Thingyan didn't just arrive — it floods the streets, like a dam had burst and spilled joy into every corner of the city. For a few days each April, the world turned upside down. Work stopped. School didn't matter. The usual rules of the world — the politeness, the quiet — all gave way to something louder, freer, and soaked to the bone.
The city itself transformed. Dusty roads became rivers. Shopfronts burst open with hoses. Buckets, bowls, and even plastic bottles became weapons of happiness. Everyone was fair game. Children hid behind trees, ambushing strangers with shrieks and water guns. Teens danced on makeshift platforms, soaked shirts clinging to their skin as speakers blasted Thingyan remixes at chest-thumping volume. Old women by the roadside smiled as they poured water gently over the shoulders of passing monks — a blessing in the heat. And above it all, the scent of thanaka and jasmine clung to the air, delicate amid the chaos.
There was something strangely holy about the madness. It wasn't just about water — it was about washing things away. Grudges. Bad luck. The burdens of the year gone by. Every splash meant something. Every soaked shirt was a new start. And in the midst of it all, laughter echoed like prayer — uncontrolled, honest, loud.
People came alive during Thingyan. Strangers danced together in puddles like old friends. Trucks drove slowly through the streets with families packed in the back, waving at the crowds, inviting water with open arms. The city shimmered, not from sunlight, but from joy — the kind that only came once a year and left too quickly.
And in the middle of it all were the boys — Zaw Thiha, Ko Aung, Min Zaw, and Thura — drifting through the water like they were part of the current. Young, loud, and fearless. Nothing could touch them.
Until something did.
They'd been friends since childhood — the kind of friendship built on long, sticky summers, shared bruises, and the unspoken belief that things would never really change. Thingyan had always been their holiday. Not New Year's. Not birthdays. Thingyan. It was when they could laugh the loudest. Run the wildest. Be together without needing an excuse.
This year, they were older — just enough to feel the world pulling them in different directions — but still close enough to find each other in the middle of a crowd.
Zaw Thiha had already lost a slipper and didn't care. He kicked water at Min Zaw, who yelped and retaliated with a half-empty bucket.
"You missed!" Zaw shouted over the music.
Min Zaw grinned. "Did I?"
Ko Aung ducked between them, shielding his phone in a plastic pouch. "If one of you idiots gets water in this again, you're buying me a new one!"
And Thura — always a little quieter — smiled behind them. Not his usual full laugh, but a softer version. He seemed distracted today. His eyes kept drifting, like something tugged gently at the edge of his mind. Zaw noticed.
"You alright?" he asked, nudging him with a shoulder.
Thura nodded, but didn't say much. "Just feels different this year."
Zaw didn't press. Sometimes Thura just went quiet, and that was okay. He always came back.
They moved with the crowd — shouting, laughing, ducking sprays of water — their shirts already clinging to their backs, their pockets heavy with soaked kyats and snack wrappers. The smell of deep-fried snacks and wet asphalt mixed with jasmine petals floating in puddles. It was all so alive.
So familiar.
So safe.
And then, in the span of a heartbeat, it wasn't.
A scream tore through the music like a blade. Not the playful kind — not from a cold splash or a prank gone too far. This one was different. Sharper. Wrong.
Zaw spun around. The world tilted.
Thura was on the ground.
At first, it didn't register — he thought he'd slipped. But then came the smell — sharp, metallic, and sour. The way Thura's shirt clung to him, steaming. The way his body writhed — not from laughter, but pain.
He was clutching his face. His skin was blistering.
Zaw dropped to his knees beside him so fast he scraped them raw on the pavement. "Hey—hey, it's me. I'm right here," he said, voice breaking as he reached for him and then hesitated, not knowing where it was safe to touch.
Thura's hands trembled. His breath came in short, broken gasps. The pain was too big for words now.
Ko Aung was shouting something behind them. Min Zaw stood frozen. No one moved fast enough. No one knew what had just happened.
Zaw's voice shook. "What—what is this?"
Ko Aung dropped beside him, pale. "Someone threw something. I think... I think it was acid."
Zaw looked around, eyes scanning the crowd, searching for someone — anyone — slipping away. But the street was just a blur of faces, none of them looking back.
Thura coughed, trying to say something. His voice came out small. "Zaw...?"
"I've got you," Zaw whispered. "I've got you. You're okay. We're here."
The water kept falling around them. Somewhere, down the block, people were still laughing, still splashing. But here — right here — the festival had ended.
And something else had begun.