Chapter Text
Perth still remembers the exact moment he met Chimon.
☁︎
It was the first week of high school, the kind where everyone still wore stiff new uniforms and pretended not to be nervous. Perth had been sitting alone in the classroom, tracing invisible shapes on his desk with his finger to try and keep his hands from shaking too much, when someone dropped into the seat beside him like they belonged there.
“Is this seat taken?” The boy had asked, already smiling.
Perth looked at him, shook his head.
“That’s good.” The boy said, smiling wider. “I hate sitting alone. I’m Chimon, by the way.”
“Perth.” Perth replied quietly, averting his gaze and looking out the window instead.
That was how it started. Simple. Unremarkable. And somehow, everything.
They became inseparable after that—Chimon kept seeking out Perth, walking up to him in the hallway, chatting about this and that, introducing him to his friends and other classmates. The two of them shared snacks, walked home together, studied late in empty classrooms. Chimon was louder, brighter, always pulling Perth out of his shell without ever making him feel small for being quiet.
Perth liked to listen, and Chimon liked to talk. It fit—they fit.
They didn’t start dating until their third year of high school, a full year before everything fell apart. By then, loving each other felt less like a decision and more like an inevitability.
Which was why the ending had hurt so much.
☁︎
Now, what feels like a lifetime later, Perth crosses the university campus with his hands buried deep in his jacket pockets, the February air brushing cold against his cheeks.
Second semester of his first year.
He tells himself that detail matters—that he's already survived something. The first semester had been… difficult. Not in any dramatic way. Just… quiet. Heavy. Lonely. Perth had always been shy, always the quiet kid in the back, and here at university, he had definitely felt it more than before.
He had spent those first few months half-expecting Chimon to appear.
They had applied to the same university, same campus, back then. Perth remembers sitting beside Chimon in the computer lab as they filled out their applications together, shoulders touching, joking about dorm food and professors they’d never met, laughing about how fun it would be to get in together.
I’ll see you there, Chimon had said.
Then, a week before their senior year was supposed to start, Chimon had broken up with him and disappeared.
No warning. No fight. Just a tight smile, eyes too shiny, and words that didn’t make sense.
“I have to leave.” Chimon had told him. “I’m sorry.”
And then he was gone.
And Perth… Perth never learned where Chimon went. Never learned why leaving meant breaking up. He only knew that loving someone didn’t always mean staying, and that hurt more than anything.
So during his first semester at university, Perth had lived in a strange in-between—attending classes, socializing with classmates but never really enough to make a friend, eating meals alone, and checking familiar faces in every crowd.
By the end of the semester, the hope had worn thin.
Chimon wasn’t coming.
Accepting that didn’t fix the ache, but it made it quieter. Manageable. Like maybe someday, he’d be able to get over it. Over him.
Perth had even made a few closer acquaintances by the end of the semester—people he sometimes studied with, people who invited him to eat with them sometimes. Small steps, enough to make him think—maybe this semester can be different.
He didn’t want to spend another four years waiting for someone who might never show up.
☁︎
The lecture hall buzzes with conversation as Perth slips into his seat. He likes sitting in the middle-back rows near the window—easier to curl into himself and make himself small, less attention drawn to him. It’s not so bad sitting alone anymore, not as much anxiety at being on his own. Sometimes his friends sit with him, if they have the same classes—Sammy making him laugh quietly or Phuwin making sassy, sarcastic jokes.
Today, the professor’s voice drones steadily as he takes attendance and the tussle of students quiets down, slides filling the screen and whispers diminishing. Perth takes notes carefully, neat and precise, the way he always does. It calms him, the structure and predictability, everything written in order and color coded by topic—he can’t control the chaos around him, in his head, but at least his notes can be pretty and nice.
When class ends, he packs up quickly, slinging his bag over his shoulder before most students even stand up. He doesn’t hear the professor call out. “Before you go—for the midterm project, pair up with someone. You can discuss details next class, and remember it’ll be part of your final project as well.”
Too busy thinking which halls will be less crowded at this time, if he can get to the cafeteria before the rush of hungry students arrive, he’s already halfway out the door when someone calls him. “Hey—wait!”
Perth turns, startled.
A boy jogs toward him, slightly out of breath, hair a little messy like he ran his hand through it too many times. His backpack is slung over one shoulder, threatening to slide off completely at any second.
The boy is—pretty. Very pretty. He has delicate features and wide eyes, pale skin and a smile that feels a little too bright, too real, smiling at Perth like they’ve been friends for years.
“Sorry.” The boy says, chuckling softly. “You left so fast.”
“Oh—um.” Perth answers, instinctively apologetic and feeling awkward. “Did I forget something?”
“Kind of.” The boy replies. “The professor said we need to pair up for the midterm and final projects. I’ve seen you in a few other classes, so I thought maybe…” He hesitates, scratching the back of his neck. Not nervous exactly—just careful. “I’m Santa, by the way.”
“Like the Christmas guy?” Perth asks dumbly after a long pause. Idiot, he thinks to himself. Way to offend someone who’s just trying to be nice to him.
Instead of getting mad, Santa just laughs, loud and free. “You know, you’re the first person to say that to me.”
Perth relaxes a little. “I’m Perth.” He says. "Like… the city.” He adds, trying to ease his awkwardness.
“I know.” Santa smiles. “I’ve seen your name on the attendance list. You always sit near the window, Perth like the city.”
Perth blinks. “Oh.”
“I don’t mean in a creepy way.” Santa adds quickly. “It’s just something I noticed.”
That makes Perth smile, just a little.
“So…” Santa continues, shifting his weight and adjusting his backpack strap. “Do you want to be partners?”
Perth’s first instinct is to say no. This whole interaction has been way weirder and more awkward than it needed to be. Not because Santa seems unpleasant—the opposite, really—but because partnership meant interaction. Messages. Meetings. Letting someone into his closed, carefully managed space.
But then he remembers his quiet promise to himself. This semester will be different.
“Yeah.” Perth says finally. “Okay.”
Santa’s face brightens instantly. “Really? Great!” He pulls out his phone. “Can I get your number, so we can talk about the project?”
Perth gives it to him, fingers shaking slightly as he types the digits into Santa’s phone.
“Thanks.” Santa says, happy. “I’ll message you later then. See you.”
As he waves bye and makes his way towards the other side of campus, Perth stands there for a moment longer than necessary, heart beating a little faster than before.
☁︎
That night, Perth lays on his bed, phone resting beside him.
A message pops up.
Santa: hey partner :) did you get home okay?
Perth stares at the screen before replying.
Perth: yeah. thanks for asking.
A pause.
Then another message.
Santa: looking forward to working with you
Santa: also… you seem really nice, I’m happy we’re partners for this project
Perth turns onto his side, phone clutched loosely in his hand.
Nice.
Nice.
He seems nice?
Perth isn’t sure when the word had stopped feeling like something people said out of obligation.
He sighs. Opens his messages app again and scrolls down, all the way to Chimon’s name. The last messages between them are still left unread.
Perth: where are you?
Perth: are you okay?
Perth: I miss you
Perth: please come back
His thumb hovers over the screen longer than he means it to. He exhales slowly and locks his phone, like that might seal the feeling away with it.
It doesn’t.
He unlocks his phone again a second later.
This time, Perth doesn’t go back to the chat. His fingers move on their own, opening Instagram, searching a name he already knows he’ll find. Santa had found and followed him that same day they exchanged contacts, his profile coming up almost immediately when Perth types it into the search bar. He hesitates, then taps follow back.
He goes to his posts and the first reel starts playing automatically.
Music fills the small space of Perth’s dorm room, soft and a little static through his phone speaker. Santa appears onscreen, framed by mirrors and soft lighting, moving with an ease that makes Perth stare a little too hard. It’s different from seeing him in class—more confident, more expressive. Here, on screen, every movement feels intentional, even when it’s playful.
Perth scrolls, another video, and another.
Santa dances in different rooms, different outfits, sometimes smiling at the camera, sometimes too focused and serious, like he forgot the camera is recording. In one clip, he laughs mid-step and keeps going anyway, unbothered. Perth finds himself giving a small smile without realizing it.
He stops on one reel and watches it again. There’s something grounding about it, about how Santa seems so comfortable in his body, so unafraid of taking up space. Perth thinks of how he always shrinks into himself without meaning to, how he’s learned to be quiet, careful, easy to leave.
His phone buzzes softly with a notification, the sound pulling him back to himself. Perth lowers the volume and sets the phone on his chest, staring up at the ceiling while the video loops.
He feels strange. Lighter. Confused, maybe, but not in the painful way he’s used to.
For the first time after closing Chimon’s messages, Perth doesn’t feel like he’s going backwards. He feels like he’s looking forward, even if he doesn’t know what he’s hoping to find yet.
When he finally lies back and closes his eyes, the image that stays with him isn’t the last message he sent Chimon, it’s the way Santa moves, steady and unafraid, like the future is something worth exploring.
☁︎
Perth doesn’t mean to end up here.
He tells himself he’s just cutting through the arts building because it’s faster, because the air outside feels too heavy and the corridors are warm and quiet. His bag hangs loose on one shoulder, his phone still in his hand from rereading Santa’s message one too many times.
He’s half-lost in his thoughts when the sound reaches him—music, muffled but rhythmic, seeping through a door that’s been left slightly open.
He slows, curious.
It’s not loud, not showy. Just a beat counting itself steady and sure, like it knows exactly where it’s going.
Perth stops without realizing it.
The door leads to one of the practice rooms, mirrored walls and scuffed wooden floors, usually empty this late. Through the narrow opening, he can see movement—someone stepping back, resetting, trying again.
Santa.
He’s alone in the room, jacket tossed on a chair, sleeves pushed up. His hair is damp at the temples, his reflection multiplied endlessly in the mirrors as he moves. There’s something focused about him, something intent and quiet. He counts under his breath, barely audible from where Perth stands, and starts again from the top.
Perth stays where he is.
He knows he should leave—this feels a little like trespassing, like watching something private. But his feet don’t move. He leans lightly against the wall across from the door, just far enough back that he knows he won’t be seen unless Santa turns his head at the exact wrong angle.
Santa dances like he does everything else, fully present. His movements aren’t perfect, not polished the way Perth has seen in the videos he posts online, but there’s a sincerity to them that makes Perth’s chest ache in a strange, unfamiliar way. When Santa messes up, he laughs softly at himself, shakes his head, rewinds the music a few seconds, and tries again.
No exasperation, no frustration at himself. Just patience.
Perth watches him repeat the same sequence two times, three. Each time, Santa adjusts something small—a hand held a little higher, a step placed more firmly, a turn slowed just enough to hit the beat. He talks to himself while he does it, encouraging, almost fond.
“That was better.” Santa murmurs to himself, breathless, smiling at his own reflection.
Perth swallows. He thinks, distantly, about how different this feels from watching Chimon back then. Chimon had always been bright, loud with his affection, pulling Perth along with him, tugging at his sleeve, demanding attention like it was the most natural thing in the world. Loving Chimon had been intense, dizzying, like standing too close to the sun and basking in all the warmth.
This is quieter.
Watching Santa feels like sitting somewhere warm after being cold for a long time, not realizing how tense your body was until it starts to relax.
Perth lets his thoughts wander, which is dangerous, but he doesn’t stop them. He thinks about the messages on his phone, about how Santa didn’t ask for anything, didn’t push. How it was simple, careful. Like Santa understands how fragile some things are, even if Perth never told him.
Santa finishes the song and lets the music trail off. He stands there for a moment, hands on his hips, breathing hard, eyes fixed on his reflection. He takes a sip from his water bottle, and Perth tries not to blush at how his throat moves when he swallows. Then Santa grins suddenly, wide and a little embarrassed, and reaches for his phone. He watches something, maybe a recording of himself or a message from a friend, and shakes his head, smiling to himself.
Perth feels something loosen in his chest. He doesn’t know what this is, he doesn’t want to name it—he just knows that standing here, unseen, watching Santa exist so fully in his own space, makes the future feel… less heavy.
For the first time in a long while, Perth’s thoughts aren’t circling Chimon—aren’t replaying the past, the unanswered questions, the hurt. They’re here, in this moment. In the soft hum of the lights and the faint echo of music still lingering in the room.
Santa starts the song again. Perth watches for a minute, then another. He tells himself he’ll leave after this run-through. Then after the next.
When he finally pushes off the wall, it’s slow, reluctant, like he’s stepping away from something delicate.
He doesn’t look back as he walks down the hall, but the warmth stays with him.
Later, in his dorm room, Perth sits on his bed and stares at his phone again. Santa’s messages are still there, unchanged. Perth doesn’t reply—not yet—but now, the silence doesn’t feel empty.
It feels like space.
And for the first time since the semester began, Perth lets himself think, maybe this really can be different.