SOUND OF HUNGER
META'S POV - 2025 (Age 19):
Every gasp shredded my throat like crushed glass, yet the fire burning in my chest wouldn't extinguish. My beat-up sneakers slipped constantly on the wet weeds, the damp mud gripping my heels as if trying to drag me under. I ran entirely on blind panic, my limbs pumping with the clumsy, frantic energy of a trapped animal.
"Stop right there, you little rat!" a deep voice bellowed. 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.
The pure injustice of it all dug into my gut, feeling so much heavier than actual fear. It was the sheer disgust permanently plastered on their faces—the rigid jaws and sneering lips—that made me ball my hands into tight fists even as I ran for my life.
The violent stomping of their heavy boots slammed against the ground right on my heels, sending tremors up through my feet. It was the terrifying noise of grown adults out for a child's blood. 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. All their screaming blended into a single, terrifying roar while hot, angry tears flooded my eyes. The world around me melted into a chaotic, spinning blur of dark shadows.
A massive, calloused hand suddenly snatched my shoulder, spinning me backward with brutal force. Another hand seized my wrist, twisting my arm so high up my back that a horrible popping sound echoed in my ear. Before I even had the chance to scream, rough fingers twisted into my hair and yanked my head back.
"Caught you," the guy growled, exhaling a hot stench of old cigarette smoke and bitter coffee right in my face.
I slammed into the dirt. Sharp gravel scraped viciously across my cheek, breaking the skin and filling my mouth with the disgusting flavor of mud and copper. The first boot connected with my ribs with a heavy thud, instantly knocking every ounce of air from my lungs. A sharp, white-hot pain shot through my torso. I tried to cry out, but only a weak, breathless wheeze escaped.
A second kick slammed directly into my back. I curled up as tightly as I could, wrapping my arms around my head to protect myself, but it was completely useless—the blows just kept raining down from all directions.
"You think you can just steal from us?" Mr. Henderson spat, viciously driving his boot into my side.
"This'll teach you."
"Glorp. glorp."
That weirdly normal sound jolted me like a physical blow, instantly dragging my mind out of the nightmare. I pushed myself up into a sitting position, my body still shaking, and quickly grabbed my own face. 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 desperately tried to look innocent, but his stomach betrayed him with another massive, echoing growl. His cheeks instantly burned a bright crimson. I just blankly stared at him. This kid looked like a gust of wind could break him in half, yet he constantly drew angry crowds and apparently had the loudest stomach on the planet. It was so stupid. But in a strange way, that sheer awkward normality anchored me to the present, completely flushing out the leftover panic from my dream.
"Were you checking to see if I was asleep?" I asked, the smirk spreading across my face. He obviously had been hovering.
"No! I was." Thyme stuttered, frightened.
"Don't bother with the excuses," I replied, my tone shifting naturally into that cold, superior voice I always used to push people away. It was my perfect defense mechanism. "It's pretty clear you're just another crazy fan of mine."
He immediately tensed up, his skinny body vibrating with pure offense. He looked like he wanted nothing more than to punch me in the face, but was just smart enough to hold back. My smirk only grew.
I burst into real laughter, the sound ringing across the quiet roof. "You're too funny." Honestly, seeing him get so mad was the best entertainment I'd had all day. He just kept his back turned to me, completely stiff.
"I'm only teasing you," I told him. "I know you aren't one of my stalkers." 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. "Don't laugh at me, you giant idiot!" he yelled out, immediately slapping his hands over his lips the moment he realized what he said. He looked like a deer caught in headlights, genuinely scared that I was going to beat him up for it. And seeing that actual, unfiltered fear in his expression just... completely deflated the tension. 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 concept of "free food" literally battle it out with his ego right across his expression. He was visibly agonizing over it. 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.
Truthfully, it hit pretty close to home. It threw me right back to when I was eleven, trying to sleep in a public park, so incredibly hungry I felt dizzy. I remembered opening my eyes to see a small food container placed right by my face. The aroma of fried chicken and fresh sticky rice was almost painful. I was so scared someone was playing a cruel joke on me, but the hunger was too strong. When I popped the lid off, the rice was shaped like a little yellow cat, and the chicken was perfectly cooked. It remains the most amazing thing I have ever tasted. The rice even had this sweet, fresh mango flavor mixed into it. I never found out who left it for me.
It's completely unrelated, I know, but there is just something about this bratty kid—with his deafening stomach and his fragile, oversized pride—that drags me right back to that exact feeling. That raw, hollow desperation. And the bizarre, random mercy of that little yellow rice cat. That's exactly why I wanted to buy this kid a meal.
While we walked down the stairs, Thyme was ridiculously on edge, constantly looking over his shoulder as if someone was going to jump out at us. He suddenly grabbed my sleeve to pull me to a halt. "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 completely immune to the staring by now. I had a proven system: I just locked eyes with some girl whispering over by the lockers and held the stare, keeping my face dead and hostile until she turned bright red and nervously looked down. 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 promise you, the very second I saw his blood stain my fingers was the exact moment he vanished from my world, permanently pulled out of my grasp. Losing him didn't just shatter my heart; it completely destroyed my reality, making me confront the one awful truth I had tried so hard to avoid: without his love, I have no reason to exist.
Right now, with my final breaths fading, I am bleeding my entire soul into this journal, hoping beyond hope that these words can somehow break the rules of time and reach him in the future. This is it. This is my final 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.
