The late afternoon sun slanted through the curtains of Ratch's apartment, casting golden stripes across the rumpled sheets, and Win lay still in the drowsy aftermath, Ratch's arm heavy across his waist, his chest rising and falling in the quiet contentment that came after hours of being completely, utterly known. For a moment the world felt perfect—just skin and warmth and the way Ratch's fingers traced lazy patterns on his shoulder—but reality pressed at the edges of Win's mind like a storm cloud moving in, and he shifted, feeling Ratch's fingers tighten instinctively.
"Don't," Ratch murmured against his neck, voice rough with sleep and satisfaction, "stay right here," and Win's heart clenched because this—this easiness, this rightness, this feeling like he could live in Ratch's arms forever—was exactly why he had to tell him, why the words sat like glass in his throat.
"Ratch," Win said quietly, barely above a whisper, "I need to tell you something," and something in his tone made Ratch go still, pulling back just enough to search Win's face, and Win saw the exact moment concern flickered in his dark eyes.
"What is it?" Ratch asked, and Win took a shaky breath, the confession tumbling out before he could stop it.
"I'm leaving for university. Overseas. In two weeks." The silence that followed was deafening, Ratch's arm falling away from Win's waist, and suddenly the space between them felt like a chasm, all the warmth from moments before evaporating into something cold and brittle.
"What?" Ratch's voice was flat, empty, and Win felt something inside him breaking as he watched the hurt bloom in Ratch's eyes.
"Cambridge accepted me," Win said, words tumbling over each other now, desperate, "the scholarship came through, I've been accepted for fall term," and Ratch sat up abruptly, running his hands through his hair, not looking at Win anymore.
"When did you know?" The question was quiet but sharp, cutting through Win's chest.
"The letter came a month ago."
"A month." Ratch's laugh was bitter, sharp as broken glass. "A month, and you're just telling me now," and Win sat up too, reaching for him, but Ratch pulled away like Win's touch burned.
"I didn't know how to—"
"How to what, Win? How to tell me that this—" Ratch gestured between them, at the bed, at the three months they'd spent learning each other's bodies and hearts, "—was never meant to be anything more than a summer fling?" and the accusation hit Win like a physical blow.
"That's not—" Win started, but Ratch turned to face him, and Win flinched at the hurt and anger blazing in his eyes.
"Isn't it? You never planned this to be long term, did you? This was just... what, Win? Something to pass the time?" and Win wanted to protest, to explain, but even as he opened his mouth he knew how it looked, how it felt, how thoroughly he'd destroyed everything beautiful between them.
"No," Win said desperately, "it wasn't supposed to happen like this, I wasn't supposed to—"
"What? Feel something?" Ratch's voice was getting colder, more distant with every word, each one like a door slamming shut. "Because God forbid Win Sirikul actually lets someone matter to him," and Win felt tears prick at his eyes, throat tight with everything he couldn't say.
"It was never meant to go this far between us," Win whispered, the words feeling inadequate even as he said them. "You made me feel seen, and I felt like I couldn't let that go, but—"
"But you are letting it go." Ratch stood up, grabbing his clothes from the floor, movements sharp and angry. "You're running away. Just like you always do when things get real," and the accusation stung because it was true, because Win had spent his whole life disappearing when things mattered too much.
"I'm not running—" Win tried, but Ratch cut him off, and Win felt a flash of bitter hurt because this is what he got for sharing so much of himself, for opening up about his fears and his family and everything that mattered most, and now Ratch was throwing it all back in his face, every vulnerable word Win had whispered in the dark being used as ammunition against him.
"Then stay." The words hung in the air between them, raw and desperate and full of everything they'd never said out loud. "Stay, Win. Choose this. Choose us," and for a moment Win wavered, the ticket already booked, his father's arrangements made, Cambridge everything Win was supposed to want—prestige, distance, a chance to become someone worthy of the Sirikul name—but Ratch was looking at him like his heart was breaking, and Win realized with a jolt that his own was too.
"I can't," he whispered, and something died in Ratch's eyes, his face closing off as he finished pulling on his shirt.
"Then leave," Ratch said quietly, voice final, a door slamming shut. "Just... leave, Win. Don't make this harder than it already is," and Win wanted to argue, wanted to explain that it wasn't that simple, that family expectations and fear and the weight of everyone's plans for his life weren't things he could just dismiss, but Ratch had turned away from him, shoulders rigid, and Win knew that nothing he said would matter now.
Win dressed in silence, every movement feeling like it was happening to someone else, and at the door he paused, looking back at Ratch's tense figure by the window, wanting to memorize this moment even as it destroyed him.
"I never meant to hurt you," he said softly, and Ratch didn't turn around, didn't even flinch.
"But you did anyway."
Two weeks passed like a fever dream, Win moving through his days like a ghost, and he found himself sitting at the dining table in Sirikul Mansion, staring at the plane ticket in his hands, the house quiet around him except for Ning's presence across the table, watching him with those sharp, knowing eyes that seemed to see everything he tried to hide.
"You've been holding that ticket for twenty minutes," she said finally, voice cutting through his fog. "Are you planning to memorize it?" and Win set it down carefully, like it might bite him.
"Just checking the details," he lied, but Ning just sipped her coffee, studying him with that unnerving intensity.
"You know, you've been different since the scholarship came through," she said, voice deceptively casual. "Quieter. Like someone turned off a light inside you," and Win forced a smile that felt like plastic.
"I'm fine. Just nervous about starting university," but Ning tilted her head, eyes sharpening.
"Are you? Because you were happy before. All summer, actually. Happier than I've ever seen you. You had this glow, like you'd found something precious." Her pause was deliberate, weighted. "Or someone," and Win's breath caught even as he tried to keep his expression neutral.
"I don't know what you mean," he said, but Ning leaned forward, relentless.
"I think you do. I'm not blind, Win. You think I didn't notice the way you smiled at your phone? The way you came home with your hair messed up and your lips swollen? The way you hummed while walking through the house like you had a secret?" and heat flooded Win's cheeks, his careful composure cracking.
"Ning—" he started, but she cut him off with devastating accuracy.
"You were in love," she said simply, and the words hit him like a physical blow, throat tight with everything he'd been trying not to feel. "And now you're not just nervous about university. You're heartbroken."
Win looked down at his hands, the admission sitting heavy in the space between them. "It doesn't matter now," he said quietly. "It's over," but Ning's voice was gentle, unrelenting.
"Is it? Or are you just running away because it got too real?" and Win's head snapped up, defensive.
"I'm not running—"
"Aren't you?" Ning's eyes were soft but piercing. "You've always done this, Win. Whenever something matters too much, whenever you feel too much, you disappear. You make yourself invisible. But this time, you're literally leaving the country to do it," and Win felt exposed, stripped bare under her knowing gaze.
"The scholarship—" he tried, but she shook her head.
"The scholarship is an excuse." She reached across the table, covering his hand with hers, and Win felt tears blur his vision. "I saw you, Win. Really saw you. You were glowing with happiness, and now you're dying inside. Whatever happened between you and whoever it was, running away isn't going to fix it," and the gentleness in her voice broke something inside him.
"He told me to leave," Win whispered, the words scraping his throat raw. "He said I'd made my choice," and Ning squeezed his hand, anchoring him.
"And did you? Make your choice, I mean. Or did you just let fear make it for you?" and Win closed his eyes, remembering Ratch's face when he'd said he couldn't stay, the hurt, the disappointment, the way Ratch had turned away from him like he couldn't bear to look at him anymore.
"I was supposed to want this," he whispered, voice breaking. "Cambridge, the prestige, the future Father planned—" but Ning's voice cut through his spiral, firm and sure.
"What you were supposed to want and what you actually want aren't the same thing. And happiness isn't something you're supposed to feel, Win. It's something you choose. Something you fight for," and Win opened his eyes, looking at the ticket again, his passport ready, his bags packed, his father's expectations weighing on his shoulders like stones.
But his heart was here. Broken, maybe, but here.
"What if it's too late?" he asked, voice small and scared. "What if I've already lost him?" and Ning smiled, sad and hopeful at the same time.
"Then at least you'll know you tried. At least you'll know you chose love over fear, even if just once," and Win stared at the ticket for a long moment, feeling something shift inside him, some fundamental decision crystallizing. Then, with hands that barely shook, he tore it in half, the sound loud in the quiet dining room, final and freeing and terrifying all at once.
That night Win lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling, phone in his hand, typing and deleting messages to Ratch, each one feeling inadequate because how do you tell someone you chose them over everything you were supposed to want, how do you ask for forgiveness when you're not sure you deserve it. Finally, heart pounding, he settled on something simple: Can we talk? and hit send before he could lose his nerve, watching the screen with desperate hope as the message showed delivered, then read, but no response came.
He waited an hour, then sent another: Please, Ratch. I know I hurt you, but can we just talk? Read, but still nothing, and Win felt his chest tighten with each passing minute of silence.
The next day he called, hands shaking as he pressed Ratch's name, but it went straight to voicemail, and Win's voice cracked as he left message after message: "I know you're angry, and you have every right to be, but please just let me explain. I tore up the ticket, Ratch. I chose to stay for you," but the calls kept going to voicemail, unanswered, unacknowledged.
For two weeks Win tried everything—texts that went unread, calls that weren't returned, even showing up at places he knew Ratch might be, only to find empty spaces or to catch a glimpse of familiar dark hair disappearing around a corner before he could reach him. Each failed attempt felt like another small death, another confirmation that he'd destroyed something beautiful beyond repair, and slowly the desperate hope in his chest withered into something cold and final.
It was really over. Ratch had made his choice too, and that choice didn't include forgiveness.
So Win did what he'd always done when things hurt too much—he disappeared into himself, threw himself into preparing for university, spent hours studying course catalogs and planning his future like a man building walls around his heart. If Ratch wanted nothing to do with him, then Win would learn to want nothing in return, would focus on school and healing and becoming the kind of person who didn't need anyone else to feel whole.
He told himself the ache in his chest would fade, that the way he still reached for his phone hoping for a message that never came would eventually stop, that he could build a life where Ratch Nakornchai was just a memory of one perfect summer that taught him what love felt like before teaching him what loss felt like too.
And for a while, it almost worked. Win learned to sleep without dreams of familiar hands, learned to smile at his family's dinner table without his face feeling like a mask, learned to plan for a future that didn't include the boy who'd made him feel seen for the first time in his life. He got good at pretending the wound had healed, got good at believing his own performance.
Until the first day of university, when he walked across campus and saw Ratch standing by the cybersecurity club booth, looking exactly the same and entirely different, and every carefully constructed wall Win had built around his heart crumbled to dust in an instant. Because seeing Ratch again made Win remember exactly why he'd been so terrified of staying in the first place—not because he didn't love him, but because he loved him too much, and losing him once had nearly destroyed him.
He couldn't survive losing him again.
So Win did what he'd always done, what he'd promised himself he wouldn't do but couldn't seem to stop—he ran, turned away before Ratch could see him, before those dark eyes could pin him in place and strip away every defense he'd spent weeks building. Better to be invisible than to risk another devastation, better to run than to discover that the silence of the past few weeks had been Ratch's final answer.
His phone buzzed with a message from an unknown number that made his blood run cold: I saw you with him. Summer looked good on you. Too bad it had to end.
Win frowned, sitting up, fingers trembling as he typed back Who is this? but no reply came, just silence and the growing certainty that someone had been watching, someone knew about him and Ratch, someone was playing games he didn't understand, and Win stared at the screen until his eyes burned, then set the phone aside because he had bigger things to worry about, like how to win back the boy he'd been stupid enough to leave behind, like how to prove that this time, he was choosing to stay.