Early November 2018

It had been a month and a half since Chandresh moved in with Johan and Kenta. The three of them had established a routine of who cooked breakfast when. This morning, it was Chandresh's turn. He had promised to show the other two how to make something from India, a thin and savory crêpe called dosa, commonly eaten in Tamil Nadu, Andhra Pradesh, and Karnataka. He entered the kitchen armed with rice flour, lentils, and mung beans. He also brought a jar of garam masala made from cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg, black pepper, cumin, and fennel seeds.

Soon enough, the air was filled with the aroma of spices popping in clarified butter and curry leaves singing in the pan. Chandresh moved around with practiced ease, his steel bracelet lightly clinking as he poured the batter, flipped the browning dosa, and adjusted the flame. Johan sat at the counter, peeling shallots for the coconut chutney. At the same time, Kenta hovered nearby with a teaspoon, dutifully taste-testing every batch of softened cubed potato filling flavored with turmeric, cayenne, and paprika powder.

"Too much chili?" Chandresh asked, biting his lower lip.

"Not at all," Johan said. "It hits that comfort-food spot just right. I have Indonesian ancestry. I can handle the spiciness."

Kenta gave a thumbs-up. "If I die from spicy food, at least I'll die full. Just hand me the yogurt when my mouth's on fire and my tongue goes numb."

Laughter rang through the kitchen, easy and unguarded.

By late morning, they packed their bags and walked to the university's library, heading straight to the archives. Rows of bound capstone theses and dissertations filled the shelves. It took a while, but they found what they were looking for —portfolios of projects that bridged aquaculture with policies, bioethics with local farming, even climate science with community activism.

"So it's not unheard of," Johan said, tracing the spines of the volumes. "We just have to make ours... special."

Chandresh knelt beside him, holding up a project from three years ago. "This one's on sustainable marine exports. Look—they had a whole chapter on diplomacy and food ethics."

Kenta leaned against the wall, arms crossed in thought. "If we take a similar route, we can include the political layers of the fishing trade. Maybe also how it affects local plants and water ecosystems."

Chandresh grinned. "I knew there'd be a plant angle."

The three shared a moment of something unspoken and hopeful. Their idea might just work.

But peace has its way of being interrupted.

They were just exiting the archive wing when a sharp voice pierced through the hum of chatter.

"Well, well. So this is why you rejected women, huh?"

Chandresh stiffened. Johan and Kenta turned as a tall girl in a crimson skirt and black boots approached. Her voice held the kind of poison that drips slowly.

"You've been into men all along? Can't even stick to one guy, either?"

Silence fell like winter air.

Chandresh opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came. His shoulders tensed, the warmth from breakfast long forgotten.

Johan stepped slightly in front of him, eyes calm but unyielding. "Whatever you're implying, it's not welcome. You don't know us."

Kenta's voice followed, gentle but firm. "Leave us alone. We're just trying to study."

The girl rolled her eyes, scoffed, and walked away, but the sting lingered.

Chandresh exhaled shakily, his voice barely audible. "That... wasn't even the worst thing someone's said to me before. But it still sucks."

Johan placed a hand on his shoulder. "You don't have to explain."

Kenta added softly, "You're not alone. You're with us."

Chandresh was still shaking, so Johan pulled him into an embrace. "It's okay. We've got you. Want to go somewhere even quieter? Kenta knows of a beautiful park that isn't crowded."

****

The park wasn't far from campus—just a few turns away from the library and tucked behind an old stone gate covered in ivy. It was indeed quiet there, mostly empty except for a few benches and a koi pond nestled under flowering trees.

Kenta led the way, hands in his pockets. Johan walked beside Chandresh, saying nothing, just keeping pace.

They settled near the pond. The water rippled softly as a breeze passed, bringing with it the scent of fresh earth and blooming petals. Kenta sat cross-legged on the grass, while Johan leaned back against the trunk of a slender tree.

Chandresh didn't sit right away. He stood with his arms folded tightly across his chest, staring at the water.

"She didn't even give me a chance," he said after a long silence. "It's like... I became a symbol of her pain of rejection instead of a person with a voice."

Johan nodded quietly, his expression unreadable but steady.

Chandresh finally sat, legs curled under him. "I don't mind if someone's hurt that I turned them down. I really don't. But that kind of bitterness... where someone thinks they can drag my name through the mud and question who I am just to make themselves feel better?" His voice cracked slightly. "That hurts."

Kenta gently asked, "Would you have told her the real reason? If she'd asked?"

"I would've," Chandresh said. "If she'd just pulled me aside and said, 'Can I talk to you?' and actually meant it in good faith? I would've explained. I would've said... I don't feel that way about anyone. That romance doesn't come naturally to me. Not like that. And it wouldn't have been about her—it would've been about me."

He ran his hand over his face, voice dropping. "But now she's gone and made a story out of me. About who I love. Or how many people she thinks I love."

"You don't owe her anything," Johan said, gently but firmly. "And anyone who cares about you wouldn't believe a version of you that you don't even recognize."

Kenta added, "I hate that she tried to take something complex and real and flatten it into an insult. But I'm glad you're here. With us. And I hope you know you don't have to shrink for anyone's assumptions."

Chandresh looked between them. "Thanks," he murmured. "I'm still figuring out what I am. But I do know this—I feel safest around you two. I don't have to wear a mask or pretend I've figured out everything. That means more than I can say."

The wind stirred again, rustling the leaves. For a moment, all three just listened to the water, the trees, the birdsong above.

Kenta reached into his bag and offered a jumbo-sized strawberry KitKat.

"For you," he said, "from someone who thinks you're already doing just fine."

Chandresh took it. The KitKat was a little squished, a little sticky—but it was perfect.

****

They returned to the library as the sun began its descent, casting long amber streaks through the tall windows. The archives were mostly deserted now, only a few scattered students and the soft hum of the lights above. Johan pulled out a chair, and Chandresh settled between him and Kenta, not with a stack of academic papers this time, but with a quiet question lingering on his tongue.

"This might sound random, but," Chandresh began, his voice hushed but clear. "Are there animals who, um... form groups with members of the same sex? Not for cuddling or doing intimate physical stuff or anything—just socially. Because they prefer it. Like they just get along better?"

Kenta didn't laugh. Johan didn't tease.

Kenta tilted his head, thoughtful. "You mean like social bonds that aren't about reproduction or mating?"

"Yeah. Exactly." Chandresh played with the string of his hoodie. "I know it seems like I was asking out of the blue. But I've been wondering."

Johan leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. "Actually, yeah. It's not that strange. Bonobos come to mind—though they're often brought up in sexual contexts, there are also peaceful, all-female groups that form for companionship and protection. Dolphins, too—some males form lifelong alliances. And it's not always about having sex. Sometimes it's just about trust and shared space."

Kenta nodded. "Even birds like ravens and crows. Some form tight-knit sibling groups, especially in harsher environments. They help each other raise young, find food. It's practical, yes, but it's also definitely emotional. There's a comfort in being around others who just... get you."

Chandresh's gaze dropped to the surface of the table, tracing the edge with his finger. "So it's not weird?"

"Not weird at all," Johan said patiently.

Kenta added, "It's part of the natural order. Some beings just thrive in the company of those they feel safest with, and that safety isn't always about passing down genes through procreation. Sometimes it's just... affinity."

There was a long silence, soft and golden, filled only with the rustle of a turning page somewhere in the next aisle.

Chandresh nodded slowly. "Okay."

Johan leaned back with a small smile. "You don't need to prove anything, you know. Not to us. Not even to science."

Chandresh huffed a quiet, grateful laugh. "I know. But... it helps. Looking for patterns in nature. I guess I feel less like a glitch that way."

"You're not a glitch," Kenta said, his voice barely above a whisper but full of certainty. "You're just... Chandresh."

And for now, that was enough.

****

Back at their apartment, the evening carried a hush, like the world itself was listening in.

Johan lit a small candle on the coffee table. Kenta brought over a teapot of warm barley tea. Chandresh curled up on the rug, hugging one of the floor cushions to his chest.

"This morning I shared something from my culture," Chandresh said, glancing at them both with a tired but honest smile. "Time for you to share something from yours. Johan, do I remember correctly that before your family came to Osaka, you lived in North Sumatra?"

Johan looked up from tuning his ukulele. "You remembered right."

"I'd like to hear some music you grew up with."

A soft breath escaped Johan as he shifted into position. He strummed a few notes, then began to play a song with slow, almost lullaby-like chords. His voice carried the bittersweet ache of longing, the kind that nestles between joy and sorrow.

https://youtu.be/Ia_Oxm5QLg4

"It's called Alusi Au," he said quietly between verses. "It's in Batak, one of the languages spoken in Sumatra. The lyrics... they're about someone who doesn't want riches or recognition. They just want love that's real. To be accepted by the one they care about."

When the final note faded, Chandresh sat in silence, his eyes glossy in the candlelight. "This song speaks to my soul."

Kenta, who had been listening closely beside them, smiled gently. "Your turn to hear something from me now."

He pulled out his phone and opened a video. "It's called This World Is Still Beautiful. It's from a show, but the music stands on its own."

Chandresh leaned over to watch.

The screen lit up with rain and light, and a soft, strong voice began to sing. The lyrics wove tales of despair and grace—of how, even when everything is falling apart, one can still choose to believe in kindness. In the stubborn beauty of the world.

By the chorus, Chandresh's throat tightened.

"I... wow," he whispered. "I almost cried."

"You can cry," Johan said, setting down the ukulele. "We're not afraid of your feelings."

Kenta rested his head lightly against Chandresh's shoulder. "Music makes space for what words can't always carry."

Chandresh didn't answer right away. He just sat there, surrounded by candlelight and friends, letting the ache in his chest settle into something warm.

And for the first time in a long while, it felt okay to simply feel.

****

Later that night, the trio gathered in the kitchen to discuss what food to prepare for the next morning. The debate began as casually as their bond had grown.

"I vote oatmeal," Chandresh declared in between chewing a banana, "Topped with fresh fruits and maybe a pinch of cinnamon."

Kenta raised an eyebrow. "Too soft. I want toast. Thick cut. Slightly crisp. With a drizzle of honey."

Johan gave a dramatic sigh. "You're both missing the obvious answer: pancakes. Warm. Fluffy. With a little crunch on the edges."

The silence that followed wasn't tension—it was contemplation.

Eventually, Kenta clapped his hands. "Fine. What if we compromise?"

Chandresh tilted his head. "Meaning?"

"Banana honey walnut waffles. But instead of white flour, we use finely ground oats."

Johan grinned. "Deal. I'll even wake up early to toast the walnuts."

They wrote it down on the sticky note they kept on the fridge, marked it with a doodle of a sleepy waffle, then gradually drifted off to their own bedrooms.

Except Chandresh.

He stayed back in the living room, folding a small cloth over his prayer stool and setting his phone to display the evening Rehras Sahib. The gentle cadence of the prayer filled the air like incense—steady, ancient, sacred.

https://youtu.be/SmsfmgQ0lIg

But when the last lines faded from the screen, Chandresh didn't move right away.

He bowed his head and whispered, not from ritual, but from heart:

"Thank you for today. For food. For warmth. For Johan, for Kenta. For housemates who don't treat me like a freak."

His voice caught, but he let it. Let it tremble. Let it be real.

Then, slowly, he stood and switched off the light.

The room was dark, but not lonely.

****

The Rehras Sahib had ended, but Chandresh's gratitude hadn't. He sat on his bedroom floor, phone in hand, blanket curled over his shoulders like a shawl. The silence of the apartment was comfortable, not eerie—he could still hear the low hum of the space heater through the wall, and it comforted him in a way he never expected.

He opened the group chat with his parents.

Chandresh:

Tonight, I feel really lucky. I didn't just land with decent housemates. I landed somewhere I feel wanted. Not just tolerated or accommodated. Wanted. I'm learning a lot—managing my food, setting my own schedule, being accountable for chores and groceries—but beyond that, I don't feel like I'm just simply co-existing with people. I feel like I'm growing with them.

Kiran replied two minutes later:

Are you saying we ignored you when you were still living with us? xD

Chandresh smiled.

Navrita:

I mean, you have a date with grading rubrics every single night. Of course he feels neglected!

Chandresh:

xD Okay, okay! Let's not start a war in the group chat. I just wanted to say thanks. For letting me go. For trusting me. I don't take it lightly.

Navrita's typing bubble hovered for a while before her message appeared:

Beta, your Papa-ji and I were able to let you have your own place because you have earned our trust. We see the work you've done to be worthy of this space. I'm glad you're in good company. May that feeling of being wanted never leave you.

Chandresh didn't reply right away. He just held the phone to his chest, breathed in deeply, and for the first time since moving out, felt truly settled.

***

Chandresh emerged from his room an hour after sunrise, hair a little wild from sleep but eyes brighter than usual. He didn't say much at first, just walked into the kitchen in his slippers.

Johan was already at the table with a steaming mug in hand. "Morning," he greeted softly. "Did you sleep well?"

Chandresh nodded. "Surprisingly, yeah."

Johan set his mug down. "Let me know if you want me to adjust the thermostat at night. I like it warmer than most people. You can get the boy out of the tropical island, but you can't take the heat of the tropical island out of the boy."

That got a chuckle out of Chandresh.

"But I digress," Johan added with a small smile. "What I mean is—tell me if it ever gets too hot, okay?"

"I will," Chandresh promised. "Thanks for checking in."

Kenta poked his head in from the hallway, still tugging his hoodie over his head. "So, what are you doing after class?" he asked casually. "I'm thinking of taking you guys bowling. But we can reschedule if you already have something else in mind."

Chandresh blinked, caught off guard by the invitation—but in a good way. "Bowling? That actually sounds... really fun."

"Great," Kenta said, slipping on his shoes. "I'll go easy on you your first time."

Johan leaned in with a smirk. "No promises from me."

***

A day of classes at Kindai University was long but productive.

Johan scribbled notes in the sunlit seminar hall: Breeding rights conflict – Alaska vs Norway – tariffs – sustainability loopholes. The guest lecturer's words swirled around him.

Next door, Kenta frowned over beakers and spreadsheets. Today's class discussion was about how mock meat promised to reduce animal suffering, yet they were pumped full of synthetic additives and processed fats. He jotted questions he wanted to ask the laboratory assistants later.

In the next building, Chandresh leaned forward in Environmental Policy, watching a classmate present on carbon taxes. "Good start," he said. "But dig into who delayed implementation. That's the story."

***

Lunch. Cafeteria. Curry, miso, clinking trays. Kenta nibbled rice crackers, Johan slurped enoki soup, Chandresh sipped macchiato.

"So," Chandresh said, breaking the silence, "what if our capstone looked at Japan importing salmon from Norway?"

Johan and Kenta looked up.

"If we cut imports, what happens politically? Economically? Could society actually shift?"

Kenta's eyes lit up. "Ethically, think about all the livelihoods tied to this! Dock workers, distributors, stores. Not just consumption, the whole system."

Johan nodded. "And domestic farming? Some prefectures try, but yields are inconsistent."

Chandresh smirked. "And could mock salmon ever replace the real thing? Nutritionally, culturally, emotionally?"

Kenta tapped a cracker. "Depends how we frame it. Add to tradition, don't erase it."

Johan leaned back. "Memory, identity, survival. This project's heavy."

Chandresh smiled. "We all in?"

"All in," Kenta said.

"Let's make waves," Johan added.

Chandresh tapped his pen. "I'll ask Professor Saimori for journals beyond political science. Maybe anthropological or sociological angles, too. Salmon wasn't always this common here."

"Yeah," Johan said. "We used to be self-sufficient. Overfishing changed that. I might ask your dad for books or documentaries recommendations. He's always got solid sources."

Kenta perked up. "I'll check if Professor Hitomi from the biochemistry lab has anything to add. Plant-based Omega-3s could show that nutritional substitutes might work. Cultural shift is possible, I think, even if it is slow."

"And maybe we can get in touch with someone from the Ministry of Agriculture or an NGO?" Chandresh added. "Real-world perspective."

"Ambitious. I like it!" Johan said.

They threw ideas into a shared document, trading thoughts until the sun set and the sidewalk lights flickered outside.

Then, Johan leaned back with a dramatic sigh. "Alright. My brain is officially fried. Bowling time?"

Chandresh blinked up from his notes. "Bowling? Why?"

Kenta was already packing his bag. "You forget already? I told you earlier this morning we would go to a bowling alley, right? We're dragging you with us."

Chandresh laughed. "Fine. But I'm warning you—I bowl like a history teacher trying to write with chalk on a cracked board."

"Perfect," Johan grinned. "We'll all be a mess together."

****

The bowling alley was bright with soft neon lights overhead. The sound of pins filled the air.

The three students had been playing for almost two hours. Johan had just bowled a near strike. Kenta was up next, wiping his hands with a towel as he stared down the lane.

Chandresh sat down with a quiet exhale, nursing a fizzy drink, watching the neon reflections ripple on the polished floor.

"Hey," he said softly, just loud enough for Johan to hear. When Johan looked over, Chandresh glanced at Kenta, then back. "Can I say something that's been sitting in my chest all week?"

Johan leaned in, tone immediately gentle. "Of course."

Chandresh glanced down at his drink, the carbonation rising slowly. "You two... You are my first real friends."

Chandresh continued, voice calm but thick with something unspoken. "Everyone else I've ever been around... they wanted something from me. My jokes. My cheerful energy. My ability to smooth over awkward silences. I became what they needed so they wouldn't leave. I learned how to be a chameleon."

"But you guys..." Chandresh let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head. "You never made me feel like I had to wear a disguise. Around you, I almost forgot what it feels like to wear a mask. For a while, I thought I'd have to spend the rest of my life pretending to be someone I'm not."

There was a long pause. Then, he added more quietly, "Papa-ji always told me not to rock the boat. That fitting in was more important than standing out. Ammi.. she's a little more flexible, but even she wants me to be agreeable, especially in front of our relatives. So I learned to keep things to myself."

He looked up, blinking rapidly. "But you two... You see me. And you don't look away."

Johan gently reached over, resting a hand on Chandresh's shoulder. "We see you, and we're not going anywhere."

Kenta nodded, his voice soft but steady. "You're allowed to exist exactly as you are, Chandresh. No pretense. No camouflage. Just you."

Chandresh smiled through his glistening eyes. "Thank you, guys, for letting me breathe."

Kenta smiled. "Of course. Now let's go back to our friendly competition. Let's see who will throw a gutter ball and who will get a high score. I refuse to be defeated by either of you this round, just so you know."

That earned a laugh from Chandresh, just the kind of release he needed. "Oh, it's on, my dude. But I propose that if I win, you let me pick the movie for Netflix and chill tonight."

"Deal," Kenta grinned. "But I veto anything over three hours."

****

Per the agreement, the winner of the bowling match got the privilege of choosing what to watch. In the young men's shared apartment, the glow of the TV cast warm flickers across the living room walls. The Secret Life of Pets played on, cats and dogs bouncing through their animated antics. Kenta was nestled in the middle of the couch, blanket pulled over his lap. Johan sat at the other end, arms loosely folded, eyes half-focused on the screen.

Chandresh had curled up on the bean bag earlier, snickering at the movie's jokes. But now, his head was tilted slightly to one side, breathing slowly and deeply. Completely asleep.

Johan glanced over at him and then at Kenta. "Out cold."

Kenta smiled faintly, not taking his eyes off the screen. "He needed the rest. I could tell he was running on fumes."

Johan let out a soft hum of agreement, then leaned back into the couch cushions. "You know..." he began after a moment, "I'm really glad you insisted I give Chandresh a chance. I remember being initially skeptical and cautious about him because of the whole Prince of Menace absurdity."

Kenta turned to look at him. "And now?"

Johan smiled. "Now I think he might be one of the kindest, most thoughtful people I've met. He's intense, sure. But he's real. And I see how he tries. That means something."

Kenta's expression softened. "He lets us see the sides he's had to hide from the world. That's not nothing."

"Yeah," Johan said quietly. "It's everything."

A pause settled between them. The pause was not awkward, but full of quiet understanding.

On screen, a cartoon puppy growled. Chandresh stirred slightly, mumbled something unintelligible in his sleep, then went still again.

Kenta chuckled. "Think he's dreaming about bowling revenge?"

Johan snorted. "Let him dream. He deserves to."

The TV's gentle hum filled the room as the movie played on, and the night wrapped around them like a comforter—soft, warm, and full of a sense of belonging.