By Sunday afternoon, the sun had returned to Bangkok with a vengeance, turning the wet city streets into a massive, humid steam bath.
Phuwin was sitting on the tiled balcony of his family's third-floor townhouse, surrounded by four metal drying racks overflowing with laundry. His mother had taken one look at his rain-soaked uniform from Thursday night, declared his room a "biological hazard," and forced him to wash every single piece of clothing he owned.
"If you pull it from the left side, the thread is going to snap," Mali said. She was sitting on a low plastic stool near the balcony drain, her legs tucked under her oversized t-shirt, methodically untangling a knot in one of Phuwin's school ties.
"It's not going to snap, it's high-quality polyester," Phuwin muttered, aggressively yanking a pair of damp socks from a plastic hanger. He slapped them down onto the plastic laundry basket with a wet thud. "Why is it so hot today? I feel like a dumpling being steamed in a bamboo basket."
"Because you insisted on doing this at two in the afternoon instead of this morning," Mali said, not looking up. She gave the tie a sharp tug, and the silk unraveled with a satisfying pop. "There. Saved your sixteen-baht tie. You owe me."
"Put it on my tab," Phuwin sighed, wiping a line of sweat from his forehead with his forearm.
The small metal door to the balcony kicked open with a loud clatter.
Krit stepped out into the blazing heat carrying a plastic bag from the convenience store down the alley. He was wearing an sleeveless undershirt, shorts that looked like they belonged to a middle-schooler, and a pair of neon-yellow rubber flip-flops that made a wet slap-slap-slap sound against the tile.
"I have brought ice," Krit announced, holding the sweating bag above his head like a trophy. "And three cans of cheap orange soda. The ones with the discount sticker because they're slightly dented."
"Are they cold?" Mali asked instantly, holding out her hand without moving from her stool.
"Cold enough to freeze your tongue," Krit said, dropping the heavy bag directly into Phuwin's lap.
"Hey!" Phuwin winced as the frozen plastic hit his bare thighs. "Why does everything you throw land directly on me?"
"Because you're the biggest target," Krit said smoothly, pulling a dented orange can out, popping the metal tab with a sharp crack-fizz, and taking a massive gulp. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, letting out a satisfied, loud sigh. "Ah. Tastes like pure chemicals and sugar. Perfect."
He tossed a second can to Mali, who caught it deftly, pressing the cold metal against her cheek before opening it.
Phuwin reached into the bag, pulled out his own soda, and cracked it open. The cold orange liquid burned the back of his throat, but it cut through the thick, oppressive heat of the afternoon.
For a long time, nobody said anything.
The only sounds were the whirring of the neighbor's air conditioner unit next door, the distant hum of cars on the main avenue, and the rhythmic sound of wet clothes dripping onto the concrete floor.
Krit leaned his back against the metal railing, his flip-flops dangling over the edge, looking down at the quiet alley below. Mali was slowly sipping her soda, resting her chin on her knees.
Phuwin picked up his phone from the plastic table beside his chair.
It wasn't dead anymore. The battery was at ninety-four percent. The screen lit up under his thumb, showing his regular wallpaper—a blurry, terribly framed photo of Krit eating a noodle bowl with a piece of coriander stuck to his chin.
There were three missed calls from his mom, a notification from a delivery app, and a group chat message from their class group about an upcoming history assignment.
No Line notifications. No grey icons. No greyed-out profile pictures.
Phuwin stared at the glass screen for five seconds. He didn't feel his thumb twitching. He didn't feel that sudden, sickening drop in his stomach that had made him want to throw his body off the fast-food table on Thursday.
It was just a phone. A black rectangle of glass and plastic that needed to be charged every night.
"Hey, Krit," Phuwin said, his voice flat in the hot afternoon air.
Krit didn't turn around, but his left ear twitched slightly. "What?"
Phuwin reached out, held the plastic frog keychain between his fingers, and threw it.
It flew across the balcony, clipping the edge of a wet laundry rack, before landing right in the middle of Krit's chest. Krit caught it out of instinct, his fingers closing around the green plastic.
Squeak.
Krit looked down at the frog in his palm, then raised an eyebrow at Phuwin. "What is this? You're returning my high-grade emotional substitute?"
"I don't need it anymore," Phuwin said, leaning back in his plastic chair and closing his eyes against the glare of the sun. "It makes too much noise. And the frog has a stupid face."
Mali let out a quiet, soft laugh into her orange soda can.
Krit looked at the cracked plastic frog for a second longer, his thumb hovering over its stomach. Then, with a casual flick of his wrist, he tossed it into his bag of ice, where it sank into the freezing water with a dull plop.
"Fair enough," Krit said, taking another sip of his soda. "It was three baht at the temple fair anyway."
He kicked the bottom of Phuwin's chair with his flip-flop, making the metal legs scrape against the tile.
"Hey. Ghost boy."
"What?" Phuwin grunted, his eyes still closed.
"You still owe me forty baht for the skytrain ticket."
"I'm not paying you," Phuwin muttered, a faint, real smile spreading across his face under the blazing heat. "Ask Mali."
"Mali is broke," Mali said instantly, not even opening her eyes. "I spent my last ten baht on chive cakes."
"You guys are terrible," Krit sighed, leaning his head back against the wall, the hot afternoon sun washing over all three of them. "I'm finding new friends on Monday."
"No you're not," Phuwin said softly.
"No," Krit agreed after a long pause, his voice dropping into the warm, quiet air. "I'm really not."