Chapter 3
Pran told himself every day that it was better this way. Better for Pat to move on, better for him to find happiness without the shadow of what was coming. He didn’t want to be Pat’s tragedy, the dark cloud hanging over his future, not when there was still so much left for Pat to experience. He knew, deep down, that his time was running out, and that meant Pat had to let go.
It was a cruel thing to wish for, but Pran couldn’t help it. He had seen the way Pat had looked at him the last few weeks, the way his eyes lingered just a little too long, as if there were a question that Pat didn’t want to ask, a question Pran was afraid to answer.
Every moment, Pran reminded himself that Pat couldn’t be dragged down by him. Pat deserved a future—one free from the weight of his illness, free from the inevitability of loss. It was better for Pat to forget about him entirely, to build a life that didn’t revolve around the inevitable grief Pran would leave behind.
But despite his resolve, the smallest things—the things that didn’t make sense anymore—kept slipping through his defenses.
Today, it happened again.
Pat had left the room for a break, and Pran did his best to focus on the report in front of him, pretending that the ache in his chest wasn’t there. He had to push through it. He had to stay distant. But when Pat returned, it wasn’t with a simple gesture of passing by.
Pat had gone out, to a café or some small corner shop, and came back with a drink in his hand. The cup was familiar—iced coffee, just the way Pran liked it. Less sweet, just the right amount of ice, just the right taste that reminded Pran of how things used to be. No words. No teasing. No playful comments like before. Just a quiet offering placed in front of him, as if Pat had been doing this for years.
Pran’s heart twisted. He wanted to pull away. He wanted to say something cold, something that would make this moment, this fleeting hope, disappear. But his hands were already reaching for the cup, already lifting it to his lips, tasting the faint sweetness that still lingered in the bitterness.
There was no smile from Pat. No acknowledgment of the act. Just a simple, quiet offering. Yet, in the stillness of that moment, it spoke volumes.
Pran fought the urge to choke on the words that formed in his throat. Pat didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve to be dragged back into the storm of what they used to have, not when Pran was so close to losing everything. The thought of Pat carrying the weight of his death—the grief, the broken pieces—was unbearable.
But as he stared at Pat from across the room, his back turned as he buried himself in work, Pran couldn’t stop the aching, desperate part of him that still wanted to believe. Still wanted to believe that maybe, just maybe, Pat hadn’t let go. That despite everything—despite his illness, despite the time that had passed—maybe they could still be the same team they once were.
He swallowed hard, trying to push the thoughts aside. He wasn’t allowed to wish for that. Not when it meant dragging Pat down with him.
The soft clink of Pat’s pen against his notebook brought Pran back to reality. He couldn’t afford this. He couldn’t afford to believe in something that would only end in more pain for both of them. He couldn’t be Pat’s burden.
He couldn’t be Pat's tragedy.
But it didn’t matter how many times he told himself that.
The hope wouldn’t go away.
Pran could feel Wai’s presence before he even heard his voice—something in the air shifted, a tension building like a storm cloud, thick and inevitable. Just outside the building, where the light of the afternoon sun felt strangely cold, Wai stepped into his path. There was no anger in his eyes, no wild accusations, but the hurt was palpable. It hung between them like a weight neither of them could ignore.
“Why now?” Wai’s voice was low but firm, as though it were the only question that mattered, the one that had been gnawing at him ever since Pran returned. His tone was steady, stripped of the sharpness Pran had feared, yet every word held years of frustration—years of silent, unanswered pain.
Pran didn’t look away. He never did. The truth had always been a little too painful to face, but facing it was the only way to survive. He had known this moment would come, had known that this reckoning would be inevitable when he finally came back into their lives. But that didn’t mean he was ready for it.
“I didn’t want you to think I didn’t care,” Pran said slowly, his voice sounding almost foreign to him. It felt like an excuse, but he had to say it. He needed Wai to understand, even if it didn’t fully make sense. “But I couldn’t risk staying. Not in any way.”
Wai’s lips curled into a bitter smile, though it was laced with exhaustion more than malice. “That’s not good enough.” His eyes were no longer burning with anger—those flames had died out a long time ago. What was left was the hollow ache of abandonment, the quiet devastation that could never truly fade. “You left. You vanished. We were your friends—your family.”
The words stung more than Pran had anticipated. He had known it was coming, yet hearing them—hearing Wai voice the raw, unspoken truth—cut deeper than anything else. “I know,” he murmured, his throat tightening. The guilt flooded back, suffocating him, and for a moment, he couldn’t breathe.
“You hurt Pat,” Wai said, as if it were the simplest fact in the world. He didn’t shout, didn’t raise his voice, but Pran could feel the weight of the accusation settle between them.
“I know.” The words were hollow. He’d said them so many times to himself in the silence of his own mind, but saying them out loud felt like another admission of failure.
Wai paused, his chest rising and falling with a heavy breath. The fire in his eyes dimmed, replaced by something Pran hadn’t expected—something closer to weariness. “So why now?” he asked, the question hanging in the air. “Why come back after all this time?”
Pran’s heart raced, and for a moment, he couldn’t find the words. The truth felt too dangerous, too heavy to speak. But something inside him pushed him forward, made him speak even when he wasn’t ready. “Because I didn’t stop caring. I just…” He swallowed hard, fighting the lump in his throat. “I thought if I stayed in his life, he’d never be able to move on.”
Wai stared at him for a long beat, jaw tight, his expression unreadable. And then, finally, he spoke. “You’re an idiot.” There was no venom in his words—only a weariness, as if he had said this all to himself already and was tired of repeating it.
Pran blinked, caught off guard, but Wai only sighed, running a hand through his hair. “But…” He trailed off for a moment, a deep breath escaping him. “I’m tired of being angry.”
There was a long silence, a kind of quiet that felt like a bridge slowly rebuilding itself between them. And then, as if nothing had changed, Wai added, “You still remember how to fold those origami cranes I used to screw up?”
Pran’s lips twitched into the ghost of a smile, a small but genuine one. “I never forgot.”
It wasn’t forgiveness, but it was a step toward something. A small, fragile connection that wasn’t about what had happened—but about what could still be.
The office canteen was halfway full, a low hum of chatter rising from scattered groups of coworkers gathered around small tables. The overhead lights flickered with a faint buzz, and the scent of stir-fried garlic and sweet basil clung to the air, clashing with the overly ambitious jasmine-scented air freshener in the corner.
Pran stood at the entrance for a moment, scanning the room, unsure if he should even be here. His stomach twisted—not from hunger, but nerves. Then he spotted them at a table near the far wall.
Ink was already seated, comfortably cross-legged on one of the chairs like it was her living room instead of a professional workspace. Pa sat beside her, unboxing containers and laying them out with a kind of meticulous care that told him the food had been packed with intention. This wasn’t just “lunch.” It was a peace offering.
And Pat—Pat was there too, just a few feet away at the counter by the microwave, spooning curry into bowls, his back to the room.
It took everything in Pran not to stare.
He moved toward them cautiously, unsure if he was supposed to walk away or sit down. Pa looked up first. Her eyes landed on him with all the sharpness he remembered—but none of the hostility. She didn’t smile. Didn’t flinch. Just picked up another pair of chopsticks and added them to the growing pile in the middle of the table.
“Come on,” she said. “We brought too much.”
Ink glanced up then, giving him that same unreadable once-over she’d always been so good at. “So. You’re alive.”
It was barely a greeting, but it was something. It was enough.
“Yeah,” Pran murmured, moving closer.
No one asked him where he’d been. No one demanded apologies. The air was oddly light, considering the weight of the years that hung between them.
Behind them, Pat said nothing. He continued plating food like he hadn’t noticed Pran’s arrival, but Pran saw the way his hand paused, just slightly, when he heard his voice.
He didn’t turn. Didn’t speak. But Pran knew—knew him well enough to see the way his shoulders had stiffened, the way his movements had grown too precise.
They all sat down together, the food filling the center of the table with quiet heat. Ink passed Pran a spoon without looking at him. Pa nudged a bowl his way, her face unreadable but not unkind.
It felt surreal—like stepping into a memory that hadn’t aged a day.
They ate in silence at first, not the kind that suffocated, but the kind that gave space. Pran watched the way Ink and Pa moved together, the way Pat didn’t speak but listened, his head tilted ever so slightly as if keeping track of everything without admitting to it.
Then, as Pran was halfway through his rice, Ink broke the silence.
“Dew, huh?” she said, glancing sideways at him.
Pran froze.
She didn’t wait for a response. “You left for someone you weren’t even sure would be waiting for you.”
“I—” He opened his mouth, but the words tangled and stuck.
Ink finally looked at him fully. “That nearly broke Pat.”
Her voice wasn’t accusatory. It was tired. Honest. The kind of truth that didn’t come from spite, but love.
“I know,” Pran said softly. “I didn’t mean to—”
“No,” she interrupted gently, “I don’t think you do.”
He looked down at his food, throat tight.
“But maybe,” she continued, not unkindly, “maybe you thought you were doing the right thing. I don’t agree with how you did it. But I get it now.” Her voice softened just enough to blur the edges of her words. “You’ve always thought loving someone meant protecting them. Even if it hurt.”
Across the table, Pa didn’t say anything, but the quiet way she picked up her spoon and kept eating felt like agreement.
Just then, footsteps approached the table.
Dew appeared, a lunchbox in hand, hair still slightly mussed from rushing over. “Sorry I’m late,” he said, setting the box in front of Pran. “Thought you might need this.”
Pran blinked. “You didn’t have to—”
“I know,” Dew said simply, already pulling out a seat beside him. “But I wanted to.”
The table shifted, chairs squeaking as everyone made room. Pat still hadn’t spoken. He’d taken his seat across from Pran a few minutes ago but hadn’t looked directly at him once.
And yet… the curry in Pran’s bowl wasn’t anything to go by.
—
Later that night, the apartment had settled into quiet. The laughter from dinner had faded, and the dishes sat untouched in the sink. Outside, the city hummed as always, distant and indifferent. Inside, the air was heavier, like something unsaid had been lingering too long.
Ink found Pat on the balcony, leaning against the railing, arms folded, gaze fixed on the darkness beyond. She stepped out with him, the sliding door clicking shut behind her.
“He’s not the same, you know,” she said gently.
Pat didn’t look at her. “Neither am I.”
They stood in silence for a few moments, only the hum of traffic filling the space between them. Then Ink shifted, arms crossed loosely as she looked at Pat.
“You told us he fell for someone else,” she said, not accusing, just stating. “That he broke things off and never looked back.”
Pat’s jaw tensed. “Because that’s what happened.”
“Is it?” she asked softly. “Because if that’s the whole truth, then tell me why he looks like he’s holding his breath every time he sees you. Why he can't seem to talk to anyone unless you're in the room. Why he looks like someone who’s still losing you in real time.”
Pat turned to her then, finally. His eyes were tired. "He made his choice."
Ink studied him. “Maybe. But he also made sure you’d survive that choice. I’ve been thinking about it — the way he cut all of us off. At first, I was furious. Still kind of am. But then I wondered… maybe he did it on purpose. So no one would keep reminding you of him. So nothing would keep him in your life, even secondhand. Maybe that was his way of being fair.”
Pat’s lips parted, then closed again.
“If he’d stayed,” she continued, “still in your life, still around your friends, maybe still with you while loving someone else — that would’ve been cruel. But he didn’t do that. He gave you a clean cut. Honest, sharp, final. As much as it could break him, it was... merciful.”
Pat swallowed hard. “Doesn’t feel like mercy.”
“No,” Ink said. “It wouldn’t. Not when you’re the one left behind. But Pat, you’ve always been the one willing to give everything for him. I know you’d have taken him back if he ever changed his mind.”
“I still would,” Pat admitted in a whisper, like it hurt to say out loud. “But it’s not that simple.”
Ink stepped closer. “Then why are you treating him like you hate him? You were softer when he was gone. Kinder. You defended him even then, when we were all mad. So why be so cold now?”
Pat’s voice was quiet, but his eyes were raw. “Because when he was gone, I could lie to myself. I could say he was happy, that he moved on and didn’t look back. I could pretend that I was the one holding on too long. But now he’s here. And I look at him, and I see everything I’ve spent my life loving. Everything I lost.”
Ink waited. Let him speak.
“I’m not punishing him,” Pat finally said. “I’m not even angry anymore. It’s just—” He faltered. Then, “Four years. Four years and I still can’t forget. I spent most of my life chasing him, orbiting him, loving him. And I only got to have him for such a small part of it. How is that fair?”
“It’s not,” Ink said.
“I don’t think a lifetime is enough to unlove him,” Pat said, voice breaking. “He keeps showing up in everything. In who I am. In who I’ve become. And now I have to sit across from him, laugh with him, work with him—pretend I’m okay when I’m not. I thought I could be strong enough. But watching him stand beside someone else and smile like that? It wrecks me.”
Ink reached for his hand. “He didn’t do it to hurt you, Pat. I think... it was love, too. Just his version of it. He couldn’t stop himself from falling for someone else, but he made damn sure he wouldn’t drag you through that pain. He isolated himself. Gave up his friends. Let himself disappear from your life so you could breathe without him.”
Pat blinked, trying to hold back the tears.
“I know you’ve always been the one sacrificing,” she said gently. “But maybe this time... Pran did too.”
A long, aching silence followed. Then Pat whispered, “Did you know... his mom came to see me? When he ghosted everyone. I think she needed someone who missed him as much as she did. All our lives, she hated us being together. But even she couldn’t support the breakup.”
Ink’s eyes softened.
“She comforted me,” Pat said, like he still couldn’t believe it. “She was grieving him in her own way. But she never blamed me. Not once.”
“She probably saw what it did to you.”
Pat’s voice dropped. “I would’ve given anything if it meant he’d be happy. Still would. But I don’t know how to just be his friend, Ink. I don’t know how to stop loving him.”
Ink’s voice was low but steady. “Then maybe you don’t have to. Not right away. But maybe you can let him try. Because he’s trying, Pat. And he’s not asking you to forget everything. Just... to be in his life again. Even if it’s just as a friend.”
Pat stared out into the night, silent. But for the first time in four years, he didn’t turn away.
—
They started laughing again.
Not like before—not in the loud, unrestrained bursts that once filled campus rooftops and echoed through narrow dorm hallways. These laughs were quieter now, more cautious. They curled at the corners of their mouths, shared in half-smiles across the meeting room table.
It wasn’t constant. It wasn’t easy. But it was happening—slowly, like a language they were both relearning after years of silence.
They weren’t what they had been. There was too much history in the room now, too much grief buried beneath the surface. Too many things that had been said—and left unsaid.
But they were becoming something else. Something quieter. Gentler. Less reckless and more real. And somehow, that terrified Pat more than anything else ever had.
Some days, he’d catch Pran looking at him—not just looking, but seeing him—with this quiet, piercing gaze like he was memorizing Pat’s face one feature at a time. Like he was storing it for later. For when he couldn’t look anymore.
Other days, Pat would turn to say something and find Pran already watching him, expression unreadable but eyes soft, distant. He never asked why. And Pran never explained.
They moved around each other with a kind of deliberate ease now, careful not to cross invisible lines. But every once in a while, something would slip—a hand brushing too long when passing files, a joke only the two of them would understand.
Old habits didn’t die. They simply went quiet.
And still, beneath the lightness they were trying to rebuild, there lingered something heavier. Pat noticed it in the way Pran laughed—how it always seemed to hold just a second of delay, like it had to push past something lodged in his chest. There was a shadow in his smile sometimes, a flicker of urgency behind the calm, like he was always chasing something just out of reach.
Pat didn’t know what it was.
But he knew the feeling. Because sometimes he’d wake in the middle of the night with Pran’s voice in his ears, fragments of old conversations resurfacing like ghosts. He’d remember the way Pran had once held his face and said, “You’re my whole damn world, Pat.” And then he’d remember how Pran had walked away from that world anyway.
And yet, here they were again—together, not as lovers, not as strangers, but something in between. Something still unnamed.
Healing, Pat realized, wasn’t a clean, graceful thing. It didn’t arrive like forgiveness. It didn’t bloom like hope. Healing was jagged. It stumbled. It hurt. It was messy and uneven and exhausting.
But sometimes, in the middle of it, they would find themselves smiling.
Not because it was easy.
But because it was them .
And that, somehow, still meant everything.