Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

There are flowers that would grow every other season. They are the type that is easy to possess, nice to have.

But there are also flowers that bloom only once in a lifetime. Few are fortunate enough to witness them, and those who are able to has the beauty of it engraved so deeply into the soul that it becomes unforgettable. Even after all the petals have fallen, long after its branches have gone bare.

Love works pretty much in the same way. Not everyone lives to experience love that is true. But when they do, it imprints itself upon the heart, so deeply, that even time struggles to erase it.

First regretted everything from last night.

He regretted letting his roommate convince him that one more episode wouldn’t hurt, even though it was already well past midnight and they both had an 8.00 a.m. lecture the next morning. He regretted laughing too loudly and violently sobbing at scenes he had already memorised. They had finished the entirety of The Eclipse and continued straight into Our Skyy 2. By the time they finally stopped, the living room had looked like a crime scene. There were cups scattered across the coffee table, half-eaten snacks abandoned on the couch cushions, and a bowl of ramen left untouched in the corner, the noodles swollen and lifeless in cold broth. First had stared at the mess and told himself he would clean it in the morning.

He should have known better.

He eventually wakes up the next day.

Groaning, he finally dragged himself out of bed, stepping over discarded clothes and a fallen textbook, he shuffled toward the living room and froze at the sight that greeted him.

It looked worse in daylight.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered under his breath, scrubbing a hand over his face.

He stumbled into the bathroom, turned the shower on too hot, and stepped under the spray with a hiss. By the time he dressed and slung his bag over his shoulder, his stomach had begun protesting violently.

He wandered into the kitchen, opened the cabinet, and reached for a granola bar. That was when his eyes drifted toward the clock above the archway.

7.45 a.m.

Silence.

He squinted his eyes with the hope that the arrows on the clock would change.

A beat.

“FUCK!”

He shoved the granola bar into his mouth, yanked his backpack tighter onto his shoulder, and bolted out the door.

The campus was already alive with movement, the students walking briskly, some leisurely, others panicked like him.

First RAN.

His heart pounded violently against his ribs, backpack bouncing against his spine as he weaved through clusters of people, shouting quick apologies whenever he bumped into someone’s shoulder.

That’s when it happened.

He turned a corner too quickly.

And slammed straight into someone.

The impact knocked the breath out of him. His vision blurred as he was sent backwards onto the pavement.

His palms stung as they forcefully hit against the pavement.

“Hey! Watch wh-”

The rest of the complaint died in his throat.

The world stilled. The noise of the busy campus faded into something distant and underwater, he felt like he was drowning.

The person he had collided with was kneeling slightly, hand half-extended, hesitating as if unsure whether to help him up.

His gaze landed on those eyes.

Large. Dark. Familiar.

He would recognise those boba eyes anywhere. They were the same eyes that had once stared at him with deep concentration, explaining why the T-Rex’s arms weren’t useless. Over the years, they had brightened with mischief, widened with joy at their whispered jokes, and by their teens, they carried every emotional burden, every high and low that they both shared.

They were still the same eyes, unmistakable at every stage of life.

But now they belonged to a face that had sharpened with time. His jawline was more defined, his cheekbones subtly sculpted, his hair styled in a way that looked effortless but undoubtedly required effort. His shoulders were broader, his posture straighter, his entire presence calmer, steadier.

For the first time in years, First felt his chest tighten, his stomach flip, and the past hit him like a wave he hadn’t realised he’d been holding back for so long.

He wasn’t the messy 5-year-old boy from memory.

But he was him.

Khaotung.

Khaotung blinked, clearly startled. His mouth parted slightly, as if he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure what.

For a split second, First expected recognition.

A greeting, a hug, emotions, just anything.

It never came.

“I’m so sorry,” Khaotung said quickly, voice deeper than First remembered, “I have to head to class.”

And just like that, he was gone.

First remained seated on the ground long after the crowd had swallowed him whole.

By the time First reached the lecture hall, the professor had already started. He muttered an apology and slipped inside, scanning the rows of seats.

And there he was.

Third row from the front.

First didn’t hesitate. He hurried down the aisle and dropped into the empty seat directly behind him.

Throughout the lecture, he couldn’t focus on a single word. He stared at the back of Khaotung’s head, noting the slight curl at the nape of his neck, the way he tilted his head when concentrating, the way he underlined things neatly in his notebook.

Everything felt familiar, and yet foreign.

When class ended, First didn’t allow himself time to overthink.

He reached forward and gripped Khaotung’s wrist.

Khaotung whipped around, his eyes grew wide.

“Oh, it’s you,” he said. “Sorry again for earlier. I-”

“Khaotung,” First interrupted, breath uneven, “Where have you been? It’s been so long, what-.”

Confusion flickered across Khaotung’s face.

“I’m sorry,” he said slowly, “Do I know you?”

First could visibly hear his heart shatter into pieces.

“Huh?” He let out a strained laugh, “Friend, you have to be joking, right? It’s me. Firfir. First. First Kanaphan. Your best friend. I mean, we used to be best friends…since we were 5..?”

Khaotung stared at him politely.

There was no flicker of recognition. No tremor of suppressed emotion.

It was a blank stare.

“I think you might have me confused with someone else,” Khaotung said gently.

And then he pulled his wrist free.

“I’m sorry, I better get going.”

First stood there, watching the retreating figure disappear out of the hall.

He did not remember walking out of the lecture hall. He only became aware of himself again when someone tapped his shoulder, firmly enough to make him flinch, pulling him back into the present.

He turned, eyes still unfocused. Est was standing there, brows slightly furrowed in concern.

“Hey, man. What’s up? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

First swallowed.

“I think I did.”

Est blinked. “Okay. Sure, man.”

First kept silent.

“Oh shit, you’re not kidding.”

Silence.

“Umm…should I be scared too? Or would I laugh at how ridiculous the story is gonna be?”

“Both,” First muttered.

Est studied him for a moment longer before jerking his head towards a cafe. “Come on, let’s eat. You look like you’re about to collapse, and I refuse to carry you to the nurse.”

They walked side by side across campus, the late morning sun already beginning to warm the concrete pathways. Students clustered in groups, laughter rising into the air, the world continuing as if nothing historical had just happened.

It felt unfair.

Inside the cafe, the scent of coffee and pastries mingled in an oddly comforting way. Est ordered without hesitation, then glanced at First.

“Don’t tell me you skipped breakfast again.”

“Granola bar..” First silently mutters.

“Idiot,” Est muttered, adding food for him to the order.

They settled into a small table by the window, trays clinking softly against the surface. For a few seconds, neither of them spoke.

Then Est leaned forward and cleared his throat.

“Alright. Ghost story. Go,” he scoops a spoon of Pad Kra Pao, “Was it a Krasue or Krahang?”

First stared at his Tomyum, stirring it absently.

“There’s this guy,” he began slowly. “His name is Khaotung.”

Est paused mid-bite.

“Oh. You mean the new transfer student?”

First’s head snapped up. He dropped his spoon, which clanked to his bowl, “What?”

“Yeah. Came in like a week ago. Apparently from the States. His parents decided to move back to Thailand.” Est shrugged casually. “I met him at the administration office when I was submitting my form for the swimming championship. Why?”

The words settled heavily in First’s chest.

The States.

Back.

Thailand.

So that’s where he had been.

First let out a slow breath, “I know him.”

Est’s eyes sharpened slightly, slowly chewing on his food. His curiosity piqued, “How?”

First leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling as if the answer were written there.

“We were best friends,” he said quietly, “Since we were 5. We were really close.”

Est’s chewing slowed even more.

“And?”

First’s fingers tightened around his spoon.

“And he doesn’t remember me.”

The words tasted bitter.

Silence.

Est blinked once. Twice.

“Wait,” he said carefully, “As in… doesn’t recognise you at all?”

First lets out a hollow laugh. “I said my name. Told him we were best friends. He just looked at me like I was some random guy who hit his head too hard this morning.”

Est’s expression shifted from confusion to something heavier. He gave a soft smile.

“Alright,” he said gently, “I think you need to start from the beginning.”

And so First did.

Flashback

First had always been a loud child. So the day he fell from the swing, scraping his knee against rough gravel, he had cried loud enough to draw half the playground’s attention.

What he didn’t expect was for a small boy with slightly messy hair and round, dark eyes to crouch beside him and begin yapping about dinosaurs.

“Did you know that Triceratops had three horns for defence?”

First blinked through tears. He sniffed.

“No.”

“And that Stegosaurus had plates that might have helped regulate its body temperature?”

The pain had gradually dulled, replaced by curiosity.

By the time the boy finished explaining why a T-Rex’s arms weren’t useless but actually incredibly strong for their size, First had forgotten that he was hurt and was fully engaged in the serious discussion of interesting dinosaur facts. He even gave some of his own, and they ended up arguing about which Dinosaur would have beaten Yuzu Mumu in a fight. (Guys, let’s pretend Mu was a famous monster.)

Later, when First asked why he did that, the boy shrugged and stood up.

“My mom says talking works to distract you from pain,” he explains while getting rid of some dirt stuck on his pants, “She talks about her favourite boy band when I get shots.”

“What’s your name?” First had asked.

“Khaotung.”

“I’m First. Let’s be best friends!”

Khaotung gave a small smile and nodded enthusiastically.

From that day on, they were inseparable.

They spent afternoons building imaginary worlds, arguing about whether chickens were actually dinosaurs, and sharing snacks under the shade of trees. When they grew older, dinosaurs turned into homework complaints, video games, and whispered secrets only they shared. They would rely on each other at times of hardship, but would always be there to support each other in their wins.

Somewhere between childhood and adolescence, things shifted.

First didn’t know when he began noticing the way Khaotung’s laughter felt different. Or why his chest tightened when someone else stood too close to him. Or why he sometimes stared at him longer than necessary.

But he didn’t question it. They were best friends. He just really cared for Khaotung; he would say he was protective.

Then things started to change, nearing the end of High School years.

Khaotung began getting sick.

At first, it was small things, a lingering cough, fatigue, pale skin that wouldn’t warm even under the sun.

“You should see a doctor,” First would insist.

“I’m fine,” Khaotung would reply with a soft smile.

But he wasn’t.

He started missing school. He would give his lunch food to First, claiming that he felt nauseous and couldn’t swallow anything. Sometimes his voice sounded strained, like speaking cost him more effort than it should.

First worried, but Khaotung never explained. And First didn’t want to push, because he believed that if it were serious, Khaotung would have trusted him enough to tell him.

And then one evening, standing under the dim orange glow of a streetlight outside First’s house, everything unravelled.

“I need to tell you something,” Khaotung said.

His hands were shaking.

First had never seen him look so terrified.

“I like someone.”

First felt something drop in his stomach.

“Oh,” he said.

Silence stretched.

Khaotung’s eyes were glossy, but steady.

“It’s you.”

The world went quiet.

First had always known. The way their touch lingered a second longer, or how Khaotung’s cheeks would appear red every time they hung out.

But hearing it spoken aloud made it real in a way that frightened him.

Not because he didn’t feel it.

But because he did.

He was 17.

He was scared. Scared of what it meant. Scared of being different. Scared of how people would look at them. Scared of ruining what they already had.

So he said nothing.

Khaotung’s expression shifted. He lets out a shaky breath.

He nodded once, as if confirming something to himself.

“I understand.”

And then he left.

First stood frozen long after he disappeared down the street.

The next morning, he texted.

No reply.

He called.

Straight to voicemail.

He thought that maybe Khaotung just needed space. So that was what he gave. He stayed away, stopped pleading, and stayed silent.

Until he couldn’t take it anymore.

A week later, he went to Khaotung’s house.

A neighbour answered.

“They moved,” she said casually. “Dunno where they went.”

Gone.

Est stayed silent, trying to process all of the information given to him. Once he does, he whispers,

“So you never liked him back?”

The question stunned first. He never knew that he would be talking about this all these years later.

“I did. I do.” He stared down at the table. “Fuck, I even loved him. I was just scared. It would have changed our friendship. I tried to confess after realising that I wanted that change, which is why I pleaded to talk to him.”

His jaw tightened, and tears were threatening to spill out.

“But he left before I could.”

Est absorbed that slowly.

“And now he doesn’t remember you.”

First nodded.

It hurt in a different way now.

Not like abandonment, it was like erasure.

And that hurt more.

“Well,” Est said finally, leaning back, “Maybe this is your second chance.”

First frowned, “Second chance at what?”

“At trying again.” Est gestured vaguely, his voice gentle, “Even if he doesn’t remember you, you can still get to know him now. Become his friend again.”

First hesitated.

“Or,” Est added, softer, “maybe he’ll fall for you again.”

The thought was terrifying.

Before First could respond, Est’s gaze shifted behind him.

“Speaking of chances,” he murmured, “Your 4 o’clock.”

First whips around and his gaze lands on Khaotung who was scanning the area, a plate of fried rice and a drink in hand. Without thinking, First shot up. He walked over before his courage could evaporate.

“Hi! It’s First, again. I’m sorry we kind of got on the wrong foot earlier, but do you want to sit with us?” First points to the table with Est, who was waving at them enthusiastically, “We’re right there.”

Khaotung hesitated.

For a brief second, something unreadable flickered across his face.

Then he gave a slight nod.

“Sure.”

Lunch should have been awkward.

It wasn’t.

Or perhaps it was, but only for First.

Khaotung sat across from him with polite composure, offering small smiles when Est made a joke and was nodding thoughtfully throughout the conversation. He spoke in a tone that was warm yet carefully measured, clearly his walls were still up. But even then, there was nothing cold about him.

And that almost made it worse.

Because he wasn’t pushing First away.

He simply didn’t know him.

“So…how’s the transfer process?” Est asked between sips of lemonade.

“It’s… different,” Khaotung replied, “The system here is more structured than what I’m used to.”

“You’ll survive,” Est said easily, “We all do. Eventually. Just let me or First know if you need help with anything.”

Khaotung smiled at that. First barely touched his food, he stayed quiet throughout.

He studied the way Khaotung held his fork, the faint crease between his brows when he concentrated, the way he occasionally pressed his lips together before speaking. The small habits that hadn’t changed.

Or maybe they had, and First was imagining familiarity because he needed it.

“What made you move?” Est asked casually.

There it was.

The question First had been silently begging Est to ask.

Khaotung paused.

“My parents wanted to,” he said simply, “Personal issues.”

First waited for more.

There wasn’t any.

The conversation shifted naturally after that, towards lighter topics like professors, assignments, and campus rumours. Est carried most of it, leaving First to observe.

Every now and then, Khaotung would glance at him.

Not with recognition.

But curiosity.

To First, that was something.

When First got back, he didn’t even bother turning on the lights.

The room was dim, washed in the faint orange of late evening leaking through half-drawn curtains. His roommate wasn’t back yet, which meant there was no one to witness his depressing crash out.

He dropped his bag by the door, and for a few seconds, he simply stood there. His brain didn’t know what to do.

Then he moved. Sat at his desk, flipped his laptop open, and clicked through a folder he hadn’t touched in years.

Do Not Delete.

His fingers hovered above the trackpad before he clicked on it.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

Photographs flooded the screen.

Two boys with uneven haircuts and scraped elbows. Birthday parties with crooked candles. School trips. Selfies taken too close to their faces, laughing at nothing in particular.

First leaned back slowly in his chair.

There it is, he thought.

Proof.

Proof that it was real, that he hadn’t imagined it.

He clicked on one photo and enlarged it. It was taken during their school trip. Khaotung was caught mid-sentence, clearly explaining something passionately, his hands half-raised as if emphasising a point. First was staring at him like the explanation was the most important thing in the world.

Around them, the crowd buzzed with loud chatter and restless movement, classmates laughing and calling out to one another. But in the photograph, none of that seemed to matter. The noise blurred into the background.

They were in their own world.

He swallowed.

“You don’t remember this,” he murmured to the empty room.

The silence didn’t respond.

He scrolled further.

A blurry photo from high school, taken on First’s birthday. He stood at the centre, smiling at the camera, knife in hand, ready to cut his Valorant-themed cake while their friends crowded around him. First had his hand around Khaotung’s shoulder, because it was never a one-man celebration. They were always together in everything they did.

He paused on that one.

That was before everything broke.

Before the distance.

Before the silence that ruined everything.

His chest tightened.

“I should have said it.” he whispered.

He ran a hand through his hair and leaned forward, elbows on the desk, face inches from the screen.

“You should have said it.” He tells the First in the picture, who grinned back at him.

He could still see it, Khaotung standing there, hands trembling, eyes hopeful but terrified.

And god, First had known, hoped even.

So why didn’t he say it?

Because he was scared. He was 17 and didn’t know how to hold something that big without dropping it. He thought he had time.

He let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh ath that thought.

“I thought we had time.”

That was the cruellest part.

He thought that Khaotung would wake up the next morning and they would talk. That he would show up at school, and they would sit next to each other like always. That he could take his time figuring out how to say the words properly.

Instead, it was as if Khaotung never existed. His socials were wiped off, and his phone number was no longer in service.

He had searched for months after that. Every day, he would check social media, hoping that his account would magically appear. Asked around casually, pretending it wasn’t killing him. Stopped by Khaotung’s house every other week, expecting to see him waving through his bedroom window.

Nothing.

Just gone.

And now he was back.

Alive. Real. Sitting across from him at lunch like they had never shared a lifetime of memories.

First clicked on another photo, one taken of both of them at a school fair. Khaotung wasn’t looking at the camera. His gaze was fixed on First instead. He was smiling too, but softer, brighter in a different way. Not the practised smile people give a lens, but the kind that slips out without permission. The smile that only existed when it was just the two of them.

First stared at that detail for a long time.

“You loved me that much,” he murmured, “I knew you did, but you didn’t know that I loved you as much too.”

He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.

“If he’s really forgotten me,” he thought, “Then maybe Est was right, this is my second chance.”

Not to fix the past.

But to build something new.

Maybe that was kinder. It was easier to fall in love with someone who didn’t remember how you broke them.

His throat tightened.

“No,” he said quietly to himself. “I’m not letting you slip away again.”

He turned back to the laptop, scrolling through photos with renewed focus.

If Khaotung didn’t remember, then First would remind him, not by shoving the past in his face, not by demanding recognition, but by being there. By sitting beside him again. By making him laugh. By earning back something that once came so easily.

“I’ll take it slow,” he whispered a promise, “I’ll do it right this time.”

He closed the laptop gently.

Outside, the sky had darkened. For the first time since that morning collision, something inside his chest felt steady.

And just like that, First decided he would try again.

He didn’t know yet that some blossoms do not fade with the season.

They are plucked out, petal by petal, until nothing remains but memory.

And he was about to fall in love with someone who no longer carried the same flowers inside his chest.

The next day, First found him sitting on a bench shaded by the large Tecoma tree near the humanities building the following afternoon.

Khaotung had a book open in his lap. The sunlight filtered through the leaves and scattered shadows across his face. His expression was focused while writing something in the book; a pad of sticky tabs lay beside him.

In the midst of the moving crowd, First stood frozen.

Years ago, he would have dropped down beside him without hesitation. He would have stolen the book and complained dramatically about being ignored.

Now, he hesitated like a stranger.

He approached slowly.

“Hi.”

Khaotung looked up.

“Oh. Hey.”

“What are you reading?” First asked.

Khaotung tilted the book slightly so he could see the cover. “Just annotating something to pass the time.”

“You read to pass the time?” First teased lightly. “I doom-scroll.”

A faint smile tugged at Khaotung’s mouth, but he stayed silent.

An unfamiliar pause settled between them.

“Can I sit?” First asked.

Khaotung nodded.

And that was how it began.

It wasn’t easy.

At first, every conversation felt like walking across thin ice. First had to stop himself from referencing memories or calling Khaotung nicknames they used to share. He had to swallow down inside jokes. He had to pretend that learning Khaotung’s favourite colour was new information instead of something he had once known instinctively.

He asked for Khaotung’s number a week later.

Khaotung hesitated.

“I don’t really give it out unless necessary,” he said carefully.

The rejection stung more than it should have.

“That’s fine,” First replied quickly, masking the ache with a shrug, “We have classes together anyway.”

Weeks passed.

Khaotung began sitting with them regularly at lunch. He laughed more openly. He started teasing Est back instead of merely reacting. He even initiated conversation with First sometimes, although it was small things, like asking about an assignment or commenting on something absurd that happened in class.

There were still boundaries, though.

Sometimes Khaotung would cancel plans at the last minute, apologising vaguely. Sometimes he would grow quiet mid-conversation, as if distracted. 

Khaotung never invited him over.

Whenever First casually suggested studying at his place, Khaotung would deflect.

“It’s messy.”

“My parents are home.”

“Another time.”

But First didn’t push.

He had learned, once, that pushing made things disappear.

Three months passed in gradual shifts.

It happened on a Tuesday evening.

They had stayed late at the library preparing for midterms when rain began pouring down in heavy sheets, trapping students inside the building.

First cursed under his breath.

“I left my umbrella in my dorm.”

“I drove,” Khaotung said quietly.

First looked up.

“You did?”

Khaotung nodded. “You can ride with me.”

The offer felt monumental.

They walked to the parking lot together, rain soaking the edges of their jeans despite their hurried pace. Inside the car, the world felt smaller. Quieter.

First could hear his own heartbeat thumping against his chest.

“My place is closer,” Khaotung said suddenly. “You can wait there until it slows.”

The words barely registered at first.

“Your place?”

A brief pause.

“Yeah.”

First tried not to react too strongly.

“Okay.”

Khaotung’s house was modest but warm, lights glowing softly through wide windows. 

“Make yourself comfortable,” Khaotung said.

First stepped inside cautiously, gaze roaming the walls.

Family photos.

A record player.

Bookshelves.

Cat.

And then he saw it.

On a small wooden table near the staircase.

A frame.

He moved closer without thinking.

It was old, slightly faded.

His fingers trembled as he picked it up.

“What?”

He takes a closer look.

Two children stood side by side in the picture, arms slung around each other’s shoulders, grinning widely with scraped knees and crooked teeth.

He recognised those faces anywhere.

The frame slipped from First’s hand but didn’t shatter.

The sound it made against the floor was small.

The silence afterwards was not.

“So you do know me.”

His voice came out lower than he expected, tight and shaking around the edges.

Behind him, Khaotung didn’t answer immediately.

First turned slowly.

Khaotung stood near the doorway, shoulders stiff, face drained of colour in a way that made him look almost translucent under the warm light.

“Fir-”

“Don’t.” His voice cracked.

The air between them felt charged, unstable.

“You kept it,” First continued, gesturing sharply toward the fallen photo. “You kept a picture of us. You kept proof that we existed. And you looked me in the eye for 3 whole months and told me you didn’t know me?”

Khaotung inhaled carefully. “I didn’t say I didn’t know you.”

“You asked if you knew me!” First shouted. “That’s the same fucking thing!”

His chest was heaving now, breath uneven, hands trembling not from sadness but from fury that had been building quietly for months.

“For 3 months,” he continued, voice rising, “I have been trying to get close to you. Do you have any idea how humiliating that was? Pretending I didn’t know your favourite drink? Pretending I didn’t know you hate thunder? Keeping my hands to stop from hugging you?”

Khaotung flinched slightly at that.

“I wasn’t pretending nothing happened,” he said quietly.

“Then what the hell were you doing?”

The question echoed off the walls.

Khaotung’s jaw tightened.

“I was trying to survive.”

“Survive what?” First snapped, “Me?”

“First-”

“No!” His voice broke into something sharper, “You don’t get to be calm right now. You don’t get to act like this was reasonable. Do you know what you did to me?”

His eyes burned.

“You confessed to me. You told me you loved me. And yeah, I didn’t answer right away, but I didn’t reject you either. I just- I needed a second. One second. And then you fucking disappeared.”

Khaotung’s breathing had grown shallow.

“I texted you,” First continued, stepping closer, “I called you. I gave you space, I thought you needed it. Then I couldn’t take it anymore. I went to your house like an idiot. And some neighbour tells me you moved. Just like that. No goodbye. No explanation. It was like you just never existed. You were just gone!”

His voice dropped, shaking.

“Do you know how long I thought it was my fault?”

Khaotung closed his eyes.

“Do you know how many nights I replayed that moment and thought if I had just opened my mouth faster, maybe you wouldn’t have left?” First’s voice cracked violently, “I thought you hated me. I thought I wasn’t worth staying for.”

“You were,” Khaotung said immediately, voice breaking for the first time.

“Then why the fuck did you leave me?”

The question hit harder than anything before.

“I had to move for surgery!” Khaotung shouted suddenly, the volume overpowering First’s.

The room froze.

First blinked. His chest was heaving. His face was painted red.

“What?”

“I was sick,” Khaotung continued, breath uneven now, “I had to get surgery.”

“You were sick?” First repeated, quieter but still shaking, “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?”

“I couldn’t tell you.”

“Why the hell not?”

Silence.

“Khaotung, I swear-“

“It was because of you!”

The words landed like a physical blow.

First went still.

“What?”

Khaotung’s eyes were red now, tears pooling but not falling yet.

“I loved you too much,” he said, voice trembling violently, “It was killing me.”

First felt the floor tilt.

“What are you talking about?”

“I had surgery,” Khaotung said, swallowing hard, “For Hanahaki.”

The word hung between them.

First felt the blood drain from his face.

“No,” he said immediately, shaking his head as if denial could undo it, “No, that’s- that’s not real. That’s not-”

“It is,” Khaotung interrupted quietly, “And it was killing me.”

First’s mind raced backwards, trying to replay memories. Right before he left. The coughing, the days Khaotung suddenly bolted to bathrooms, and the way he sometimes pressed a hand to his chest like something hurt beneath his ribs.

“I saw the signs but,” First whispered. “You never… you never coughed up anything in front of me. You never-”

“I made sure you didn’t see anything,” Khaotung replied.

The words came out tired.

“I would leave the room. I’d shove the petals into my deepest pocket. I learned how to hide it.”

First staggered back until he hit the edge of the couch. He didn’t sit. He just stood there, shaking.

“How long?” he asked hoarsely.

“Almost a year.”

A year.

A year of loving him.

A year of suffocating because of him.

“Why didn’t you fucking tell me?” First demanded, voice rising again, grief twisting into anger, because that was easier.

“Tell you what?” Khaotung snapped, sudden frustration cracking through his exhaustion, “That every time you smiled at me, it hurt? That every time you touched me, it made it worse? That I was counting how many breaths I could take without feeling like something was blooming inside my lungs?”

First flinched.

“And I did fucking tell you didn’t I?”

That made First's heart stop. Khaotung's voice bounced off the walls as he yelled.

“But I didn’t want you to love me out of fear,” Khaotung continued, tears spilling freely now, “I didn’t want you to look at me and think, ‘If I don’t say yes, he’ll die.’ That’s not love. That’s pressure.”

“I would have said it because I meant it!” First shouted.

“But you didn’t!” Khaotung shot back.

The silence that followed was violent.

First’s mouth opened.

Closed.

“I was scared,” he whispered. Khaotung didn’t hear it.

“My parents pushed me to surgery. I refused for so long. Until one day I just thought,” Khaotung continued, voice trembling, “Confess, and if it’s returned, I live. If not… I get the surgery.”

First’s heart pounded in his ears.

“And when I didn’t answer right away…” he murmured.

“I took it as no,” Khaotung said softly, “Waiting would have physically hurt me.”

First pressed a hand against his own chest as if he could feel what Khaotung once had.

“They removed it,” Khaotung said after a moment of heavy breathing.

First looked up slowly.

“Removed what?”

“The flowers. The roots. Everything.” His voice was frighteningly calm now. “They have to remove the emotional attachment connected to the person. That’s how they stop it from growing back.”

First’s stomach dropped.

“What does that mean?” he asked, though dread had already pooled heavily inside him. He knew the answer, but was it really that bad to hope?

Khaotung looked at him fully then.

“It means my body doesn’t respond to you anymore,” he said quietly.

First felt something inside him fracture.

“I remember loving you,” Khaotung continued, voice unsteady, “I remember what it was like. I remember how much it hurt. But when I look at you now…”

He swallowed.

“There’s nothing.”

The word echoed louder than any scream.

“Don’t,” First breathed, “Don’t say that.”

“I’m not saying I don’t care about you,” Khaotung rushed, tears falling again, “I care. I care so much it’s terrifying. But my heart stills around you. I can’t even feel happy around you anymore.”

First shook his head violently.

“No. No, that’s not possible. Feelings don’t just-”

“They cut them out, First!” Khaotung shouted, voice breaking completely, “That’s the surgery! They remove the part that keeps loving the person who’s killing you!”

The words rang through the house.

First’s breathing became shallow.

“You’re not killing me now,” First whispered desperately, “You’re here. I’m here. We can fix this.”

Khaotung’s expression crumpled.

“You can’t regrow something that was carved out.”

First felt tears spill down his face without realizing when they started.

“So what?” he choked, “That’s it? You just… don’t feel anything when you look at me?”

Khaotung hesitated.

And that hesitation destroyed him more than the answer.

“I feel like I’m looking at someone I used to die for,” he said softly. “Yet now feels like a stranger.”

The quiet that followed was unbearable.

All this time.

All this fucking time, he had been trying to win him back.

Trying to make him remember.

Trying to rebuild something that had been surgically erased…permanently.

“I was going to tell you,” First whispered brokenly, “I was going to tell you I loved you the next day.”

Khaotung closed his eyes.

That knowledge felt cruel.

First laughed weakly, the sound hollow and shaking.

“You almost died because of me.”

“I almost died because I loved you,” Khaotung corrected gently, “I CHOSE to love you too much.”

And somehow, that was worse.

Flashback

He did not fall in love suddenly.

There was no thunderclap, no dramatic realization with romantic music playing in the back as the world moved in slow motion.

He fell in love quietly.

Somewhere between shared lunches and shared secrets, something changed.

It happened on an ordinary afternoon.

They were 15, sitting under a tree after school, complaining about homework. First’s hands moved too much, his words tumbling over themselves, and Khaotung was staring at him, watching. Khaotung had stopped listening to the words.

He was watching the way the sunlight caught in First’s hair.

He was watching the way his mouth curved when he smiled.

He was watching him like he was something precious.

And that was when it struck him, sharp and undeniable.

Oh.

The realization didn’t scare him at first.

It felt warm, natural, even. Like something that had always been growing quietly beneath the surface.

He didn’t tell First.

He didn’t tell anyone.

He just carried it.

The coughing started months later.

At first, he thought it was stress or a lingering cold.

But it didn’t go away.

Sometimes it felt like something was lodged in his chest, something soft but stubborn that refused to dissolve. He would wake up in the middle of the night, throat raw, eyes teary, and his fingers pressing against his throat as if he could physically push the feeling down.

The first time it happened, he was alone in the bathroom.

He had coughed so hard his vision blurred.

And then something delicate fell into his palm.

A petal.

Small.

Pink.

He stared at it for a long time.

He already knew what it meant.

He had read about it once, in passing, an urban legend that wasn’t quite legend.

Hanahaki Disease.

Unrequited love.

Flowers blooming inside the lungs of someone whose feelings had nowhere to go.

He laughed softly when he realised.

Of course loving First would grow into something that beautiful and that painful.

He didn’t tell him.

How could he?

How do you look at your best friend and say, “I love you so much you’re killing me”?

Instead, he hid it.

He learned to excuse himself before coughing fits became obvious. He learned to swallow petals if he had to. He learned to smile through nausea.

The doctor confirmed it weeks later.

“You need surgery,” his mother said immediately, voice trembling.

“No.”

“You will die.”

“Then I will.”

His father’s expression hardened, “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not,” Khaotung replied quietly, “I would rather hurt than lose him.”

Because that was the cost.

Surgery removed the flowers, the emotions attached to the person who caused them.

It did not erase memory. It erased feeling.

And khaotung decided that was worse.

“You are going to die, Khaotung,” his mother cried one night, clutching his hands, “Do you understand that?”

Silence.

“And you’re choosing this?”

He swallowed, but stayed silent.

Because loving First hurt.

But not loving him would feel worse.

Months passed. 

The petals grew larger.

The coughing became violent.

Some nights, he would kneel on the bathroom floor, shaking, trying not to make noise so his parents wouldn’t hear. The petals pooled around his knees, the beauty of it mocking his suffering.

And still, he refused surgery.

He told himself he would confess.

If First loved him back, it would stop.

If he didn’t…

Then he would decide.

He rehearsed the confession a hundred times.

“It’s you.”

He waited.

The silence stretched like something fragile about to snap.

First didn’t say anything.

Khaotung felt something inside his chest tighten painfully.

He nodded once.

“I understand.”

He turned before First could see his expression collapse, and ran back home.

That night, he couldn’t breathe. The petals had turned black. He pressed his hand to his mouth to keep quiet as tears blurred his vision.

First kept on calling, texting, but he ignored every one of them. He knew that First would feel guilty. Maybe that First would confess that he liked him back, or that First would downright reject him. He’s not sure which one is more likely, but one thing’s for sure, it is going to change their friendship either way.

And he can’t have that.

“We’re scheduling it,” his father said firmly.

He didn’t fight this time. He was too tired. He left days later without saying goodbye because he didn’t trust himself to survive seeing First one more time. He knew that he would stay if he saw First, even if the feelings weren’t reciprocated.

On the plane, he stared out the window and whispered, “I’m sorry.”

The hospital was cold.

“Last chance,” the doctor said, “This thing cannot be reversed.”

Khaotung closed his eyes.

He thought of First’s laugh. He looks back at all the times they left school chasing each other with big grins on their faces. He remembers the way First would hug him while Khaotung sobbed about something he doesn’t clearly remember.

He thinks of First’s silence.

“Do it,” he said.

The anaesthesia crept through his veins slowly.

The last thing he remembered thinking was: I hope he’s happy.

Waking up felt strange. The world felt too quiet.

He thought it was the medication.

Until he tried to think about First.

He could remember every detail of First’s face, his laugh, his hands, the way his chest tightened whenever he saw him. Yet there was no longer a pull, no warmth, not even happiness. There was only memory and absence, and the realisation that what had been cut out of his body could not grow back.

Years later, when his parents decided to move back to Thailand, he agreed easily.

He told himself it wouldn’t matter. He had removed the part of himself that made it matter.

The first day on campus, when someone collided with him and fell to the ground, he instinctively reached out to help.

And then he saw his face.

First.

Older. Sharper. Still expressive. Still alive in ways he remembered vividly.

The memories came crashing back. But the pull was gone, he felt empty. His heart didn’t race and he could finally look into First’s eyes without feeling like doing flips.

“I’m so sorry,” he said automatically, because that was what you said to strangers.

When First grabbed his wrist after class, pleading with him, he didn’t know what to do. So since then, he decided that pretending was much more easier than revealing the truth.

For 3 months, that was what he did. He maintained distance, talked with First only when needed and kept the guilt of the truth tucked at the back of his mind. Sometimes when they talked, he would look into the eyes of the man he had once loved enough to die for and realise that he felt only the quiet, unbearable absence of what had once defined him.

First sank into the couch, chest heaving, hands trembling as the weight of the story pressed down on him. He could hardly speak, his voice breaking every time he tried.

“I… I should have known,” he whispered, barely audible. “I should have seen… I should have been there. All those years, and I didn’t… I didn’t reach you. I let you go through it alone.”

Khaotung stayed where he was, wearing a calm and careful expression. His eyes didn’t flinch, though his chest ached at the sight of First crumbling. 

“You can’t blame yourself,” he said quietly, voice steady.

“I do,” First whispered, voice tight, tears spilling down his cheeks. “I loved you… I still do. And I should have done something. Anything. I should have known… I should have-” He broke off, burying his face in his hands. “…I should have confessed.”

Khaotung’s lips pressed into a thin line. He wanted to reach out, to hold First and undo the years of pain, but he couldn’t. Not now. Not ever.

First finally lifted his head, eyes red, voice barely above a whisper. His hands shook on his knees. “I loved you. I still… I was just terrified of ruining our friendship-” His throat tightened. “…and now it’s completely gone. Everything we had… it’s gone. Because of me?”

Khaotung didn’t answer immediately. He looked at him, steady, careful, letting the silence carry the weight of years apart. He could remember everything, the childhood laughter, the dinosaurs scattered across the carpet, the confessions, the coughs, the plane, the hospital, but the memories carried no feeling.

It was like a blossom that appears once in a lifetime. Bright, unforgettable, and now gone forever.

First’s chest heaved again, voice small, breaking. “Is there… is there no way we can reverse it?”

The room fell silent.

No one moved. No one spoke. Only the quiet remained, stretching between them, heavy with what had been, what could never be, and what they both wished could be undone.