SOUND OF HUNGER

2025 META'S POV (Age 19):

The air scorched my throat. Every gasp was a raw scrape, but the fire in my chest wouldn't go out. My sneakers slipped on wet weeds; damp earth tugged at my feet, trying to pull me down. My legs pumped in the frantic, clumsy rhythm of a trapped animal.

"Get back here, you little rat!" boomed a male voice. Too close.

Thief!

The word wasn't a shout, but a brand they were trying to press onto my skin. Last week: a missing pie. The week before: a broken window I was nowhere near. They never needed proof, just my face, my family name. I could already hear the excuses in their voices: Well, you look the part. You know how that family is.

It had been worse than any sort of fear; it was just the unfairness of it all that created this gut-wrenching, heavy feeling. It was in the certain tautness of their faces, the sneer of their lips, that made my hands clench into fists even as I ran for my life.

Their footsteps, behind me, thundered and vibrated on the ground. It was the sound of grown men furious at a kid. A stupid glance backwards over my shoulder confirmed this. Three of them. Mr. Henderson from the market, his face purple with rage, and two others, faces distorted in anger. Their shouts merged to one ugly roar as my eyes welled with hot, stinging tears. The world dissolved to a smear of grey and black.

A calloused hand clamped down on my shoulder and spun me around. Another seized my arm, twisting it up my back until I heard a pop near my ear. Fingers tangled in my hair and yanked my head back.

"Got you," the voice - heavy with cigarette-smoke-and-cold-coffee malice - purred back.

I fell to the ground, my cheek scraping against sharp pebbles, which cut my skin and filled my mouth with the taste of dirt and blood. A first kick connected with a dull thud against my side, knocking the air from my lungs. White-hot pain seared through me. I tried screaming, but only a dry rattle came out.

Another kick landed on my back, and I curled up, my arms protecting my head, but that was useless; their boots were everywhere.

"Think you can just take what you want?" Mr. Henderson sneered, and I felt his boot connect to my ribs. "This'll teach you."

"Glorp. glorp."

The normality of the sound was jolting, dragging me out of the nightmare. I pushed myself up, shaking, my hand flying to my cheek. It was just skin. No dirt, no blood. But it still ached with a phantom throb. Scrubbing my hand hard over my face, I forced the past back down.

"What was that?" I croaked; my voice was hoarse.

Nervously, Thyme dropped the book in his hands. "Uh. nothing! Just a noise."

He tried to look innocent, but his stomach growled again-a loud, betraying growl. His face went bright red. I just stared at him. This was a kid who looked like a strong wind could knock him over, yet he attracted mobs and had the loudest digestive system I'd ever heard. Ridiculous. In a weird way, it felt so jarringly normal, like a splash of cold water after the dream.

"Trying to see if I was out?" I asked, the smirk spreading across my face. He obviously had been hovering.

"No! I was." Thyme stuttered, frightened.

"'Stop making excuses,' I said, and my voice took on that cold, arrogant tone I'd perfected to keep people at a distance. It was a shield. It always worked. 'It's obvious you're one of my admirers.'"

He bristled, his whole small frame tensing with anger. He looked like he wanted to punch me but was smart enough not to try. My smirk widened.

I laughed loudly, and the laughter echoed across the rooftop. "You're so funny." His anger was very funny, really. He kept his back to me, his shoulders straight.

"I was teasing, you know," I told him. "I know you're not my admirer. I don't think any of my admirers have a stomach that loud."

His shoulders became even stiffer. "It didn't happen! Stop saying that!" he mumbled, but we knew it had. I laughed harder. "Stop laughing at me, you stupid giant gorilla!" The words tumbled out, and he slapped a hand over his mouth like he could take them back. He actually looked like a mouse caught in the trap, genuinely terrified I was about to crush him, and that sudden real fear in his eyes made the fight just… evaporate. I turned my head, my laughter dying off to a chuckle. "Okay, okay. I'll stop laughing, Snotty Kid."

His jaw dropped. I could practically see the indignant short-circuit happening in his brain. But he kept his mouth shut. Smart.

I sat up. "I'm hungry too," I announced.

His brain sputtered. "Are you serious? You think I'm some kid who'd just go with a stranger 'cause he offered food?" he shot back automatically.

"My treat," I added, challenging him. "Anything you want."

I watched the words "free food" go to war with his pride right there on his face. He actually struggled. I almost smiled. I knew which side would win: hunger always wins. This guy was annoying, but free food was a strong argument.

He sprang from the ground and burst into a huge, relieved grin. "No, no! A treat sounds perfect! Wherever is good!" he chattered, jumping to step in beside me. The priorities of this kid were something else; once the second food was on the table, all of his previous anger vanished.

It reminded me of something, though. When I was eleven, so hungry I couldn't think straight, sleeping in a park. Someone had left a lunch box next to me. I smelled fried chicken and sticky rice. I was scared it was poisoned, but I was too hungry to care. I opened it. The sticky rice was shaped like a little yellow cat. The fried chicken was perfectly crispy. It was the best thing I'd ever had in my life. The sticky rice wasn't plain; it tasted like mango. I never knew who put it there.

And it doesn't have anything to do with anything, but there's just something about this snotty kid, with his ridiculous stomach and misplaced pride, that reminds me of that feeling. That desperation. And the shocking, unexpected kindness of that little yellow cat. That's why I want to buy him food.

Going down the stairs, Thyme was super jumpy, his head swivelling as if expecting an ambush. He caught my arm on a landing to stop me. "Do you. do you notice everyone looking at us?" he whispered, his voice tight.

I looked down the hall. A few people were looking over, sure. People always did. But Thyme was practically vibrating with anxiety. "Ignore them," I grunted, starting to walk again. "Who cares?"

I was used to people staring. My solution was simple: I met the gaze of a girl whispering by the lockers and held it, my expression flat and cold, until she flushed and looked away. Easy. But Thyme's terror.it was like blood in the water, just seeming to draw more attention. It was annoying. He was a magnet for the very thing he was scared of, and for some reason, I was right there with him.

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METHARAJ CHAIYA 1990 — RAJ'S POV:

I scoffed at love in that blunt, uncompromising world of 1990. It was a weakness, a foolishness that managed to corrupt even the strongest, making them foolish and thus prone to ruinous mistakes. I wanted no part of such a volatile emotion, but fate had a cruel joke in store for me: it foisted love on me through a boy as mysterious as a ghost.

A ghost, or so it would have seemed to me, seen by no one other than me. Never had I been more wrong. He wasn't a ghost but a soul condemned to the ceaseless curse of time and always out of my grasp, no matter how hard I tried to get to him.

I swear, the day I watched him bleed right into my very being; that was the day he vanished out of my timeline, lost to me forever. His disappearance tore a hole in my world, exposing a truth I'd struggled for so long to deny: without his love, I cannot exist.

As I breathe my last, I'm putting everything into this book, a desperate plea that somehow, against the river of time, it finds its way to his timeline. This is my goodbye, my love. A world without you is an eternal night, a void of suffocating darkness. Our impossible separation isn't your fault; it's my penance, the crushing weight of karma for the lives I’ve taken and the suffering I’ve caused. So when our paths inevitably cross again, I pray happiness will finally be ours, even if it's beyond this lifetime.