"Distance is a cruel teacher—
It sharpens longing, yet never offers relief."
—Nil
"Monday... you went... It's already Wednesday."
"Stranger... two days without a call. Not even a word."
"Not even a single message."
"Just a day, and yet... you've changed. They say absence makes the heart grow fonder..."
Nil leaned over the sink, brushing his teeth, eyes catching the framed photo of Kao beside the mirror. Cold. Handsome. Unreachable.
"I keep talking to this picture," he muttered, lips brushing against foam, "but it never answers back. Hmph."
Hours later, the greenroom lights blinked back to life. He spit, rinsed, and stared at the reflection: gold-lighted eyes, hair slightly mussed, a frown tugging his lips. "Standing there, perfect as always... while I'm stuck here alone. What good is a picture if it can't glare at me properly?"
A sigh left him, heavy, reluctant. He straightened, pulling on his jacket. Minutes later, he stepped onto the set, each footfall echoing in the spacious studio.
The lights blazed, cameras rolling. Perth faced him, icy eyes. Fluke's expression was hard as stone.
"Perth, let me go. I don't want you to suffer because of me."
"Let's not see each other...!" Fluke's voice was icy, eyes like stone.
Perth's widened, glistening. "You never loved me... everything was a lie."
Tears escaped, tracing his cheeks. "No truth... false promises."
Fluke remained impassive.
A drop of sorrow slid down his cheek, unnoticed by the crew. Kim's brow furrowed. "What is he doing? No crying in the script."
Yod Rak muttered, "You didn't mention any tears, Kim."
Nil inhaled slowly, heart heavy yet focused. Fluke whispered from the side, "Nil... what are you doing? How do I answer?"
He stepped closer to Fluke, voice low, carrying the ache he had nurtured silently for days. "Your face is cold... your heart like stone. I thought I could cultivate flowers, bring you spring... but you remain winter. From now on... I belong to no one."
Fluke flinched.
"Not yours..." Nil continued, softer, deliberate. "Not for anyone. My heart is closed."
A shaky breath, a soft, bitter sound—hhh... haa...—escaped him.
It was just past seven in the evening in Paris, the city sparkling under a soft twilight. In the Salon Louis XV of the Ritz, Kao stood among a dozen French clients, Dom Pérignon's pale gold champagne catching the light in their hands.
Étienne Moreau raised his glass, a slight edge in his tone. "Étoile Records has always maintained a strong relationship with Neptune Music. To be honest... after your father passed, we weren't certain someone your age could manage such an empire."
He chuckled, tapping his glass lightly against Kao's. "But you did great."
Kao lifted his glass smoothly, calm as ever. "Your doubts are flattering, Mr. Moreau. But your trust makes it possible."
"Santé!" the group echoed, clinking glasses.
Kao's gaze shifted to Ms. Laurent Dubois, Étienne's wife. "I'm glad you came, Ms. Dubois. My trip wouldn't have been complete without a proper greeting."
She sipped her champagne, lips curling in amusement. "Naturally. And you'll visit our house tomorrow—you wouldn't dare skip it."
Kao inclined his head. Julien, lingering nearby, leaned in. "So... when do you plan to marry?"
Claire chimed, teasingly, "You could choose me, you know."
A laugh cut through the room. Ms. Dubois shook her head with a warm smile. "Enough with that. He's young—he has years to experience life before thinking of marriage." Staring at Kao, "But Kao, don't delay too long. Your uncle proposed to me at eighteen... and we didn't marry until forty-one."
Kao's expression remained composed, but the faint lift of his brow betrayed.
Étienne Moreau lifted a forkful of spaghetti with mozzarella to his lips, eyes narrowing at his wife. "Why bring me along?"
Amélie, the rising pop sensation, interjected, passing a bowl of Soupe à l'oignon (French onion soup) to Marc. "Madam insists on bringing you everywhere. By the way, Kao sir... aren't you seeing anyone?"
Kao lowered his gaze, a faint pink tint brushing his cheeks.
Claire leaned forward from the middle of the table, a teasing smile tugging at her lips. "He's in love—just look at him. Think about someone, and see him blush."
Kao picked at his foie gras (Fatty Duck), slicing a piece carefully before lifting it to his mouth. "I am in love. With the best person I've ever known."
Julien raised a brow. "A celebrity, perhaps?"
Kao shook his head, his movements calm and measured. "No information!"
"...hopefully, next trip, I can bring that person along."
Ms. Dubois chuckled softly, taking a delicate bite of croissant. "I hope so. I'm already eager to meet your wife."
Dinner concluded, and Kao returned to his Ritz Paris suite. Marble floors gleamed beneath soft lighting. The king-sized bed was immaculate, windows framing the shimmering Place Vendôme below. Every detail was precise, controlled, and deliberate.
Krit stepped forward immediately, removing Kao's blazer with practiced care. "Do you wish to rest now?"
Kao inclined his head slightly. "Mn... send those gifts tomorrow to Étienne Moreau and Laurent Dubois' residences."
"And keep me updated on how Shian is handling everything in Bangkok."
Krit and Niran nodded politely.
"... you may leave now."
Then the two quietly withdrew.
Kao walked to the window. Place Vendôme glowed beneath the warm streetlights: the Vendôme Column bathed in silver, façades softly lit, shop windows shimmering like jewels. The streets were hushed, save for the occasional luxury car drifting past.
He switched on his phone.
23 missed calls. 18 messages. All from Nil.
'Stranger, did you land safely?'
'Are you sleeping well?'
'I told you to come soon, but now even 'soon' feels endless.'
'Don't tell me you've finally learned how to have fun without me—impossible.'
'I can't even remember what it's like to have you beside me. Come back before I forget.'
Kao's lips curved faintly. He reached for his phone, but his gaze dropped to the watch at his waist. Ten o'clock here—nearly four in Bangkok. His hand stilled.
"...Tomorrow."
The word was soft, but the silence that followed pressed heavier than stone.
Without Nil, even Paris seemed hollow.
Addicted. That was the word. Nil had become a habit he could no longer unlearn. The emptiness gnawed at him until it hurt to breathe.
If Nil were here, they would have walked the glowing streets together, climbed the iron tower that pierced the sky. Every light of this city would have burned brighter.
But without him—everything beautiful turned dull.
The next morning, Bangkok.
On set, Nil's eyes were rimmed with exhaustion.
"There are dark lines under your eyes. Didn't you sleep?" Lamai asked, brows drawn.
"Trying," Nil muttered, "but I couldn't."
She frowned, brushing powder lightly over his cheekbones. "You should see a doctor. You can't afford to look worn out. One bad photo and people will tear you apart."
Nil gave a weak nod. "Mn."
After the shoot, he returned to his greenroom. Collapsing onto the sofa, he dialed Achara.
"Achara, has your brother contacted you?"
"No," she admitted, then quickly added, "but P'Nil, don't worry. He's just buried in work. When he has time, he'll call."
Nil's voice tightened. "It's already been three days..."
Achara's laugh was soft, meant to reassure. "Then he'll probably call you first."
Nil threw the phone onto the cushions with a sharp exhale. "Hah..."
Nil went into the washroom, splashing cold water over his face.
From outside, Lamai's voice rang, "Nil, your phone's ringing—again!"
Water dripped down his chin. Without looking up, he muttered, "Throw it away. Break it for me."
Lamai called back, half laughing, "You sure? Some Headache keeps calling you!"
His hands froze mid-motion. His breath caught. Headache...
A sharp tremor struck his chest. He flung open the door, snatched the phone straight from Lamai's hand, and shoved her gently out.
"But your next scene is in thirteen minutes!" she protested.
"I'll be there." His voice was low, firm. The door shut in her face.
Inside, Nil dropped into the chair before the mirror. He wiped his face once more, hurriedly smoothing his hair, straightening his collar.
"Good," he whispered to his reflection.
Then, with a trembling hand, he pressed accept.
"Nil..."