Chapter 2
The office was as it always was-cluttered desks, the low hum of a dozen conversations, the soft tapping of keys and the occasional ping of a message. It was a place where the daily grind went on without interruption, where lives intersected briefly but never in ways that mattered. Or at least, that’s what Pat had told himself. That’s what he had hoped. But then, like an unexpected storm after weeks of calm, he walked through the door.
Pran.
It wasn’t like he hadn’t known this day might come. Pat had prepared himself for it, in his own way. He had buried the memories, shoved them down deep where he thought they could no longer reach him. Four years of silence. Four years of unanswered questions, of phone calls that had gone ignored, of a love he thought was gone, forgotten. Four years of telling himself that he was fine, that he could move on. But here Pran was, standing in the doorway, his presence as unmistakable as the beat of a familiar song. And with him-Dew.
Pat didn’t need to look up. He had memorized the sound of Pran’s footsteps. It was a rhythm he knew better than his own heartbeat-the subtle echo of a pair of shoes against polished floors. But this time, the sound was joined by another set, lighter, less assured. Dew. It was impossible to ignore the change, the shift in the air that carried with it the weight of what had been lost. Dew, who had once been a stranger to him, now a permanent part of Pran’s world, a replacement, maybe, or a reminder of what Pat could never have.
Pran moved as he always did-effortless, confident, like he owned the space around him. His posture was impeccable, each step purposeful, exuding a calm, almost cold, composure. And then there was Dew, trailing a step behind, an obvious contrast to Pran’s poise. His shoulders were tense, his eyes scanning the room with a nervous energy that didn’t quite fit with the otherwise composed scene. There was an unease about him, like someone who had wandered into a room they were never meant to be in. But it was Pran’s presence that commanded attention, drawing the eye, anchoring the room. Dew was just a shadow in the background, a lingering figure in the wake of someone far more important.
Pat’s grip tightened on the pen in his hand, and he could feel the pulse in his wrist, quickening with each passing second. He hadn’t realized how tightly he had been holding it until the sharp sting of the pressure made his fingers ache. His throat tightened as if to choke off the air itself. He shouldn’t care. He had no reason to care. It had been four years, after all, but still-still, the sight of them together was enough to dredge up the ghosts he had worked so hard to bury. Dew, standing beside Pran, was like an unbearable reminder of what Pat had lost. And yet, it was Pran himself who lingered at the center of it all, the one who had walked away.
The hum of the office seemed to swell around him, but Pat was distant from it, as if the world was muffled by the tightness in his chest. He felt a shift, a low murmur from across the room-Wai, perhaps, muttering something under his breath-but it was Korn’s voice that cut through the noise, unmistakable and sharp.
"Should’ve known better than to think time would change things," Korn’s voice was smooth, but there was an edge beneath it, a quiet, simmering fury that Pat knew all too well. Korn wasn’t loud. He didn’t need to be. His words were like a well-aimed dart, meant to pierce, to provoke. And it was clear-Wai had filled him in. Korn knew exactly who Dew was now.
Pat didn’t look at Korn. He didn’t need to. The words, though subtle, carried the weight of something deeper, something more personal. Korn’s resentment wasn’t for Dew. No, it was Pran who bore the brunt of it. Korn wasn’t angry at Dew for being there, for being the one who had replaced Pat. He was angry at Pran-the one who had left, the one who had disappeared without so much as a second thought. It was always going to be Pran. Korn’s bitterness was rooted in that, not in anything Dew could have done.
Dew, too, sensed the undertone of Korn’s words, the slight shift in the air, and he stiffened visibly. His gaze flicked to Korn, sharp and defensive, but he said nothing. It wasn’t as if he didn’t hear it; it was simply that he knew better than to engage. Korn’s anger wasn’t for him, after all. And Dew, despite his unease, was the lesser player in this tense reunion. Korn wasn’t directing his venom at Dew. Dew was just the consequence of a decision that had come long before he had ever stepped into the picture.
Pran, for his part, seemed entirely unaffected by Korn’s words. There was no flicker of anger, no hint of guilt, nothing. He was unmoved, as if this-this interaction, this tension-was something he had long ago prepared for. It wasn’t anger that showed on Pran’s face, nor was it sorrow or even shame. It was resignation. Quiet, cold resignation. And that, in its own way, made it worse. Far worse.
He didn’t say anything. He simply reached out and placed a hand gently on Dew’s arm, a subtle, guiding gesture that moved them both forward. Without a word, they passed by Korn’s desk, the space between them stretching with every second. Dew, still slightly out of place, offered a polite nod, but his eyes never lingered on Korn, never lingered on anyone. His attention was fully on Pran, as it always had been.
Pat’s eyes followed them, even though he told himself not to. His gaze was drawn to the way they moved together, how natural it seemed, how easily Pran led and how Dew followed. There was something there, something subtle but noticeable. Pran wasn’t as unaffected as he wanted to seem. His shoulders were tight, his movements just slightly off, as though he was carrying the weight of something much heavier than what was visible on the surface. Pat noticed it in a way no one else could, in a way that made the knot in his stomach twist tighter.
Pran had always been the one to mask his feelings, to hide what was truly beneath. But now, as he walked past Pat, his posture spoke volumes. Pat could see it-the tension, the unease, the cracks in the calm façade. It wasn’t easy for Pran, not anymore.
Pat forced himself to look away, but even as he did, his heart seemed to beat louder, filling his chest with a pain he had tried so hard to outrun. He wanted to tell himself that none of it mattered, that he had moved on, that this was just another part of the job, of life. But the truth was, he hadn’t moved on. Not really. Not from Pran. And not from the ache that still burned quietly beneath the surface.
-
It wasn’t long before their paths crossed again.
A project review. Routine. Simple. Nothing out of the ordinary. But the moment Pran sat across from him, Pat felt the air shift-felt the walls he had spent years building around himself start to crumble.
Pran looked the same. His hair was still perfectly combed, his gaze sharp as he flipped through the documents on the table. There was that calm composure he always wore like armor. But now, it felt different. Colder. Distant. He wasn’t the same person who had once been his world. That warmth, the easy connection they shared, was gone. And in its place was something hollow, something that left Pat feeling as if he was staring at a stranger.
But Pran wasn’t a stranger, and that was what hurt the most. Pat could feel every inch of that unspoken history between them, the weight of it pressing down on him with every passing second.
He tried to remain detached. Professional. He let Korn handle most of the conversation, offering only terse responses when necessary. He kept his focus on the work-he had to. This was business. Nothing more.
But then, it happened.
Their hands brushed.
It was the smallest of touches. Barely a whisper of contact, and yet it reverberated through him. Pat’s heart stuttered in his chest. It was electric-intense, raw, as if that brief moment of connection had reignited something inside him. He should have pulled away. He should have ignored it, kept his distance. But he didn’t. He couldn’t.
Neither did Pran.
For a split second, the world stood still. It was as though time itself had paused, holding its breath. Their fingers brushed again, an unspoken question hanging in the air between them. And then, too quickly, too abruptly, Pran withdrew his hand. His posture stiffened, his gaze shifting back to the documents in front of him, but the tension in the air was palpable.
"Sorry," Pran muttered, his voice low, barely audible.
The words landed between them like a shot. Pat opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His mind was still reeling from the touch, from the rawness of it-the way it had made him feel alive in a way he hadn’t been in years. He wasn’t ready to face it, wasn’t ready to admit the effect it had on him.
Finally, the words tumbled out of his mouth, sharper than he intended. "Be careful."
His attempt at nonchalance was ruined by the edge in his tone, the bitterness he couldn’t hide. A slight smile tugged at his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes. And as much as he wanted to believe he could shrug it off, he couldn’t.
Pran didn’t reply. Instead, his jaw tightened, the muscles in his hand flexing as he gripped the document in front of him. His eyes flickered toward Pat for just a moment, but there was no anger in them, no defensive shield. It was something else-something that cut deeper, that made Pat feel like he was standing on the edge of a cliff.
Pran looked away, his focus returning to the papers, but there was a subtle tremble in his fingers. The façade of control was slipping, and for the briefest of moments, Pat saw it-the raw vulnerability, the desperation behind the calm exterior. Pran was struggling, too.
Pat hated that he noticed. Hated how much he wanted to reach out, to undo everything that had happened between them, to take back all the pain, all the years of silence. But it wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be. And as Pran sat there, his composure breaking in small, imperceptible ways, Pat felt something inside of him crack open-something he hadn’t even realized was still there.
The knot in his stomach twisted tighter. He could feel the gravity of this moment-their words, their proximity, the shared history pressing down on both of them. He didn’t know what to do with it. Didn’t know if he could ever face it.
-
By the time Pat left the office, his head was a mess, his thoughts tangled in a knot he couldn't seem to loosen.
He needed air. Space. Something to ground himself before the weight of it all crushed him completely.
That’s how he ended up at Ink and Pa’s apartment.
The door swung open before he could even knock twice, and Ink’s sharp eyes immediately scanned his face. "That bad?"
Pat scoffed, stepping inside as Ink moved aside. "No idea what you’re talking about."
Pa, curled up on the couch with her phone, didn’t even look up. "You were supposed to work together today, weren’t you?"
Pat let out a heavy sigh, dropping onto the couch beside her. "Yep."
Ink and Pa exchanged a look, one of those wordless conversations siblings and best friends tend to have. It made Pat bristle.
"Pat," Pa said, her voice gentler now, but no less firm. "Are you actually okay?"
"Obviously," he muttered, crossing his arms and leaning back.
Ink snorted. "Uh-huh. That’s why you’re here instead of at home pretending you don’t care."
Pat shot him a glare. "I don’t care."
"Right," Ink said, unimpressed. "That’s why your jaw’s been clenched since you walked in."
Pat exhaled sharply, pressing his fingers against his temples. "It’s just… weird, okay? Seeing him again. Having him there. And Dew-"
At the mention of Dew’s name, the words lodged in his throat. His stomach twisted at the memory of them together, standing side by side as if it had always been that way. As if he had never been there at all.
Ink raised an eyebrow. "Dew what?"
Pat shook his head, dismissing it. "Forget it."
Pa studied him for a moment, then sat forward, her gaze unreadable. "You never actually told us what happened that night."
The air shifted.
Pat’s shoulders tensed instinctively, his body recoiling from the memory before his mind could even fully grasp it.
"You don’t have to," Pa added, her voice softer now. "But if you think we’re going to sit here and act like this isn’t eating you alive, you’re wrong."
Pat swallowed, his throat thick with something heavy, something unspoken. His fingers curled into his jeans, his nails pressing into the fabric.
"I’m over it," he said finally, but even he didn’t believe it.
Ink didn’t even blink. "Liar."
A humorless laugh left Pat’s lips, sharp and bitter. "Fine. You want the truth?" He exhaled hard, running a hand through his hair. "The truth is… he left. And I let him go. And when I couldn’t take it anymore, I begged him to come back."
His voice cracked slightly at the last word, and he hated himself for it.
Pa’s expression softened, but she didn’t interrupt. She just let him speak.
Pat let out a shaky breath. "And he hung up ." He forced himself to keep going, even as his chest tightened. "Not only that, he went so far as to ignore all of you just to avoid me. His own mother ended up taking pity on me before he ever did. And I-" He stopped, pressing his knuckles against his mouth for a moment as if the pressure could force the emotions back down. "I don’t understand how so much could change in a month. And he shouldn’t have come back before I could figure it out because-"
His voice wavered, and he blinked up at the ceiling, trying to swallow it down.
" I don’t know what to do, Pa. " His voice was quieter now, raw in a way he rarely allowed it to be. " I’m so lost. I don’t know how to stop feeling like this. "
Silence.
Pa had seen her brother in every stage of his life-loud, reckless, cocky, stubborn-but this? This was the most human he had sounded in months. Because lately, all she had gotten was a workaholic who barely had time to sleep, let alone feel .
"Pat-" she started, but he shook his head before she could continue.
He forced a smirk, but it was empty, hollow. "It’s fine.I’m fine."
Ink didn’t buy it for a second. "You know you don’t have to pretend with us, right?"
Pat closed his eyes for a long moment, letting out a breath. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter.
"He still looks at me like he did before."
The room went still. Ink and Pa didn’t move, didn’t speak. They just listened.
"But?" Ink asked, barely above a whisper.
Pat opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling like it held the answers he was searching for.
"But I don’t know if it means anything anymore."
And that?
That was what scared him the most.