It was the middle of the night, and the club was alive—buzzing with people, drowning in smoke, and pulsing with loud, heart-thudding music. The dance floor was chaos, bodies pressed together in rhythm, drinks spilling, laughter echoing through the neon-lit air.
In the midst of all that madness, Austin sat quietly at one of the VIP tables. While everything around him moved in a blur of color and noise, he remained still, a cigarette burning slowly between his fingers. A girl perched on his lap, giggling, her fingers dancing playfully along his collarbone. Her lips brushed dangerously close to his ear.
He smirked. He knew exactly what she wanted.
"Nice one, Austin. We just got here, and you already have company," Pond, one of his closest friends, called out with a half-laugh as he approached their table.
Austin let out a soft chuckle, eyes never leaving the girl in his arms. "Tsk. It's not my fault they want me, Pond."
"Let him be, Austin. Come on, let's dance instead, bro. He'll just get in our way," Marc interjected, grinning as he grabbed Pond by the arm and dragged him toward the dance floor.
Austin barely acknowledged them. His attention was locked on the girl beside him—the one whose name he didn't even know. But that didn't matter. It never did. These things never lasted anyway.
"Where's Joong?" Austin asked absently, trailing kisses along the side of the girl's neck.
"He's there, dancing with some guy I don't know," Marc shouted over the music before he and Pond disappeared into the crowd.
Austin chuckled softly. "Whatever."
"Kiss me," the girl whispered in his ear, her voice laced with mischief.
"You're wild," he replied with a wicked grin, and then kissed her—hungrily, possessively. She kissed him back with the same kind of fire, and that's exactly how he liked it. His hands roamed down to her waist, trying to slide beneath the thick layers of her clothes.
But then—beep beep beep.
A sharp alarm rang from his phone.
Austin froze.
"Oops, time's up," he said flatly, standing and adjusting his shirt. "Sorry, I need to go."
"Wait, what?" the girl asked, stunned, disbelief rising in her voice.
But Austin didn't answer. He didn't even look back. Without another word, he walked away, already sending a message to his friends in the group chat:
"I'm heading home."
Austin Reyes loved the night, loved the rush of parties, the thrill of brief connections and temporary pleasures. But he also knew his limits. He always set an alarm—especially on nights before class. No matter how wild the evening got, he never let it interfere with his studies.
He partied. He drank. He played.
But he never let it ruin his goals.
Because deep down, Austin wasn't just a pretty face in a club. He had a reason, a drive burning inside him. He needed to prove to his father that he could do it—that he could finish school, that he could be something, with or without anyone's approval.
Meanwhile, Beau's life was far different from Austin's. Far from the noise, the pressure, and the chaos, he sat alone in his room in Canada, quietly staring out from his balcony. The cold breeze brushed against his skin as he leaned on the railing, eyes lost in the stars, mind drifting somewhere else.
Was he really ready to go back home?
"Am I really ready to return? Am I ready to face my family? Or… am I ready to face him?" he whispered to himself, the words hanging in the night air like a secret he couldn't shake. "It's been two years. Surely… he's forgotten by now, right?"
He sighed, forcing himself to believe the lies he fed his own heart.
Just then, the door creaked open behind him. His mom peeked in, concern etched on her face.
"Hey, love. Are you okay? It's already late—why aren't you asleep?"
Beau didn't answer right away. He turned to her with a tired smile, one that barely reached his eyes.
"I'm just thinking, Mom. About my return to the Philippines."
Her face softened as she walked in and sat beside him.
"I'm sorry, love. I know you've been through a lot there… but we didn't want to leave you behind. You know your dad—he loves being with you."
"I know," he nodded. "But… do you think Mom would be happy to see me?"
"Of course," she replied, smiling gently. "Your family misses you, Beau. I know that."
But Beau didn't respond. His gaze returned to the stars. Doubt still weighed heavy on his chest. Because deep inside, he wasn't sure. He felt like they hated him—like no matter what he did, it was never enough. He had given up so much, sacrificed more than they ever knew. Yet somehow, in the end, it was still his fault.
His mom reached out and hugged him tightly.
"Sweetheart, stop overthinking. It's late. Go to sleep now, okay?"
She kissed his forehead gently. "Goodnight, Beau."
"Goodnight, Mom," he murmured, but the ache in his chest lingered long after she left the room.
Outside, the stars continued to shine—indifferent, distant, and silent witnesses to the battles he fought within.
Austin's POV
The moment I stepped inside the house, my mom was already waiting.
"Where have you been?" she asked, her tone sharp, eyes narrowing the second I closed the door behind me.
I didn't answer. I didn't even look at her. Instead, I walked past her like she wasn't there, heading straight to my room.
But of course, she wouldn't let that go.
"I said, Austin Blake, where have you been?!" she yelled louder this time, angrier.
I stopped halfway up the stairs and let out a low, annoyed sigh.
"Tsk. What's it to you?" I snapped, turning to face her. "As if you care about me. You and Dad—you're both the same. Don't act like you care, Mom. The only thing you care about is the company. That's all that matters to you, isn't it?"
I said it coldly. But inside, I was already choking on the lump in my throat, fighting back the tears that always came too easily.
She flinched at my words. "Son… I don't know what happened to you. But it's been two years. Ever since he left, you've been like this."
My jaw clenched.
"Don't you dare say his name again," I hissed. "It disgusts me."
Her face fell. But I didn't stop there.
"It's my choice to be like this. He has nothing to do with it."
"Austin… he loved you," she said softly, like it was some kind of comfort. "I don't know why you two broke up, but I saw it. I could see it in his eyes. He loved you."
I laughed.
No—I faked a laugh. Cold, empty, bitter.
"Loved?" I echoed. "Maybe it was just the money."
Then I turned away and started walking again. "And please, Mom—stop talking to me about love. Because there's nothing real in it."
I didn't wait for her reply. I headed to my room, opened the door, and slammed it shut behind me.
And as soon as it clicked closed, the tears came.
Silent at first. Then harder. Faster.
It's happening again—he's haunting me again.
Two damn years. Two years of trying to forget someone who shattered me like I was nothing. Someone who left like I didn't matter. Like I didn't exist.
I looked around my room.
It was big. Fancy. Perfect. Just like they wanted it.
But it was empty.
Just like me.
No matter what I did—how loud the music was, how many girls I kissed, how many nights I drowned myself in noise—I still ended up here.
Back in that place.
Back in that pain.
Back in that memory I swore I'd already buried.