Chapter 1
Pran had always believed that he and Pat were two parallel lines allowed to compete side by side but never to interact, never to intersect.
It was a fact he had come to accept early on, a quiet truth embedded in the foundation of his life. Pat existed on his own path, reckless and radiant, while Pran followed his, carefully measured, carefully controlled.
So when Pat had become a part of his life again after three years, Pran hadn’t expected anything good to come out of it.
And yet, ironically, they had been parallel once more both in the same position but on opposite sides. But that hadn’t stopped Pat from taking his life by storm on a calm rooftop, shattering the illusion of distance between them. He had proven that they could intersect, that they could be intertwined, inseparable not by their parents, not by their friends, not even by dating separately.
For four years, they had fooled the world together. And in those four years, Pran had started to believe that maybe, just maybe, he could have forever with Pat.
But it was a tale as old as time one Pran should never have forgotten.
Nothing good ever came from him being near Pat.
And this time, it hadn’t been their parents, their friends, or even society pulling them apart. This time, it had been the universe itself at work, ensuring that their paths diverged once again.
So Pran had made a choice.
He took himself out of the equation. No loose ends. No strings attached. He had ensured that Napat Jindapat would hate even the mention of his name.
That was then.
This is now.
As the car pulled up to the hotel, Pran exhaled slowly, fingers tightening around the strap of his bag. The towering structure of glass and steel loomed above him, casting sharp reflections in the evening light. It was an architectural marvel clean, efficient, precise.
Exactly the kind of thing he should be focusing on.
But his mind was elsewhere, stuck in a past that refused to be left behind.
He didn’t know what had changed in the past three years. Didn’t know how much of Pat remained the same and how much had been irrevocably altered.
More importantly, he didn’t know what Pat would do when he saw him here.
Pran wasn’t naïve. Surely, Pat had known that he was the lead architect for this project. He knew they would be working together.
And yet, he had still accepted it.
That meant something.
Didn’t it?
Beside him, Dew remained quiet, watching him with careful, knowing eyes. Pran could feel the weight of his stare, the unspoken concern that sat between them. He didn’t acknowledge it. He couldn’t afford to let anything crack through the composure he had carefully built over the years.
Because soon, he’d be standing in front of the one person he had spent three years trying to forget.
And he wasn’t sure if he would survive it.
Pran stepped out of the car, adjusting his posture to mask the slight unsteadiness in his movements. The long flight, the late nights, the exhaustion pressing against his ribs it was all manageable. He had learned how to handle it.
Still, the moment he straightened, a faint wave of dizziness swept through him. It was brief, gone almost as quickly as it had come, but Dew noticed.
“You okay?” Dew asked quietly, stepping closer.
Pran nodded, already moving toward the entrance. “Fine.”
Dew didn’t look convinced. “You should’ve slept on the plane.”
“I did.” It wasn’t a lie. He had slept. Just not well.
Dew sighed but didn’t push. “Just don’t overdo it today, alright?”
A faint smile tugged at Pran’s lips. “I didn’t know you were my mother.”
“I’m worse.” Dew’s tone was light, but the concern in his eyes lingered. “And you don’t listen to either of us.”
Pran huffed out a quiet laugh but didn’t argue. Instead, he pushed open the glass doors, stepping inside.
Because there were bigger things to deal with tonight.
—
The air-conditioning droned softly, a steady hum filling the sleek, glass-walled room. Outside, the afternoon light slanted in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting sharp, geometric shadows against the polished wood of the conference table. The space was pristine, impersonal a picture of order and control.
It should have made it easier to breathe.
But all Pran could hear was the erratic thumping of his heart.
He had been early. He always was. It gave him time to settle, to center himself. But today, it did the opposite. He sat stiffly in his chair, fingers drumming absently against the surface of his tablet, the restlessness in his body betraying the calm expression he had practiced for weeks.
Pat should be here by now.
They were both supposed to be here before the client.
Pran told himself it didn’t matter. That it was just another meeting. Just another project.
But no matter how hard he tried, his mind couldn’t let go of the anticipation curling inside his ribs like a vice, tightening with every passing second.
How would Pat react?
Would he be surprised? Would he be angry? Indifferent?
Would he look at Pran the way he used to like he was the most inevitable thing in the world?
Or worse would he look at him like a stranger?
A soft chime broke the silence. The door swung open.
And suddenly, he was there.
Pat.
Walking in beside Korn, effortless as always, as if he owned the space around him. He wasn’t dressed like he used to be in college, all casual ease and mismatched colors. His navy-blue button-down was crisp, the sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal the strong lines of his forearms. His hair was shorter, more controlled. He looked older, sharper like a man who had long since figured out his place in the world.
Pran, for the first time in years, felt like he had lost his.
Pat’s eyes flickered over him, just for a second. A brief, passing glance. Nothing more.
He didn’t freeze. He didn’t hesitate.
He didn’t care.
Something inside Pran twisted, sharp and cutting, but he forced himself to keep still, to keep breathing.
Korn, on the other hand, did react. His expression darkened, tension flickering in his eyes as he looked between them. But before he could say anything, the door opened again.
The client had arrived.
Conversations shifted. Formalities took over.
And just like that, Pran and Pat became nothing more than two professionals, sitting at opposite ends of a table, pretending they had never been anything else.
The conference room was cold. Or maybe it was just Pran.
He had rehearsed this moment in his head a hundred times. What it would be like to sit across from Pat again after three years. What it would feel like to meet his eyes, to hear his voice to watch him move in a space where Pran no longer belonged.
But now that it was happening, he wished he had prepared more.
The meeting had barely started, but the air was already thick with silence. Not the comfortable kind they used to share, the kind where words were unnecessary because they already understood each other. No, this silence was weighted, pressing against his ribs, tightening around his throat.
Pran kept his focus on the client, nodding when necessary, answering when expected. He had perfected the art of composure over the years, trained himself to exist in rooms without being seen. But right now, sitting across from Pat, he felt exposed.
Beside him, Dew spoke with ease, explaining their architectural concepts with the confidence of someone who had nothing to prove. His voice was smooth, controlled, steady. Unlike Pran’s.
Across the table, Pat sat stiffly, shoulders squared, hands clasped over his notepad. He was listening, but his expression was unreadable. He hadn’t spared Pran a glance since walking in, hadn’t acknowledged him in any way.
It shouldn’t have stung.
But it did.
Pat used to look at him like he was the most inevitable thing in the world. Now, he looked right through him.
The client, an older man in his late fifties, exuded the kind of authority that came with wealth and experience. He leaned back slightly in his chair, a thoughtful expression settling over his face.
“Pran,” he greeted, a rare warmth in his tone. “It’s good to see you again.”
Pran forced a polite smile, dipping his head slightly. “You as well, sir.”
The man’s lips quirked in approval before his attention shifted to Pat.
“I assume you’ve been briefed on the project,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “But let me make one thing clear this is not just another house. This is for my son, for his family, for the life he’s about to build. Every inch of this home needs to mean something.”
Pat nodded, his posture straight, professional. He had always been good at this at slipping into whatever role was required of him. His expression was composed, his demeanor unaffected.
Pran hated how effortless it was for him.
The client continued, “That’s why I didn’t think twice when choosing who I wanted to design it.” A pause. A deliberate glance at Pran. “He is my ultimate choice. I could trust no one else with something this important.”
And for the first time since walking into the room, Pat finally looked at him.
It was brief. A flicker of dark eyes, barely a second, barely anything at all but Pran felt it like a punch to the gut.
Then, just as quickly, Pat looked away.
“The project is a high-end renovation,” the man explained, flipping through his notes. “We want innovative yet sustainable designs something modern, but with a timeless appeal. It’s an ambitious scope, which is why we’re bringing in the best minds.”
Pran nodded, straightening slightly in his chair.
His hands didn’t shake. His voice remained even.
He had rehearsed this.
“The primary architectural concept aligns with a minimalist yet practical approach,” he said, clicking to the first slide on the screen. “Dew will share the details.”
A simple statement. Detached. Professional.
But everything changed the moment he said that name.
Pat’s fingers, which had been tapping idly against the table, stilled.
A pause. A sharp inhale.
Then, realization dawned.
Pran had introduced Dew by his designation. An assistant. A mere consultant. But then
“Dew,” Pran said again, turning toward him.
Pat’s breath caught.
That name.
Dew.
The man Pran had left him for. The man Pran had chosen.
Pat’s grip on his pen tightened, his knuckles turning white. His pulse pounded in his ears, drowning out whatever Dew was saying.
It didn’t matter. None of it mattered.
Pran had moved on.
And this was proof.
Dew spoke with an ease that made Pat’s stomach turn.
His voice was smooth, confident, effortlessly commanding the room. As he detailed their architectural vision, his hands moved fluidly, gesturing toward the designs with practiced grace. The client nodded along, clearly impressed. Even Korn, usually critical of anyone outside their own team, listened with reluctant approval.
Pat barely heard any of it.
His mind was too busy looping one devastating thought over and over:
Dew is still here.
It wasn’t just that Pran had chosen him once.
He had kept choosing him.
Even now, even here, Dew sat beside him, still so deeply intertwined in Pran’s life. Not as a passing phase. Not as a mistake. As something permanent.
The bitterness in Pat’s throat burned.
He wanted to ignore it. Wanted to be unaffected. But every stolen glance, every seamless interaction between them, made it impossible. Pran barely spoke throughout the meeting, but when he did, it was always in sync with Dew’s thoughts, as if they had long since perfected the art of understanding each other without words.
And when Dew turned to Pran with a quiet, teasing remark something too low for Pat to catch Pran’s lips quirked.
A smile.
A real one.
It was small, fleeting, but Pat saw it. He felt it like a slap.
For years, he had carried the weight of their memories, convinced that Pran had destroyed himself in leaving, that he had suffered just as much as Pat had. But now, watching Pran calm, composed, even happy Pat wondered if he had been a fool to believe that at all.
Maybe Pran hadn’t just moved on. Maybe he had been right to.
The meeting droned on, conversations shifting like white noise. Pran nodded when necessary, his expression unreadable, while Dew remained unshakable, answering each question with smooth certainty.
Pat sat through it, numb.
This was what Pran had thrown everything away for. Their late-night whispers, their reckless dreams, their endless, stupid love.
He had traded Pat for something steadier. Something safer.
Maybe even something better.
By the time the meeting ended, the air was thick with things left unsaid.
The client gathered his documents, offered polite handshakes, and left the room with a final nod of approval.
The door clicked shut.
Silence followed.
The kind that pressed against the walls, thick and suffocating, curling around them like an unseen force.
Pran reached for his bag, intending to stand, to move to do anything but sit in this unbearable quiet. But before he could, a hand landed gently on his shoulder. A casual touch. A quiet reassurance.
Dew.
It wasn’t deliberate. It wasn’t anything significant. But Pat felt it like a fist to the gut.
His breath stilled as he watched Dew gather Pran’s things, movements smooth, practiced too natural. Like this was routine. Like this was normal.
And that’s when it hit him.
Dew wasn’t just some passing figure in Pran’s life.
He was part of it.
Intricately woven into Pran’s world in a way that Pat no longer was.
Something inside him twisted, sharp and aching.
Across the table, Korn who had been quietly observing the entire exchange broke the silence with a friendly grin, oblivious to the way Pat was barely holding himself together.
“So, Dew, huh?” Korn leaned back, arms crossed. “What’s your background?”
Dew smiled, unfazed. “I’m a neurosurgeon. Took a break to focus on writing. Architecture has always fascinated me, so I’m here to assist Pran on this project and, in the process, work on my book.”
Pat nearly choked.
A neurosurgeon.
Perfect. Brilliant. Accomplished Dew the man Pran had chosen.
Korn let out a low whistle. “Damn. A doctor and a writer? Now that’s talent.”
Dew chuckled, humble. “It’s just a passion project.”
Korn, completely unaware of the way Pat was drowning in silence, asked, “What kind of book?”
Dew hummed thoughtfully, tapping his fingers against the table. “A mix of things. A little philosophy, a little personal experience. I’d like it to be something meaningful.”
Pat could hardly breathe.
Pran had really moved on.
His chest felt tight, unbearably so. His fingers twitched at his sides, restless, desperate to do something anything but all he could do was sit there, suffocating under the weight of reality.
He wasn’t wanted here.
He wasn’t needed here.
He stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor with a sharp, grating sound. No one stopped him. No one called his name.
The door shut behind him with a finality that echoed deep inside his bones.
Outside, the corridor stretched empty. The city lights flickered through the tall glass windows, casting long shadows against the floor.
Pat stopped, pressing a hand against the cool glass.
For the first time in years, he felt truly, devastatingly lost.
Pran wasn’t his anymore.
—
The door swung shut behind Pat with a quiet click, but to Pran, the sound may as well have been a gunshot.
For a moment, he stayed rooted to the spot, fingers tightening around the edge of his tablet as if grounding himself. The meeting room behind him buzzed faintly with the muffled sounds of Dew and Korn exchanging final words, but the rest of the world felt oddly silent.
Pat had walked out. Not stormed, not stomped, not made some dramatic exit just walked out, stiff and distant, like Pran’s presence in the room hadn’t mattered at all.
The thought settled like lead in his stomach.
He exhaled slowly, willing his pulse to steady before his feet moved on their own.
Outside, the corridor stretched long and quiet, bathed in the cool glow of city lights filtering through floor-to-ceiling windows. The view should have been breathtaking the skyline glittering against the darkened sky but Pran barely noticed.
Because at the far end of the hallway, standing with one hand braced against the glass, was Pat.
His shoulders were taut, his head slightly bowed, his reflection faint against the windowpane. There was something about the way he stood too still, too rigid that made Pran’s chest constrict.
Pat had never been one for silence. Even in the rare moments he wasn’t talking, there had always been something alive in him, something buzzing beneath the surface. A restless energy that filled every space he walked into.
Now, that energy was gone.
Pran swallowed against the lump rising in his throat.
“Pat,” he said, voice softer than he intended. “Wait.”
The words barely left his lips before regret curled in his stomach. It sounded weak. Hesitant. Like he wasn’t sure if he had the right to say them.
Maybe he didn’t.
Pat didn’t move at first. For a brief, painful moment, Pran thought he wouldn’t. That he would ignore him entirely and keep walking, keep pretending that Pran no longer existed.
Then, with the slow drag of a breath, Pat turned.
Pran had braced himself for a lot of things anger, resentment, maybe even a forced, polite smile but not this.
Not the empty, unreadable look in Pat’s eyes.
It wasn’t indifference, not exactly. It was something worse. Something detached, something cold.
Like Pran was nothing more than a passing face in a crowd.
He forced himself to hold Pat’s gaze. “I… it’s been a while, right?” His voice wavered slightly before he steadied it. “How have you been?”
A humorless chuckle slipped past Pat’s lips, low and sharp. “Pran,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “Who do you think we are?”
Pran blinked. “What?”
Pat let out a slow exhale, shaking his head. “Friends?”
The word was laced with something bitter, something close to amusement but far from warmth.
Pran opened his mouth, then closed it.
Pat’s jaw tightened, his gaze darkening. “I don’t think so.”
A pause. Heavy. Suffocating.
“We’re exes,” Pat continued, his voice even but firm, like he was stating a simple fact. “Exes who, by some twist of fate, are being forced to be project partners.” His lips pressed into a thin line, eyes flickering with something unreadable. “Let’s just tolerate each other at work. That should be enough. We don’t have to be best friends here.”
The words sliced through the air like a clean cut, precise and deliberate.
Pran’s fingers curled around his tablet.
He had expected anger prepared for it, even. Some part of him had thought Pat would yell, demand explanations, throw years of resentment at his feet and make him pick up the pieces.
But this?
This version of Pat the one who spoke with practiced ease, the one who looked right through him as if they had never meant anything at all this was worse.
Pat had always been fire. Blazing, reckless, impossible to ignore. Even in their worst moments, there had always been heat fury, frustration, but never this chilling absence of emotion.
Now, he was something else entirely.
Something distant. Something untouchable.
And maybe that was Pran’s fault.
His throat tightened. He wanted to say something. To argue, to push, to
But before he could find the words, Pat was already turning away.
No hesitation. No second glance.
The sharp echo of his footsteps faded down the hallway, swallowed by the quiet hum of the building.
Pran stood there, staring at the spot where he had been.
Feeling the cold settle in his bones.
For the first time, he wondered
Maybe he wasn’t the only one who had changed.