Our Invisible Threads

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."