Santichai's heart raced in time with the flashing light panels on the ceiling. He had spent days mentally preparing for this moment, but as the hospital bed rolled forward, the reality of the situation took hold. Each light passing overhead felt like a second ticking away. He was paralyzed by a deep, ancient fear—the fear of dying alone, or worse, waking up in an empty, silent room where no one was waiting for him.
Suddenly, a gentle squeeze on his hand anchored him. Santichai turned his head to the left and saw KK. The doctor wasn't wearing his clinical mask; he was simply a man smiling down at him with genuine warmth.
The bed came to a halt in front of the heavy double doors of the surgical suite.
"Mr. Suwannarat," one of the nurses said softly, "do you have any last words for Mr. Kittibun?"
KK leaned down, his face inches from Santichai's. "Don't be afraid," he whispered. "I'll be waiting for you right outside this door." He reached out and tenderly wiped a stray tear from the corner of Santichai's eye. "Don't cry. Grandfather is up there watching over you."
"I'm not afraid," Santichai replied, a small, shaky smile forming on his lips. "I'm happy. Very happy. Thank you."
KK returned the smile and pressed a light, lingering kiss to Santichai's forehead. "Grandfather will help me take care of you now. Just rest."
"Thank you," Santichai whispered one last time.
The nurses began to push the bed again. "Don't worry, Mr. Kittibun," one of them offered kindly. "We'll take excellent care of you."
KK stood still, watching the doors swing shut, swallowing the white light of the operating room. As a surgeon himself, he knew that pacing the hallway wouldn't change the outcome, and his medical mind told him Santichai was in the best hands possible. He decided to use the hours of the surgery to go home and prepare a meal—something soft and nourishing for when Santichai finally returned to him.
He was halfway through the waiting room, his mind already on the ingredients in his kitchen, when his phone vibrated. It was his mother.
KK pressed the phone to his ear, his footsteps echoing through the hospital parking lot as he headed toward his car. "Ma, what's up?"
Mrs. Cole's voice crackled with immediate, motherly anxiety. "KK, are you alright? Do you need anything? Remember, I'm only a phone call away."
KK smiled, the tension in his shoulders easing at the sound of her voice. "Ma, I'm fine. I'm doing fine."
"Are you sure? Dr. Johnson called—he said you haven't been back for treatment. Did you remember your medicine?"
KK paused, looking out over the rows of cars. "Ma... I haven't taken the medication for two months."
"Why?" her voice rose in a panic. "KK, you know you need it."
"Ma, would you believe me if I told you I found a solution to my problem?"
A long, heavy sigh traveled through the line. "Yes," she whispered.
"What's with the sigh? Does that mean you don't believe me?"
"No, I trust your judgment," she said softly. "I always have."
"Don't worry," KK reassured her, his voice steady. "I'm not going to be as reckless as I used to be."
"You'd better not. I'm so proud of you, my sweet, beautiful boy," she said, her voice shifting back to its usual warmth. "Oh, I almost forgot—Sarah said you were at the hospital. How is he?"
KK blinked, momentarily confused. "He? Who?"
"Your boyfriend. What's his name?"
"His name is Santichai Kittibun," KK said, a small smile playing on his lips. "And we aren't 'official' yet. We're on a dating trial."
"What?" Mrs. Cole's voice bloomed with indignant surprise. "My sweet boy is the best boyfriend in the world! How are you not official?"
"Everything is going well, Ma. There's still time after his surgery to grow the relationship."
As they talked, the conversation drifted to the past—to the "old man" whose rigid views on bisexuality had nearly driven KK to the edge years ago.
"I haven't forgiven him," Mrs. Cole said, her voice cold. "Because of what he said, you almost died."
"Ma, that was a long time ago. I was the one who failed to think clearly."
"Hinata, listen to me," she said, using his birth name with gravity. "We live in the modern world. It doesn't matter what people say. What matters is that you are happy."
KK felt a lump in his throat. He told her about his plans for Santichai—how he wanted to send him back to school for accounting and eventually have him run the resort.
"You're going to give it your all this time, aren't you?" she asked, her voice tinged with the fear that he might get hurt again, just like the last time he loved someone.
"I'm older and wiser now, Ma. You'll understand when you meet him."
"Well," she sighed, "I won't intervene. Anyone you choose is good enough for me. But KK... tell your stepmother. Before she sends any more of those matchmaker envelopes. Throw those things away."
"I will. Bye-bye, Ma."
KK hung up with his mother and walked to a quiet cafe near the hospital. The air inside smelled of roasted beans and steam, a temporary sanctuary from the sterile tension of the surgical wing. He ordered a light meal and sat by the window, staring out at the street as he waited.
His peace was shattered by the sharp vibration of a phone. It wasn't his own. It was Santichai's—the device Santichai had handed him for safekeeping before being wheeled away.
A text message lit up the screen.
"I missed you; did you forget?"
KK's finger hovered over the screen. Before he could look away, the phone buzzed again as a file arrived—fifteen attachments. The first image loaded automatically: a picture of Santichai and a man who could only be the ex-boyfriend. Even through the small screen, the man's beauty was undeniable—sharp, aristocratic, and radiating a cold confidence.
KK felt a sharp pang of something he hadn't expected: a deep, hollow insecurity that made the air in the cafe feel thin. He looked at the handsome, youthful face of the man in the photo and then shifted his gaze to the window.
In the glass, his own reflection was slightly blurred, his features tired and strained by the weight of a decade of medical charts and family expectations. With his glasses and the subtle lines of fatigue around his eyes, he looked like a man much older than Santichai—someone who could easily pass for an elder brother or a mentor, but not a lover.
A cold realization settled in his chest. He knew, from that first glance at the image on the screen, that if wealth were removed from the equation, he had nothing else to offer. He felt he had nothing to compare with the raw, vibrant beauty of Santichai's ex-boyfriend. All he had were his sincere feelings, but in his mind, those felt small and fragile against the ghost of a ten-year history.
He turned to look out the window again, trying to distance himself from the phone, but the hissing sound from the coffee machine grew louder. The steam began to cloud his vision, and the warmth of the cafe was replaced by a sudden, phantom chill.
The sound took him back to that rainy night he wanted to erase from his memory—a night when he had learned that even the greatest sincerity can be crushed by the people who are supposed to love you most.