NO SAFE DISTANCE

CHAPTER THREE __ PAST SHADOWS

Kian did not sleep.

He lay on his back in the unfamiliar bed, eyes wide open, counting the seconds between sounds. The hum of the air conditioner, steady and mechanical, filled the space with a monotonous rhythm. Somewhere below, a car passed, its engine muffled but insistent. The soft tick of the wall clock marked time in exaggerated beats, each one louder than it should have been, each one a reminder of the world continuing on outside, indifferent to him.

Every sound registered. Every detail pressed against him. None of it offered comfort.

His body remained taut, muscles coiled in anticipation as if something invisible waited to strike. Even when exhaustion weighed on him, sleep hovered just beyond reach. It was a teasing, frustrating presence. So close that he could feel it, yet just out of grasp, as if the room itself refused to allow rest.

Night has always been dangerous. Not because the world outside was threatening, but because his mind refused to believe that nothing would happen. Danger, for Kian, existed everywhere, embedded in silence, in shadows, in the steady tick of time.

He remembered he had to report to the varsity the next day. He was transferred and still had a lot to catch up on, though he already had friends keeping him updated. Leo and Aria were his friends from Grade six before Kian left for the state. They're both in juniors ( third year) including kian.

He turned his head slightly, eyes sweeping the room once more. The door was locked. Checked, triple-checked already. Windows shut, curtains drawn. Nothing had changed since the last glance. Still, the tightening in his chest refused to ease.

He sat up slowly, bare feet touching the cool floor, grounding himself in sensation the way he had been taught. Cold. Solid. Real. He pressed his palms against his thighs, inhaling deeply, exhaling longer than he had anticipated.

You are here. You are safe. This is now.

The words felt fragile, as though spoken too softly for his mind to accept.

The apartment was quiet in a way that emphasized absence. Aou had left hours ago. Not abruptly, not harshly. Only practical instructions: where the groceries were, how the lock worked, a note to message if anything felt off. That was all. Kian hadn’t asked when he would return. Perhaps it was normal. People didn’t owe explanations. Aou helping him settle in was already more than enough.

Yet the silence felt intentional, almost deliberate, a reminder of his own fragility.

He moved slowly through the apartment, fingertips grazing surfaces, connecting with textures to affirm reality.

Hypervigilance, the therapist had called it.

Kian called it survival.

Each corner he passed, each shadow he examined, was cataloged and assessed. Even the faint reflection of the ceiling light on the polished floor seemed scrutinized, as if it might reveal hidden danger.

In the living room, he paused by the couch. His fingers brushed the back where Aou had sat earlier. The indentation was gone, yet the memory lingered like a faint imprint on his nerves. The calm confidence, the deliberate care.it had grounded Kian more than any grounding exercise ever could.

Returning to the bedroom, he sat on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on knees, and let his mind drift back. Past nights, past apartments, past experiences that had left him primed for anxiety. Rooms that were uncontrolled, voices that were unpredictable, doors that slammed without warning, the way he was treated in his old school. A body conditioned to alertness from childhood, learning that vigilance was survival.

Dependence was not something he wanted.

Comfort, however… comfort was dangerous precisely because it worked.

His phone buzzed softly. Kian flinched before he could stop himself.

A message.

Aou:

“Still awake?”

Kian stared at the screen, heart hammering. Fingers hovered before typing back:

“Yes.”

A pause.

Then another message appeared:

“I realized I forgot to tell you something earlier.”

He hesitated. “What is it?”

This time, a voice note appeared.

Aou’s voice, low and steady, reached him through the tiny speaker. It grounded him unexpectedly. “You say my name the way it’s written,” he said. “But in Thai, it’s simpler.”

Kian listened intently. The sound settled in his chest, unfamiliar, yet comforting.

“It’s pronounced Ow,” Aou continued.

Kian whispered it, almost testing it aloud.

“Ow.”

For a fraction of a moment, tension in his body eased.

He typed back:

“Ow.”

“Yes,” Aou replied immediately. “That’s it.”

No more words followed.

Kian set the phone down, leaning back with eyes closed, reflecting on the quiet. The unease he felt wasn’t Aou leaving. It was a stark contrast. The calm, measured presence that now existed in the apartment versus the still-noisy, chaotic world in his mind. How loud it seemed in Aou’s absence.

Sleep remained elusive. But for the first time that night, Kian stopped scanning the room, and allowed himself to feel something faintly like relief.