Win woke to the weak morning light slipping through the curtains, his chest tight and heavy. The quiet of the house felt oppressive, a stark contrast to the warmth and laughter he had shared with Krit just yesterday. His phone was gone, still confiscated by his father, leaving him with only his thoughts—and the ache of missing someone he could no longer reach.
He moved quietly to the kitchen, hoping to steal a moment of calm before the day's obligations began. Suthida was already there, humming softly as she poured tea into delicate cups. She glanced up when she noticed him, concern flickering across her face.
"Good morning, Win," she said gently. "Sleep well?"
Win forced a small, polite smile, hands wrapped around the warm cup. "Morning… just a little tired," he admitted, voice low. He wanted to tell her everything—the fear, the longing, the helplessness—but the words lodged in his throat.
Win's thoughts drifted instantly to Krit. He longed to send a message, a fleeting note to say he was thinking of him, but his father's control left him powerless. He's probably already in the air, won't even see my text…
Before he could dwell further, the front door opened with a decisive click. Preecha stepped inside, sharp and commanding. His gaze immediately found Win, noting the pale complexion and swollen eyes.
"Win," he barked, voice cold. "Get yourself together. Now. There's no room for weakness today."
Win's stomach sank, hands tightening around his cup. "I… I'm trying, Father," he whispered, voice trembling.
Suthida moved closer, a quiet shield. "Please… give him a moment," she said softly, but Preecha's presence left no room for hesitation.
Win set his cup down slowly, still trembling slightly, as Suthida guided him toward the small breakfast table. Preecha lingered near the doorway, eyes sharp, watching every movement.
The table was modest—steaming rice, fresh fruit, and a pot of tea—but the tension made even this simple meal feel heavy. Suthida poured him another cup, offering a soft smile. "Eat slowly, Win. Just a little," she whispered, trying to ease the weight pressing on him.
Win nodded, taking small bites.
The quiet was broken by Preecha's abrupt voice. "Win. Enough dawdling. Eat, then change." He dropped a shopping bag onto the counter, the rustle of neatly folded clothes filling the kitchen.
Win's eyes widened slightly. Preecha opened the bag, revealing crisp shirts, tailored trousers, and polished shoes. "These are for today's lunch," he instructed. "You will wear them exactly as I direct. Nothing sloppy. Nothing out of place. Your appearance reflects this family."
Win nodded, swallowing hard, cheeks burning. He felt the familiar mix of fear and resignation, knowing there was no room to refuse. Suthida reached out, squeezing his hand lightly, offering silent comfort before he rose to obey, leaving the quiet breakfast behind.
The drive to the lunch was heavy with silence, broken only by the faint hum of the car engine. Win sat rigidly in the back seat, his fingers clasped tightly in his lap, posture stiff, eyes fixed on the passing buildings yet seeing nothing. Every shadow, every reflection in the shop windows seemed to echo the weight pressing on him. His mind wandered relentlessly to Krit—what he might be doing right now, whether he was worried, whether he even knew how desperately Win missed him.
Preecha, seated beside the driver, radiated control in every precise movement. He didn't speak, but his gaze, sharp and unwavering, kept landing on Win with quiet accusation. Each glance made Win's stomach tighten painfully, a mix of fear and guilt knotting deep inside him.
When they arrived, the restaurant's grandeur was almost suffocating. A long, polished table gleamed under the soft, muted light, and floor-to-ceiling windows revealed the city sprawling beyond. A single well-dressed man, composed and calculating, waited at the head of the table, eyes casually scanning the skyline as if measuring everything with invisible precision.
Preecha guided Win to his seat, his hand firm on Win's shoulder. "Sit. Straight," he instructed. Win obeyed automatically, the weight of expectation forcing him into posture and composure he barely felt.
Without hesitation, Preecha opened the conversation, his words smooth and commanding. "This is my son, the future of our family business. He will inherit not just our ventures but our reputation." He gestured subtly toward Win, and the client inclined his head in acknowledgment, sipping water with an air of detached calculation.
"You will be involved in the family ventures soon," the client said, voice even and precise. "I trust your son understands the importance of every decision."
Win's hands twitched nervously in his lap. He managed a faint nod, lips pressed into a thin, polite line. Every moment felt suffocating; every flick of his father's eyes across the table reminded him that even the smallest misstep could be catastrophic.
Preecha's gaze shifted sharply to him, silent but loaded with expectation. Win forced himself to meet his father's eyes, whispering, "Yes, Father," the words fragile, barely audible.
The conversation continued, spiraling through topics Win barely understood—investments, strategic partnerships, acquisitions, and numbers that blurred into meaningless patterns. He spoke only when directly addressed, voice small, stomach tightening with every syllable. Preecha leaned closer occasionally, the weight of his presence an unspoken test, a constant reminder of the demands of control and obedience.
When the lunch finally ended, the drive home was just as quiet, the city rolling by like a distant, inaccessible world. Win stared out the window, but the familiar streets felt hollow and empty. His thoughts were full of Krit—the teasing glances, the playful pushes, the warmth and safety he had offered. Each memory made his chest ache, a quiet longing that pressed heavily against the fear and obedience that bound him.
Back at the house, Win moved silently to his room, sinking onto his bed with a long, exhausted sigh. Moments later, Suthida appeared, placing her gentle hand on his shoulder. "You did well," she whispered, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. "I know it was hard… but you held yourself. I'm proud of you, Win."
Win nodded faintly, eyes glistening, still thinking of Krit. The tension of the morning hadn't fully lifted, and yet her touch offered a sliver of comfort. Outside, the world moved on, unaware of the quiet storm inside the Thammarat household.
Krit sat at the sleek breakfast table in his parents' sunlit kitchen, poking at his eggs with little enthusiasm. The quiet of the house wasn't comforting—it only made Win's absence feel sharper. His phone sat in front of him, screen glowing with unanswered messages.
"Eat properly, Krit," his mother said, her tone a mix of scolding and amusement. "You can't just stare at your plate all morning."
"I'm fine," Krit muttered, eyes glued to the phone. "Just… waiting."
"Waiting for what? Another art breakthrough?" his father teased, pouring himself a cup of coffee. "Or maybe for a certain someone?"
Krit groaned, cheeks warming. "I'm not—"
"Oh, come on," his mother interrupted, wagging a finger. "You can't even sit upright, and you keep checking that phone. Admit it—you miss him."
"I… yeah, fine! I miss him!" Krit said, stabbing at his toast, frustration clear in his voice.
"You look ridiculous," his father laughed. "All tense and jittery over someone you can't even reach. Just text him already."
Krit typed quickly: 'Morning… you awake?' and hit send. Nothing. He tried again. Still nothing. He called. One ring… two rings… and voicemail. His chest tightened—Win's phone was still with his father, and there was no way to reach him.
"Hopeless," his mother said, smirking. "Even across the ocean, you're pining for someone. You're lucky he's cute, or we'd be scolding you all morning."
"I just… I need to know he's okay," Krit muttered, running a hand through his hair, jaw tight.
His father shook his head, still amused. "Patience, son. Some things aren't in your control. Now eat before your breakfast gets cold."
Krit sighed, poking at his eggs half-heartedly, thumb hovering over his phone. Every vibration or notification made his heart jump, only to sink again when it wasn't Win.
Back in Bangkok, Win woke to the harsh morning light, eyes swollen and red, the weight of grief pressing down. His phone had been confiscated by Preecha the night before, leaving him cut off from Krit, from comfort, from the only warmth that had made the past days bearable.
Preecha entered the kitchen, eyes sharp, immediately noting Win's tear-streaked face. "What is this?" he barked. "Do you think I'll tolerate this nonsense?"
Win kept silent, clutching his cup of tea. Suthida appeared, gentle and cautious. "Preecha… please…"
Ignoring her, Preecha seized Win's phone and scrolled through messages from Krit. His face darkened, anger radiating like heat. "This… is unacceptable. You think you get to defy me? To have your own… life?"
"End this now," he continued, voice low, threatening. "You will break up with him. Do you understand me?"
Suthida stepped closer. "He's still your son… let him breathe."
"You will obey," Preecha said, tone cold and final.
Moments later, a gun appeared—not aimed yet, but the threat undeniable. Win froze, tears streaming. Suthida pleaded, voice quivering but firm, promising her support. Win could only nod, caught between obedience and desperate longing for Krit.
Chaos erupted. The gun misfired accidentally, and Suthida collapsed, lifeless. Win's world shattered; he crumpled to the floor, sobbing uncontrollably. Fear of his father's wrath mingled with heartbreak, overwhelming him.
Preecha called a trusted associate. Hours later, calm returned outwardly. Suthida's death was declared an accident, legal matters handled with his wealth and influence. Win, however, remained numb, crushed by the weight of grief.
The funeral was quiet, suffused with sorrow. Win barely moved, barely spoke, his body numb as grief weighed him down. He stood pale and trembling, clutching a folded handkerchief, his gaze distant. Preecha remained nearby, imposing and silent, while the gathered mourners murmured condolences that barely registered.
From the crowd, Tawan, Krit's friend watched Win closely. He had never seen his friend look so utterly broken. The tension in Win's shoulders, the way he flinched at every sound, the hollow stare—it was terrible, almost unbearable to witness. Pong knew immediately that Win needed someone, anyone, who could reach him, and he thought of Krit. Without hesitation, he pulled out his phone.
"Krit… man… sit down," Tawan said, voice tight when he got through. "It's… it's Win. He's… he's a mess. His mom… she's gone. There was… an accident."
Krit froze, his breakfast forgotten. The phone slipped from his hand. "What… what do you mean? How?" His voice cracked, disbelief and fear mingling.
Tawan's tone faltered. "It's… it's complicated. I saw him at the funeral… he's terrible, Krit. He's alone, completely. You need to come back… now."
Krit's stomach twisted painfully. His world narrowed to a single thought: Win is suffering, and I'm across the ocean. "I… I have to go," he whispered, gripping his phone tightly. "I have to see him. I can't… I can't let him be like that."
Within minutes, Krit was making arrangements. Flight tickets booked, bags hastily packed, his mind consumed with worry and guilt. Every thought, every heartbeat, revolved around Win—alone, grieving, trapped under his father's shadow.
As the plane roared into the sky, Krit stared at his phone, imagining Win standing in the funeral crowd, fragile and trembling, feeling utterly helpless. He clenched his fists, silent tears threatening to fall, determined to get back to Bangkok as fast as possible.
Hours later, Tawan was waiting at the airport as Krit arrived, exhausted from the long flight. Without a word, they drove straight to the Thammarat house, urgency in every movement. The car was silent, the tension palpable.
Tawan had never seen Krit drive this fast.
The moment the message came—Win's mother passed away—Krit booked the first flight back from the U.S., didn't sleep, didn't eat, didn't even breathe properly. He just kept repeating one thing:
"He needs me."
But nothing could have prepared him for the sight of Win's house draped in mourning ribbons, the yard full of parked cars, and the sound of quiet crying from inside.
Krit and Tawan stepped out of the car.
Krit's hands were shaking.
He walked straight to the front door.
Tawan placed a hand on his shoulder. "Hey… calm down first."
Krit didn't hear him.
Or didn't care.
He knocked.
Hard.
A few seconds later, the door opened—revealing Win's father.
His eyes were tired, swollen, cold.
"Mr. Thammarat," Krit said, voice trembling, "I came to see Win."
Win's father stared at him like he was looking at poison.
"No."
Krit blinked. "Sir… please. I just want to—"
"I said no."
Tawan immediately stepped forward. "Uncle, we flew back as soon as—"
Win's father cut him off sharply.
"This is a family matter. Outsiders do not get involved."
Krit felt his chest tighten. "I'm not an outsider to Win."
Win's father's jaw clenched.
"Exactly why I don't want you here."
Krit's temper shot up.
"What do you mean by that?"
Win's father stepped outside, pulling the door almost closed behind him as if shielding Win from view.
He lowered his voice.
"My son is fragile right now. He needs stability. He does not need—whatever your relationship with him is."
Krit's eyes widened.
"My relationship with him? Sir, I love him."
"And love ruined him."
Krit froze. "What?"
"You've caused him enough trouble. The arguments. The crying. The stress. I saw it all, even when he tried to hide it."
Krit's voice cracked with disbelief.
"That's not fair— I would never hurt him—"
"You already did."
The father's voice was ice.
"And I won't allow it again."
Krit's hands balled into fists.
"So you're blaming me for his pain right now? For THIS? For his mom—?"
"WATCH YOUR TONE!" Win's father snapped, stepping closer, face darkening with rage. "You don't get to raise your voice in my house. And you don't get to see my son."
Krit's breathing grew erratic.
"Tawan, tell him—I'm not leaving without seeing Win."
Tawan tugged his arm. "Krit, stop—"
But Krit pulled away violently, eyes burning.
"Why are you doing this?!" he shouted at Win's father. "If he needs anything right now, it's someone who actually cares about him!"
The father's nostrils flared.
"You think you care more than his family?"
He stepped forward, staring Krit down.
"You think you understand him better than I do?"
"Yes!" Krit snapped.
"I know his fears, I know how he cries when he's overwhelmed, I know how he shuts down when he's hurting—"
"ENOUGH!" Win's father roared.
Krit flinched, but didn't back down.
"I won't let you hurt my son anymore," the father said.
"Leave. Don't come back."
Something inside Krit snapped.
He shoved the father's shoulder—not violently, but with pure desperation.
"LET ME SEE HIM! JUST FOR A MINUTE!"
Tawan grabbed Krit from behind.
"Krit—stop—what are you doing?!"
Win's father stepped back with fury in his eyes.
"You lay a hand on me again, and you will NEVER get near my child."
"I wasn't trying to fight you—" Krit said, breathing hard, voice breaking. "I'm begging you… please… he needs me…"
"He needs peace."
"HE NEEDS ME!" Krit shouted, entirely undone.
Inside the house, movement could be heard—relatives whispering, chairs shifting—Win's father shot a quick glance back, then turned back to Krit with finality.
"Leave. Now. Or I'll call security."
Krit felt like someone ripped his lungs out.
He tried one last time—voice small, shaking:
"Can you at least… tell him I came?"
Win's father didn't blink.
"No."
Krit's heart shattered.
Tawan tightened his grip on him, whispering urgently,
"Krit, please. We need to leave. Right now."
Krit's knees nearly buckled.
He stared at the closed door—
the door that separated him
from the boy who needed him most.
And the boy he couldn't reach.
Finally, Tawan pulled him away, an arm tight around his shoulders.
Krit didn't resist.
But he didn't stop crying either.
His voice came out in a whisper, broken and barely human:
"…Win… I'm so sorry…"
Back at the Thammarat house, the oppressive silence of grief filled the rooms. Win retreated to his room, hugging his knees to his chest, the weight of his father's control pressing in from every corner. The house felt hollow without Suthida's warmth, every familiar sound now a reminder of what he had lost. His phone lay on the bedside table, returned but untouched. Messages from Krit blinked unanswered; calls remained unanswered. The ache in his chest made every breath feel heavy.
By evening, Preecha summoned Win to his study. The room was cold, walls lined with books and artifacts of wealth, yet no comfort or warmth lingered there. The atmosphere was suffocating, oppressive, every object echoing his father's authority.
"You will break up with Krit," Preecha said flatly, voice low and commanding. "No excuses. No delays."
Win's lips trembled. "B-but… he's… he's important to me."
"Important?" Preecha's eyes narrowed, icy. "Do you understand the consequences if you defy me? The man you think you love could… disappear from your life. Completely. You understand?"
Win swallowed hard, nodding, tears threatening to spill. He knew his father would stop at nothing.
Preecha slid Win's confiscated phone toward him. The screen displayed messages from Krit—playful, teasing, loving. "See this? Every word, every plan… you will erase it. You will send him a message—right now—ending everything. If you do not…" He let the tone linger, heavy and menacing. "I will ensure you regret it. I can ruin him. I can ruin you."
Win's hands shook. The room felt smaller, the air thicker. He imagined Krit's confident, smiling face, unaware of the storm closing in, and the ache inside him doubled. His voice was barely audible. "I… I… I'll do it."
Preecha leaned back, satisfied. "Good. You will leave nothing for him to hold onto. No messages, no visits. Do you understand?"
Win's nod was shaky. "Yes, Father."
Over the next hours, Win typed out a message to Krit. Each word tore a part of his soul away. "I… I can't… we… can't… I'm sorry…" he wrote, pressing send with trembling fingers. A cold emptiness settled over him as the screen confirmed delivery.
Before he could process it, Preecha's hand snapped the phone from his grasp. "Not so fast. You will not let your feelings run wild. I'll decide when he sees your words."
Win's stomach twisted. "F-Father… please…" he whispered, but Preecha's icy glare shut him down.
Hours later, Preecha handed the phone back, screen blinking with unread messages from Krit. Win's hands shook as he unlocked it. One message read: "Win? What do you mean? What happened? Why are you sending this?"
Preecha's sharp voice lingered in his ear: "Answer him. And remember your manners. Say only what I allow."
With a shaky breath, Win typed a reply, fingers barely moving: "We… we can't… I don't… I don't love you anymore. I'm sorry, Krit."
The phone buzzed immediately—Krit was calling. Preecha leaned forward, voice firm: "Answer it. Do not ignore him."
Win picked up, voice hollow. "Hello?"
Krit's tone was confused, concerned, pleading. "Win? What's going on? Why are you sending these messages? Are you okay?"
Win swallowed, voice breaking. "Krit… we… we have to… break up. I… I don't love you anymore. I'm sorry…"
Silence on the line. Krit's sharp intake of breath carried through the speaker, full of shock and disbelief. "Win… no… wait—what? You can't mean that!"
"I… I have to," Win whispered, tears spilling freely, glancing at his father, arms crossed, unyielding.
Krit's voice cracked with a mix of anger and desperation. "You don't mean that… you don't!"
"I… I… I'm sorry…"
The call ended, leaving only hollow quiet. Win hugged himself, the weight of his father's control pressing down. Across the city, Krit sat frozen, phone in hand, mind racing, heart breaking, powerless to reach the one person he loved most.
The quiet hum of the city felt oppressive. Krit left his house abruptly, muttering under his breath. "Win… he just—he said he doesn't love me anymore." Friends, initially oblivious, stared in concern. "Man… you okay?" one asked. Krit clenched his fists, voice tight. "Yeah… just… worried."
Krit sank onto his couch, phone still clutched in his hand. The line rang once, twice, before the familiar voice of his mother came through.
"Krit? Sweetheart, what's going on? You sound… upset," she asked, concern lacing every word.
Krit's throat tightened. For a moment, he couldn't speak, his chest heavy with grief and frustration. Finally, he whispered, "It's… it's Win… something happened… and I… I don't know what to do."
There was a pause on the line, his mother exchanging a worried glance with his father. "Krit, slow down. Start from the beginning. What happened?"
He took a shaky breath, voice tight with a mix of grief and frustration. "Mom… it's Win… his mom… she's dead. There was an accident. I… I just got back, and I saw him at the house. He… he's a mess. Alone. And then… he… he—he sent me a message. He… he said he doesn't love me anymore. I… I can't understand it. I don't know what's happening."
There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end. "Krit… oh, my poor boy… that's… that's awful. Are you okay?"
Krit's jaw clenched, voice rising slightly, angry and desperate. "No! How could he say that? He… he doesn't mean it! He wouldn't just… I don't know… I don't know if he even wanted to… I—" He swallowed hard, trying to steady himself. "I can't reach him, Mom! I can't get through! And he's just… gone from me like that!"
His mother's voice softened, but he heard the worry and sympathy. "Krit… breathe, sweetie. I know… it's hard. I can't imagine what you're feeling, but you'll find a way through this. You're not alone."
Krit's hands gripped the phone tighter, his anger mixing with helplessness. "I… I just hate it! I hate that he could push me away like that… I want to yell at him, I want to—just—" His voice broke, raw with emotion.
His father's calm voice joined in, steadying yet firm. "Krit, we'll help you. Stay focused. Stay strong. We'll figure this out. You're not alone in this."
Krit exhaled shakily, a mix of fury, sadness, and confusion swirling in his chest. "I just… I hate that I couldn't do anything. That I wasn't there to stop it… to hold him… to tell him—" His words caught in his throat.
His mother whispered, "I know, baby. I know. Just… stay close to us. We'll figure a way to help him, help you both."
Krit nodded, the phone heavy in his hand, though he was shaking. His chest burned, and anger coiled alongside grief, but hearing their support gave him a faint anchor in the chaos of his emotions.
By evening, at Win's house, the tension remained. Win remained isolated, missing Krit terribly, the house suffused with the oppressive shadow of his father's control. Krit, restless in his apartment, stared at his phone, replaying the last night with Win, desperate for a way to reach him, yet powerless.