Shadows Behind the Mask

The warm, aromatic scent of ginger and lemongrass wafted through the Chaiyasing residence as Yi-jun sat at the dinner table with his family. His mother, Kim Aera, moved with practiced grace, setting down a steaming bowl of tom yum soup. His father, Pisan Chaiyasing, was already halfway through his first helping, his expression content.

"Eat, Yi-jun," Aera said with a soft smile, nudging a plate of rice toward him. "You've been so distracted lately."

Yi-jun nodded absently, his mind elsewhere. He picked up his chopsticks, taking small bites as the conversation swirled around him. His parents were talking about the school, the new students, and the upcoming inter-gym sparring event.

"I want you to help Sukhum with his training tomorrow," Pisan said, his tone gentle but firm. "He's been making great progress, but I think he needs your guidance."

"Of course, Father," Yi-jun replied, though his voice lacked its usual enthusiasm. Pisan glanced at him, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly.

"You've been quieter than usual. Is something bothering you?"

Yi-jun hesitated, his mind flashing back to Tayo, to the strained interactions between her and Phuwadon. He recalled the way her eyes flickered with a defiance that masked something deeper, something heavier. He shook his head quickly. "No, nothing at all."

Aera reached over, patting his hand. "It's okay to talk to us, you know. You don't have to keep everything to yourself."

Yi-jun managed a small smile. "I know, Mom. I'm fine, really."

The rest of the meal passed in a blur, but as Yi-jun helped clear the table, his thoughts lingered on Tayo—her sharpness in the ring, her strained interactions with her father, and the tension in her shoulders that he couldn't unsee.

---

Yi-jun walked into the Chaiyasing Muay Thai School, the rhythmic thud of pads and bags filling the air. Sunlight filtered through the open windows, bathing the training floor in golden light. His father, Pisan Chaiyasing, stood at the center of the room, his authoritative voice carrying over the sound of training. Students gathered around him, their attention unwavering.

"Focus! Muay Thai is not just about strength—it is about the mind, the spirit," Pisan said, his gaze sweeping over the students like a general surveying his troops.

Yi-jun smirked as he watched. His father's speeches were always the same, yet they never failed to inspire.

"Late again, Yi-jun?"

He turned to see his mother, Kim Aera, standing behind him with a knowing look. She held a clipboard, her elegant figure the picture of professionalism as she juggled the administrative side of the school.

"Not late," he replied, grinning. "Just… fashionably on time."

She shook her head, though her expression softened. "Go warm up. Your father is expecting you to lead drills today."

As Yi-jun walked onto the mat, he noticed Sukhum off to the side, laughing with a group of younger students. Sukhum was in his element, his animated gestures and playful demeanor drawing everyone in.

"You're like a celebrity," Yi-jun called out as he approached.

Sukhum flashed him a grin. "What can I say? They love me."

"Too much, if you ask me," Yi-jun teased, jabbing Sukhum lightly in the shoulder.

But when Pisan clapped his hands, signaling the start of sparring rounds, Sukhum's expression shifted. The lively energy drained from his face, replaced by an unsettling calmness. It was as though a switch had flipped, and the playful extrovert was gone.

Yi-jun watched as Sukhum stepped into the ring with one of the senior students, his movements deliberate and precise. His strikes were sharp, calculated—almost mechanical. Sukhum didn't react to the heavy blows he received, his stoicism unnerving. It felt less like he was fighting to win and more like he was proving something to himself.

Yi-jun frowned, a strange unease settling in his chest. Sukhum's focus was almost unnatural, as if he were chasing perfection no one else could see.

---

Later, as the training session wound down, Yi-jun wandered through the gym, his eyes lingering on the students around him. He saw one boy laughing nervously with a friend, but the tension in his hands betrayed his unease. Another student, a girl in the corner, was punching a bag with ferocity, her eyes red as if she'd been crying earlier.

The weight of their struggles hit him differently now. How much of what people show is real? he thought. His gaze shifted to Sukhum, who was tying his gloves with a smile that seemed too wide, too perfect.

A memory of Tayo flashed in his mind—the sharp way she'd spoken to Phuwadon, the clenched fists at her sides. How much is she hiding?

---

The sun had set by the time Yi-jun left the gym. The streets were alive with movement, the buzz of the city mingling with the cool night air. As he walked, a familiar figure caught his eye.

Tayo.

Her hood was up as she moved purposefully through the crowd, her posture stiff, her stride quick. She hadn't seen him, and he didn't call out to her. Instead, he stopped and watched from a distance.

Her movements were precise yet strained, as if each step carried a weight she refused to acknowledge. The crowd parted around her, but she seemed unaware of anyone else.

What drives you, Tayo? Yi-jun wondered, his chest tightening. What are you running from—or toward?

---

Sukhum's house was dark when he arrived. The front door creaked as he stepped inside, the silence pressing down on him like a heavy blanket.

"Home sweet home," he muttered, flicking on the light. The small, sparsely furnished living room came into view. He dropped his gym bag by the door and sank onto the couch, running a hand through his damp hair.

"Another day, another sparring session," he said aloud, his voice echoing in the empty room.

His gaze drifted to a framed photo on the shelf—a younger Sukhum with his parents, their smiles bright and full of life.

"You should've seen me today," he said, his voice trembling slightly. "I was perfect. Just like you always wanted."

Silence answered him, the emptiness of the house swallowing his words. Sukhum leaned forward, burying his face in his hands.

"I'm doing my best. I really am. But…" His voice broke, and a choked sob escaped him.

For a long moment, he sat there, the weight of his loneliness pressing down on him. When he finally lifted his head, his eyes were red, his face streaked with tears. He looked at the photo again, his expression a mix of longing and bitterness.

"I miss you," he whispered.

The room remained silent, offering no comfort.