"Don't worry, I totally got you," Trizha said, her voice returning to its cheerful, upbeat melody as if the last two minutes hadn't happened. "I'll make sure to edit the selfies as nice as possible!!"
Trizha shouted with a burst of her signature energy, throwing Wyne a massive, enthusiastic thumbs up that seemed to radiate through the humid festival air.
It was a simple gesture—a common signal of agreement—and yet, as Wyne watched her friend's hand, a single, hot tear threatened to spill from her left eye.
She didn't wipe it away immediately.
Instead, she let herself feel the overwhelming surge of pride.
She was proud of herself for finally speaking her truth, and she was deeply proud of Trizha for actually listening, for stepping out of her digital world long enough to appreciate the fragile, human feelings Wyne had laid bare on the pavement.
For a heartbeat, the noise of the surrounding Japanese-themed park seemed to dim, leaving only the three of them in a bubble of shared understanding.
Trizha's eyes, usually darting toward the latest notification, were now fixed on her friends with a look of fierce determination.
She gripped her phone tightly, not as a tool for vanity, but as a weapon to capture the most important moment of her life.
With a sudden, joyous movement, Trizha reached out and snagged Margaret, pulling the smaller girl into her side with a strength that brooked no argument.
Wyne didn't need to be asked; she stepped into the circle, the three of them connecting side-by-side.
Their bodies pressed together, creating a unified front against the uncertain future that Wyne so feared.
They turned their collective gaze toward the camera lens.
In that reflection, three distinct versions of happiness converged.
It was a brightness fueled by every shared secret, every late-night conversation, and every ounce of joy they had cultivated since the day they first met.
The first days in which all connected to only one person.
The one person that, in some way, saved these two.
"Say cheese!" Trizha shouted, her voice ringing out above the chatter of other tourists.
She squeezed her left eye shut in a flamboyant, cheerful wink, her face a mask of pure, unadulterated playfulness.
Margaret, usually a statue of stoicism, surrendered to the moment. She brought both hands up to her chest, flashing double peace signs with a soft, genuine smile that reached her eyes—a rarity that Wyne made sure to note.
Wyne herself reached out, wrapping her right arm around the shoulders of both Margaret and Trizha.
She pulled them in, her grip tightening until it was almost painful.
She didn't want to let go. Deep in the quietest part of her soul, she felt a haunting intuition that this might be the last time she could hold them both like this.
A sharp, mechanical click echoed from Trizha's phone. A brilliant flash of white light erupted from the camera, momentarily blinding the trio and searing the image into their retinas.
For that millisecond, the world ceased to exist.
There was only the light and the memory.
The digital shutter had frozen a moment of time—a snapshot of life that would remain stockpiled and intact for generations.
It was more than a picture; it was a finished moment, a piece of history that would never age, even as the girls themselves were dragged toward the inevitable finish line of their youth.
After a short while, the three of them leaned away from one another. They stood in a small circle, staring at each other's faces as if they were seeing something unprecedented, something sacred.
To their eyes, nothing else in Malacca City mattered.
The lingering sting of embarrassment from being kicked out of the scare room had evaporated, lost to the wind.
Then, as if moved by a single soul, all three extended their arms toward the center. They stacked their hands one above the other, palm to skin, feeling the warmth of their friendship.
"Go Trio!" they screamed in unison.
They threw their hands into the air, their voices blending into a singular cry of defiance.
With that shout, the final voyage of their youth was officially decided.
What followed was a span of three hours that existed outside the laws of the world.
For those three hours, the looming shadow of General Koby's war did not exist.
The mystery of the "Alter Being" was a million miles away.
Even Trizha's phone, usually an extension of her own hand, remained tucked away in her pocket, forgotten and silent.
They moved through the Japanese park like ghosts of a happier time, determined to drain every drop of joy from the evening.
They became explorers of the mundane, treating every snack stall like a hidden treasure.
They tried takoyaki for the first time, laughing as the warm bean paste burned their tongues, and competed to see who could stretch their mochi the furthest before it snapped.
Margaret analyzed the chemical composition of the Japanese sodas while Trizha tried to teach her how to do a "kawaii" pose with a skewer of dango, failing miserably as they both dissolved into fits of giggles.
They entered every random attraction that caught their eye—shooting galleries where Wyne's protective instincts turned her into a sharpshooter, and claw machines that Margaret manipulated with terrifying mathematical precision.
They told jokes that weren't particularly funny, laughing until their sides ached simply because the sound of each other's voices was a comfort they couldn't get enough of.
They spoke of the past—of the minor embarrassments of middle school and the major events that had shaped them.
But they didn't speak of them with sadness.
They laughed it all off, turning their scars into punchlines. They were three girls standing on the edge of a cliff, decided to dance before the fall.
In the eyes of anyone watching, they were just three ordinary students enjoying a festival.
But the air around them felt different.
It was a slow-motion montage of a "final voyage." It was the last time they would see themselves smiling at one another with such pure, uncomplicated sincerity.
Unintentionally, even as they laughed, the gears of life were already beginning to turn.
The world was already starting to crawl between them, preparing to drag them toward separate, unprecedented lives.
They were silhouettes against the neon lights, a finished masterpiece of a friendship that was about to be tested by fire.
The three hours were a sanctuary. A beautiful, borrowed peace.
…But as the clock ticked toward the end of their celebration, the air began to grow cold.
The laughter began to fade, replaced by the distant, rhythmic thumping of helicopter rotors far out at sea. The "final voyage" was nearing its destination, and the shore they were approaching was one of shadows and blood.
It is a tragedy, truly, that such a perfect moment must always be followed by the dark.
And for what comes next, there are no frames strong enough to hold the pieces together.
And… I fear that you even be able to fully comprehend it all that easily.