Archive of Our Own

Qin Charat had been able to see ghosts for as long as he could remember. It was a rare supernatural ability that crawled under his skin, up his body, mind, and soul with no prior warning, like an uninvited annoying relative. He has no recollection of the exact moment it began. All he remembered was that it slowly started to become clear when he was just a seven-year-old boy, laying down on his squishy bed, bathed in the dim glow of neon space lights scattered across his room ceiling.

That was the night he truly began recognising them.

Vague creepy silhouettes. Shifting shadows lurking in the corners. Creatures with no form or shape floating above him like clouds of mist and dreamstuff. None of it felt real, however everything was real as it could be. Unbeknownst to him, there was a rule in the realm of the universe where everything co-existed: humans or mortals alike should never acknowledge beings or creatures that do not belong to the mortal world. But Qin was only a child. He didn’t know the rules.

At first, he would scream and cry out for his parents whenever he saw those strange apparitions. But they never saw what he did. Concerned, his parents took him to doctors and therapists, hoping to find an explanation for the visions. But nothing worked. The ghosts didn’t go away. And worse, once they realized Qin could see them, they began to approach him, speaking to him in a language— that neither Qin could understand nor process— as if he were one of them.

As he grew older, the apparitions he saw grew in numbers, however the belief in his words began to fade. His parents stopped taking him seriously. His friends mocked him, called him delusional or crazy. No one believed he could see spirits, and eventually, even Qin stopped trying to convince them.

Instead, he adapted. He learned the hardest unimaginable way to avert his eyes whenever he spotted one. He trained himself not to engage—not even a glance, not a flicker of attention. It was the only way to preserve his sanity and maintain a sense of normalcy.

If he wanted to survive in this world, he had to ignore the ghosts like they weren’t even there.

In time, it became his second nature. Seeing them, yet acting like he didn’t. Like they were just dust motes or tricks of the light. He shut that part of himself down completely.

Or so he thought.

He invested his time and energy focusing on his education. On his ambitions—to become a journalist everyone would come to talk about. His passion was uncovering the truth, exposing criminals, and crafting stories that could shake industries with his undying sense of justice.

And eventually, he became one. Even though he worked at a small firm for a generous salary, he felt fulfilled. He thought he had finally buried his terrifying childhood behind him—the trauma that came with it. After all, the lesser attention he gave them, the spirits would definitely rule him out as someone who didn’t belong to their circle and left him alone.

That is, until one day—he appeared.

And from that moment on, Qin Charat’s life veered off its path and turned completely upside down. Worse, it didn't return to how it was before his arrival

▼△▼△▼△▼△▼

“Ugh, why did I forget my umbrella again?!” Qin groaned as he dashed through the heavy rain, shielding his head with both hands. His clothes were already soaked, water dripping from the hem of his hoodie and sleeves. The downpour showed no signs of slowing down anytime soon.

He finally found shelter beneath the awning of a nearby bus stop. Huffing, he shook out his hair and wiped his face with the back of his hand, blinking away the rain that clung stubbornly to his eyebrows and lashes. A quick glance at his wristwatch told him he still had ten minutes before the next bus arrived.

The conference meeting had dragged on longer than expected, and afterward, he'd rushed to finish his report on the Lucien Café case—the one involving the mysterious disappearance of meat from their kitchen. And how the culprit turned out to be just a stray cat sneaking in from the back alley. In return for writing down the case in a fashionable, engaging way, Qin and the team had been rewarded with a free pass to order anything from the café. Unfortunately, indulging in too many rich desserts and greasy snacks had left him battling some less-than-pleasant digestive issues.

He grimaced as he felt his hoodie clinging uncomfortably to his skin, soaked through and heavy. Grabbing the fabric, he tried wringing out the excess water, but it didn’t help much. It was already late at night and the sky was pitch black surrounded by dark clouds. The only illumination came from the flickering light of the bus stop and lampposts scattered at hundred-meter intervals along the road.

As he turned slightly, his gaze landed on a man sitting beneath the awning. The figure was slumped on the pavement, his head bowed so low his chin nearly touched his chest.

Qin’s eyes narrowed. Something felt... off.

The man looked pale. Paler than any normal human being should be. As if the blood stopped flowing through his veins.

As a journalist, Qin had keen observation skills. As his gaze traveled downwards he could see the deep gash—like something sliced through it—under the man’s ribs. The very part was soaked in scarlet red like a splash of paint on a white blank canvas. His gaze then snapped upwards. Blood trickled down his temple to his chin.

A wave of concern washed over him. Without thinking, Qin rushed over and crouched beside the man.

“Khun! Are you okay? You need a doctor. You’re bleeding!” he said urgently, reaching out to place a hand on the man’s shoulder to see whether he was still functioning.

But his hand passed straight through the man's body and smacked against the pavement.

Qin’s eyes widened in horror. His heart skipped a beat, then began pounding furiously in his chest in fear.

The realization of this situation hit him like a slap to the face.

He’s a ghost.

He scrambled back the instant the reality sank into his bones, crawling toward the far end of the awning in panic, his breaths coming in short, rapid bursts. The figure, however, remained still— almost robotic kind of still—unmoving and unresponsive, as if Qin’s presence meant nothing at all.

Just then, a large blue bus screeched to a halt in front of the stop, its doors sliding open with a mechanical hiss. The driver squinted down at Qin, who was still sprawled awkwardly on the pavement like he’d just seen something out of this world.

The driver gave him a withering look, eyebrows furrowed in a mix of confusion and mild annoyance.

“You getting in, young man?” he asked, his voice half irritated, half tired.

Snapping out of his daze, Qin whipped his head around to register the presence of the bus. He scrambled to his feet, brushing off the dirt from his pants as he stumbled toward the entrance. “Ye-Yes!” he stammered, breathless.

He tapped his card against the fare sensor, the beep confirming his payment, and made his way to the very back of the bus towards one of the window seats that faced the stop.

As the bus pulled away, Qin instinctively turned for one last look.

The figure was still there.

Sitting exactly where he had been. But now, he was staring directly at Qin, expression eerily calm—except for the faint smile slowly curling onto his face. The dim awning light casted an otherworldly glow across his features.

“Found you,” he mouthed.

Qin’s chest tightened in knots. He snapped his head forward, inhaling sharply as he clutched at his chest, trying to steady his breathing.

You just have to ignore him.

Just like you always did with the others.

He’ll disappear. He has to!

He repeated the words in his mind like a mantra, rocking back and forth slightly in his seat as he took slow, measured breaths, trying desperately to erase the image of the ghost’s smile from his mind.

▼△▼△▼△▼△▼

The moment Qin stepped inside his house, he slammed the door shut behind him and locked it with trembling fingers. Without a second thought, he rushed toward the windows, securing each one with hurried movements. He didn’t care that he was drenched from head to toe, leaving behind a trail of rainwater across the floor.

He was still shaken.

That stare. That smile. It was burned into his memory, imprinted like a phantom wound. The ghost had looked... unhinged. Disturbing. Yet, somehow—annoyingly—he’d also been handsome. As if his body knew something his mind didn't.

But that wasn’t the point.

He was a ghost. And Qin had sworn long ago that he would never, ever interact with one again.

Eventually, after pacing around to calm his nerves, he dragged himself into the bathroom. The hot shower washed away the cold and the fear clinging to his skin. He tossed his soaked clothes into the laundry bin and slipped into a pair of soft pajamas, ready to call it a day and forget the stress of it.

He was drained. Completely. The day’s stress and fatigue weighed down on him like a blanket of lead. Without bothering to dry his hair fully, he flopped onto his bed and yanked the comforter over his head, ready to bury himself in sleep and forget the world for a while.

And soon enough, Qin Charat had drifted into a deep slumber.

▼△▼△▼△▼△▼

The clock read 2:00 a.m.

He lay sprawled across the bed, limbs thrown carelessly in every direction, the comforter tangled between his legs. The constant whirring of the air con had chilled down the room enough for a peaceful rest.

But then he heard it. A voice. Calling out his name.

At first, it was faint—like something bleeding in through a dream. His head twitched, brows furrowing as if his subconscious was trying to dismiss it as part of his sleep.

But the voice grew firmer. A little louder. Quite Impatient.

“Qin Charat? Qin Charat, please wake up,” it said—gentle, but tinged with urgency.

Qin groaned into his pillow, voice muffled and whiny. “No… Let me sleep! I don’t want to wake up…” he mumbled, stubbornly keeping his eyes shut. Whatever it was, it couldn’t possibly be more important than sleep.

Then came the voice again—louder this time, sharp with authority.

“Terr!”

Qin's body jolted upright. He sat up in bed, blinking rapidly, his head swiveling in every direction as he tried to find the source of the voice. He was still groggy, caught in that foggy space between dreaming and waking, the edges of his vision soft and unfocused.

But he was definitely awake now.

And someone—or something—was calling his name.

Gradually, Qin could make out a foot—then a pair of legs—before the figure floated into full view, his feet hovering inches above the ground.

No no no…

It felt like someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over Qin's head.

In an instant, all drowsiness vanished. He was wide awake, heart pounding as if alarm bells were blaring from every nerve ending. Swallowing the bile rising in his throat, he hesitantly lifted his gaze, inch by inch.

There they were—the same black trousers, a familiar Chanel belt cinched tightly around his waist, the once-crisp linen overshirt now discolored with dark, splattered blood. His side was torn, a gruesome gash just below his ribs, raw and exposed. Around his neck hung a silver pendant, catching faint glimmers of light. It was barely visible under the streaks of dried and fresh blood. The face was scattered with moles.

Then came the eyes.

They were haunting. Hollow. Overflowing with a chaotic blend of sorrow, desperation, and something very gentle—like hope.

Strands of blood-matted hair fell across his brow, clinging to his skin. One side of his face was marred by a deep, bleeding wound, bruised in shades of purple and black, bits of gravel still embedded in the skin.

He was battered. Broken.

And yet, terrifyingly beautiful.

Qin had never seen a ghost like him before—so devastatingly human, yet so clearly not of this world. As if he wasn't a ghost to begin with.

Terror shot through his spine. He slapped a hand over his mouth to suppress a scream and instinctively began crawling backward on the bed until his back hit the headboard with a soft thud.

The ghost floated forward, silent, his body suspended a foot above the floor.

“D-Don’t come near me!” Qin shrieked, unable to control the fear coursing through him.

The ghost immediately stopped, retreating to his original position. He hovered in place, bouncing gently as if weightless.

Moonlight streamed through the balcony window, casting a silver glow across his ghostly features.

Qin cautiously sat up, slightly steadier now that the figure had obeyed his plea. As the panic dulled just enough to let him think, he began to notice something... odd.

He wasn’t like the other ghosts Qin had seen throughout his life.

There was something deeply different about him.

He didn’t shimmer or flicker like an illusion. He wasn’t translucent or barely-there. His body was tangible-looking—solid, almost real. If not for the gruesome wounds and that unsettling way he hovered, or the way he was glowing a little, he could easily be mistaken for a living man.

And that unsettled Qin even more.

Because if he hadn’t already experienced his hand going straight through the figure earlier that night, he might’ve never believed he was a ghost at all.

But what truly sent a chill through his spine was this:

The ghost spoke in perfect, fluent human language. Not the garbled whispers or distorted murmurs Qin was used to from other spirits.

That fact alone chilled him more than anything else.

“Who are you?! How do you know my name?!” Qin demanded, voice trembling. His posture was guarded, knees tucked to his chest, one arm wrapped tightly around them like a shield against the supernatural being standing before him—or whatever it was.

“Qin, please... help me. I need you,” the ghost begged, voice raw with desperation. His eyes were clouded with pain, shattered like glass. He looked hopeless—like Qin was his only escape, his final resort.

“I don’t even know who you are!” Qin shouted back, voice rising with panic and fury. “Get away from me! I don’t want anything to do with ghosts! I’ve suffered enough already!”

His words hit like a whip.

The ghost flinched, visibly hurt by Qin’s outburst. Still, he made one last plea, this time his voice softer but close to urgent.

“Please… you’re the only one who can see me. You’re the only one who can help me leave this place. I’m trapped—please, help me…”

He took a small step forward, trying to close the distance between them.

That was enough to shatter Qin’s restraint.

Acting on instinct, Qin grabbed the nearest object—a ceramic vase—from the bed table and hurled it straight at the ghost. It passed right through the figure, slamming against the wall behind him with a loud crash. The vase shattered on impact, fragments scattering across the floor like glass confetti.

“I SAID GET LOST! DON’T COME NEAR ME! GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!” Qin screamed, eyes clenched shut as hot tears spilled over. His hands shot up to cover his ears, his body trembling uncontrollably. He was breaking down—his shoulders shook violently, gripped by fear and panic.

Silence followed. The room went eerily quiet.

Cautiously, Qin cracked open his eyes. The space in front of him was empty. He quickly glanced around the room, heart thudding painfully in his chest.

Nothing.

Just the soft, steady hum of the air conditioner.

The only evidence of what had happened was the broken vase on the floor, petals and water pooling over shattered porcelain.

The ghost was gone. No trace of his presence was found.

Just then—

knock! knock! knock!

Came a sudden, relentless knock on the front door.

Qin jolted upright in bed, clutching the comforter tightly to his chest, heart hammering.

“Keep it down, will you?! Some of us are trying to sleep!” a voice snapped from outside.

Qin let out a shaky sigh of relief. It was just a neighbor. “I’m sorry! It won’t happen again!” he quickly called out, trying to steady his voice.

The neighbor scoffed, clearly annoyed. “Youngsters these days…” he muttered before shuffling away.

Qin collapsed back onto his bed, limbs heavy with exhaustion. He shut his eyes and started quietly chanting mantras, over and over again, like a child trying to ward off nightmares.

It had been years since he last felt this kind of fear from seeing a ghost. He truly thought he had outgrown it.

Clearly, he hadn’t.

Hot tears welled up in his eyes and slipped down his cheeks.

“I really hate this…” he whispered, burying his face into his pillow as soft sobs escaped him.

Too much had happened in too short a time. And at the end of the day, he was just a human.

Just a person trying to survive a world that refused to play fair.

Clenching his eyes shut, he forced himself to sleep, desperate to erase the memory of everything that had just unfolded.

“It’s okay… tomorrow will be a better day,” he whispered to no one, letting fatigue cradle him into unconsciousness.

And soon, he drifted into a deep, dreamless slumber.

▼△▼△▼△▼△▼

Clutching a cup of latte in one hand, Qin pushed open the door to their modest office space and trudged toward his small cubicle—a compact workstation tucked beside a larger communal desk in the expansive room.

With a tired sigh, he slumped into his chair, setting the latte down with a soft thud before shrugging off his bag. He slipped off his coat and sank deeper into his seat, trying to settle into some semblance of comfort. Today, he wore a Gucci t-shirt layered under a pale blue, unbuttoned flannel shirt, paired with grey-washed jeans. As he exhaled, his shoulders slumped a little, weighed down by fatigue.

“Good morning, Phi!” came a cheerful voice from across the desk.

It was Pae—the new intern who had joined the team a month ago for some hands-on experience at LIZO Press.

Qin offered a faint smile and nodded. “Morning, Pae. You're early today?”

Pae gave a small nod and returned the smile, speaking gently. “Yeah. I’m wrapping up early—got some things to take care of at home.”

Qin hummed in acknowledgment and turned on his desktop. The black screen flickered to life, quickly booting up.

A snicker sounded from the desk next to his. Qin didn’t need to look to know who it was.

“Khun Qin, did a train run over you or something? You’ve got full-on raccoon eyes.”

It was Jamie—his colleague and, unfortunately, self-proclaimed best friend. More like a walking headache, honestly.

Before Qin could muster a retort, another figure appeared and smacked Jamie’s on the back.

With his black long hair and features straight out of a manhwa, the guy looked like he was straight out of a magazine shoot— or like he’d been plucked straight from a fantasy.

“Jamie! Shut up!” he hissed, clearly annoyed, before turning his concerned gaze toward Qin.

“Are you okay? You look... kind of out of it,” he asked softly.

This was Marvis Lee—though everyone in the office called him by his Mars, because most struggled with the pronunciation of his full name.

Qin gave a brief smile and shook his head lightly. “I’m fine, Mars. Don’t worry about it.”

He didn’t want them concerned. He couldn’t afford them knowing the truth—what he’d seen. They wouldn’t understand, no matter how many times he tried to explain. And if word got out?

He’d be nothing but a joke to them.

All the three shared a collective glance at each other before settling it back on Qin.

Just then, the television mounted on the wall pillar lit up with breaking news. The anchor, dressed in a crisp formal suit, read the segment as if she was reciting the daily weather.

“Breaking News: Global Brand Ambassador of Clothing Brand LenZ and heir to the world’s largest perfume empire, Celeste—Duang Cheewin—is reported missing. Sources confirm he has been unaccounted for over the past two weeks. He was last seen leaving the LenZ pop-up event in Bangkok, captured on CCTV entering a black sports car surrounded by bodyguards.”

“That sounds serious...” Jamie muttered, eyes fixed on the shifting figures on the large screen.

“You think it’s a rich people’s feud?” Marvis added uneasily, his brows furrowing as he read the headline again.

The footage on the screen cut to an older couple—likely in their fifties—facing the press, their grief on full display. The man had an arm around his wife’s shoulders, while the woman dabbed at her tears with a tissue, mascara streaking the corners of her eyes. She sniffled delicately, even in distress maintaining an image of composed elegance, like her appearance still mattered more than her words.

“I don’t know where my son is—or how he’s doing,” she cried softly, wiping her tears again. “Please find him. It’s your job, right? Bring him back to me!”

Suddenly, she collapsed to the ground, heaving with labored sobs. Her cries rang sharp in the room—shrill, almost theatrical and forced.

“That’s so fake. I bet the culprit’s one of the family members. No way someone as kind and empathetic as Duang, the world’s most sought-after bachelor, gets targeted by someone outside his circle. That old lady's sobbing sounds like bad acting, and her husband looks like he doesn’t give a damn.” Pae muttered, squinting at the screen.

“Prachai, don’t say stuff like that—they’re still his parents.” Jamie gently scolded him, giving the younger man a sideways glance. “And how do you even know so much about him?”

Clicking his tongue, Pae turned to face Jamie with a faint shrug.

“I’ve read a lot of his interviews… watched videos, read magazine spreads. He’s kind of my role model, you know.” Pae admitted quietly, a hint of pride gleaming in his eyes as he spoke about Duang.

Marvis turned to Qin, who was completely absorbed in his emails, eyes glued to the monitor as he typed and edited lines without pause.

“Qin, what do you think about all this?”

Qin shot a brief, disinterested glance at him before returning to his screen. “Not interested.”

And he meant it. His mind was still clouded with the haunting image of that ghost—so beautiful yet terrifying—that had appeared in his home the night before. The ghost’s desperate pleas echoed in his head like a broken record.

Did I go too far? Qin wondered for a moment, but quickly shook the thought away. No. It was for the best. He nodded to himself. The farther he stayed from it, the safer he’d be. He couldn’t afford to ruin the years of effort he’d put into pretending everything was normal, just to end up labeled a delusional mental case.

The rest of the office, however, remained glued to the screen, fixated on the unfolding drama.

On screen, the man—presumably Duang’s father—turned to glare directly at the cameras, his expression thunderous.

“Can’t you see she’s having a breakdown?! Get the fuck out of our house right this instant!” he bellowed at the reporters and journalists swarming outside.

The scene shifted as reporters turned to their respective cameras, speaking urgently.

“As you can see, Mrs. and Mr. Cheewin are visibly distraught by their son’s disappearance and—”

Suddenly, the screen went black. Every head in the room turned toward the culprit who dared to turn it off at such a crucial moment.

Kim stood by the remote, expression unreadable. The personal secretary to the office’s boss, Kim was known for being strict but fair, punctual and annoyingly logical.

“How many times do I have to remind you all not to turn on the TV until it’s break time?” he said coolly, then turned his attention to Jamie. “And Jamie, is the presentation for today’s meeting ready?”

Jamie scratched the back of his neck and offered a sheepish smile. “Just one slide left… hehe.”

“Marvis, help him. I want that presentation done before the boss gets here,” Kim said, now looking at Marvis, who gave a silent nod in response.

“C’mon, let’s go,” Marvis muttered, grabbing Jamie’s arm and dragging him back to their desks.

Kim then walked over to Qin, only to wrinkle his nose the moment he got a good look at him. Qin looked like a sleep-deprived zombie.

“Qin, are you okay? And are the reports for the Lucien Café case ready?” he asked, raising a brow.

Qin sighed and spun in his chair to face him. “Yeah.”

Kim nodded, turning to leave, but glanced over his shoulder before walking away.

“Wash your face before the meeting starts, Qin. You look like you crawled out of your grave. If you need a day off, say the word—I’ll speak to the boss.”

Strict or not, Kim still had a heart.

“I’ll be fine. Thanks,” Qin replied with a faint shake of his head.

Kim gave him a small smile, then turned to Pae. “Pae, come with me to the cabin.”

Pae quickly nodded and followed him out, likely heading to sort through files and reports in the back office.

Qin let out a deep sigh and buried his face in his hands. His eyes shut for just a moment—just one second—and the image of that man flashed behind his eyelids, vivid and unsettling. He jolted upright.

Pushing his chair back abruptly, he stood and made his way to the washroom. He needed to snap out of this daze—this mental maze—before it swallowed him whole.

Inside the washroom, he bent over the sink, faucet running as he splashed cold water over his face again and again.

I have to stop thinking about him. He means nothing. He’ll be fine.

He repeated the words in his head like a mantra, splashing more water on his face with trembling hands. After turning off the faucet, he stayed hunched over the sink for a moment, breathing heavily, before slowly raising his head to face the mirror.

And that’s when he saw it.

The ghost from last night.

Standing just a few steps behind him, clearly visible in the mirror.

Qin spun around, heart hammering in his chest. His jaw clenched, his hands gripped the counter behind him for support as his back pressed against the cool granite.

“Don’t you understand human language?!” he shouted, voice sharp with fear and frustration. “Why are you still following me?!”

The ghost didn’t flinch. His voice was quiet, almost solemn. “That missing person from the news you just watched… that’s me.”

Qin blinked. “What news? What missing person? What the fuck are you talking about?!”

His voice kept rising, panic creeping into every word. He was thankful the bathroom was empty—no one else to witness what looked like him spiraling into madness.

The ghost didn’t budge. His expression remained tense.

“Duang. That’s me,” he said flatly, offering no more explanation.

Qin stood frozen, conflicted and confused. His mind scrambled, trying to piece together the ghost’s words with everything that had happened so far. Then it clicked—the TV, the news, his colleagues talking… a missing rich heir. Duang.

His gaze snapped to meet the ghost’s—Duang’s—eyes. They were the same as last night. Beautiful, but shattered. Eyes brimming with emotions that were impossible to name. It was too much. Qin tore his gaze away, unable to bear the weight of that pain.

“So?!” he snapped, voice rough. “What’s that got to do with me? What am I supposed to do, huh?!”

“You’re the only person who can see me and help me out—” Duang tried to reason, his voice remained calm but tinged with despair.

But Qin’s fear was louder than Duang’s logic.

“So what?!” he shouted. “Is it my fault I can see you?! Please just disappear! Get out of my sight before I actually call an exorcist!”

Duang flinched at the words. His voice dropped to a broken whisper. “You still don’t want to help me…?”

His expression twisted in pain, and with it, the room’s temperature seemed to dip. It wasn’t just the ghost’s sorrow—it was the energy of hope being extinguished.

Qin made the mistake of looking at him again.

The look that he gave to Qin felt like he was trying to convey something that went beyond the words he said. His heart was screaming at him to listen to him. His eyes shone with unshed tears as his breathing got uneven.

His fingers twitched against the counter. He wanted—no, ached—to reach out, to pull Duang into a comforting hug, even if it was impossible. But fear roared louder.

What if it was all a trick?

What if this ghost was lying?

What if he was being played?

What if he listens and it turns out to be his worst nightmare?

Qin steeled himself. His expression hardened.

“Yes,” he said coldly. “I won’t help you. Now get lost.”

Duang didn’t say another word. He simply vanished into thin air, right before Qin’s eyes.

Only then did Qin release a long, shaky breath.

“Phi, the meeting is going to start. Please come quickly!” Pae’s voice called out from outside the washroom.

Qin glanced at the mirror one last time, wiped the tears, adjusted his hair, and stepped out. Pae was waiting by the door.

“Sorry. I zoned out for a while,” Qin said casually, brushing past him.

Pae stared after him. His eyes flicked between Qin’s retreating back and the washroom door behind him and then back on Qin.

A sad smile danced on his lips.

“Phi…,” he mumbled to himself, voice raw.

Shaking his head to get his shit together, he followed Qin toward the conference room.

▼△▼△▼△▼△▼

Qin entered the conference room with yin trailing behind him. Everyone else had already taken their seats. At the head of the table sat Tong—the boss of LIZO Press—with Kim standing dutifully beside him.

“Hello, everyone. You probably know why we’re gathered here, right?” Tong asked once the room had settled.

“That we’re going to be jobless at this rate…” Jamie muttered under his breath.

Marvis elbowed him in the ribs, earning a pained hiss in return.

But Tong’s eyes were practically sparkling. “We’ve got a BIG case to cover this time!” he announced, grinning from ear to ear.

Every head in the room turned toward Tong, excitement and curiosity buzzing—except Qin’s.

While Tong dove into the details of the new case, Qin’s mind drifted elsewhere. The events in the washroom replayed like a broken reel—Duang’s face, his words, that suffocating feeling of fear and guilt. Qin stared blankly out the window across from him, lost in thought.

That was when he saw it.

Again.

Floating in the air, arms crossed and glaring right at him—Duang.

A headache bloomed behind Qin’s eyes. Of course it was him again.

Qin did the only thing that seemed logical at that moment: he ignored him.

If he didn’t react, the ghost would eventually leave. That had to work.

But Duang wasn’t fazed.

With a puff of ghostly breath, he blew toward Qin. The air shimmered for a second before letters appeared—scrawled in perfect, taunting script across the open notebook on Qin’s desk:

“Ignoring me won’t make me disappear. I’ll keep bothering you until you agree to help me.”

The words slithered across the page like they were hissing directly from Duang’s mouth.

Frustration flared in Qin’s chest. He clenched his jaw and shot a sharp glare at the ghost. Then, deliberately, he mouthed his next words—words he knew Duang would understand clearly:

“Fuck you.”

Duang’s eye twitched in annoyance.

In an instant, he zipped down and plopped himself onto Qin’s notebook—tiny like a plushie, legs crossed, arms folded, and an exaggerated scowl on his miniature face.

Qin blinked, unamused.

This ghost had absolutely no chill.

“You can’t get rid of me! I’m not going anywhere, and that’s final!” Duang hissed, hovering cross-legged above the notebook, arms crossed defiantly.

Qin inhaled deeply, eyes shut tight as he tried to suppress the mounting rage inside him. He didn’t sign up for this. None of it.

“Qin?” a voice called.

“NOW WHAT?!” Qin snapped, shooting to his feet. His voice cracked with fury, cheeks flushed red, teeth clenched in frustration.

Everyone went silent.

“Uh… we were just asking if you could gather materials for the next case…” Kim said carefully, though the judgment in his eyes was painfully clear.

Only then did Qin register where he was—the conference room. All eyes were on him, confusion and curiosity written across every face. Even Tong looked stunned.

Qin forced a laugh, scratching the back of his neck in embarrassment. “Haha… y-yeah, I’ll do it. Thank you. Also, I’d like to take the rest of the week off. If there’s an emergency, just Skype or text me.”

Tong adjusted his glasses and gave a nod. “Sure. You look like you need the break. Please rest well.”

As Qin scrambled out of the conference room, Duang floated along behind him with a smirk, hands clasped behind his back like a student following his annoyed tutor. Everyone else stared as if Qin had just been possessed by an alien.

▼△▼△▼△▼△▼

Qin didn’t stop until he reached his apartment.

He slammed the door shut, locking it behind him, chest heaving with restrained fury. He knew Duang had followed him—he could feel the ghost’s presence like static on his skin.

Whipping around, he found Duang standing there, expression calm, posture casual, as if he hadn’t just publicly wrecked Qin’s reputation and sanity.

His fists curled so tightly his knuckles blanched, and with a frustrated exhale, he spun on his heel.

Duang was standing there, arms loosely crossed, looking completely unfazed. He shrugged, as if his unwanted presence wasn’t slowly dismantling Qin’s sanity. As if he hadn’t just barged into someone’s life like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You better stop this cat-and-mouse game you’re playing!” Qin snapped, jabbing a finger in Duang’s direction. “I told you—I won’t help you. Ever!”

Duang didn’t even flinch. “Then be prepared to see me everyday!” he shot back, voice tight with stubborn resolve.

Qin groaned, letting out a strangled whine of disbelief, and stomped toward his bedroom like an overgrown, furious toddler. He slammed the door and locked it, but it did nothing—Duang walked right through, passing through the wood like mist, effortlessly haunting his way inside.

Of course.

Qin trudged to his closet, yanked it open, and began pulling out a pair of comfortable clothes, muttering curses under his breath. A long, hot shower and an early night—that was the only plan he could tolerate right now.

But Duang, of course, hovered just behind him, peeking over his shoulder like an annoying roommate.

“All whites and pastels... Chanel, Acne Studios, ah, some Covernat too. Mhm, you’ve got taste, Qin Charat,” Duang commented, eyeing the wardrobe like a fashion critic. “As a model and a fashionista, I’m actually impressed with your collection.”

Qin let out a dramatic sigh and slammed the closet shut, whirling around with his hands on his hips.

“You better not follow me into the shower, you creep!” he barked, leaning forward, eyes narrowing into a glare.

Duang matched his energy, crossing his arms with a huff. “Excuse me! I may be a ghost, but I do have standards!”

They stared each other down, equally stubborn, equally ridiculous.

It was going to be a very long night.

Qin hissed like a real snake, dramatically, before turning on his heel and marching into the bathroom for a long, much-needed shower. Behind him, Duang floated in place, staring blankly at the space Qin had just occupied. Then, with an exaggerated scoff, he mimicked Qin’s voice and expression.

“‘You better not follow me!’ Ugh, as if I’d have any interest in him,” Duang muttered, rolling his eyes as he floated lazily toward the corner of the room and plopped down mid-air like an annoyed cloud.

But the next moment his expression fell. A sad pout sat cutely on his lips.

“Ter…”

Half an hour later, the bathroom door creaked open and Qin stepped out, fully clean, hair damp, and dressed in comfortable loungewear.

“You finally came back,” Duang called out, immediately springing back into action as he floated toward him with the determination of a ghost on a mission.

But Qin was ready.

He had decided during the shower that he would not—under any circumstances—give this ghost the time of day. Not even a glance. If he acted like Duang didn’t exist, maybe he’d eventually vanish for good.

Without saying a word, Qin strode past the floating figure and flopped face-first onto the bed. The pillow cushioned his head with a soft whumph, but he didn’t care. This was about war, not comfort.

Duang, hovering beside him, narrowed his eyes.

Fine. If this was how Qin wanted to play it.

He waved a hand right in front of Qin’s face. Nothing. No flinch, no twitch, no eye movement. Qin just rolled onto his back and grabbed his phone from the nightstand, acting as if he were completely alone.

He opened Skype, instantly greeted by a flood of messages about the case discussed at the meeting. Apparently, a jewelry store owner had stolen from his own store to give the jewels to his wife, then spun a wild tale for the media to save face.

Duang floated above him and did a slow twirl in midair.

Still no reaction.

Qin scrolled through his SNS posts, then rolled onto his side, pulling the comforter up to his waist and snuggling into the corner of the bed. The determination on his face was almost peaceful.

Duang’s left eye twitched.

He wasn’t done yet.

Floating lower, he phased straight through Qin’s body, rolling across the bed like a ghostly tumbleweed, before popping back up through the other side.

Still. Nothing.

Qin noticed it—from the corner of his eye. But his face remained a blank slate of disinterest. Not a single muscle moved. He was committed to the bit.

Eventually, Qin drifted into a deep nap, leaving behind a thoroughly baffled Duang hovering above the bed like an angry spirit denied a haunting.

The corner of Duang’s mouth twitched in simmering rage.

He wanted to shout. He wanted to scream and curse at this petty, passive-aggressive man. But no. He was just as stubborn.

He was going to make Qin Charat help him—by hook or by crook. One way or another.

By the time Qin woke from his long nap, the sky outside had deepened into shades of indigo and gold. He stretched his arms high above his head, yawning lazily.

The moment his eyes opened, he was met with a scowl—Duang was floating directly in front of his face, glaring at him like he was ready to wage war.

“This silent treatment won’t work on me!” Duang snapped. “I’ve dealt with worse. I’ll make you listen to me!”

Qin, completely unfazed, simply tapped his chin in thought. “Mmm... what should I eat for dinner?”

With that, he rolled out of bed and strolled toward the kitchen. He pulled out a packet of buldak ramyun, grabbed a pot, and began preparing it, humming a soft melody to himself like the ghost didn’t exist.

Duang, however, saw it as his golden opportunity.

“So!” he started brightly, floating beside Qin as he filled the pot with water. “Have I told you about the time I saw my favourite artist perform live? His energy was insane. The whole dance crew was next level. Oh—and there was this one time I saw a rainbow for the first time and I thought I’d been abducted. I tried to run from it for ten minutes.”

He laughed to himself at the memory, waiting, hoping for a reaction.

Nothing.

Qin just tore open the sauce sachet and added it to the bubbling pot like Duang’s words were background noise.

Duang’s patience snapped.

“Would it kill you to at least look at me when I’m talking?!” he exploded, fists clenched at his sides. “I’m a ghost, not a goddamn wall ornament!”

Qin rolled his eyes and closed the lid on the pot. “I’m not talking to you. If that’s what you want to hear, there you go.”

Duang’s jaw locked. “You’re the only one who can see me. Who the hell else am I supposed to talk to?”

Qin’s grip tightened around the lid’s insulated knob. “Go talk to the wall. Or better yet—just disappear.”

A sharp flicker of hurt flashed across Duang’s face before it was smothered by cold fury.

“I can’t disappear, and you know it.”

Qin spun toward him, voice low and harsh. “No, I don't! I don't understand anything! Why are you doing this to me?”

“Because you’re the only one who can help me!” Duang snapped. His voice cracked, rising with desperation. “You can see me, Qin! Ignoring me, pretending I don’t exist—it doesn’t change anything. I’m still here!”

A tense silence settled between them, the air thick with heat from both the boiling pot and the emotions crackling in the room.

Qin’s cheeks flushed with frustration. Duang was digging deeper, pushing buttons he didn’t know existed.

Without another word, Qin switched off the stove and walked straight through Duang’s translucent form, the ghost’s chill brushing over his skin.

He carried the pot of steaming ramyun to the table, jaw clenched, eyes fixed forward.

Duang hovered in place, watching him go, burning with the bitter taste of rejection.

He wasn’t giving up.

Not yet.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The next day wasn’t any better.

No matter how hard Qin tried to block him out, Duang kept reappearing—like new thorns wrapped around the stem of his already thorny life.

Qin walked briskly down the street, earbuds jammed in, blasting music at full volume. He was on his way to pick up his monthly groceries, mentally checking items off his list. Behind him trailed Duang, hovering a few feet above ground like an annoying, persistent shadow.

“You’re ignoring me again,” Duang muttered, clearly irritated.

Qin didn’t even blink. “Because it’s working,” he snapped, eyes straight ahead. But even over the thumping beat of his playlist, Duang’s voice cut through like a blade through butter—sharp, unavoidable.

Duang suddenly appeared in front of him, floating backward as Qin walked. The move forced Qin to stop short, unless he wanted to walk straight through him. Again.

“You’re so damn stubborn,” Duang scowled, arms folded across his chest. “Why can’t you just help me already?”

“I won’t,” Qin bit out, teeth clenched. “Do whatever the hell you want.”

He stormed past Duang and entered the nearest grocery store, trying to suppress the irritation that bubbled in his chest. His fingers gripped the phone in his hand like it was a lifeline.

As he reached the checkout counter, Duang hovered beside him, continuing his tirade. Qin tried to keep his gaze low, focused on the conveyor belt as the cashier scanned his items. But his lips were twitching in frustration.

Then he snapped.

“I said no!” he hissed under his breath.

The cashier froze mid-scan. The customer behind Qin shifted awkwardly. A mother subtly pulled her child closer. Heads turned, eyes widened.

Qin’s face burned. His shoulders tensed as he focused all his energy on swiping his card, ignoring the silent judgment radiating from every direction.

He hated this. Hated how people stared like he was unstable, like he was haunted.

And the worst part? He was haunted.

No matter how much he ignored, avoided, or denied—it never made Duang disappear.

Their fights had grown pettier with each passing day.

It was now the fourth day of Qin’s so-called break. He sat alone inside a cozy, yellow-themed café, fingers tapping at his laptop as he sifted through research files and documents. The sun streamed through the windows, but nothing about the scene felt warm.

Perched above the table—because chairs were for the living—Duang sat cross-legged, glaring down at him like a storm cloud ready to burst. Even the waiter had sensed something off about their table, eyeing them with thinly veiled unease.

Duang let out a long, exasperated sigh and leaned forward, his translucent face inches from Qin’s.

“Seriously, Qin? Still ignoring me? It’s been four days.”

With a sharp snap, Qin slammed his laptop shut. His breathing was heavy, strained.

“Do you even realize how insufferable you are?” he growled, voice low but laced with venom.

“And do you have the slightest idea,” Duang snapped back, voice cracking under the weight of something colder, deeper, “how much I need you?”

But Qin couldn’t see past his own boiling frustration—not enough to really hear him.

“I’m not your goddamn psychic hotline,” he seethed. “I didn’t ask for this!”

Duang’s expression turned ice cold.

“And I didn’t ask to be in this state.”

His voice rang like steel on stone—quiet but sharp enough to cut.

“So maybe,” he continued, bitter, “we’re both stuck with things we didn’t choose.”

A few heads turned. People were glancing at Qin now, confused and uncomfortable. Qin could feel the heat rising to his eyes. He blinked rapidly, refusing to let the tears fall.

Slamming down a few bills on the table, he grabbed his laptop and stormed out of the café without a word, ignoring the stares that followed him.

He was tired. So goddamn tired.

Tired of the fighting. Tired of being haunted. Tired of not knowing why he still cared.

Because even beneath all that anger—buried deep in a place he didn’t want to name—there was something else. A quiet, annoying part of him didn’t want Duang to vanish. That didn’t want to be left behind. He didn't want to lose Duang, for reasons unknown.

They walked back in silence, the ghost trailing behind him, occasionally trying to speak—only to be met with stone-cold silence.

When they finally reached the apartment complex, Qin whirled around at the door, his voice erupting in a frustrated shout.

“Will you shut up already?!”

Duang appeared in front of him in a blink, inches from his face, eyes blazing with rage and something deeper—fear, maybe.

“Why?” he spat. “What are you so afraid of, huh?”

His words hung in the air like smoke.

Qin’s hand trembled as he jabbed a finger at Duang’s chest—even though it only sliced through air. “I’m not a coward,” he snarled. “I’m just tired of being haunted!”

Duang let out a bitter laugh, the sound sharp enough to slice through Qin’s defenses. “Haunted?” he echoed, voice low and scathing. “Or are you just terrified of letting me in—because you are afraid of losing me?”

“Losing you?!” Qin barked, face flushed with fury. “Don’t flatter yourself. I never cared for you—and I never will. You got that?”

His eyes were glowing with rage—red and wild, like wildfire threatening to burn down everything around him. But beneath that fire, something else flickered—faint, hidden, and vulnerable. A truth he wasn’t ready to name.

Duang’s tone shifted, cutting closer to the bone. “Then explain something to me, Qin,” he said quietly. “Why haven’t you called an exorcist yet? Why haven’t you burned sage, called a priest, hired ghostbusters, or done anything to get rid of me?”

Qin froze.

His lips parted as if to fire back, but no sound came out. Because Duang wasn’t wrong.

Why hadn’t he?

He could’ve chased him out a long time ago. Banished him. Purified the house. Shut the door. But instead, here they were—circling each other like two pieces of a puzzle neither wanted to admit fit.

“What’s stopping you?” Duang pushed, his voice quieter now, almost aching.

Qin’s throat clenched.

And then Duang smirked, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Cat got your tongue, Mr. Charat?” he scoffed, bitter and tired.

“You—!” Qin’s voice rose, frustration spilling over—but before he could finish, a soft sound cut through the tension like a knife.

Someone cleared their throat at the top of the staircase.

“Qin?”

The voice was familiar.

Qin’s blood ran cold. A shiver shot down his spine. He stiffened instantly, face paling as if the ghost in front of him had been replaced by another fearsome ghost.

Duang blinked, catching the change in Qin’s expression.

Slowly, Qin turned around.

Standing at the top of the stairs, arms crossed and gaze unwavering, was a woman.

“…Mama,” he breathed.

And just like that, the storm between him and the ghost fell into silence.

▼△▼△▼△▼△▼

Qin sat slouched in the single armchair, his head bowed, shoulders tense. Across from him, his mother sat on the living room couch, arms crossed, eyes cold with disappointment. The silence between them was thick—suffocating.

“Son,” she began, voice deceptively calm, “Did you lie to us when you moved here?”

Qin didn’t look up. He gave a small shake of his head.

“Then what was that I saw earlier?” she pressed, her tone sharpening. “Don’t lie to me, Qin.”

“I only saw one—” Qin started, but her voice cut through his like a blade.

“That means you still see them.” Her voice cracked—angry, exhausted. She massaged her temples. “How many times have we told you to take your medicine? How many, Qin?”

Qin stayed silent. His hands clenched into fists in his lap.

“Do you even know what people say about you?” she snapped. “What your father and I have endured because of your delusions? How much shame you’ve brought onto this family?”

Her words hit harder than she realized.

“How long are you going to keep this up, huh?” she seethed. “Get your shit together.”

“But I’m not lying…” Qin’s voice croaked. His lungs constricted. “I really do see them—”

“Then why can’t we?” she shot back instantly. “Stop lying, Qin! We’ve been through this. You’re not special. You’re just sick.”

Qin winced visibly.

Mrs. Charat stood, slamming her hands against her thighs. “You are turning 30 in a few days, son. If you don’t fix this soon, we won’t have a choice. You’ll be admitted again—this time to a real psychiatric hospital for good or maybe for life.”

With that, she stormed toward the door, muttering under her breath. A second later, it slammed shut behind her like a final verdict.

Qin flinched at the sound.

The room fell silent, save for the ticking of the wall clock and the storm building behind his eyes. He kept his gaze locked on the floor, his breath shallow. His thoughts spun like a hurricane.

This was why he never wanted to see ghosts again.

Back in high school, his parents had locked him away in a psychiatric facility for kids. Hooked him up to machines. Fed him pills until his mind was fog and silence. Counseling. Shame. Loneliness. Everyone around him—classmates, neighbors, teachers—had treated him like a freak. A walking curse. Psycho Qin. The kid who saw things.

So he learned to pretend. To ignore. To bury his truths. To survive.

Even if it meant denying everything he believed in. Even if it meant killing parts of himself.

Because if he didn’t?

They’d erase him all over again.

And this time, he wasn’t sure if he’d come back from it.

Duang sat cross-legged against the ceiling, floating like a silent observer in the shadows. He had watched everything—every word, every wound. Guilt prickled at the edges of his mind. Maybe he’d pushed too hard. Maybe he’d gone too far.

But time was running out. If he didn’t figure this out soon, he’d become something else—something darker. Something beyond saving.

He slowly floated down, crouching at Qin’s level. He wished—God, he wished—he could reach out at this moment and hold Qin’s hand, and tell him he wasn’t broken. That this wasn’t his fault. That having something beyond the norm—didn’t make him a freak.

But he couldn't bring himself to say it out loud. Not after all he’d done.

“Listen,” Duang said quietly, his voice gentle, “I know things are shit for both of us right now. But we could fix it—if we worked together. Or are you really going to keep pretending you don’t care? When it’s so obvious you do?”

Qin lifted his head slowly. Duang's face was pale even more so than before, a little translucent too. His eyes locked with Duang’s—round and glassy, like they could see through him, like they already did. Tears clung to his lashes.

In a hoarse whisper, he answered, “I don’t know what I want…”

Duang’s expression softened, his shoulders slackening. But before he could say anything, Qin stood abruptly. Without a word, he turned and walked away, leaving Duang alone in the quiet wreckage of the room.

Qin shut the door behind him and stumbled to the bed. He buried his face into the pillow and let the sobs come—loud, raw, ugly. He hated this. Hated being different. Hated that he couldn’t just live a normal life. His heart was battered. The stitches around his soul were wearing off unraveling at the seams.

He had tried—really tried—to push the ghost away. But every time the ghost looked at him with those sad, stubborn eyes, his heart ached. Twisted.

He hated how much he cared.

And what scared him most—more than ghosts, more than shame—was the thought of letting him in.

Because if he did…

He wouldn't be able to handle the departure.

Once again.

Duang could hear the raw, broken sobs through the closed door. Each one struck him like a blow to the chest. Still, he didn’t move. He knew Qin needed space—privacy. So he swallowed down the ache in his own chest, the gnawing loneliness slowly crushing him from within.

When he lifted his hand, he noticed it again.

Translucent.

Just a little. Maybe twenty percent. But it had begun.

▼△▼△▼△▼△▼

Two days passed after that.

Duang didn’t speak. Didn’t tease. Didn’t hover or make his usual sarcastic remarks. He simply floated behind Qin like a silent shadow, observing without interfering. He didn’t dare disrupt the delicate balance—not after what he saw between Qin and his mother. It didn’t feel right to push right now. So he stayed back.

And hoped.

Qin, for his part, had felt immediate relief on the first day. Duang was still there, yes, but quiet. Uncharacteristically so. And for a moment, that peace felt like a victory.

But it didn’t last.

The relief turned into something… heavier. A strange discomfort began crawling up his spine like a chill. It was like breathing through cotton—thick, stifling, suffocating. Like an internal countdown was happening inside of him. Duang was still present, still floating nearby, but muted. Distant. And that silence was beginning to scream.

A voice whispered in the back of his mind:

He’s planning something. That must be it. That’s why it felt like this.

Irritation flared into rage. He stormed toward the living room, fists clenched. Duang was seated on the couch, cross-legged, floating just inches above the cushion, his eyes shut as if meditating.

“Tell me why you can’t just leave me alone!” Qin exploded, voice raw and ragged.

He was shaking. From anger, from fear, from confusion he couldn’t name. All his life, he had run from ghosts. From their shadows. From their pain. But now—now this one was burrowing into his soul.

And he hated it.

He hated how he wanted to care.

Hated how close Duang felt.

Hated how he didn’t want him to disappear anymore.

He didn’t understand any of it.

Didn’t want to understand it.

All he wanted was for these feelings to go away. Like they never existed.

Qin dropped to his knees on the cold floor of the living room.

The weight on his chest was too heavy. The sobs tore through him without restraint as though his heart were unraveling thread by thread—and he didn’t even know why. Just that it hurt. That it hurt so badly.

Duang stood there, motionless, watching him fall apart. His ghostly form held no tears, but his eyes were drenched in something deeper—regret, guilt, sorrow that words could never quite carry.

“Tell me…” Qin choked out, barely audible through his trembling lips. “Why the hell can’t I stop caring about you?! What the fuck did you do to me?! What kind of spell did you cast?!”

Duang’s expression faltered. His voice, when it came, was quiet—soft, almost too soft.

“I wish I knew too, Qin…”

“No, you don’t!” Qin snapped, the grief twisting into rage. “You don’t want to disappear! You just want to torment me. To drive me insane. Maybe that’s why you died in the first place—because you were too damn annoying!”

Duang flinched.

“Qin, please—don’t speak of death so lightly— That’s not funny—” his voice broke at the edges.

“Not funny?!” Qin let out a bitter, ragged laugh. “You want to hear what’s not funny? You. Still floating around here like a fucking parasite after I’ve told you again and again—I don’t care about you. I don’t care about your death. Why should I be the one to fix your unfinished mess? Why the hell is it my responsibility—”

“Qin!” Duang’s voice cracked like thunder. “That’s enough!”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Qin froze mid-breath, his shoulders heaving. He slowly lifted his tear-streaked face and looked up.

His breath hitched.

If Duang were alive—if he had blood and breath and bones—he’d be breaking right now. Crumbling.

His eyes were wide and glistening, grief etched so deeply into his expression that it no longer looked like anger.

It looked like heartbreak.

“You want to know why I stayed silent and did nothing for two days?” Duang said, voice trembling. His chest heaved. “It wasn’t because I was plotting anything. It was because I felt guilty. I felt horrible for what I put you through!”

“I just… I didn’t want to hurt you more than I already have.”

“But who am I even talking to?” Duang said with a hollow laugh, the corners of his mouth curling into a bitter smile. “I should’ve learned my lesson the first time you told me you didn’t care.”

He didn’t wait for a reply—just kept going, as though the words had a life of their own.

“But I still hoped… You know, when you first approached me—before you realized I was a ghost—the concern in your eyes, the way you looked at me like I mattered…” He paused, swallowing down the ache that twisted through him. “It was the first time someone treated me with that kind of gentleness. Ever.”

His voice trembled, but he pressed on, floating backward, away from Qin. Eyes burning with pain.

“I thought… maybe you didn’t mean it. That if I just tried hard enough, you’d look back and see me. See the pain I’ve been carrying.”

He exhaled shakily.

“But curse my faith.” He looked down at the floor, taking in his ghostly form floating inches away from the floor. “I believed in the impossible. I thought maybe you’d change your mind. But—”

He took a deep sigh. “ You had made yourself clear. Again. And again.”

He lifted his head up and waved a hand a quiet farewell.

“I get it now. I was a fool. In life, and now in death. Thanks for opening my eyes one last time.”

He hesitated just a second longer.

“I won’t bother you anymore. I won’t appear in front of you again. Whatever happens to me from here on out, I’ll handle it. Alone. Thank you for giving me space for the past few days. It was nice having someone to be comfortable around.”

Then, with a smile too wide to be real and too sad to be forgotten, he slipped into the wall—and vanished.

Qin sat there, frozen, eyes glued to the empty space where Duang had just been. His tears had stopped. His breath caught in his throat. His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but nothing came out.

This is what you wanted, right?

This is what you asked for.

Then why did it feel like his chest was caving in? Why did it hurt worse now—worse than when Duang was still here? Why did it feel like he was the fool, not Duang?

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The next morning, Qin woke to an unfamiliar emptiness.

No ghost hovering above him, no scoffing, no exasperated glares. No sarcastic comments or hovering presence he pretended to hate.

Just silence.

A soft sigh escaped his lips as he turned to the window. Sunlight streamed through the curtains, bathing the room in a warm glow. Golden rays danced across the polished wooden floor, tracing delicate patterns that shimmered like glass.

He pushed off the comforter, slipped into his slippers, and dragged himself to the bathroom. As he brushed his teeth, his eyes lifted to the mirror above the sink. His reflection stared back—blank, tired, exhausted. Behind the haze in his gaze, one image lingered: Duang’s face. That broken expression. The pain in his eyes before he vanished.

“I won’t bother you anymore. I won’t appear in front of you again. Whatever happens to me from here on out, I’ll handle it. Alone. Thank you for giving me space for the past few days.”

Those final words echoed in his head, clear as crystal. The silence that followed had never felt so loud.

It used to drive him mad—Duang’s constant presence. The haunting, the bickering, the sheer absurdity of living with a ghost. But at least someone was there.

Someone who didn’t care about his so-called delusions. Someone who didn’t flinch at his ability to see the unseen. Someone who didn’t treat him like a ticking time bomb.

Even if their connection had been built on chaotic and sharp words, it was the most honest companionship Qin had ever known in his 29 years of living.

He shook his head, spat the paste into the sink, and splashed cold water onto his face. His reflection stared back again—same as always, but lonelier.

“He’ll come back,” Qin muttered to himself, his voice low. “He’s annoying just like that.”

A pause.

“…Right?”

But last time… he never said he wouldn’t come back again.

The thought slipped into Qin’s mind like an unwelcome guest. He slapped his cheeks, hard. Gritting his teeth, he stomped out of the bathroom. “He’ll be back. Just being dramatic again,” he muttered. “He’s probably waiting to pop up and annoy me like always.”

Another pause.

“…And then I’ll apologize,” he whispered, barely audible.

But the ghost didn’t come back.

The sky faded from gold to indigo. Stars scattered across the heavens. The moon rose—serene, constant—while the night wrapped the city in a soft hush.

Still, no ghost.

Qin sat on the couch, a silly drama flashing on the screen. He wasn’t watching. His eyes were there, but his mind was elsewhere—floating around the memory of a ghost with sad eyes and a smile too soft for someone who looked like he suffered so much.

“Did he really mean it?” Qin whispered to no one.

A pout crept onto his lips. His shoulders slumped.

“But it wasn’t my fault!” he whined suddenly, punching his thighs in frustration. His voice cracked.

Then, the words he said to Duang replayed in his head.

Maybe that’s why you died in the first place—because you were too damn annoying.

The moment hit him like a suckerpunch to the gut. His hands flew to his face, covering it entirely, as if he could hide from the guilt clawing its way into his bones.

“I didn’t mean it…” he muttered, his voice muffled by trembling palms.

Just then, his phone dinged with a notification. Qin blinked, uncovering his face from his hands, and grabbed it from the coffee table.

Marvis:

Qin, I hope you’re resting well. Will you be joining tomorrow?

Qin stared for a moment, then tapped out a reply.

Qin:

Yeah, Mars. I’ll be there. How are the updates on the new case? Did we gather all the materials?

Marvis:

Yeah. Only yours is left to be added, then we can publish it in the magazine. Jamie says he’s tired of these small, boring cases. He wants something big.

Qin exhaled through his nose, lips barely twitching.

Qin:

Maybe we’ll get one soon.

Marvis:

Hmm…yeah. Goodnight, Qin.

Qin:

Night, Mars.

He set the phone down and stared blankly at the flickering images on the screen, but nothing registered.

Just one thought echoed in his mind, over and over:

Will he really not come back…?

▼△▼△▼△▼△▼

The next morning, Qin walked into the office and made a beeline for his desk. He powered on his desktop and slipped effortlessly into work mode, fingers already flying across the keyboard. Around him, the usual hum of productivity filled the space—keyboards clicking, papers rustling, low murmurs of conversation.

That is, until Jamie let out an exaggerated yawn and stretched dramatically, arms reaching far behind his head.

“Marvyyyy!” he sing-songed across the room, drawing the attention—and ire—of one specific colleague.

Marvis didn’t even look up. “Please stop calling me like that,” he muttered, brows furrowed in mild annoyance as he kept typing.

Unbothered, Jamie pushed himself away from his desk, rolling his swivel chair straight to Marvis’s workstation.

“No can do,” Jamie grinned. “You’re pretty, Marvy. I’m just stating facts. What’s wrong with a little nickname like Marvy?” he dragged the word out again, clearly enjoying himself.

Marvis's fingers faltered for a second on the keyboard, a faint pink blooming across his cheeks. He cleared his throat, eyes narrowing. “Why are you here?”

“To talk to you. Isn’t that obvious?”

“Jamie,” Marvis said in a mock-warning tone, staring right into Jamie’s eyes.

Jamie raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay—work talk, I swear. It’s about that meat theft case.”

Marvis sighed, eyes flicking back to his monitor. “Alright. What about it?”

Meanwhile, across the room, Pae tapped the end of his pen lightly against Qin’s desk.

Qin blinked and looked up. “Yeah?”

Pae leaned in with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Tell me I’m not the only one who thinks Mars and Jamie like each other.”

Qin raised an amused eyebrow, then followed yin’s gaze. Across the way, Jamie was now pulling goofy faces, and Marvis—despite himself—was clearly biting back a smile.

The corner of Qin’s mouth twitched into a smile of his own. He turned back to Pae and said quietly, “I’m just waiting for the day they figure it out.”

Pae nodded along, but his smile faltered. His gaze dropped to the floor, the edges of his mouth tugging downward into something more solemn.

Qin noticed immediately. “Pae,” he said gently, “You okay, bub?”

It had only been a month and a half since they met, but Qin already felt a strange protectiveness over the younger guy—like a younger sibling or even an unofficially adopted son. It was instinctive.

Pae gave a small shrug, forcing a half-smile. “I’m alright. Just… thinking.”

“About what?” Qin leaned forward slightly, voice soft. “You can talk to me.”

Pae hesitated, then admitted, “It’s about…Duang.”

Of course, Qin thought, a familiar ache blooming in his chest. He’d spent the entire night wrestling with thoughts of the ghost and now, here it was again, dragging itself back into his consciousness at work of all places.

Still, he composed himself. “What about him?” he asked, curious despite the heaviness settling in his chest.

Pae’s fingers fiddled with the cap of his pen. With a trembling sigh, he spoke, “I don’t usually care much about public figures or read too deep into them. But everything I’ve ever read or heard about Duang…” he trailed off, voice closer to something melancholic. “It just made me respect him more and more. I don’t know. It’s hard to explain. He seemed so kind. So… sincere. Like a rare gem in a world that constantly tries to grind people down.”

He exhaled slowly, eyes still cast downward. “I just hope… he’s okay.”

Qin swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. The image of Duang's sad smile and final wave flickered in his mind like a memory refusing to fade.

“I want to know more,” Qin said quietly.

Pae blinked. “Hmm?”

“About him. Tell me more about this guy—Duang.”

There was a beat of silence. Then yin smiled, soft and wistful. “Okay, phi. I’ll tell you everything I know.”

Pae stared at Qin for a beat, then broke into a wide, almost proud smile. “Duang, as you probably know, is the owner of the Celeste perfume conglomerate and the global brand ambassador of that famous clothing brand LenZ. But beyond all the glamor and status, he’s the kindest, most hardworking, most empathetic person alive.”

There was admiration in Pae voice—reverent, almost.

“Rumors say he was adopted,” he continued, the smile fading slightly. “And honestly, I think it’s true. His parents never really cared for him. They only ever praised their firstborn. Duang was… invisible to them. And yet, among all that coldness, he grew into something beautiful. Like a diamond buried in charcoal.”

He paused, inhaling deeply before going on.

“He’s donated millions—his own money, not the company’s—to orphanages and old age homes. He even set up programs in his factories to give jobs and training to the unemployed. Everyone who worked with him, studied with him, even met him in passing… They all said the same thing. He was never rude, always warm. Always smiling. A smile so gentle you couldn’t help but smile back.”

Pae’s voice cracked. His eyes shone with unshed tears.

Qin sat frozen, heart sinking like a stone in the still water. His chest constricted as Pae’s words echoed in his mind.

He was wronged all his life—and now you did the same to him even in death. Shame on you, Qin!

He blinked rapidly, trying to stop the tears pricking his own eyes. But the weight was too much.

You told him he deserved to die, the voice in his head hissed. You monster!

The guilt was unbearable. Duang didn’t deserve any of that—not the neglect, not the exploitation, not the loneliness. He didn’t deserve to die.

And yet Qin had said the cruelest words possible. Words that could never be taken back.

Qin needed to see him. Needed to fall to his knees, to beg, to apologize for the way he’d treated him. For every word he threw without thinking. For every moment of undeserved cruelty.

“Oh my, Phi Qin, are you okay?!” Pae exclaimed, quickly getting up and rushing around to Qin’s desk, panic flickering in his eyes as he saw the tears falling.

Jamie and Marvis followed closely, concern etched into their expressions.

“What happened, Qin?” Marvis asked, voice gentle.

“I just… I just talked about Duang, and then he started crying…” Pae said quietly, still shocked.

Without a word, Marvis stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Qin, pulling him into a steady, warm embrace. Qin leaned into it, head resting against Marvis’s stomach, his shoulders trembling.

“Shh, it’s going to be okay,” Jamie said softly, crouching beside him. “He’ll be alright. The police haven’t given up—they’re still investigating.”

“Yeah, phi,” Pae chimed in, nodding, his voice laced with hope. “Only good things happen to people with a heart of gold, you know?”

But Qin only sobbed harder.

No…He's gone…Far away from everyone…

He won’t be back…

I’m so sorry guys…

The guilt burned, hot and sharp, rising above the fear that gripped his heart. Yes, he’d been scared. He didn’t understand what Duang was—but fear was no excuse. Not for what he said. Not for the way he treated someone so gentle, so broken already.

He had lashed out in anger, not knowing the weight of his words—until it was too late.

Now all he wanted was to hold Duang close. To apologize with everything he had. To undo the damage, to call him back.

But do ghosts even come back after being driven away?

The others couldn’t begin to comprehend what Qin was really feeling. But they stayed with him anyway, surrounding him in silent solidarity.

Hoping that somehow, their presence could bring a small sliver of comfort.

Hoping that better days would come—for themselves, for each other, and for Duang.

▼△▼△▼△▼△▼

The following week passed in a blur of deadlines and deliverables. Documentation, case reporting, fine-tuning every detail, selecting relevant images, crafting punchy catchphrases, citing sources accurately—every team member was locked into the whirlwind of getting the piece published and out to the world.

The article garnered attention. Engagement soared. Comments flooded in—some praising, some questioning, some demanding more. It was their highest-performing piece yet.

But it still wasn’t enough.

Not enough to put the agency on the map. Not enough to crack into the top media charts or make a dent in the oversaturated market. They needed a breakthrough—a case so massive, so shocking, it would flip the world on its axis. Without it, even the bottomless pockets of their wealthy boss couldn’t keep them afloat forever. All their potential, all their hard work, risked sliding down the drain.

And amidst all of it—there was Qin.

His sighs were more frequent than his words.

His presence, though physical, felt distant. In meetings, he’d nod but never truly engage. His work was done—meticulously so—but the spark that once drove him had dimmed to a flicker.

He looked like a man standing before a shattered mirror, unsure where to begin putting the pieces back—unsure if he even deserved the chance to fix what he’d broken.

Pae was the first to notice the shift in his phi. Qin had been off for days now, and Pae had been quietly observing. He noticed how often Qin disappeared into the washroom, only to return with red, puffy eyes. Ever since their conversation about Duang, something in Qin had changed.

No, he noticed the change right on that day, the day they saw the news.

Pae, despite feeling a deep sadness, couldn’t quite understand what had triggered his Phi so much. But it was clear—whatever it was had left him looking like a shell of himself. A zombie going through the motions.

Normally, Kim would’ve been the first to pick up on something like this. He was the heart of the office—the one who took notice when someone wasn’t doing okay, the one who pulled them aside for a gentle chat. But with both Kim and Tong away on business meetings, the atmosphere in the office had been slightly off-kilter.

Unsure of what to do, Pae decided to approach Marvis and Jamie. They knew Qin longer, maybe even better than he did. When he brought it up, both of them exchanged heavy glances. They had noticed the same things—Qin’s detachment, the way he stared into space, how often he sighed without even realizing it.

“We were waiting for the right time to talk to him,” Marvis admitted with a slow nod. He looked down at his wristwatch as he spoke quietly, “But I think… we might be running out of time. His birthday is in a few days.”

Meanwhile, Qin knew exactly what was wrong. He just didn’t know how to fix it.

He was consumed by thoughts of Duang—morning to night, and even in sleep. Every spare moment, he found himself talking to the walls, to the air, to the mirror—hoping, praying Duang was still nearby. That maybe, if he listened hard enough or wished sincerely enough, the ghost would reappear.

But nothing happened.

And each passing day chipped a little more hope off his chest.

He remembered Duang’s words so clearly now—“I need your help.” At the time, he’d been too wrapped up in his own frustration and fear to listen. But now it was crystal clear.

Duang had been referring to the case. To something he couldn’t solve alone.

And Qin had failed him.

He should’ve asked. He should’ve listened. But he’d been too caught up in the impossibility of it all. Too afraid.

And now it was too late. Because ghosts don’t come back. Not when they’ve given up.

Work had kept his hands busy, yes—but his mind was elsewhere. Filled to the brim with guilt, regret, and the aching desire to see Duang one more time.

To say he was sorry.

To ask for forgiveness.

To try—just try—to help him, even now.

▼△▼△▼△▼△▼

Qin was absentmindedly stirring the coffee in his mug, the dark liquid swirling endlessly, untouched. The pantry was quiet, save for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of pipes overhead—until someone softly cleared their throat behind him.

He turned around to find Jamie standing at the doorway. Marvis stood beside him, and just behind them was Pae, peeking in with hesitant concern.

Qin raised both eyebrows. “Is something wrong, guys?”

Jamie stepped forward first. “Shouldn’t we be the ones asking that, Qin? Are you okay?”

Qin tilted his head, puzzled. “What do you mean? I’m… fine.”

Marvis let out a sigh, heavy and exasperated. “Qin, please. Don’t brush it off. We’ve seen how distant you’ve been lately.”

Pae nodded, stepping in. “We’ve seen you cry too, phi. Please don’t keep it all inside. You’re hurting. You need direction right now. Please…let us help.”

Qin’s smile faltered, lips trembling slightly before he masked it with a small exhale. His gaze dropped to the coffee in his mug.

I wish I could explain it in simple terms…

“I had a big fight,” he said finally, voice soft, almost a whisper. “With someone I came to care about deeply…”

Pae’s voice followed gently. “And that’s not all of it… is it?”

Qin gave a wistful smile and nodded softly. “No… I said things I shouldn’t have. Hurtful things. I let my anger speak for me. And now… he’s not talking to me. I don’t even know if he’ll ever want to again.”

He stared into the coffee like it held the answer.

Marvis stepped closer, offering a gentle pat on Qin's shoulder. “Give him some time, Qin. People need space to heal. But make sure you apologise. You are in the wrong.”

“Yeah,” Jamie chimed in. “He probably needs to cool off too. Don’t beat yourself up too much. And isn't your b'day coming soon? Please make up before that. ”

Pae added softly, “Yeah, make sure you apologise the moment you meet him.”

Qin offered them a faint smile in return, but his mind was far from comforted.

Will it really be okay?

He didn’t know.

All he knew was that he had to find Duang—soon. Before the damage became irreversible. His heart pounded in his chest at the thought of how desperately Duang had reached out, how clearly he had asked for help…

And how carelessly Qin had ignored it.

I’ll do whatever it takes, he swore to himself. I’ll fix this. Before it’s too late.

▼△▼△▼△▼△▼

Qin walked down the street after a long evening shift, the sky already cloaked in navy blue. He wore a white shirt layered with a hoodie, the sleeves slightly bunched at his wrists, and loose jeans that brushed the tops of his shoes. The city lights shimmered faintly on the asphalt as he approached a zebra crossing, coming to a halt at the edge of the road.

It was 11 P. M.

As he waited for the pedestrian signal to turn green, his thoughts, as always lately, drifted to Duang. The guilt was a constant presence—tight in his chest, dull behind his eyes. If something were to happen to Duang… he didn’t think he could ever forgive himself.

The light turned, and people around him began to walk across the street in clusters, eager to get home.

Qin was about to follow—

When he saw him.

There, across the road. The same ghostly figure that had haunted his thoughts day and night.

Duang.

He stood near a lamppost, slightly crouched, his cheeks puffing gently as he blew upward at a red balloon tangled around the pole. The balloon finally freed itself and floated down into the waiting hands of a little girl. She beamed with delight, clutching it tightly.

Duang smiled back at her, and for a moment, the world seemed to glow with that quiet warmth he always carried. For a brief moment, the entire world seemed brighter because of it.

And then Qin noticed it.

Duang was fading.

At first, Qin thought the light was playing tricks on him. But no—his body truly was disappearing. Starting from his feet, his form dissolved into tiny golden particles, like sparks being carried away by the wind.

His shoes vanished first.

Then his legs.

The glow swallowed him piece by piece.

Qin’s breath hitched. His eyes flooded.

“No…”

Duang looked up. Their eyes met across the street. And Duang smiled again. And just like the first time, he mouthed once again.

“It's time to leave now, Ter.”

Panic exploded inside Qin’s chest at the mere sight of Duang disappearing in front of him. It felt like his heart was put inside a shredder for the second time. As if he had experienced this same elsewhere.

His feet moved before his mind could think.

“DUANG!”

With heart surging with emotion, he ran—straight into the road, blind to the now-red signal, deaf to the honking horn—

CRASH.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Qin snapped his eyes open. Tears had already clung to his lashes. His chest lurched violently, air ripping into his lungs in a broken gasp. Pain followed instantly—merciless and consuming, like his entire body had been crushed apart and stitched back together wrong. His head pounded under the unbearable weight of too many memories, too many emotions crashing into him all at once like waves determined to drown him whole.

He tried to move, but agony shot through his arms and shoulder so sharply that a weak whimper slipped from his throat before he could stop it. The first thing that entered his vision was the ceiling above him.

It was too white and sterile as if ripped apart from life. His ears could hear the constant beeping of the machines. Instinctively, he lifted his left hand only to find the double IV drip taped against the back of his palm, foreign and invasive.

His nose twitched faintly at the sharp smell of antiseptic saturating the air.

For several long seconds, Qin could only stare upward blankly, unable to comprehend where he was. His thoughts dragged sluggishly through layers of fog and pain, barely able to keep themselves together.

I'm in a hospital… Who brought me here?

That ghost… What happened to him?

Then as if his entire body had finally booted up, he felt the immediate warmth of another person enveloping his right hand.

Qin slowly turned his head to the side and froze. Curled awkwardly beside the hospital bed, his head resting against Qin’s hand as if he’d fallen asleep while holding onto him, was none other than that ghost.

Duang Cheewin.

But how?? Wasn't he disappearing?

Qin’s eyes widened, horror and disbelief crashing into him so violently his heart nearly stopped beating altogether.

It wasn't the fact that Duang was here that surprised him. It was the fact that Duang was here in flesh and blood with no scars and gash decorating his body that shook him. One of Duang's arms remained wrapped protectively around Qin’s wrist even in sleep, like he had been afraid Qin would disappear the moment he let go.

Dark circles bruised the skin beneath Duang’s eyes, painfully deep against his pale face. His hair was messy, unkempt like he had long forgotten what rest even felt like. His cheeks looked thinner. Hollowed out. Destroyed by sleepless nights and grief Qin couldn’t even begin to imagine.

Qin stared at him silently, trying to piece whether this was a hallucination or real. The way Duang looked right now it felt like he had aged years since he’d last seen him. As though sorrow had sunk its claws into him and never let go.

Qin’s throat burned violently. Relief and shock collided inside him with such force it hurt more than the injuries covering his body.

He tried to speak, but his voice came out cracked and barely audible as if even that required conscious effort. As if his body was trying to learn the basics from the start.

“…Duang?”

The reaction was immediate.

Duang’s eyes flew open the second the weak voice reached him. His gaze landed on the figure laying on the hospital bed, eyes widened in shock. For one terrifying second, he simply stared at Qin as if his brain couldn’t process what he was seeing. His lips trembled uncontrollably, parted around a breath he couldn’t seem to take.

All sorts of emotions crashed together at once: shock, disbelief, hope, and fear.

“...Ter?” Duang’s voice broke completely on the name. The sound alone was enough to break hearts.

Tears slipped down his face before he could stop them.

Qin had barely enough time to breathe before Duang surged forward and wrapped both arms tightly around him, clutching him like someone trying desperately to keep a soul from slipping away from his hold again.

“Ter… Ter… Ter…”

The words came out as broken whispers against his shoulder. His shoulders shook from the amount of relief surged through him. His entire body was spasming uncontrollably.

It felt as though Duang had been standing at the edge of grief for so long that the moment Qin opened his eyes, his soul simply gave out beneath the relief of it.

“Ter, you are back…” His voice cracked so painfully that the words barely sounded human anymore.

“I was so scared…”

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry for that day…”

The apology came apart between trembling breaths, soaked in guilt so raw it sounded like it had been eating him alive from the inside out.

“Please forgive me…”

Qin could feel the heavy pounding of Duang's heart against his own. The pressure against his ribs sent sharp pain lancing through his body, enough to make him wince softly, but even then, he still forced his free arm upward. Slowly—achingly—his fingers slipped into Duang’s messy hair, gently combing through the strands to soothe his vulnerable body clinging to him.

Still that didn't give the answers he was looking for. Why was Duang alive? Why was he hugging him like he was someone special in his life? Like a family member.

A lover.

It made no sense.

His brows furrowed in confusion. Sweat gathered at his temples from the sheer strain of forcing his exhausted mind to think through the haze clouding it. Every unanswered question felt like another weight crushing against his skull. He needed answers before his thoughts consumed him alive.

Gathering all his energy, he tapped Duang's shoulder to catch his attention.

“Didn’t you disappear? How are you still… alive?” he murmured hoarsely.

Duang pulled back enough to face him, confusion flickering through his tear-filled eyes. The question caught him off guard.

“What?”

“You were on the road…” Qin’s breathing turned uneven again, fragile and strained. “Floating… helping a kid…”

Even recalling it hurt. His face twisted faintly with pain.

“Across the road… you…” His voice weakened further. “You were disappearing… like golden light…”

His throat burned violently. Tears welled in his eyes faster than he could stop them.

“Then I ran to you…”

A shaky breath left him.

“Then a loud honk—”

His voice cracked apart.

“And after that… I’m here.”

Pin drop silence. Duang stared at him for several long seconds before his face crumpled even harder.

“Ter… ?” His voice came out impossibly fragile, “Did you see a nightmare?”

“Huh?...”

“You were in an accident.” A broken laugh escaped him through tears though it barely sounded like one.

“We both were…”

Qin blinked. His expression turned blank.

What is he saying??

Duang pressed his trembling fingers against Qin’s hand again, holding it tightly against his tear-damp face. His breath came out as short uneven gasps as if the memory alone tore him.

“Three months ago,” his voice shook violently.

“After the celebration back at Jamie’s house… when we were driving back home…”

He swallowed hard, but it did nothing to steady him.

“Our car got into an accident.”

“We also had a huge fight on that day.”

Duang wiped the tears off stubbornly from his face, thought it couldn't erase the guilt and grief devouring every inch of his skin.

“I got saved because of you and… you…” he paused, his chest ached.

“You…were almost dying, Qin.”

Duang's tears fell freely, as wretched sobs escaped his lungs helplessly as he clutched Qin’s hand tighter.

“Why did you do that?!” Duang suddenly shouted through his sobs.

“Why did you cover my body with yours?!”

His trembling fingers dug into Qin’s hand as though he still could not accept it. Could not survive the thought of it.

A lone tear slipped down Qin's cheek. He blinked and more tears started streaming down his cheeks.

Fragments of the past started flickering inside his mind. A sharp pain echoed inside his mind. He squeezed shut his eyes and then like a replay of a favourite scene, like a broken record, the memory, the one which Duang was talking about started playing came rushing back.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Flashback: three months ago to the day of accident

The deep indigo of the sky stretched endlessly. Painted with countless tiny stars shimmering like specks of diamond dust, it was a scene straight out of a painting, the kind of paintings you get to see in art museums — breathtaking, mesmerising, like the universe was hellbent on showing off its hidden gems, even if it's just for tonight. The moon hung low, casting soft silver glow over the quiet countryside road.

The cool breeze swayed the leaves gently. Hooting of owls, chirping of cicadas could be heard in the distance. Rain had visited the country streets a while ago to bless mother Earth with its gracious presence. The night carried the faint scent of forest, damp soil and freshly bloomed flowers of Spring. Among thousands of blooms, there were dandelions, its feathery white seeds dancing with the wind, carrying wishes of people into the unknown.

The beauty of the scene almost felt unreal. A masterpiece crafted with love, care, and precision.

A black sports car sped along the road, its headlights cutting through the darkness, illuminating fleeting glimpses of large oakwood trees, pine trees and other indigenous ones. The warmth of the atmosphere by the occupants inside the car showed a clear contrast that the cool, night air carried.

In contrast to the beauty outside, the couple inside were locked in an atmosphere of charged tension.

The tension had been present since the morning. Since the two argued over something.

Or rather—over someone.

Tiw.

The name had settled between them like a splinter lodged beneath skin.

It started in the kitchen that same morning. Qin stood near the counter making coffee while checking messages on his phone, still half-awake, hair slightly messy from sleep. Morning sunlight spilled through the windows, warming the apartment in soft gold.

Then Qin said casually, without even looking up,

“I’m doing a collaboration with someone for our next music piece next Friday.”

Duang hummed from the dining table, distracted by the familiar sight of his boyfriend moving around the kitchen. There had been a lovesick smile lingering on his face soft and unconscious, the kind only Qin could draw out from him.

“Mm, okay ter. But with who though?”

“Tiw.”

One name. One word. And suddenly thousands of old wounds reopened at once.

Duang’s expression fell. Even through the sunlight peeking, the apartment suddenly felt like it was stranded in Antarctica.

His eyes widened in pure disbelief. He hated himself for how fast his mind reacted just at the mention of his name. It felt like an old scar tearing open before he could stop it.

Sensing no response from the other, Qin turned around catching the blank expression on Duang's face.

He quickly raised a brow, “Duang,” he said carefully, “you do know it isn’t like that, right?”

Again, no response.

The silence stretched.

Outside, birds chirped peacefully from a tree nearby the condo. Inside, Duang felt his appetite vanish entirely.

“Duang, please talk to me,” Qin sighed softly, already sounding tired.

That made Duang's chest tighten harder.

Because Qin already knew what went down his boyfriend's head. The expression on Duang's was the same one Duang gave when they were in the talking stage and Tiw's existence still lingered like unfinished history between them.

Back then, the two were still younger. Duang more so. In terms of insecurity. Less certain of where he stood in Qin's life. Tiw had been Qin's past. A person who set the blueprint of love in Qin's life before Duang broke it down and showed him what love should look like.

But that didn't make the sting hurt less. Tiw was, afterall, someone who knew Qin before Duang ever did. Someone who had memories Duang could never be part of.

And back then, Qin had never been easy to read.

He wasn’t expressive the way Duang was. He wasn't the type to shower people with sweet words every hour. Sometimes he felt more like still water — calm, restrained, hard to understand unless you looked deeper.

So in the beginning, Duang had feared drowning in feelings Qin never verbally confirmed.

But Qin had tried. Tried as much as he could from a person like him. He had explained patiently to Duang that there was nothing lingering between them anymore. And when Duang's insecurities spiraled badly after that night at the bar, Qin had even taken the pink teddy bear Tiw once gave him — the only remaining thing left from that relationship — and thrown it into the trash in front of Duang without hesitation.

“I’ll prove it to you, just like you proved your love for me. You are not the only one in love here. I'm in love with you too, Duang. I clearly choose you above anyone else. You are the only one in my life.”

Duang still remembered those words clearly. The way he said it. The way Qin had even asked whether Duang wanted him to change parts of himself just so he could keep Duang beside him for a long time. Because Qin couldn’t imagine a future without him anymore now that Duang was in his life.

That was why today's argument hurt so much. For both of them. But especially for Qin. Because after all that effort Qin made years ago… Duang was still reacting like this.

“I’m just saying,” Duang finally muttered while staring down at the untouched breakfast, “you could’ve declined it, you know…”

Qin now approached him slowly. “It’s a big project for us, Ter,” he explained patiently. “I wasn’t the one who decided this. My company did. I wish I could decline it, but this collaboration means a lot to everyone involved.”

“And you know there’s nothing going on between us anymore.”

The calmness in his tone only further fueled Duang's anxiety. The words should have reassured him. Instead, shame burned inside Duang’s chest because the jealousy remained anyway.

Duang pressed his lips together. “I know. But meeting each other and working together now—”

“What are you trying to imply, Duang?” Qin’s face had slowly twisted into a canvas of blankness.

The question struck so directly that Duang fell silent immediately. Because Duang didn't know how to answer honestly without sounding pathetic.

He was afraid that one day Qin would realize loving Duang was exhausting.

“You won't understand,” Duang whispered.

Qin let out a hollow, unamused laugh. He dragged a hand down his face before speaking again. “You think I’m going to leave you the second he comes back into the picture.”

“Right?”

“I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to. Your face already says it all, Duang.”

Duang felt his throat tighten.

Because Qin was looking at him now with something infinitely worse than anger. It was disappointment.

“Don't you trust me, Duang?”

The words rang through the apartment so sharply the room fell silent afterward.

“We aren’t even meeting in person,” Qin continued, his breathing uneven now, frustration trembling beneath every syllable. “We’re only discussing work-related things, and once this project ends, we won’t even contact each other again, Duang.”

His voice faltered faintly at the edges.

“Do you know how I’m feeling right now?” Qin asked quietly, though the quietness only made it worse. “To love someone this much and still be looked at like you’ll betray them eventually?”

Duang froze in his seat.

Qin rarely talked this much during arguments. He usually asked for space, withdrew himself or went cold.

But today the frustration had reached its boiling point.

“I did all those things, which I never did for anyone else in my entire life. I have told you repeatedly how you are the reason my life has become so much more worth living.”

“And still,” Qin laughed bitterly, “all it takes is one collaboration for you to look at me like I’m already halfway out the door.”

Duang’s chest physically hurt hearing that.

Because the cruelest thing about insecurities was that they often wounded the people trying hardest to love you correctly.

“I hate him,” Duang admitted quietly.

Qin frowned slightly.

“Because he knows parts of you I’ll never know. Because when people mention him beside you, I suddenly feel replaceable.”

The confession shattered something between them.

Qin's expression changed instantly. His gaze carried impeccable sadness.

Like he genuinely couldn't understand how the person he loved most still failed to see his heart after all this time.

“Duang,” Qin said quietly, “there has never been anyone else for me after you. His eyes never left Duang’s face.

“And there never will be.”

That should have ended the argument. It should've given Duang the answers he was looking for.

But hurt pride and accumulated fear were terrible things.

Because instead of accepting the reassurance, Duang asked the one question he should have swallowed.

“Then why agree to this at all? When you know it hurts me.”

Silence.

Qin blankly stared at him for a few seconds before eventually letting out a sigh. A sigh which meant he finally gave up.

“Okay, I get it .”

Those four words frightened Duang more than shouting ever could.

Qin grabbed his coat from the hanger afterward.

“Qin—”

“I need to smoke, Duang.”

The way he said that was too calm. And just like that the thread connecting them snapped into two.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The ride back home was too quiet now.

Streetlights slipped past the windows one after another, painting brief streaks of silver across Qin’s tired face before disappearing again into darkness. The road was nearly empty at this hour. Only the distant hum of tires against asphalt and the low murmur of the engine filled the car.

Duang sat in the driver’s seat, hands tight on the steering wheel.

He stole a glance toward Qin and all he felt was guilt.

Qin’s eyes remained fixed on the window beside him, one hand resting against the armrest, the other on his lap. His expression was neither sad nor angry. His gaze toward the window, his eyes drawn to the endless expanse of the night sky. It was still as breathtaking as before, a deep ocean of dark blue dusted with countless stars, twinkling like distant beacons of light.

The birthday celebration at Jamie’s house had gone well. Or at least it looked that way from the outside.

Everyone laughed. Marvis nearly cried while cutting the cake because Jamie had prepared some embarrassingly emotional surprise video for him. Music played softly in the background while people crowded around taking pictures and teasing each other.

Qin and Duang smiled when spoken to. They sat beside each other, initiated casual affection, and acted like everything was fine. Because neither of them wanted to bleed their private pain into a room full of people they cared about.

No one around them noticed anything wrong. Or maybe they did and simply decided to keep it to themselves unless specifically asked.

Then Tiw arrived with his girlfriend. His girlfriend was a good friend of Marvis.

And suddenly Duang realized how cruelly loud insecurities could become inside one’s own head.

The girl had smiled brightly while holding onto Tiw’s arm and complained jokingly about him driving too fast on the way there.

When Tiw approached the couple, he looked entirely normal around Qin. Nothing beyond casual friendship and professionalism.

And Duang felt his stomach sink instantly. Because the realisation that Qin's reassurance was not just a few fancy words, made guilt settle heavily inside his chest.

Duang lowered his gaze.

His fingers gripped the wheel harder. He could see the exhausted expression, that brief flash of hurt after saying clearly not enough.

Duang swallowed hard.

From the corner of his eye, he threw a quick side glance at Qin again. This time he noticed the faint shadows beneath Qin’s eyes.

Qin blinked slowly once. Then again. Sleep was beginning to catch up with him despite his efforts to stay awake.

He had been working since morning. Barely rested. Barely eaten properly. Yet he still attended the birthday gathering because Jamie and Marvis were important to him.

Qin’s head tilted slightly against the window as another yawn threatened to escape him, though he suppressed it quietly.

Duang finally spoke after nearly twenty minutes of silence.

“…Ter.”

Qin hummed softly without looking over.

“You’re sleepy.”

Qin let out a tired exhale through his nose.

“Yeah… a little tired.”

Duang stared ahead at the road glowing beneath the headlights.

“Sleep for a bit,” Duang forced a small smile that barely lasted. “We’re almost home anyway.”

Qin looked at him for another second longer than necessary. Like he was trying to peer into the thoughts Duang refused to say aloud this time. But Duang simply kept his eyes ahead.

A few minutes later, Duang heard Qin’s breathing even out gradually beside him. A small crease still remained between Qin’s brows even in sleep, like the stress from the day refused to let him go completely.

Without thinking, Duang reached out slowly.

His fingers hovered for a second before gently brushing against that crease, trying to smooth it away.

Qin didn’t wake.

Duang quickly pulled his hand back afterward, guilt crippling inside him.

“I’m sorry…” he whispered so softly the words nearly disappeared into the hum of the engine.

Soon, the city lights came into view, flickering in the distance as they crossed into familiar roads. Their apartment was only twenty minutes away now.

Duang navigated the streets with ease, taking a right turn at the crossroad signal. The roads were nearly empty at this hour, the lampposts standing tall along the sidewalks, casting elongated shadows over the pavement. The city was asleep, wrapped in its quiet slumber, with only the occasional flicker of neon signs breaking the stillness.

The kind of peace that exists moments before something irreversible destroys it forever.

The clock on the dashboard read 11:00 P. M.

Qin let out a soft sigh, leaning his head against the window, his body sinking deeper into the comfort of the passenger seat. The night had been long. Their home was just minutes away.

Everything felt peaceful.

Until—

A deafening honk shattered the silence.

Qin jolted awake at the sound.

Duang’s grip on the wheel tightened instinctively. His eyes widened in horror. A pair of blinding headlights rushed toward them, white-hot and merciless, and before Duang could even react, the monstrous shape of a speeding white truck came into full view.

The truck was swerving, its tires screeching against the asphalt. Inside, the driver was panicking, his frantic shouts muffled by the sound of metal groaning under pressure. He was trying to brake—Duang could see the sheer desperation in the way the truck wobbled on the road—but it was already too late.

Qin's eyes widened in horror as well. His gaze darted rapidly between the truck speeding toward them and Duang sitting beside him.

“DUANG!”

There was no time. Qin immediately tore off his seatbelt and threw himself toward Duang without hesitation, using his entire body to shield him from the impending collision as though his own life had never mattered in comparison.

The impact came like a monstrous roar, the force of the collision slamming through the car like a violent tidal wave. The truck crashed into them, ramming the car sideways, sending it skidding uncontrollably until it met the unforgiving steel of a lamppost.

The sound of crunching metal filled the air.

Glass shattered.

The car was crushed between the truck and the lamppost, trapped like a fragile body caught between unrelenting forces. The once-pristine black sports car was now a mangled wreck, its frame twisted beyond recognition. Smoke curled from the hood, and from beneath the wreckage, droplets of crimson began to pool, staining the pavement in thick, spreading trails.

Inside the car, the two figures lay limp. One shielding the other, slipping in and out of consciousness.

Duang was already unconscious. His head lolled weakly to the side, his breathing growing slower with every passing second.

“Please…”

Qin’s voice came out as nothing more than a shattered rasp. Blood streamed from the side of his head, dripping down his face and neck endlessly.

“Please save Du–Duang…”

Even while death wrapped icy fingers around him, Qin’s thoughts remained painfully singular.

Save Duang.

Because Qin could lose everything else in this world and still endure it somehow.

But he couldn't lose his Duang.

Duang meant the world to him. The person stitched into every future Qin had ever dared imagine for himself.

And the thought of losing him was far more terrifying than his own death itself.

The crash sent shockwaves through the quiet neighborhood.

The once-serene night was now filled with the sharp scent of burning rubber and the eerie wail of a car alarm, its sound cutting through the silence like a scream. Smoke billowed from the wreckage, curling into the air like ghostly tendrils, while shards of glass glistened under the flickering streetlights.

One by one, doors creaked open. Lights flickered on inside homes. Alarmed neighbors stepped outside, drawn by the thunderous sound of impact and the unnatural stillness that followed. Their eyes widened in horror as they took in the scene—the crumpled remains of the black sedan, the massive white truck still pressed against it, and the blood pooling beneath the wreckage like a grotesque inkblot on the pavement.

Someone screamed. Someone else fumbled for their phone, hands shaking as they dialed for help.

Within minutes, the distant wail of sirens filled the streets, growing louder, faster, until red and blue lights painted the road in an urgent glow.

The ambulance screeched to a stop.

Paramedics rushed out, their movements swift and precise, but extracting the victims from the wreckage proved to be agonizingly difficult. Twisted metal had caged them in, trapping them within a cruel embrace. It took effort—prying, pulling, breaking apart the car’s remains—to finally free them.

And when they did, a collective gasp rippled through the gathered crowd.

Blood.

Too much of it.

It smeared their faces, trailed down their temples, clung to their clothes like ink seeping into fabric. Their bodies were limp, lifeless, as they were carefully transferred onto stretchers, their chests barely rising with shallow, fragile breaths.

The paramedics wasted no time. The doors to the ambulance slammed shut, and within seconds, the sirens flared once more, the vehicle tearing down the road toward the hospital—toward whatever fate awaited them beyond those glaring white emergency room doors.

Meanwhile, the truck driver—disheveled, frantic, and reeking of alcohol—was forcibly pulled from his seat by cops. His words were slurred, his limbs trembling, but the panic in his eyes was genuine. He hadn’t meant for this to happen. But intent didn’t matter now.

Handcuffs clicked into place. The law had spoken. The stars above still continued to shimmer, indifferent to the tragedy unfolding beneath them.

The beautiful night filled with lingering regrets, wounded hearts, and apologies left unsaid had transformed into a bloodbath.

Flashback ends

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Qin slowly opened his eyes again as the shattered pieces inside his mind finally began fitting together.

“Because of that accident you’ve been in a coma for three months.” Duang continued, the words cracking and fumbling with sorrow and regret.

The words landed like a bullet aimed straight to his heart.

Three entire months stolen away into darkness while the person he loved sat beside him carrying all of this pain alone.

Duang lowered his head, his shoulders still shaking. His chest rising and falling with the weight of everything.

“They said…” His words got choked continuously as if saying itself felt like blade pressing to his heart. “They said there was a chance you wouldn’t wake up.”

Qin went still. His lips parted slightly, shock hollowing out his expression.

Duang laughed weakly again, though it sounded more painful than his sobs.

“They said to give up…” He sniffled hard, quickly rubbing at his eyes with one trembling arm before instinctively grabbing Qin’s hand again like he physically could not bear to lose contact with him for even a second.

“They said you weren’t coming back anymore.”

“But I didn’t listen to them.”

The desperation in those words felt raw enough to bleed.

“I—I couldn’t lose you…”

His breathing became ragged. Broken.

“I can’t live without you, Ter…”

Another tear slipped down helplessly, landing warm against Qin’s hand.

“You had to come back to me.”

Duang tightened his hold slightly as if reaffirming to himself that Qin was truly awake now.

“So I stayed.”

Another tear fell onto Qin’s skin.

“I thought…” Duang laughed shakily through his sobs again, sounding utterly destroyed. “I thought if you woke up and didn’t see anyone beside you…”

His lips trembled violently.

“You’d get angry at me again. That I'm such an irresponsible jerk… ”

Qin’s chest tightened so painfully he thought the monitors beside him would start screaming and glitching at the abnormality.

Now that he took a closer look at Duang, he could see how awful he looked. Like a flower on the verge of wilting.

He could see the black and red marks under his eyes indicating he hadn't slept properly in weeks. Like he’d been surviving entirely on fear.

Fear of losing Qin.

“I’m so sorry for not trusting you that day…” Duang cried harder now, his tears falling endlessly onto Qin’s hand and slipping between his fingers. “But you’re so mean, you know that?”

His voice wobbled painfully through the sobs.

“You didn’t even give me a chance to apologize… and left me to suffer like this for three months!”

Qin's own tears started slipping down his chin. His lips wobbled.

Everything fell into pieces now.

The disappearing Duang. The golden particles. The panic. His own mind had created it. Because he was afraid of losing Duang as it was the last memory that his mind had before he went unconscious. He was terrified that if he didn’t reach Duang in time—he would lose him again.

Duang was staring directly into his eyes now, crying openly without restraint. His nose was flushed pink, lips jutting into a trembling pout while his swollen red eyes searched Qin’s face desperately for reassurance.

“Were you angry at me that badly?... That you went ahead and punished me like this?” he whispered weakly.

Qin softly shook his head and despite the pain wracking his weak body, surged forward and wrapped his arms tight around Duang's neck.

“No, baby." His voice cracked halfway through the sentence.

“Never. I could never stay angry at you for too long.”

Duang broke apart instantly at that.

Qin pulled away slightly to cup Duang's cheeks, tracing his face, feeling the warmth of it under his palms. as though reassuring himself over and over again that Duang was truly alive beneath his touch.

“I’m just…” Qin’s voice shattered completely. “I’m just so glad you’re alive, Duang…”

“When the accident happened…” His breathing hitched painfully.

“You weren’t even breathing. Do you know how scared i was??”

His thumbs brushed shakily against Duang's skin that was warm.

And suddenly—

Qin broke.

A strangled sob tore out of his throat before he could stop it. His entire body shook violently as tears spilled from his eyes one after another, soaking into the hospital blanket covering him.

For three months, he had wandered through darkness of uncertainty and fear. And now he was back here, enveloped by the warmth of the person who loved him the most.

Qin lowered his forehead weakly against Duang’s shoulder and sobbed like someone who had just survived the end of the world.

“I thought…” His breathing shattered, “I thought I lost you for good…”

Duang’s own tears immediately started falling harder.

“No, no, Ter…” He tightened his arms around Qin carefully, terrified of hurting him yet unable to let go. “That was just a nightmare. I’m here okay?… I’m here…”

Qin clutched the back of Duang’s shirt desperately, fingers trembling.

“And when you disappeared in front of me again…”

“That wasn’t real,” Duang whispered shakily, stroking his hair. “I promise. I’m right here.”

Qin cried harder at that.

Like all the fear he had buried inside himself was finally spilling out.

Duang had never seen Qin cry like this before. Even through the toughest moments of his life, he hadn't seen him cry so painfully.

But now Qin held onto him like he was terrified the moment he loosened his grip, Duang would vanish again.

And Duang realized then that he wasn't the only one scared. Qin had been just as scared. Just as devastated. Just as in love.

Duang buried his face deeper into Qin’s neck, rocking them back and forth slightly.

“I’m sorry…”

Qin’s fingers twitched weakly around him.

“I’m sorry for that day,” Duang choked out again, his voice cracking apart between sobs. “For the argument… for doubting you…”

Fresh tears rolled down his cheeks.

“I was scared.”

His voice became smaller.

“So scared.”

Qin stayed silent, allowing him to speak, allowing every buried fear and regret to finally leave his chest after poisoning him for months.

Duang laughed weakly through tears.

“When I heard the name Tiw again… all those insecurities came back and I hated myself for it.” His shoulders trembled. “I kept thinking one day you’d realize I wasn’t enough.”

Qin immediately frowned.

“Duang—”

“But then the accident happened…” Duang’s breath hitched violently. “And when they told me you might never wake up…”

His voice collapsed completely.

“I.. I…"

The room fell silent except for the steady beeping of machines.

Qin stared at him for a long moment before slowly lifting his weak hand to wipe away Duang’s tears.

“You idiot,” he whispered softly. "I only love you!"

Qin’s eyes reddened further.

“No one can take your place in my life. There has only ever been you.”

Duang’s lips trembled uncontrollably.

“You’re the only person I want to come home to.”

Qin’s voice was weak, rough from disuse, but every word landed straight into Duang’s chest.

“You’re the person I think about first when I wake up and last one to think about before I fall sleep.”

Another tear slid down Duang’s face.

“I fought death for three months…” Qin smiled faintly through tears. “Don’t you think that proves something already?”

Duang immediately burst into tears again.

“You’re so mean…” he cried, laughing and sobbing at once.

Qin actually laughed at that, though it dissolved into a painful cough immediately after.

"But you love me."

"So much, Ter."

Very carefully, as though Qin were something impossibly precious and fragile, Duang leaned closer and pressed a trembling kiss against the bandage wrapped around Qin’s forehead.

“…Happy birthday, Ter.”

Qin blinked slowly, still dazed from everything.

Birthday…?

His brows furrowed faintly.

“…Today?”

Duang nodded immediately, smiling through tear-filled eyes that still looked heartbreakingly swollen from crying.

“It’s your thirtieth birthday today, Ter.”

Thirty.

The number echoed inside Qin’s mind.

And suddenly, fragments of the same nightmare returned again.

The voices urging him to hurry reminding of his birthday over and again. The strange desperation clawing through him. The feeling that time was slipping away while something—someone—waited for him desperately at the end of the darkness.

At first, Qin when remembered it, had thought all of it was merely a hallucination born from his coma.

But now…

Maybe it wasn’t.

Maybe somewhere within that endless darkness, while his body slowly gave up piece by piece—

Duang’s love had still reached him.

Maybe every tear Duang shed beside his hospital bed… every trembling prayer… every sleepless night spent holding onto his hand… had become the voice guiding him home.

And maybe Qin’s love for Duang had refused to let death take him quietly.

Like a flashlight in the tunnel, His love and Duang's hand became the thing desperately pulling him back toward the light no matter how far he drifted into the dark.

Their foreheads rested softly against each other, breaths mingling shakily in the small space between them.

And this time, when Qin smiled—it was blooming with overwhelming love and relief. Only relief so overwhelming it hurt. Only love so deep it had survived death itself.

Outside the hospital window, morning sunlight quietly spilled across the waking world in soft shades of gold. Like it was spreading life, fully alive.

As though the universe itself had finally taken pity on them.

And decided to give them one more chance.