“I… I like you.”

The words escaped my mouth in a breathless whisper—soft, tentative—yet somehow they sliced through the clamoring noise of the university canteen like a scalpel through silk.

For a moment, the world stopped.

Chatter ceased mid-sentence. Trays froze mid-air. Forks hovered inches from open mouths. It was as if time itself had slammed into a wall. All eyes turned toward us—toward me. Conversations died. The clatter of cutlery ceased. The silence was deafening.

And he stood there, staring at me.

Johan Ratchata.

Silent, expressionless, unreadable.

My heart pounded so violently it threatened to shatter my ribcage. I felt exposed—vulnerable—in a way I hadn’t in years. My hands trembled despite my best efforts to keep them still.

“I… I’ve liked you for a really long time,” I said again, louder this time, forcing the tremor out of my voice. My knees felt weak, my palms clammy. I hated how small I sounded. “Will you—will you go out with me?”

He didn’t speak right away.

For a fleeting second—less than a heartbeat—I thought I saw something flicker in those cold, dark eyes of his. A glint of something dangerous. Feral. It vanished almost instantly.

Then he looked at me as though I were filth.

Like something rotten, something clinging to the underside of his shoe.

His upper lip curled slightly—not in amusement, not in confusion, but in disgust.

“No.”

One word. One syllable.

No theatrics. No raised voice.  Just sharp, decisive rejection delivered with the lethal efficiency of a bullet.

I reeled.

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Students stared, eyes wide with disbelief and voyeuristic delight. The humiliation scorched across my face in hot waves.

My mouth opened, then closed. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

He turned away.

Just like that.

No explanation. No hesitation. No mercy.

And something inside me snapped.

“Wait!” I blurted, instinct driving me forward before reason could intervene. I reached out—desperate, disoriented—and grabbed his arm. I needed him to look at me. To acknowledge me. To see me.

That was a mistake.

A terrible mistake.

In one fluid, startlingly swift motion, he spun around.

And before I could react, his hand gripped my collar, and he slammed me—slammed me—down onto the long wooden table behind us.

A thunderous crash echoed through the room as trays clattered to the floor. Plates shattered. Food splattered across the tiles—rice, curry, spilled drinks. Screams rang out. Chairs screeched backward.

Pain exploded in my spine as my back hit the table, knocking the air from my lungs.

“Ah—” The cry caught in my throat, swallowed by shock.

And then—he was over me.

Johan Ratchata, looming above, face inches from mine. His breath was ice. His eyes—void of empathy, void of hesitation—burned into mine with something crueler than hatred. A storm behind glass. Cold. Caged. Ready to shatter.

His hand clamped around my throat.

Not enough to choke me—but enough to terrify me.

Enough to assert dominance. Enough to remind me of my place.

“Don’t. Touch. Me.”

Each word fell like a hammer. Measured. Precise. Venomous.

And then, with a sneer so cutting it could’ve drawn blood, he added:

“If you want a taste of my dick like a good slut,  just ask.”

The world stopped again.

But this time, it didn’t feel like silence.

It felt like freefall.

The words struck harder than the table ever could. My body froze—paralyzed in a storm of humiliation, disbelief, and something far colder.

The shame hit me like a tidal wave.

Heat flooded my face, my chest, then ebbed away, leaving me cold. Hollow.

And for a moment—I couldn’t breathe.

Not because of his grip, but because of the way he looked at me. The way his words reduced me to something worthless.

Like I was nothing.

Like I didn’t even deserve dignity.

He released me suddenly.

The absence of his hand was almost as jarring as the weight of it. I gasped, coughing, the burn in my throat flaring bright.

Johan took a step back, glaring at me one last time with something darker than contempt.

And then—without another word—he turned and walked out of the canteen, shoulders stiff, fists clenched.

Gone.

My knees buckled. I slid off the table and collapsed to the floor.

The canteen had erupted into chaos. Dozens of students shouting, whispering, filming. Phones were already out. Faces stared in shock, in pity, in excitement.

Cough.

I clutched my throat, gasping, my hands trembling uncontrollably.

Footsteps pounded.

“North!” Easter’s voice cracked through the noise like a whip. He knelt beside me, gripping my shoulders with frantic hands. His face was twisted in panic. “Are you okay? What the fuck just happened?”

Dao and Phoon appeared seconds later, forcing their way through the circle of onlookers.

“Did he touch you?” Phoon demanded, eyes scanning me, already seething. “That motherfucker’s dead. I swear to God, I’ll snap his—”

“No.” My voice was hoarse, barely audible. “Don’t.”

“Don’t?! He assaulted you in front of everyone!” Phoon barked, rage igniting behind his eyes. “That wasn’t just rejection—that was violent. I’m going to kill that son of a—”

“Phoon,” I said again, forcing myself upright. My body ached, bones rattled, soul scraped raw. But I couldn’t crumble. Not now. Not here. Not in front of them.

“We need to get you to the nurse,” Dao said, already pulling off his hoodie to wrap around my shoulders. “Your throat’s bruising. I can see it.”

But I barely registered his words.

I looked around—at the crowd still watching, still whispering, still judging—and I felt something shift inside me.

Not pain.

Not shame.

But something darker.

Something sharp.

A flame in the pit of my stomach—slow-burning and hungry.

He humiliated me. He degraded me in front of the entire school.
This wasn’t just rejection. It was war.

I coughed again, wiped the corner of my mouth, and forced myself to stand. Every muscle screamed in protest, but I ignored it. I wasn’t broken.

I was burning.

“I’m fine,” I rasped, eyes blazing with something none of them had seen in me before. “Get me out of here.”

Dao stepped closer, offering his arm without hesitation. Phoon moved in front of me, shielding me from the swarm of eyes and phones. Easter lingered behind us, his fists clenched, face unreadable.

But as we walked out, I glanced back.

And in that moment, I wasn’t just North—the boy who flirted for sport and dreamed of being wanted.

I was North Natchanan —the boy Johan Ratchata would regret underestimating.

Because this wasn’t over.

Not even close.