Things went as usual that day.
Classes ended with the familiar scrape of chairs against the floor. Students stood, laughed, complained, and rushed out into the hallway as if freedom itself waited just beyond the classroom doors. The corridor quickly filled with noise-footsteps echoing, voices overlapping, lockers slamming shut.
Ping packed his bag neatly, the way he always did. Notebook first, then pens, then his pencil case, each item carefully placed where it belonged. He expected nothing more than another ordinary walk home, another quiet evening spent doing homework and helping his mother.
Ordinary was safe.
Ordinary was predictable.
At the far end of the corridor, Keng was already moving.
"Keng, we're stopping by the court today, remember?" one of his friends called out, a basketball tucked under his arm as they jogged to catch up with him.
"Not today," Keng replied without slowing down.
The three boys stopped short, staring at one another. A knowing look passed between them, followed by faint, amused smiles.
"Did he just-"
"Yeah."
"Wow."
They said one after the other.
Keng didn't turn back. He walked away, steps purposeful, as if he had somewhere far more important to be.
Ping stepped out of the classroom moments later, bag slung over his shoulder. He adjusted his glasses and headed toward the exit, his mind already drifting to what he would eat for dinner.
Then he stopped.
Keng was standing near the school gate. The afternoon sun framed him perfectly, light catching in his hair as students passed by without slowing. And when his eyes met Ping's, a smile appeared-soft, unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world.
"P'Keng?" Ping asked quietly as he approached, fingers instinctively lifting to his glasses.
Keng turned fully toward him.
"Why are you here?" Ping asked, a little unsure.
"I'm here for you," Keng said simply.
"I'll walk you home."
Ping hesitated.
A hundred thoughts crossed his mind all at once.
"People might see."
" It wasn't necessary."
" It was strange."
Seniors didn't usually walk juniors home-especially not ones like him.
Yet beneath all that worry was something warmer, gentler.
He loved Keng's presence.
"Okay," Ping said at last.
They walked side by side in silence.
It wasn't awkward. It wasn't heavy. It felt... natural.
Ping stole glances when he thought Keng wouldn't notice. Each time, Keng noticed anyway. And each time, that same gentle smile returned, lingering just long enough to make Ping's chest tighten in a way he didn't quite understand.
The street felt quieter than usual. Cars passed occasionally, the sound distant. It felt as though the world had emptied itself, leaving just the two of them and the steady rhythm of their steps.
When they reached the corner near Ping's house, Keng slowed to a stop.
"My place isn't far from here," Keng said.
"You should go on inside."
Ping nodded, though a small part of him didn't want the walk to end so soon. He turned slightly, ready to say goodbye-
"Ping."
He stopped.
Keng leaned forward just a little, close enough that Ping froze. With careful fingers, Keng gently adjusted a strand of Ping's hair that had fallen out of place, his touch light, almost reverent.
"See you tomorrow," Keng said, smiling.
"Little Ping."
Before Ping could react, Keng straightened and stepped back, turning away as if nothing unusual had happened.
Ping stood there, stunned.
He lifted his hand to his hair, rubbing the spot where Keng's fingers had been. His face felt warm. His heart raced like he had just run all the way home.
By the time he looked up, Keng was already gone.
When Ping got home, he didn't head straight to his room like he usually did.
"Mom, I'm home," he called, his voice lighter than usual.
His mother paused in the kitchen and turned to look at him closely.
"Ping?" she asked.
"Are you okay?"
Instead of answering, Ping walked closer.
"Mom... can you make my favorite dish tonight?"
Her eyes widened.
"You only ask for that on happy occasions," she said suspiciously.
"What's this about? Talk to Mommy."
Ping hesitated.
He and his mother were close-she was the one person he always felt safe opening up to.
Still, this felt important. Something he wanted to say carefully.
"...Mom," he said slowly, eyes lowering for a second,
"I have a new friend."
"A new friend?" she repeated, surprised.
"You don't even like crowds. Of course we're talking about this."
Ping stood there, lost in thought, carefully choosing which memories to hold onto.
The way Keng smiled.
The way he waited.
The calm that followed him everywhere.
Finally, he looked up.
"His name is Keng," Ping said.
A smile spread across his face-wide, unguarded, foolish.
Before his mother could say anything else, Ping turned and hurried off to his room, the smile still lingering as he closed the door behind him.
His mother stared after him for a moment.
"But that's not what I asked," she murmured. Then she laughed-soft and warm.
Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes, not from sadness, but relief.
Her son had always avoided people since his father's death. He had only opened up to her.
But now... he was glowing.
Deep down, she wanted to meet this Keng.
Later that night, as Ping lay on his bed, the room dim and quiet, his mind returned to the same moment over and over again.
Keng's tenderness.
The way he waited.
The way he called him "little Ping."
"I'm not little," Ping muttered to himself, pulling the blanket closer. He reached up to touch his hair again, smiling foolishly into the darkness.
He didn't understand what this feeling was yet.
But he knew one thing.
That smile had followed him all the way home-
and it was still there.