The black sedan glided through Bangkok's morning traffic, air conditioning humming against the early heat, and Win pressed his forehead to the cool window, watching the city blur past in streaks of gold and concrete. His stomach churned with a familiar cocktail of anxiety and anticipation, the same feeling he'd carried for weeks now—ever since he'd torn up that plane ticket and committed himself to this moment, this day, this possibility of seeing Ratch again.
Beside him, Parin scrolled through his phone with easy confidence, occasionally commenting on something he'd seen or pointing out landmarks as they approached the university district, and Win envied his twin's casual excitement, the way Parin could approach new beginnings without the weight of unfinished heartbreak pressing against his ribs.
"You're quiet this morning," Parin said, glancing up from his screen, and Win forced himself to turn away from the window, to meet his brother's concerned gaze with something resembling normalcy.
"Just taking it all in," Win replied, voice steadier than he felt, and it wasn't entirely a lie—he was taking it all in, cataloging every street corner and building they passed because somewhere in this sprawling city was the boy who'd ignored every message Win had sent, every desperate attempt at reconciliation, and Win needed to be prepared for the moment their paths inevitably crossed.
The university gates came into view, imposing and elegant, framed by ancient trees and modern architecture that spoke of tradition and progress in equal measure, and Win's heart stuttered because this was it, this was real, this was the choice he'd made when he'd chosen love over safety and stayed in Bangkok instead of fleeing to Cambridge.
Their driver pulled through the gates and into the circular drive where other expensive cars were depositing other students, all of them bright-faced and eager in ways that made Win feel ancient despite being barely nineteen, and Parin was already gathering his things, energy vibrating through him like electricity.
"Ready?" Parin asked, hand on the door handle, and Win nodded even though he felt anything but ready, even though every instinct screamed at him to ask the driver to take them home, to safety, to anywhere that didn't hold the possibility of seeing Ratch's face and discovering that the silence of the past weeks had been his final answer.
But Win had made his choice, had committed to this path when he'd torn up that ticket, and backing down now would make all of that pain meaningless, would make him exactly the kind of person who ran from everything that mattered, and Win refused to be that person anymore, even if staying meant risking another kind of destruction entirely.
They stepped out into the Bangkok heat, humidity immediately wrapping around them like a familiar embrace, and Win shouldered his leather messenger bag, following Parin toward the cluster of orientation tables and welcome banners that marked the beginning of their university experience.
The campus was alive with energy—upperclassmen in bright sashes directing traffic, freshmen clutching maps and schedules, parents taking photos and offering last-minute goodbyes—and Win let himself be swept along in the current of it, using the noise and movement to quiet the anxious voice in his head that kept whispering what if he's here, what if you see him, what if he looks right through you like you don't exist.
"Win! There you are!" Pat's familiar voice cut through the crowd, and Win turned to see his best friend weaving toward them, that infectious grin lighting up his face as always, messenger bag bouncing against his hip as he navigated between clusters of students and parents.
"I figured I'd find you here," Pat said when he reached them, giving Win's shoulder an affectionate squeeze, "I'm so happy you decided to stay and go through this madness with me. Ready for this craziness?" and something about Pat's easy familiarity, his steady presence, made Win's chest loosen just slightly.
"Win," he replied, managing a genuine smile for his friend, "hey Parin," and Pat grinned at both twins with the easy familiarity of someone who'd spent countless hours with them throughout high school.
"Can't believe we're all actually here," Pat said with a shake of his head, "feels like just yesterday we were complaining about final exams in high school," and Parin chuckled.
"Time flies," Parin agreed with a nod, then glanced between them, "though we're taking different paths now—I'm in business with information systems and technology, following in Father's footsteps but bringing it into the digital age, Win's doing law with a business minor," and there was unmistakable pride in his voice when he mentioned modernizing the family business, the kind of confidence that came from knowing you were exactly where you were supposed to be, while Win felt the familiar weight of expectations pressing down on him like stones—law to serve the family interests, business as backup in case something ever happened to the golden son.
But Pat knew him well enough not to push, asking instead about their different academic paths and their expectations for university life, and Win found himself relaxing into the familiar rhythm of conversation with his longtime friend, grateful for the distraction from the constant scan of faces he'd been conducting since they'd arrived on campus.
"Want to grab some coffee before the welcome assembly?" Pat suggested, gesturing toward a café tucked between administrative buildings, "I have a feeling we're going to need all the caffeine we can get," and Win nodded, following Pat's lead as they made their way across the quad.
It was then, as they were walking past the club registration tables, that Win saw him.
Ratch stood behind the cybersecurity club booth, explaining something to a cluster of interested freshmen, and he looked exactly the same and entirely different—still tall and athletic, jet black hair catching the morning light, still moving with that easy authority that had drawn Win to him in the first place, but there was something harder in those dark eyes now, something guarded in the way he held himself that hadn't been there during their summer together.
Win stopped walking so abruptly that Pat nearly collided with him, and Win felt all the carefully constructed walls he'd built around his heart crumble to dust in an instant because seeing Ratch again was like being hit by lightning, like every nerve ending in his body suddenly remembering what it felt like to be touched by those hands, kissed by that mouth, held against that chest until the rest of the world disappeared.
"You okay?" Pat asked, following Win's gaze, and Win realized he'd been staring, realized he was standing frozen in the middle of the walkway like an idiot while other students flowed around them like water around a stone.
"I—" Win started, but the words died in his throat as he saw Ratch begin to look up from his conversation, dark eyes starting to scan the crowd, and Win felt panic flood his system because he couldn't face that recognition, couldn't survive seeing dismissal or worse, indifference, in those familiar features.
Win spun around abruptly, turning his back to the cybersecurity club booth before Ratch could see him, before those dark eyes could pin him in place and strip away every defense he'd spent weeks building.
"Win?" Pat's voice seemed to come from very far away, "are you sure you're okay? You look like you've seen a ghost," and Win forced himself to focus on Pat's concerned face instead of the overwhelming urge to look back over his shoulder.
"I'm fine," Win lied, the words scraping his throat raw, "just thought I recognized someone," and Pat nodded, clearly not entirely convinced but willing to let it slide, and Win was grateful for his friend's sensitivity as they continued toward the café.
But even as Win ordered coffee and made small talk with Pat about their upcoming classes, even as he smiled and nodded and pretended everything was normal, he could feel Ratch's presence like a physical weight pressing against his shoulders, could sense that familiar energy even from across the quad.
Win had thought he was prepared for this moment, had spent weeks building up his defenses and telling himself he could handle seeing Ratch again, but nothing had prepared him for the overwhelming panic that had flooded through him at just the sight of those familiar shoulders, nothing had prepared him for his own cowardly instinct to run and hide instead of facing the consequences of his choices.
So Win did what he'd always done when the pain became too much to bear—he smiled brighter, talked louder, threw himself into the role of eager freshman with such commitment that Pat began to relax beside him, began to treat him like a normal person instead of someone teetering on the edge of breakdown.
And if Win found excuses to position himself so he couldn't see the cybersecurity club booth, if his laugh sounded just a little too sharp around the edges, if he caught himself scanning every face in the crowd for familiar dark eyes, well, that was between him and the careful armor he was rebuilding around his heart, one polite smile at a time.
The morning stretched on with orientation activities and campus tours, Win moving through it all with mechanical precision, his body present while his mind remained fixed on those few seconds when he'd seen Ratch and panicked, when he'd turned away like a coward instead of facing the boy who'd ignored all his messages, and Win couldn't decide if his avoidance had been self-preservation or just more proof that he would always run when things got difficult.
Pat stayed close, chatting easily about professors and course requirements, filling the silences when Win's responses became too brief or too bright, and Win felt a surge of gratitude for his friend's intuitive support even as he wondered what kind of person he was becoming, someone who needed to be managed and monitored just to get through a simple orientation day.
"You know," Pat said as they walked toward their final information session, "if there's someone you want to avoid, just tell me. I'm good at running interference," and Win's step faltered slightly because of course Pat had noticed, of course his best friend could read the signs of his distress even when Win thought he was hiding it perfectly.
"It's complicated," Win said quietly, and Pat squeezed his shoulder with easy affection.
"Most things worth caring about are," Pat replied, and Win felt his throat tighten with unexpected emotion because here was someone who saw him, who cared enough to offer protection without demanding explanations, who stood by him even when he was clearly falling apart.
By the time they made it back to the main quad for the closing ceremony, Win had almost convinced himself that he could do this, that he could build a life at this university that didn't revolve around hiding from the boy who'd broken his heart by refusing to let him fix what he'd broken in the first place.
But as they found seats in the crowded amphitheater, Win's eyes found Ratch automatically, as if drawn by invisible strings, and he watched from across the crowd as Ratch laughed at something one of his friends said, watched as he threw his head back with genuine amusement, and Win felt the familiar ache of longing mixed with loss because this was the Ratch he remembered, the one who'd made him feel like the center of the universe for three perfect months.
Win forced himself to look away before Ratch could sense his stare, before he could be caught watching like some pathetic stalker, and tried to focus on the closing speaker instead of the boy who existed so easily in a world that no longer included him.
The closing speaker talked about new beginnings and endless possibilities, about the friendships they would forge and the futures they would build, and Win tried to focus on the words, tried to find hope in the promises of transformation and growth. But all he could think about was how he'd turned away like a coward when he'd finally seen Ratch again, how he'd chosen hiding over facing the consequences of his own actions, how he'd proven once again that he would always run when confronted with anything that mattered too much.
As the ceremony ended and students began to disperse, Win made a decision that felt both cowardly and necessary—he would avoid Ratch completely, would structure his entire university experience around not having to see those dark eyes or that familiar smile, would make himself invisible in the way he'd always been best at, would disappear so thoroughly that Ratch would never have to be reminded of the summer they'd shared or the way Win had destroyed it.
"Ready to head home?" Pat asked, and Win nodded, gathering his things with steady movements, his decision made and his path chosen.
As they walked toward the parking area where their driver waited, Win didn't look back at the cybersecurity club booth or the boy who stood behind it, didn't allow himself one last glimpse of what he'd lost through his own cowardice and poor timing.
Instead he looked forward, toward the uncertain future he'd chosen by staying in Bangkok, and tried to convince himself that invisible was better than broken, that hiding was preferable to being dismissed again and again until there was nothing left of his heart to break.
His phone buzzed as they reached the car, and Win glanced down to see a message from an unknown number that made his blood run cold: Interesting first day. You looked good trying to disappear.
Win stared at the screen, hand trembling as he showed it to Pat, who frowned and immediately started looking around the parking area as if he could identify the sender through sheer determination.
"Who would send you something like this?" Pat asked, peering at the screen with obvious curiosity, and Win shook his head, already deleting the message because he had enough problems without adding mysterious stalkers to the mix, enough heartbreak without wondering who was watching him fail to rebuild his life.
"I have no idea," Win said honestly, and Pat frowned, clearly not satisfied with that answer but sensing Win didn't want to discuss it further.
"Well, if you get any more weird messages, let me know, okay?" Pat said, giving Win's shoulder one more reassuring squeeze. "And text me tonight if you want to talk about... anything. First day was pretty intense."
Win managed a grateful smile. "Thanks, Pat. I'll call you later, or see you in the morning before classes start."
"Sounds good. Take care of yourself," Pat replied, then headed toward his own family's car with a final wave.
Win settled into the car beside Parin, who was already absorbed in his phone and oblivious to Win's distress, and Win decided that some secrets were meant to be carried alone, some burdens were too complicated to share even with the people who cared about you most.
As Bangkok traffic swallowed their car and carried them toward home, Win closed his eyes and tried not to think about dark eyes and missed chances, tried not to remember what it felt like to be wanted and seen and cherished, tried not to calculate how many more days like this he would have to endure before the ache in his chest finally numbed itself into something manageable.
But even with his eyes closed, even with the city noise filling his ears, Win could still feel the weight of that unknown gaze on his skin, could still sense that somewhere in the sprawling metropolis around them, someone was watching, someone knew more than they should, someone was playing a game Win didn't understand but was apparently already losing.
Back in his room that night, Win sat at his desk staring at his laptop screen, unable to concentrate on the orientation materials he was supposed to review. The house was quiet around him, his parents retired to their suite, and Ning presumably working late as always. He wasn't sure if Parin was even home—his twin had his own social life that rarely intersected with Win's, and they'd long since stopped keeping track of each other's whereabouts. The silence pressed against his ears, filled with all the words he couldn't say, all the feelings he couldn't voice, all the pain that had nowhere to go but deeper into his chest.
Desperate for distraction, Win found himself browsing aimlessly online, clicking through social media feeds that only reminded him of how normal everyone else's lives seemed compared to his own mess. Eventually he stumbled across a link someone had shared to a BL fiction site, and curiosity got the better of him—maybe reading about other people's fictional heartbreaks would make his own feel less consuming.
He spent hours reading story after story, getting lost in tales of love and loss, of characters who struggled with family expectations and forbidden feelings, of boys who loved other boys despite the world telling them they shouldn't. Some stories had happy endings that made his chest ache with longing, others ended in tragedy that felt too close to his own reality, and a few captured the particular agony of unrequited love so perfectly that Win had to stop reading to wipe away tears he hadn't realized were falling.
It was in the comments section of one particularly devastating story about summer love gone wrong that Win saw readers begging for more, sharing their own experiences, talking about how the author's words had made them feel less alone in their pain. The author responded to every comment with such genuine care and understanding that Win found himself wishing he could reach through the screen and thank them for putting into words what he'd never been able to express.
That's when the idea hit him—tentative and terrifying and somehow inevitable. The site was clearly designed for readers and authors alike, with an encouraging "Start Your Own Story" button prominently displayed on every page, testimonials from new writers talking about how easy it was to share their work, and simple tutorials for getting started. The platform seemed to welcome everyone, from experienced authors to complete beginners just looking for a way to express their feelings.
His fingers hovered over the "Create New Story" button for what felt like hours, heart pounding with a mixture of fear and desperate need. Finally, almost without conscious thought, he clicked it and found himself staring at a simple text editor with the cursor blinking in an empty document. The site's encouraging message at the top read "Every story matters. Your voice deserves to be heard."
Before he could stop himself he was typing, words pouring out like blood from a wound he'd been trying to pretend didn't exist. He wrote about a boy who felt invisible, about summer love that burned bright and died too soon, about the agony of choosing to stay for someone who no longer wanted to be found. He wrote about hands that remembered another's touch, about eyes that searched crowds for familiar faces, about the particular kind of heartbreak that came from loving someone who'd decided you weren't worth fighting for.
The words came faster than he could think them, raw and honest and devastating, and Win found himself crying as he typed, tears falling onto the keyboard as weeks of suppressed anguish finally found a voice. He wrote until his eyes burned and his fingers cramped, until the story of his heartbreak stretched across pages and pages of digital confession, until he felt emptied out and strangely lighter, as if some of the poison had finally been drawn from the wound.
When he was finished, Win stared at what he'd written, at this fictional version of his truth disguised in the names and situations of characters who weren't him but might as well have been. It was good, he realized with surprise, raw and emotional and real in ways that would make readers feel every stab of longing, every twist of rejection, every desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, love could find a way.
The publishing interface was simple and encouraging. Win titled his story "Summer's End" and selected tags that felt like pieces of his soul laid bare: angst, unrequited love, second chances, heartbreak. For his author name, he chose what felt inevitable—InvisibleHeart. The username felt like both a confession and a prayer, a hope that maybe his invisible heart could finally be seen, even if no one would ever know it was his.
His cursor hovered over the "Publish" button for what felt like an eternity, his heart hammering against his ribs. Once he clicked this, his pain would be out there in the world, exposed and vulnerable for anyone to read, to judge, to dismiss. But maybe—maybe someone would read it and understand, would feel less alone in their own heartbreak, would know that invisible hearts could burn just as bright as any other.
Win closed his eyes, took a shaky breath, and clicked "Publish."
The story uploaded instantly, and Win slammed the laptop shut before he could see if anyone would read it, before he could lose his nerve and delete everything. He sat in the sudden darkness of his room, heart still racing, feeling strangely calm for the first time in weeks. He'd done it. He'd found a way to transform his pain into something that might matter, something that proved that even when you felt invisible, your story still deserved to be told.
He crawled into bed that night with his chest feeling lighter than it had since that terrible afternoon in Ratch's apartment, and for the first time since he'd chosen to stay in Bangkok, Win fell asleep without tears on his cheeks, without the crushing weight of words left unsaid pressing down on his heart.
Across the city, thousands of other students were settling into their own beds after their first day of university, most of them unaware that somewhere in the digital spaces they frequented, a story was waiting—a story that would soon spread through their social networks like wildfire, touching hearts and sparking conversations, becoming the kind of anonymous confession that made everyone wonder if they knew the person behind the words.
Win didn't know that by morning, his phone would be buzzing nonstop with notifications—hundreds of comments, new followers, and messages from readers pouring their hearts out in response to his story. He didn't know that "Summer's End" would have thousands of reads by sunrise, that it would become the story everyone was talking about, sharing in group chats and discussing in hushed whispers over coffee. He didn't know that among those readers would be the very boy who had inspired every word, every tear, every desperate hope for a love that might still find its way home.
All Win knew was that he had finally found his voice, and maybe—just maybe—that would be enough.