(Jate, Art & Thanom= 8)

Jate arrived in the rain. He remembered the lingering chill of a silent car ride, and a voice telling him to be 'reasonable' about his new circumstances.

He didn't react when they took down his information, or gave him a cot near the window with the mildew stain. He didn't care about the itch of the blanket. He'd learned real early that discomfort was temporary, and reaction was wasted energy.

Better to be still. To be unnoticed. To just stand there motionless and watch.

He treated the orphanage like a game he had to survive. He knew that if you didn't have something to give, you didn't get anything.

The weekends were the most interesting. That was when the 'nice people' came from the city to the temple next door. They parked shiny cars by the gate and unloaded sacks of rice, cartons of soy milk, and envelopes of cash. They called it 'making merit.'

Jate sat on the bench, and watched the exchange. The donors smiled. The monks chanted a blessing. The donors looked relieved. Jate didn't see kindness. He saw a trade.

One sack of rice to buy a clear conscience. A carton of milk to erase a bad week. They didn't look at the kids when they handed it over; you didn't need to look at the vending machine to get your snack.

Jate closely scrutinized his current situation; the bullies were a predictable force, and the staff were a constant source of neglect. He studied any others who appeared, eavesdropping on conversations to gather information. Words were just words, they meant nothing, but the way they were spoken, or the pause before a reply—those held truths.

He moved like smoke, learning more in silence than most people ever did by speaking, and because he understood how the world around him operated, Jate felt untouchable.

Until he noticed them.

The trio. A closed, self-sustaining system. Two boys about eight, the same age as him, and a small girl. Thanom, the one checking over his shoulder every few seconds. Mali, she was quiet, cute… nothing unexpected. And Art.

Art was walking around doing the most ridiculous things. It made Jate nervous just watching him. He helped people who couldn't help him back. Jate saw him slip an extra roll onto a younger kid's tray. No words. No audience. No expectation of return. Why is this kid so stupid? Why give away a roll for nothing?

Another day, he watched him patch a broken chair leg using string, a spoon handle, and absolute focus. He fixed things. Gave things away quietly. Left before anyone could say thank you.

Jate watched, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for Art to ask for a reward or a favor in return. But he never did. It made no sense. He didn't do it for merit, it was simply care made automatic.

It made Jate furious. Not Art himself. It was the way Art's actions opened something he'd unknowingly sealed shut. It was the possibility that this kindness could actually exist.

Jate turned away.

One morning, near the common room, he saw them again.

Thanom was lost in thought. Mali was holding a little elephant while listening to Art as he showed her how to close the tear in her sleeve. His hands moved more than his voice as he carefully threaded a gold twist-tie from a bread bag through the threads, stitching the hole shut with wire instead of cotton.

They were a tight, private group, connected by a trust that belonged only to them, and Jate hated how much he didn't belong in it.

⁕ ⁕ ⁕

Later, during chores, Thanom caught him watching.

"You lost?" he asked, mop in hand.

"Just bored," Jate replied.

He nodded toward Art, who was down the hall, slipping paper into a gap in the wall to stop it from rattling.

"What do you get out of it?" Jate asked.

Thanom frowned. "What?"

"Having that quiet kid lead you. He doesn't have any money. He can't protect you from the older boys. So why follow him?"

Thanom's eyes narrowed.

"He doesn't lead me," Thanom's upper lip pulled back in a half-sneer. "We're friends, we hang out together."

"Whatever. Same thing."

"No," Thanom said. "It's not. Haven't you ever had friends, dude?" And he walked away.

Jate stood there, fingers tight around the mop handle. He wanted to say something.

I want to be your friend.

⁕ ⁕ ⁕

A storm rolled in that night. Rain tapped the roof keeping Jate awake. His blanket was kicked off and shirt damp with sweat. He was overthinking again because things just didn't add up.

Eventually, exhaustion overwhelmed him and Jate slipped into a dream.

He was in the common room sitting with them—Art, Thanom, Mali. Mali was playing. Thanom leaned back, half-listening to the TV. Art looked at Jate with acceptance. And in the dream, no one explained why they were there together, no one looked past him as if he were thin air. He simply belonged with them like it was normal, like he always had.

Jate suddenly awoke to the unsettling awareness of a vast distance between himself and everything else. He tried to discard the feeling by closing his eyes again, tried to remember the great dream he was having. He couldn't find it…where was it? It had to be someplace better than this dark room, this strange building that he barely recognized… but he couldn't remember now. There was nothing left to grasp onto. The image was gone.

Despite the heat in the room, Jate felt cold.