The house was dark when An Phong slipped inside.
"Mom? I'm home," he called, but his voice fell flat against the silence.
No answer.
He shut the door behind him, and the sensor light on the porch flickered once, then died, leaving the whole place in heavy shadow. His footsteps echoed in the empty rooms, too loud, too lonely. Just two people lived here, and when one was gone, the silence felt like it could swallow the other whole.
Mom must've taken another late shift.
An Phong didn't bother turning the lights on. Darkness had long since become a part of the house—and of him. He wandered into the kitchen, a dim wash of yellow streetlight bleeding through the window. He stood there, staring at the half-empty glass in his hand, still as a forgotten statue.
Only when his stomach growled did he blink back into himself. With a wry smile, he set the glass down, grabbed his wallet and phone, and left.
The door clicked shut. Silence closed in again behind him.
Out on the street, he walked without thinking. Past noodle stalls, rice shops, the smell of grilled meat. His mind was blank, his feet carrying him like he was sleepwalking. Just eat something. Anything. But he kept going, one block, two, until hunger twisted sharp in his belly.
And then he knew where to go.
The noodle shop. Auntie Moc's.
He and Vy had grown up on those bowls of steaming broth. From the days it was just a pushcart and a woman shouting, "Ten thousand a bowl!" to now—a small restaurant, bright and buzzing, still the same warmth waiting inside.
But when An Phong reached the doorway, he froze.
Vy was there. Sitting with her mom and grandmother, laughter bubbling between them as they leaned close over their bowls.
For a moment, something warm tugged at his chest. Vy's smile was brighter than he'd seen in a long time. But then the warmth curdled. His steps faltered. Do I really belong in that picture?
The image of them together—complete, glowing—made the hollowness inside him ache. When was the last time his own family had sat down for a meal together? Years ago, maybe. His mom working, his dad long gone. The silence waiting at home.
He turned away. The smile faded. His shadow sagged, wilted.
Instead, he found himself at a food truck near the beach. A greasy burger, the salt wind in his hair. He bit down hard, trying to fill himself up. But the burger tasted too salty, and he couldn't tell if it was from the sauce… or the sea breeze brushing damp against his face.
When he finished, his throat burned with thirst. He searched for a vending machine, weaving through the dim-lit streets.
And that's when he saw him.
Tall. Hoodie pulled low. Shoulders hunched as he stood in front of the machine. The glow of the streetlamp barely caught his profile—sharp, cold, unfamiliar.
An Phong slowed, instincts prickling. The stranger slammed a kick into the machine. A hollow clang rang out in the night.
An Phong almost turned back. But then—
"Damn piece of junk!" the figure snarled.
That voice.
His breath caught.
Not a stranger.
Uy Phong.
An Phong hesitated, watching as the boy muttered curses at the machine. Clearly, it wasn't taking his money. Typical. Hot-tempered. Impatient.
With a quiet sigh, An Phong pulled out a bill from his own wallet. He slid it into the machine, and this time it worked. A can clattered down.
Uy Phong whipped around, startled.
An Phong's expression stayed calm, almost bored, as he pressed another button. His voice was soft, but steady:
"What do you want to drink? I'll pay."
The sound of the can dropping echoed with the crash of waves beyond. Uy Phong just stared, hand frozen in the air, as if words had suddenly deserted him.
…
A while later, the two of them sat side by side on a stone bench near the water. Empty cans piled at their feet—three, four, maybe more.
An Phong raised an eyebrow at the sight. "Are you trying to overdose on sugar? Who even drinks this much Coke?"
Uy Phong cracked open another can. "What? You bought them. I'm just saving you from wasting money."
"Yeah, or giving yourself diabetes."
He smirked. "Relax. Back in Canada, guys drink soda like it's water. This is nothing."
"You're insane."
"You cursing me?"
"Stating facts."
"The fact is, I'm doing you a favor."
An Phong sighed. "Fine. Whatever."
Uy Phong leaned back, tilting his head toward him with a crooked grin. "So. What are you doing out here? Pretty coincidental we meet like this."
An Phong gave him a flat look. "Could ask you the same."
"Touché." Uy Phong tipped the empty can back, then set it down with a clink. His voice lowered, teasing: "What, got secrets on your mind, little one?"
An Phong shot back without blinking, "Like you don't?"
That stopped him. The grin faltered, replaced by an awkward scratch at the back of his neck. "Shit. You caught that, huh?"
"Wasn't hard."
"…It's not that bad," Uy Phong muttered. "And you?"
"Same."
Silence fell, heavy but not uncomfortable. The surf pounded the shore. Streetlamps flickered.
Finally, Uy Phong pushed himself up, stretching tall under the glow. "Guess that means we're both fine. C'mon—it's late. Let's go."
An Phong stayed seated, expression unreadable. The other boy chuckled, crouching suddenly so close their faces nearly aligned.
"Hey. Anyone ever tell you you look like a porcelain doll? Nice face, but cold as ice."
An Phong's eyes lifted, steady. "You're the same."
"Me?" Uy Phong laughed, pointing at himself. "Nah. I'm just not used to people yet. Normally I'm fun. Really."
"Sure. I can tell."
"Oh yeah? How?"
"Seen you play basketball. You fit right in."
That made his eyes glint. "So you do watch me. Interesting."
"I don't. Just walked by."
"Uh-huh. Walked by. At just the right time to see me dunk? What a coincidence." His chuckle was low, infuriating.
An Phong's face didn't change, but he looked away too quickly. Uy Phong's grin widened.
"Alright, alright, I'll believe you. For now." He stepped back, stretching again. "Anyway, homework's waiting. See you tomorrow, desk partner." He leaned on the words, mocking.
Before An Phong could react, Uy Phong darted in, pinched his cheek hard, and darted away.
"Ow! What the hell—"
Laughter trailed after him, full and unrestrained. From the distance, his voice rang out:
"Don't forget to clean up the cans! Thanks, dollface!"
Then he was gone, swallowed by the night.
An Phong sat frozen, hand pressed to the stinging mark on his cheek. Slowly, his face settled back into its usual blankness. He bent down, gathered the empty cans one by one, and muttered under his breath, the waves carrying his words away—
"Idiot."