Chapter: The Distance Between Apologies
After that scene, Win and Ter didn't talk at all.
Not a word.
The rest of the school day passed like a blur wrapped in silence. Classes ended, chairs scraped against floors, bags were zipped, laughter returned to the corridors—but between them, there was only distance.
Win noticed everything.
The empty seat beside Ter.
The way Ter avoided looking his way.
The way his name stayed trapped behind Win's teeth every time he wanted to speak.
Ter noticed too.
He just chose not to react.
When the final bell rang, it felt heavier than usual. Students rushed out like freedom had been unlocked, but Ter moved slowly, slinging his bag over his shoulder with practiced calm. His face showed nothing. No anger. No sadness.
That scared Win more than anything.
Win stood up, hesitation pulling him back for a second. Then he followed.
Outside the school gate, the sun was already leaning low, painting long shadows across the road. Ter walked ahead, steps firm, eyes forward. He didn't look back—not once.
Win trailed behind him.
Not too close.
Not too far.
Just enough to say I'm here without saying anything at all.
For a few minutes, neither of them spoke. Only the sound of footsteps on concrete, the distant honk of vehicles, the rustle of trees.
Then suddenly, Ter stopped.
So abruptly that Win almost walked straight into him.
Ter turned around, eyes sharp—not angry, just tired.
"Can you stop sticking with me?" he asked.
The words were calm, but they hit hard.
Win froze.
His mouth opened, then closed again. He had faced confrontations before—arguments, threats, even fights—but this was different. This wasn't something he could punch his way out of.
"I—" he started, then stopped.
For a second, he looked almost lost.
Then he bowed his head slightly, hands tightening around the strap of his bag.
"I'm sorry," Win said.
Ter blinked.
Win rarely apologized.
"I really am," Win continued. "About earlier. About… everything."
He took a step closer, unsure, awkward. This wasn't something he was good at. Consoling someone. Explaining feelings. He had never needed to—not until now.
Ter watched him carefully.
Win tried again, words tumbling out rough and unpolished. "I didn't mean to push you. I didn't even see you there. I just— I lost control."
His hands moved as he spoke, restless, unsure where to settle. The sight was almost… strange.
Ter knew it.
Win didn't know how to do this. He had never comforted anyone before. He had never needed to explain his pain. Watching him struggle with words that didn't come naturally was oddly disarming.
Almost funny.
Ter sighed.
"Okay," he said at last.
Win looked up, surprised.
"But," Ter added, "can you explain to me what happened back there? You were angry… not normal angry. That kind of anger doesn't just come out of nowhere."
Win hesitated.
His eyes drifted to the road ahead, then to the ground. His jaw tightened.
"Oh… that," he said quietly.
He reached for his bag and pulled out the shining black bottle.
It caught the fading sunlight, reflecting it in dark, polished curves.
"This bottle," Win said, voice lower now, "it was given to me by my cousin."
Ter listened without interrupting.
"He was really close to me. More than cousins—we were like real brothers. He used to pick me up from school, sneak me junk food, cover for me when I got into trouble."
Win smiled faintly at the memory.
"He gave me this on my birthday. Said it would remind me to drink water properly, because I always forgot."
The smile faded.
"Then one day," Win continued, "he just… disappeared."
Ter frowned. "Disappeared?"
"No note. No message. Nothing," Win said. "We searched everywhere. Police. Relatives. Friends."
His fingers tightened around the bottle.
"This was the last thing he gave me. The only thing I still have."
Ter's voice softened. "Do you know where he is now?"
Win didn't answer immediately.
His eyes grew red—not with tears, but with something restrained. Something he didn't want to let loose.
Ter noticed.
"It's okay," Ter said gently. "I don't want to know more if you don't want to talk about it."
Win shook his head.
"No," he said. "I'll tell you."
He took a slow breath.
"After a while… we found out," he said, voice trembling. "His father had problems. Underground gangs. Debts. Enemies."
Win swallowed hard.
"They didn't just kill him," he whispered. "They killed all of them."
The words hung heavy in the air.
Ter felt his chest tighten.
Win's shoulders shook—not violently, just slightly. No tears fell, but the pain was there, raw and exposed for the first time.
Before he could think, Ter stepped forward.
And hugged him.
Win stiffened at first, surprised. He had never been hugged like this—not in comfort, not in understanding. Then slowly, his body relaxed.
Ter didn't say anything.
He didn't need to.
Win's breathing grew uneven. He cried quietly—not openly, not dramatically. Not a single tear reflected on his face, but Ter felt it in the way his grip tightened for a brief moment.
They stayed like that for a while.
Neither noticed the sound of a phone camera clicking from a distance.
Someone had captured the moment.
Neither of them knew.
When they finally pulled apart, Ter cleared his throat, forcing a lighter tone.
"I think I should go home now," he said. "If I get late… it might be my last day alive."
Win huffed despite himself.
Ter waved once and turned away.
This time, Win didn't follow.
When Ter reached home, the sky had already darkened.
As usual, he checked himself first—shoes aligned, uniform neat—before stepping inside.
But something felt off.
The house was dark.
All the lights were off.
Then he heard it.
A soft sound. A whisper. Almost like a tiny cry.
His heart jumped.
Ter reached for the switch and turned on the light.
"Lego—?!"
A small blur rushed toward him.
"LEGO!"
His beloved puppy came charging forward, tail wagging wildly, eyes shining. Lego jumped straight into Ter's arms, licking his face enthusiastically.
Ter laughed—real laughter, the kind that lifted weight off his chest.
"Hey, hey!" he said, hugging the puppy tightly. "When did you come back?"
Lego had been away for a while, taken by relatives. Ter's mother had allowed it, even though she knew how much Ter loved him.
The puppy whined happily, cuddling closer.
Then Ter's mom appeared from the hallway.
"Don't make noise," she said. "Take that dog into your room."
"But we're not doing anything," Ter protested lightly. "I'm just playing a little."
She crossed her arms. "Either take the dog into your room, or both of you get out of this house and play as much as you want."
Ter didn't argue.
He lowered his head, tightened his hold on Lego, and walked toward his room in silence.
Lego followed obediently, unaware of the storm his owner had just walked through.
And for the first time that day, Ter felt something close to peace.