Distant Signals: The Definition of Us

Chapter Eight

Sighing, Arthit absentmindedly tapped his shoe against a crack in the sidewalk. To avoid hearing about how he was always late, Arthit had left his dorm twenty minutes early and was now waiting for Sarah outside the veterinarian's office, which was fucking horrible. Despite the sun shining brightly overhead, raining a pleasant warmth down on his shoulders, and a cool breeze brushing against his skin, Arthit was miserable. Every second seemed to drag on and on, as if each spanned a year instead of a moment.

It was a slow, agonizing torture, and he didn't understand why anyone would subject themselves to this voluntarily. Arthit could understand being a few minutes early, or right on time—in fact, that was important for some things, like school, work, or vet appointments—but for everything else? Being late wasn't that big of a deal—especially not when meeting friends or family. What were a few minutes? Everyone else was probably going to be a little "late" too, so why make a fuss?

To be fair, Arthit did have a tendency to arrive late even by Thai standards, especially in the mornings, but he still didn't understand why Sarah felt the need to point it out all the time.

Then again, he didn't understand why Sarah felt the need to say a lot of the things she said.

It was strange. On the surface, Sarah's comments weren't that judgmental, per se. They were often said teasingly, with a knowing smile, as if she were trying to simply poke fun at his shortcomings in a good-natured way. But was there a 'good-natured' way to point out someone's flaws?

Arthit kicked at the ground. He just...didn't get it. Why did she think it was necessary to mention his sweet tooth whenever he got pink milk? Or how 'childish' and 'girly' it looked? Did she have to compare him to every television character who overslept or arrived late to something? He wasn't even that bad anymore. Why did she keep bringing it up? And then there were his clothes. Arthit didn't care if she thought his band shirts weren't stylish. It's not like he had a ton of money to go shopping. Band shirts were cheap, and they were comfortable—same for the jeans he wore all the time.

Scowling, Arthit checked the time on his phone. Only two minutes had passed since the last time he'd checked—how was that even possible? He could've sworn ten minutes had passed, at least, but that was clearly not the case.

In a desperate bid to occupy his mind and hands, Arthit opened LINE.

Arthit: How's your project going?
Arthit: Are you still at the library?
0062🌕: Yes
0062🌕: But we should be done soon

Arthit made a face. Based on what he'd heard from Kongpob, the rest of his group had barely gotten started. How were they almost done? He'd read the instructions for the project—fuck, he'd done a similar one two years ago—and there was no way they could finish it all in one afternoon unless they had all completed their individual parts. So, unless Kongpob helped the ones who had fallen behind, he didn't see how that was possible.

Fuck that shit. If those idiots thought they could take advantage of Kongpob and get away with it, they had another thing coming.

Arthit: How?
0062🌕: ???
Arthit: You said they'd barely done anything
0062🌕: Oh lol M said they stayed up all night working on it, and they were sitting with Tew's group when I got to the library so they weren't playing games

Good. The tension in Arthit's jaw lessened, and he visibly relaxed, his frustration waning. Just as he was about to answer, his phone vibrated once, then again, as Kongpob beat him to it.

0062🌕: We're still going to the bar Saturday, right?
0062🌕: Did we say we were going to invite our friends?

Oh, right. They had planned to go to a bar and play drunk Jenga, hadn't they? He'd completely forgotten about it. Had they decided whether to invite their friends? He couldn't remember that either.