After-School Lessons
841 Words
The heat hadn’t broken in days. Even with the classroom fans spinning lazily above their heads, the air felt thick with something heavier than humidity.
Aun sat behind his desk, a poetry anthology open in front of him. Tae sprawled across his seat like royalty grown bored of his throne. The boy had that effortless, disinterested charm that made discipline feel like a futile act.
"You're late," Aun said without looking up.
"Traffic," Tae said. "My driver tried a shortcut. He sucks."
"Try taking the bus sometime. You might appreciate punctuality more."
Tae smirked. “Ajarn, I think you’re the only person in this school who enjoys bus rides.”
"That's because I don’t get chauffeured in a Benz."
"And that’s sad." Tae tossed his bag on the desk. “Anyway, what’s today’s punishment?”
“It’s called learning,” Aun said, flipping a page. “We’re reading this—‘The Art of Losing’ by Elizabeth Bishop. It’s about letting go.”
Tae groaned. “More depressing poems? Seriously?”
“Not all sadness is bad. Sometimes it’s honest. Give it a chance.”
He pushed the book toward Tae. Their fingers brushed briefly. Aun didn’t move away fast enough.
Tae noticed. He always noticed.
---
Minutes passed in silence as Tae read. Aun watched him out of the corner of his eye, pretending to correct papers.
There was something hypnotic about the boy—his concentration, the way he bit his lower lip when he was deep in thought. It made Aun's chest tight in a way he couldn’t afford.
“‘The art of losing isn’t hard to master,’” Tae read aloud, his voice low and measured. “You think that’s true?”
“Yes. Eventually.”
Tae closed the book. “Have you lost something, Ajarn?”
Aun hesitated. “Too many things.”
“Tell me.”
Aun looked up, startled. “You want to know about my life?”
“I spend all day pretending to care about things that mean nothing. You, at least, aren’t pretending.”
Aun exhaled slowly, against his better judgment.
“My father left when I was ten. My mother raised me alone. She’s sick now—early onset Alzheimer’s. I work two jobs to keep her in care.”
Tae blinked. “s**t. I didn’t know.”
“You weren’t supposed to.”
Tae leaned forward. “Is that why you always look so tired?”
Aun laughed, dry and bitter. “Maybe.”
There was a long pause.
“You ever think you deserve better?” Tae asked.
“Every day. But wanting more doesn’t make it real.”
“It should.”
Aun studied him. Tae wasn’t mocking him. His voice was quiet. Sincere.
“I think... you’re lonelier than you pretend to be,” Aun said.
Tae’s mouth twitched. “Only when you’re not around.”
The air between them snapped tight. A string pulled taut.
“Tae—”
“You called me by my name,” he said softly.
Aun stood up too fast, stepping back like he’d been burned. “I think that’s enough for today.”
“But we didn’t finish—”
“Go home.”
Tae rose slowly, disappointment flickering across his face. He slung his bag over his shoulder, eyes never leaving Aun.
“Okay. But you’ll think about me, won’t you?”
Aun didn’t answer.
He didn’t have to.
---
The next day, Tae was absent.
Aun told himself he didn’t care.
---
Saturday came, and with it, another exhausting shift at the tutoring center. Aun’s mother had a bad episode the night before—he barely slept.
As he left the classroom, he found Tae leaning against his motorbike, dressed in jeans and a hoodie, looking wildly out of place on the school grounds.
“What are you doing here?”
“Stalking you,” Tae said, deadpan. “Also, I brought you food.”
He held up a bag—hot rice, grilled pork, and soup. Aun hesitated.
“Why?”
“You looked like s**t on Thursday. Thought you could use a proper meal.”
“Where’s your driver?”
“Sent him home. I got a cab.”
“That’s very... un-rich of you.”
Tae smiled. “Don’t get used to it.”
They sat on a bench outside the school, under a dying tree. Aun ate, the silence oddly comfortable.
“I’m sorry for pushing,” Tae said finally. “I forget that not everyone plays this game the way I do.”
“It’s not a game to me.”
“I know. That’s why I keep coming back.”
Aun set his chopsticks down. “You’re dangerous, Tae.”
“So are you, Ajarn. You just hide it better.”
---
Later that night, Aun lay in bed and replayed the moment Tae wiped sauce off his cheek with his thumb, slowly, intimately.
He dreamed of soft hands and warm laughter.
And woke with guilt clawing at his throat.
- Writer
