That night.
Uy Phong had just stepped out of the shower, steam still clinging to his skin. Dressed in loose loungewear, towel in hand, he lazily rubbed his damp hair.
He dropped onto the bed with a soft thud, leaning back against the headboard. One hand dried his hair, the other scrolled through his phone. His long fingers—roughened by basketball—swiped across the glowing screen.
His feed was flooded with clips: NBA highlights, flawless three-pointers, dunks that sent crowds roaring. Uy Phong's gaze lingered on them, filled with something that was at once familiar, yearning, and yet strangely heavy.
He was absorbed in a short clip of a New York team's free throw when the phone suddenly buzzed. A familiar number lit up the screen.
His grandfather.
Uy Phong froze briefly before answering.
"Is something wrong, Grandpa? Why call at this hour?" His voice stayed even.
A deep, gravelly chuckle came through the line.
"Oh? Did I interrupt your precious free time? What are you up to? Studying?"
"No… just showered. I'm relaxing in my room."
"Mm."
A pause. Then his grandfather's tone dropped.
"Tell me—why did you refuse the offer?"
"…Offer?" Uy Phong's hand halted mid-motion.
"The basketball club's invitation. From the principal."
The air around him seemed to grow heavy. He tightened his grip on the towel, eyes drifting from the phone to the shadowed wall.
"…So you knew."
"Of course. But why, Phong? Don't you want to play anymore?" Worry edged the old man's voice.
Uy Phong lowered his gaze and sighed.
So it was true—Grandpa had gone behind his back to speak with the principal. He knew all too well how much his grandson loved basketball.
Unlike his parents, who only cared about achievements, his grandfather always listened. To him, every grandchild deserved their own joy. For Uy Phong, that joy was basketball—not for medals, not for praise, but because he simply loved it.
But when silence stretched on, the old man grew restless. Just as he opened his mouth to change the subject, Uy Phong's voice cut through, deep and cold:
"Why do you keep… pushing me to play basketball, Grandpa?"
He knew it wasn't true. His grandfather never forced him. He only wanted him happy.
As expected, panic shot through the line.
"No, no—Phong, I never forced you! I just thought… you loved it. You're so good at it—"
Uy Phong's voice sliced in, icy enough to freeze the room:
"I don't love it anymore. I've lost interest. It's my final year, and I need to focus on getting into university. You know exactly how my parents would react if I slacked off now… don't you?"
Silence. Long, suffocating silence. Then, at last, a weary laugh, brittle and bitter.
"…Right. Your final year. Must be tough, hm? Fine, then. If you don't want to play, that's okay. Just… don't push yourself too hard. Come visit me when you can, alright?"
For a fleeting second, something flickered in Uy Phong's eyes. Then it was gone, replaced by shadow. His reply came polite, distant:
"Yes, Grandpa."
"…Good. Rest well. I'll hang up now."
Click.
The decisive tone echoed in the dark. Uy Phong let the phone slip from his fingers, flopping back against the bed, eyes on the ceiling. His gaze drifted, almost unwillingly, toward his school bag.
His hand twitched—reaching for it, for that crumpled scrap of paper hidden inside. The one that held a doorway back to basketball. But he caught himself, heat flaring in his chest and face.
"No. Never again. I will never play basketball again."
The vow came out hoarse, like shackles binding him. He snatched up a hoodie, strode out, and slammed the door shut.
He ran. Hood pulled low, feet pounding pavement, all the way to the seaside park. It was a long stretch, but running was how he always calmed himself—sweat, breath, motion washing away the tightness inside.
After forty-five minutes, he arrived. The park by the sea—the first place he'd visited when he moved here. Wide, breezy, open. Perfect for exercise and for losing himself in the salt-kissed wind.
Now he stood on the sand, staring into the black ocean. The sea at night was no longer blue, only shadows and waves creeping toward shore. Far off, fishing boats blinked red and white like faint stars.
He stood there for a while, until a gust yanked his hood back, sending black hair whipping loose in the night. For the first time that day, his expression softened.
But the wind grew sharper, colder. Shivering, he muttered to himself—it was getting late, better head back. His throat ached with thirst; a drink sounded perfect.
At the top of the stone path stood a vending machine. He fished out a crumpled bill, slid it in—only for the machine to spit it right back out. Again. And again.
"Damn it! Useless piece of junk!"
He cursed, slamming a kick into the machine. Still, the Coke Zero refused to drop. His temper flared; he clawed at his hair, ready to storm off—
Click.
The machine accepted the bill. But not his. He turned sharply.
A hand withdrew from the slot.
An Phong.
In stark contrast to Uy Phong's dark hoodie, An Phong wore a light jacket, face calm, almost indifferent. Side by side, they looked like night and day—opposite, yet drawn together by some invisible thread.
Before Uy Phong could speak, An Phong pressed a button, voice quiet but steady:
"What do you want? Choose. I'll pay."
The clink of a can dropping into the tray cut through the hush, blending with the cold whisper of the sea breeze.
Uy Phong froze, hand still in midair, throat tight with words he couldn't force out.
"…Ha—"