking at the camera—not even close. His slightly tan skin was bathing in afternoon light, lashes casting faint shadows on his cheeks, expression distant, soft, unknowingly irresistible. He felt his heart skip a beat again.
"Fuck…"
This is just the heatstroke.