The morning sun hung high above the university courtyard, bright and almost indifferent, casting long streams of golden light across the pavement as students drifted through the gates with an easy rhythm—laughing, chatting, carrying coffees, living their lives as if the world wasn't shattering for someone standing just a few feet away. Krit paced along the entrance with a kind of restless agitation that made passersby instinctively step aside. His foot tapped relentlessly against the ground, the muscles in his jaw twitching every time he exhaled too sharply, and his fingers clenched so tightly around his phone that his knuckles had gone pale.
Win's message from the night before kept replaying in a torturous loop inside his head, each re-read scraping against the rawest parts of him.
"I… I can't… we… can't… I'm sorry…"
Those words hadn't just confused him; they had hollowed him out from the inside, leaving behind a sickening mixture of dread, fear, and disbelief. Nothing about the message felt like Win—not the fragmented sentences, not the abruptness, not the coldness in content that contradicted every gentle detail Krit knew about him. It was like getting a message from a stranger wearing Win's name.
And then…
He appeared.
Win walked slowly across the courtyard, shoulders drawn inward beneath the weight of his backpack, his gaze fixed stubbornly on the ground as if afraid to look up and meet the world. His entire posture screamed tension, discomfort, something painfully heavy—and Krit's heart clenched so hard it almost knocked the air out of him.
"…Win?" he whispered, voice breaking despite his attempt to sound steady.
Win didn't come closer.
He stopped several steps away—just enough distance to feel like a wall had risen between them overnight.
Krit swallowed hard. "Win… hey. About your message last night—what did you mean? What was that?"
Win's silence stretched out like an answer on its own.
He didn't even raise his eyes.
Only when he finally parted his lips did words come out—flat, rehearsed, and painfully unlike him.
"I… I want to break up."
It felt like the world simply stopped spinning.
Krit stood there, staring at him, listening as his own heartbeat echoed in his ears. "Wait. What? What did you say?" He blinked rapidly, his voice cracking into a disbelieving laugh that wasn't remotely humorous. "You can't be serious. You're joking, right? Win, come on… this isn't funny."
But Win didn't lift his head, didn't soften his expression, didn't show even the smallest sign of wavering.
Krit's breath grew unsteady. "Win… talk to me. What's going on? Tell me why. Tell me anything."
Still nothing.
The silence was suffocating, pressing into Krit's chest until he felt like he couldn't breathe.
When Win finally spoke again, his voice was stiff—like he was reciting a line that didn't belong to him.
"I don't like you anymore."
Those words sliced through Krit so sharply he stumbled a half step backward.
His voice shot up in panic. "No. No, that's not true. You can't even say it properly. Look at me when you say it."
Win didn't.
His gaze stayed glued to the ground, his lashes trembling slightly.
Krit could feel his own composure slipping, anger, fear, heartbreak twisting together until he didn't know which one was controlling him. "Is someone forcing you? Did someone threaten you? Did your dad—did something happen at home? Win, I'm begging you, just tell me something!"
Win didn't move.
His silence was a wall Krit couldn't climb.
And then something inside Krit snapped—loudly, painfully.
"ANSWER ME, WIN!" he shouted, voice exploding across the courtyard.
A few students stopped walking, turning to stare.
Win's shoulders jerked, but still, he kept his head down.
"Krit! Hey!" a friend—Than—ran up, alarmed. "Dude, calm down, everyone is looking—"
Krit shoved him away without thinking. "I don't care! He can't just do this! He can't throw everything away like I didn't matter!"
In a sudden burst of anger, Krit grabbed his bag and hurled it onto the ground with a force he couldn't control. The zipper burst open, and sketchbooks, pencils, notes, and loose sheets scattered across the courtyard like broken pieces of the past year.
He pointed at them, voice shaking violently.
"Do you see that?! That's YOU! That's everything I drew because you mean something to me! And now what—none of that matters to you anymore?!"
Win's breathing grew uneven, but he still didn't answer.
"Is this what you want?" Krit's voice cracked into a dull roar. "To hurt me like I'm some stranger you don't care about? To push me away so hard I won't come back? Is this your plan?"
Win finally spoke—but only to deliver another blow.
"…I don't want to be with you."
Krit's face crumpled. "Stop lying to me," he said hoarsely. "Please. Stop lying to me. If you want to break my heart, then at least do it honestly. Don't hide behind these dead, empty words."
Win swallowed, visibly, painfully. But he didn't take the words back.
He only whispered one more sentence, colder than the last.
"I don't love you anymore."
Krit's knees nearly buckled.
It felt like someone ripped open his chest and punched straight into his ribs.
"I—I don't believe you," he said, voice trembling violently. "I won't. You don't even look like you believe yourself."
But Win didn't raise his head.
Not even once.
A shaking, defeated laugh escaped Krit. "You know who you sound like? Not you. You sound like your father. You sound like someone terrified to even breathe wrong."
Win's shoulders stiffened.
"I thought you trusted me," Krit whispered, broken. "I thought you loved me enough to tell me the truth."
Still nothing.
Something dark and furious ignited inside Krit then. He kicked the metal chair beside him, sending it clattering violently across the pavement and startling half the courtyard. A murmur ran through the watching students.
"Krit!" Than grabbed him again. "Stop—please, stop! You're going to get suspended!"
But Krit tore free, tears streaking down his face now.
"He gets to break me apart like this and I'm supposed to stay quiet?!" he shouted, voice raw, ragged.
"HE'S THE ONE WHO'S LEAVING! HE'S THE ONE WHO'S—"
His voice dropped to a broken whisper as he stared at Win.
"…he's the one I love."
Win flinched, his body trembling for the first time.
But he still didn't speak.
And somehow that hurt even more.
Krit's breathing slowed into ragged, defeated gasps. He looked at the scattered sketch pages—the fragments of the portrait he had been drawing of Win the night before. Half of Win's face, shaded tenderly, lay exposed on one page fluttering in the wind.
Krit bent down, picked it up with shaking fingers, stared at it until the shapes dissolved into wet blurs.
Then he crushed the page in his fist.
Win's lips parted—barely—but he still said nothing.
Krit stood slowly, wiping his tears with the back of his shaking hand. His voice was empty, strangled.
"You want me gone, Win?" he whispered.
"Fine. I'll disappear."
And then—with shoulders trembling, eyes red, and steps heavier than grief itself—Krit turned his back and walked away.
He didn't look back.
Not once.
Win stood frozen in place long after Krit vanished from sight, long after the crowd dispersed, long after the courtyard fell silent again.
Only the wind moved—rustling through the scattered sketches on the ground, sweeping away the remnants of everything they once were.
The next few days dragged by so slowly that Krit felt like the entire universe was purposely holding him in place, forcing him to sit with the weight of what he had done. He stopped eating with Tawan, Than, and Phum. He stopped laughing, stopped smiling, stopped showing even a flicker of his old warmth. In lectures, he stared at his notes without absorbing a single word. On the basketball court, he walked through drills like a ghost. His friends whispered among themselves, unsure how to help him. Whenever someone asked what happened, Krit only muttered, "He dumped me," his voice flat and empty, like the words meant nothing when they were actually ripping him apart.
News of the breakup spread fast. And twisted. And exaggerated. By the end of the week, every hallway held at least one whisper of Win's name, spoken with curiosity, pity, or mockery. Win became a target without even understanding why.
At first it was small—snickers behind his back when he walked to class, sharp glances from people he didn't know, comments like "There goes the quiet one" or "He looks like he'll cry again." Win pretended not to hear any of it, but his shoulders curled inward more with each passing day. His steps got smaller. His voice shrank to nothing. Win, who had always been quiet, became almost invisible.
Tawan, Than, and Phum noticed how easy it was to intimidate him—and they leaned into it. Krit never encouraged them, but he never told them to stop. Sometimes he even forced himself to smile when they joked about Win, because if he didn't smirk, he knew he would break. The guilt stung him every time, but the bitterness ate at him stronger, and he let the cruelty continue as if each jab they threw at Win would dull the pain still burning inside him.
Win tried to stay far away from them. He avoided the cafeteria entirely unless he was starving. He waited until classrooms emptied before entering or leaving. He carried himself so small, like he hoped he could disappear into thin air. But even then, people found him. Someone bumped into him "accidentally." Someone tugged his backpack. Someone muttered "pathetic" under their breath.
Win would swallow it silently, his throat burning, his eyes stinging, but he always forced himself not to cry. Not here. Not where anyone could see.
One afternoon in the art studio, Win was sitting alone, headphones on, trying to draw. But even the sound of music couldn't steady his hands. Every time he attempted a line, his fingers trembled. His eyes kept blurring whenever he thought of Krit—of his voice, his warmth, his anger, his silence. Win blinked quickly, trying to push the tears back. His chest tightened painfully, and he gripped his pencil with white knuckles, whispering to himself, "Just draw… please."
The door burst open so loud that Win flinched violently, nearly dropping his pencil. Tawan, Than, and Phum entered, their voices filling the room like a storm.
"Ohh look," Phum said with a grin, stepping toward Win. "Still drawing? Cute."
Win's breath hitched, barely audible. He pulled his sketchbook closer, hoping they'd ignore him. But Than snagged a loose drawing from the table and held it up.
"Wow," Than said. "Is this supposed to be deep? Or just sad?"
Win's chest tightened. "Please… give it back."
Tawan smirked. "What's wrong? You scared?"
Win shook his head, but his hands were shaking so badly that they betrayed him. His knees pressed together, his shoulders hunched, and he looked more like a terrified child than a university student. Phum stepped closer, lifting another drawing.
"This one sucks," he said, crumpling it slowly, watching Win's face fall like he enjoyed every second.
"Stop…" Win's voice cracked. "Please… don't."
But the more afraid he looked, the more they pushed.
Than brushed red paint across one of Win's sketches, leaving a bright streak like a slash across the page. Win gasped loudly and lunged forward.
"NO—please—stop—don't ruin it—please—"
His voice shook so hard he couldn't even finish the sentence. He reached out, but Tawan grabbed the canvas first and tilted it as if examining it mockingly.
"What?" Tawan asked. "You gonna cry again? Huh?"
Win's breathing became quick and shallow. His eyes were glossy. His bottom lip trembled uncontrollably. He tried to blink it away, but a tear slipped down his cheek before he could stop it.
Than laughed. "Oh look. He's crying."
Win turned away immediately, wiping his face with his sleeve, ashamed, terrified, desperate to disappear. His whole body shook with silent panic. He looked so small, so utterly broken, that even Tawan paused for a moment—before smirking and walking past him.
Then the door opened again.
Krit stepped in.
The room froze.
Krit's eyes moved slowly across the scene—the shredded sketches, the paint smeared across Win's art, the trembling shoulders, the tear streak on Win's cheek. Win stared at him with wide, terrified eyes, like a trapped animal begging for help.
For a moment, Krit's entire world tilted. Guilt crashed into him so violently that he had to clench his fists just to keep from shaking. His throat tightened. His chest burned.
He wanted to shout at them. He wanted to run to Win and wipe the tear from his cheek. He wanted to protect him the way he always used to.
But the anger he'd been clinging to—the anger he used to survive—rose up and swallowed everything else.
He looked away first.
"Let's go," he said quietly. His voice was tired, cold.
Tawan, Than, and Phum grinned, unfazed. "See you, little artist," they said as they walked out.
Krit followed them without looking back.
The moment the door shut, Win sank to his knees, hugging his ruined drawing to his chest, shaking uncontrollably. For the first time since the breakup, he let himself cry freely—soft, painful sobs echoing across the empty studio.
That night, Krit lay awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying Win's terrified expression over and over until he thought he would lose his mind. He hated himself for walking away. He hated himself for letting it happen. He hated himself for still loving Win so much it hurt to breathe.
But he didn't fix it.
He didn't apologize.
And Win continued shrinking, day by day, under the weight of humiliation and whispered cruelty. Every time someone shoved him in the hallway, he stumbled without complaint. Every time someone called him weak, he lowered his head. He barely spoke in class, barely slept, barely existed.
Krit saw all of it. Every stumble. Every flinch. Every bruise on Win's arm that hadn't been there before. And each time he saw it, something inside him cracked even more—even as he forced himself to look away.
By the end of the month, neither of them resembled who they used to be. Krit was angry, restless, and hollow. Win was scared, exhausted, and breaking.
Two boys who once held each other now stood nowhere near touching distance—separated by silence, pride, guilt, and a pain that neither of them knew how to voice.
The city nights had become Krit's refuge.
What once was laughter shared with Win had turned into music so loud it drowned out everything else — his guilt, his anger, his heartbreak.
At first, it was just drinking with friends. But soon, it became blurred nights at neon-lit clubs, girls and boys leaning close, laughter too sharp, kisses too careless. Krit flirted like he was trying to erase someone, but no matter who touched him, he still saw Win's face. He would wake up late the next morning, body aching, head pounding, and the same question would echo through his mind — why did he leave me?
His parents began to notice.
One night, his mother sat by his bedside, watching him sleep off another hangover. Empty bottles littered the floor, his shirt half-buttoned, his phone buzzing with messages he didn't bother to read. She reached over and brushed his hair back, whispering to her husband, "He's not the same, Anan… he's breaking."
That same week, Krit's father decided to visit the university. They had heard the rumors — the breakup, the fights, the teasing. And they wanted answers.
Win was sketching quietly in the corner of the art studio, trying to breathe through the constant ache lodged in his chest, when the door creaked open. He didn't look up at first—he thought it was a student. But when he finally glanced over his shoulder, his entire body went stiff.
Krit's parents stood there.
Mrs. Thanakorn's posture was calm, composed, elegant as always, but her eyes… her eyes carried a depth of sadness that made Win's stomach twist. Mr. Thanakorn looked far less controlled—his jaw was tight, his brows drawn low, his whole presence heavy like a storm waiting to break.
Win shot to his feet so quickly that his chair scraped loudly across the floor. He bowed. "A—Ah… hello, Auntie… Uncle…"
His voice shook.
Mrs. Thanakorn took a slow step forward. "Win, dear," she began gently, though her tone trembled, "we know… everything that happened. Krit told us you ended the relationship."
Win's breath faltered. His fingers curled in on themselves, nails digging into his palms.
Mr. Thanakorn scoffed under his breath—sharp, cutting. "Ended it," he repeated. "That's one way to describe it."
Win flinched.
Mrs. Thanakorn continued softly, as if trying to soften the blow. "You need to know… he hasn't been the same, Win. He's hurting more than you think."
Win wanted to speak, to explain, to apologize, but the words stuck painfully in his throat.
Mr. Thanakorn didn't wait. He stepped forward, his voice firmer, deeper. "Do you know where I found my son last night?" he demanded. "Do you?" He didn't give Win time to answer. "At a nightclub. Drunk. Barely conscious. Surrounded by strangers who didn't even know his name—didn't even care." His nostrils flared. "My son, who had never touched alcohol before this month."
Win's eyes grew glossy. He shook his head weakly, whispering, "I… I'm sorry… I never wanted—"
"Sorry?" Mr. Thanakorn cut in sharply. "Sorry doesn't fix the fact that he's failing his classes. Sorry doesn't fix the fact that he came home with blood on his shirt from getting punched in some stupid fight. Sorry doesn't fix the fact that the boy who used to wake up early to train is now sleeping all day."
Win swallowed hard, chest tightening painfully. "I… I didn't mean to hurt him. I thought I was doing the right thing—"
"The right thing?" Mr. Thanakorn barked out a humorless laugh. "You shattered him. You broke something in him that I don't know if we can fix." His eyes were fierce—hurt layered beneath the anger. "And for what? Because you're 'protecting him'? Protecting him from what, Win? From you?"
Win's voice cracked. "No… from myself… from the pressure… from—"
"Excuses," Mr. Thanakorn snapped. "All I hear is excuses."
Mrs. Thanakorn placed a gentle hand on her husband's arm. "Enough… he's just a child—"
"No," Mr. Thanakorn said, eyes locked on Win. "He's not a child. Neither of them are. And someone needs to say this clearly." He stepped closer until Win could feel the heat of his anger. "If you weren't ready for the responsibility of being in his life, you should never have entered it."
Win looked down, tears rising so fast he had to blink repeatedly to keep them from spilling. His voice trembled, small and brittle. "I… I never thought he'd fall apart like this…"
"And why," Mr. Thanakorn asked, voice low with accusation, "did you think he wouldn't? You were everything to him."
Mrs. Thanakorn's voice softened, but her words still struck like a knife. "He trusted you, Win. And you leaving him… it destroyed him."
Win's shoulders shook. He pressed his palms against the table behind him just to stay standing.
Mr. Thanakorn exhaled sharply, frustration tightening his whole face. "Do you know how humiliating it is," he said, "to watch my son collapse like that? To hear my wife crying at night because she doesn't know how to help him? To see our family falling apart because of a relationship you ran away from?"
"I didn't run away—" Win choked out.
"Yes, you did," Mr. Thanakorn said bluntly. "You ran. You chose silence instead of honesty. Distance instead of communication. You left him without even giving him a reason he could understand."
Win's voice fell to a whisper. "I thought I was doing the right thing…"
"Then think again," Mr. Thanakorn said sharply. "Because the consequences are real. And if this continues—if he keeps failing, keeps fighting, keeps spiraling—then he'll be forced to drop out of university. Do you understand that? He will lose everything he worked for."
Win's head snapped up, eyes wide. "Drop out…? No… he can't… he's so talented, he worked so hard, I—"
"He is slipping," Mr. Thanakorn said. "Faster than you realize. And I need you to understand just how serious this is."
Win stepped back as if the words physically hit him. Tears finally spilled over, streaming down his cheeks in silent desperation. "I…" he whispered brokenly. "I never wanted his life to fall apart. I thought I was protecting him…"
Mrs. Thanakorn shook her head softly, sadness pulling at her features. "You both only succeeded in hurting each other."
Mr. Thanakorn's voice softened just barely—but the hurt in it remained sharp. "We aren't here to punish you, Win. We aren't here to blame you for everything. But you must understand the weight of your actions. What you did has consequences on him. On us. On you."
Win nodded weakly, tears dripping onto the floor. "I'm… I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry… I never wanted any of this…"
Mrs. Thanakorn sighed—long, quiet, tired. "We know you cared about him, Win. That's why this hurts so much." She wiped a tear from her own cheek before continuing. "But you two made choices you can't take back."
Mr. Thanakorn placed a firm hand on the door handle. "And now," he said, voice low and final, "you have to live with what those choices have done."
The door opened.
But before leaving, Mr. Thanakorn looked back at him one last time. His expression was stern, but his voice trembled with emotion he could no longer hide.
"If Krit drops out, Win," he said, "I will hold you responsible. Not because you meant harm— but because you lit the match and walked away while he burned."
Win's breath hitched violently, tears flooding his vision until the entire room blurred.
Krit's parents left in silence, their footsteps echoing down the hallway.
And Win stood there alone, trembling uncontrollably, sinking slowly to the floor as the weight of their words crushed him completely. He clutched the edge of his sketchbook, sobbing so quietly that the sound barely reached the walls—his whole world collapsing in a way he never, ever intended.
He sank into his chair, chest tight, eyes burning. Protecting him — that's what he'd told himself. But what had it really done? Krit was destroying himself, and Win couldn't stop it.
That night, Krit went out again.
Laughter, flashing lights, and the same endless cycle of trying to forget. He drank until his hands stopped shaking, until his mind went blank, until his heart didn't ache quite as much. When he stumbled out of the club, the rain had started to fall — soft and steady. His phone buzzed with messages from home, but he ignored them.
Across the city, Win couldn't sleep. His father's voice echoed in his head, Krit's parents' disappointment weighed heavy, and the whispers at school had become unbearable. Even his professors looked at him with quiet pity.
The next morning, Win went to see Mr. Chai. His bag was already packed.
"Win," he said, startled to see him so early.
He took a shaky breath. "Professor… I need to leave. Please don't ask why."
He searched his face and saw the exhaustion — not just physical, but something deeper, like his spirit had been drained away. "Is this because of Krit?" she asked softly.
Win looked away. "He's… breaking. I'm the reason. And I can't stand seeing him like that anymore. Everyone looks at me like I'm the villain. Maybe I am. I just… need to go."
Mr. Chai hesitated, then opened her wallet and handed him a small envelope. "Here," he said gently. "Enough for a bus ticket and some food. You don't have to explain. Just promise me you'll be safe."
Win took it with trembling hands, whispering, "Thank you, Professor."
That evening, he boarded a bus heading out of the province. The city blurred behind him, glowing faintly in the fading sunset. He pressed his forehead against the glass, breathing slowly.
He imagined Krit — laughing in the club, smiling through the pain, and he whispered softly, "I'm sorry."
Back in the city, Krit wandered into the art studio the next day, searching for him. The room was empty except for a half-finished sketch and an envelope with Win's handwriting left on the table. Inside was a folded note:
"I wish I had been brave enough to stay. Maybe in another life, we'll meet again — somewhere without fear, without goodbyes."
Krit's breath caught. His hands trembled as he read it again, over and over, until the words blurred through his tears. The studio was silent except for the soft sound of his sobs — the kind that came from a place too deep to ever fully mend.
Krit sat slumped on the cold studio floor, surrounded by half-finished sketches and the faint smell of turpentine. His eyes were red, his clothes rumpled, and his phone lay on the floor, silent. The note from Win was still open beside him — crumpled from where his fingers had clenched it through the night.
A soft knock broke the stillness.
"Krit?"
It was Mr. Chai, his art mentor, his voice cautious. He stepped inside, holding a small folder to his chest. His gaze landed on him — hollow-eyed, exhausted — and she sighed softly. "You haven't been to class in two days. I was worried."
Krit didn't look up. "You don't have to be. I'm fine."
He hesitated, then knelt beside him. "You're not. And… I think you should hear this from me before you see it on the notice board."
Krit finally turned his head. "What?"
Mr. Chai drew a slow breath. "Win withdrew from the program this morning. He…He is leaving the city. I don't think he's coming back."
The world seemed to tilt. Krit's body went rigid, his throat tightening until words refused to form. "No… no, he wouldn't just—he wouldn't leave without…" He trailed off, breath shaking.
"I'm sorry," Mr. Chai said softly. "He asked me to give you this."
She handed him a small envelope, thinner than the one before. Inside, a single sketch — charcoal lines forming two hands almost touching, but never meeting. Underneath, in small handwriting:
"I'm sorry for everything… for leaving without saying more, for breaking your heart. I never meant to."
Krit stared at it, his hands trembling. His jaw tightened, a thousand emotions warring inside him — anger, grief, disbelief. Then his expression collapsed into quiet surrender.
Mr. Chai placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Sometimes, people leave because they think it's the only way to save what's left of them," he murmured. "But that doesn't make it hurt any less."
He nodded faintly, his eyes glassy. "He didn't save anything," he whispered. "He just… erased us."
Krit sank onto the bench, burying his face in his hands. "I didn't… I never wanted this. I just… I miss him so badly."
Mr. Chai's voice softened. "I know. But now you have to think. He's moved for his safety. If you truly care, you'll respect that. Figure out how to reach him safely… and carefully."
Krit looked up, eyes filled with a storm of frustration, sorrow, and longing. "I have to… find him," he murmured, more to himself than to her. "I can't let him be alone."
Mr. Chai nodded. "Be careful, Krit. He trusts you. Don't lose that."
The room fell silent again — the kind of silence that presses into the chest and lingers. Outside, the morning light spilled through the cracked blinds, tracing thin, silver lines across the studio floor — light that reached everything except him.