Chapter Text
✦ ─── ⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ⌕ 𓂃 𓈒 ༉‧₊˚ ─── ✦
⸝⸝ 𓏲 𓂃 𝑳𝒆𝒕'𝒔 𝒎𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒏𝒆𝒙𝒕 𝒈𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒔… 🍸 ⊹ ˚✦
⭑ 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒂𝒓𝒈𝒖𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒔… 𓆩⟡𓆪 ☽
✦ ─── ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ 𓍢🍷 ˚⊹ 𓈒 ۫ ︶︶︶︶︶︶
┈┈ ⋆ 𓂃 [ 🎻 ] 𓂃 ⋆ ┈┈
The steam still clung to the bathroom tiles when I stepped out of the shower, wrapping around me with that scent of neutral soap and warm humidity that always brought me comfort in the mornings. But I couldn’t afford calm. The clock on the wall, with its insistent ticking, reminded me that time was slipping through my fingers.
I walked over to the small coat rack beside the bed, where the few clothes I had carefully picked out the night before were hanging. I didn’t have many options, but that didn’t mean I didn’t care about how I looked. I slipped on a clean, fitted white tank top that subtly outlined my shoulders and the tattoo peeking just above my chest. Over it, a loose, earth-toned linen shirt, neatly pressed, gave me that balance between casual and polished. I rolled the sleeves up to my elbows, intentionally revealing the geometric design running down my forearm like some sort of secret map. The dark pants were wrinkle-free and slightly tailored, and the shoes—though old—were polished to a shine. It wasn’t vanity, it was necessity. My image was one of the few things I could still control.
Before leaving, I ran my fingers through my wet hair, shaping it with a bit of cheap but effective wax. I looked at myself in the mirror and prayed—not like someone who believes fervently, but like someone begging for a little mercy. I only wished for one thing: that guy wouldn’t be there today. Him. Ray.
Ray was the kind of person who became an invisible weight in the air. You felt him before you saw him. You knew something was about to boil over the moment he stepped into the bar where I worked. His presence made every part of me tense, my back straighten in automatic alert, my hands stay ready for any kind of intervention. Ray was the main reason my job had become a war zone disguised as a bar with glasses and fake laughter. Ever since he started showing up, the owner demanded more vigilance, more control, fewer mistakes. My patience, which was never abundant, was slowly crumbling.
And yet, for some reason I couldn’t fully admit, I watched him. I kept an eye on him even when I didn’t need to, even when he wasn’t doing anything. I looked for him in the crowd, noticed his usual table, the way his gaze always seemed lost, like he too was trapped in his own storm. It was pathetic, maybe, but I couldn’t help it. Who could ignore a fire once they’ve learned to live on the edge of the blaze?
The past few days had been a mess. Ray had gotten into more than one fight with guys who, honestly, didn’t seem to have all their screws in place. Shady men—the kind that reek of trouble from a distance. And there I was, stepping in again and again, pushing, separating, trying to ease the tension before it burst into violence. It wasn’t my job, but no one else did it. My relationship with Ray was a series of clashes, confrontations, and strange moments where the line between anger and something deeper began to blur. Me, someone so averse to drama, found myself unwillingly too close to chaos.
A sharp chime snapped me out of my thoughts, like a sonic whip slicing through the silence. I scoffed in annoyance, adjusting my shirt before reaching for my bottle of sunscreen. I could live in a tiny room, could be drowning in debt, but I never neglected my skin. A small luxury that reminded me I still had some control over my life. The room —if it could even be called that— was barely a space boxed in by four soulless walls. A single bed, a scrawny desk, a flickering lamp, and a tiny window that barely let the light in. Honestly, I don't need space for anything else.
I walked toward the door with that knot in my stomach you get when you sense bad news is coming. And I wasn’t wrong. As soon as I opened the door, the familiar face of the building manager appeared like an unwanted shadow. He was holding the usual papers in his hand, wearing an expression I knew all too well: demanding, tired, devoid of empathy.
“Hey, William…” I began, placing my hands on my hips as if my posture could convince him. “I swear I’ll pay the rent, just… give me a bit more time.”
“Kant, I need the rent today,” he replied sharply, in that voice that offered no alternatives—like he already knew he was about to hear excuses and wasn’t in the mood to tolerate them. I sighed. The weight of his words hit me like a bucket of ice water. Reality was pressing down on me from every side: work, an annoying rich boy (ray), the apartment, life, etc. There was no relief, and I didn’t know how much more I could take before I shattered.
I could pretend to be surprised, could act like I hadn’t seen it coming, but I wasn’t in the mood for cheap theater or improvised speeches to disguise the inevitable. The department manager standing in front of me was as predictable as a storm looming on the horizon—you can feel it in the air long before the first drop falls. I clenched my jaw tightly, holding back the urge to let out a sigh that would reveal all the weariness inside me, and simply said in a low but firm voice, laced with barely contained sarcasm:
“Right. I need emotional and financial stability too… and maybe a few breaks from work while we’re at it. But life isn’t always fair, is it?”
I didn’t smile. There was no room for smiles in that conversation. And neither did he. He stood there, motionless, arms hanging by his sides and wearing that same expression—cold, detached. I knew he wouldn’t budge. I knew it from the moment I saw him walk down the hall.
“It’s been almost a month, Kant,” he said in that tone people use when they think they’re being reasonable, when in truth, they’re just repeating a sentence. He said it like I didn’t already know. Like I didn’t go to bed every night with that number drilling itself into my brain. I looked at him for a moment, pressed my lips together, and decided to stay calm. Arguing wouldn’t help.
“Alright…” I murmured, lowering my gaze slightly. “But I don’t have a time machine to rewind the clock and pay you back in advance.”
He crossed his arms—unyielding. That posture told me everything: the decision was made. He was only there out of protocol, not compassion. I glanced around, maybe hoping to find some invisible exit or at least a reason not to lose my mind. But what I saw didn’t help. The walls, chipped at the corners, seemed to whisper everything I didn’t want to admit. The cracked ceiling, the worn carpet, the old furniture that came with the apartment and had long forgotten what comfort meant. Still, that small space was everything to me.
It was a modest room—too modest—but it was mine. A single bed shoved against the wall, a tiny two-burner stove where I could barely fit a pan, a bathroom with a mirror cracked like a scar, and a desk I’d salvaged from a garage sale. Everything in that place was borrowed from time, half-broken, surviving. But it was the only place I could come back to after a draining shift. The only place where I could sit, even for a few minutes, and believe that I still had some control.
And more importantly: I needed that place for him… for Babe. I had to pay for his school. He was about to start college—it was his dream, his path. I couldn’t let it all fall apart now. He didn’t deserve that. I could handle the burnout, the hopelessness. But not him. He deserved a chance. Just one.
“Just… give me a few business days. I promise I’ll pay you,” I said at last, appealing to whatever shred of humanity he might have left.
But he didn’t even let me finish. He cut me off with a dry “no” and a wave of his hand that felt like a death sentence. He informed me—with the efficiency of a soulless judge—that I had two days to vacate the place. Not a day more. Then, without another word, he shut the door firmly. The thud of the wood echoed in my ears like a final toll.
And in that cruel and perfect moment, I knew.
I was done.
Not just because of the eviction threat, but because of everything piling up: the exhaustion, the weight of responsibility, the endless fight against a system that always demanded more than I could give. I leaned against the closed door, felt the cold wood on my back, and slowly lowered my gaze to the floor. A knot formed in my throat, thick, so full of helplessness that even breathing hurt. But I couldn’t break down. Not yet.
I took a deep breath, knowing that today—like so many others—I’d have to walk out into the world with my head held high. Pretend everything was fine. That everything was still under control. Yep, everything is VERY good, yes of course.
✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: 𓆩 🍸 𓆪 :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧
⟡ 𝑵𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆, 8:30 𝑷𝑴 ⋆｡˚ ☾
❝ the glass overflows, but the soul is empty… ❞
╰── ⋆⭑✧･ﾟ┊ ☽ ☁︎ ❝ ❞ ☾ ⋆｡˚
My shift had begun, as always, under the unmistakable glow of neon lights that made the place feel somewhere between overwhelming and comforting. YOLO had that vibrant personality that made it unique in the city; the walls reflected shades of pink, red, and green that blended with the artificial smoke and the constant murmur of the first voices of the night. Every corner of the venue seemed to pulse with its own life, as if it breathed to the rhythm of the music that, though still low, already slid through the speakers hidden between the columns of the place.
Like every night, I was the first to turn on the stage lights. It was a quiet but meaningful routine—almost a ritual. YOLO wasn’t just my workplace: it was a parallel world where I could hide from the chaos of my real life. Here, among drinks, strangers' laughter, and artificial lights, I could forget—if only for a few hours—that I was getting kicked out of my apartment, or that Babe needed to enroll in college.
That night, Yo was in charge of organizing the game round, a nightly activity we did to get the customers to loosen up, mingle with strangers, and with some luck, go home with less emotional baggage and more alcohol in their bloodstream. As I set out the chips and cards on the round table we used for the games, I saw her, always so enthusiastic, her energy clashing beautifully with my melancholic calm. She greeted me with a wave, her smile as wide as a sunrise, and I simply nodded with a slight curve of my lips—a smile more polite than joyful—while my eyes drifted toward the scene she starred in with her eternal boyfriend, Plug.
They were arguing, as always, as if fighting were their love language. She insisted on playing a drinking game—a classic and infallible way to liven things up—but he preferred something bolder, like the ever-present "Truth or Dare." I watched from my spot with a mix of amusement and resignation, not intervening, while she gestured animatedly and he followed her with that mischievous grin he always wore when he knew he was winning. As for me, I went back to my duties, rearranging the glasses and wiping the counter with a still-damp cloth.
Before heading back to the bar, I took a few minutes to stop by the workers' bathroom—the one reserved just for us. A space as small as it was necessary, which by now felt more intimate than my own room. I looked at myself in the mirror with a kind of indifference and began to dress for the role I had to play that night. I put on the crisp white shirt, neatly ironed; I made sure to roll up the sleeves to my elbows so my tattoos would show—one of the few personal details I liked revealing. Then came the black vest with suspenders, the matching fitted trousers, and lastly, the tie. I tied the knot with the precision only habit can bring, watching myself closely. I couldn’t afford to look sloppy. Not at YOLO. Not in my escape.
And then it began. The night came alive with its usual momentum. The doors opened, and people started to flood in like a lively tide: chaotic laughter, heels striking the floor with confidence, shiny jackets, eyes searching to forget something. Some arrived in groups, others in pairs, and the boldest—or loneliest—sat right at the bar, as if they were looking for a story served in a glass.
I took my place behind the bar—my personal stage. I got ready for the usual: the basic orders, the same requests repeated over and over by unimaginative men who thought a double whiskey could solve their lives, or at least make the night go by a little easier. The glasses clinked, ice slid with that crystalline sound that becomes a melody to those who work among bottles. My mind drifted through fleeting thoughts—bills, rent, Babe—until a peculiar voice sliced through the crowd like lightning in the middle of the noise.
"hey boy! Give me the strongest drink you’ve got because I’ve got amazing news for you!"
It was Style.
Style, with his overflowing charisma, his smile always a little too big for his face, and that contagious energy that was sometimes downright exhausting. I looked at him with one eyebrow slightly raised, just like I always did when he showed up unannounced, dragging chaos behind him. Leaning over the bar, he stared at me with that spark in his eyes that signaled something was definitely about to happen. I wasn’t sure if I should be excited or start preparing to run.
"The strongest, huh?" I murmured, already heading to the station where I kept my more refined liquors.
I wasn’t about to hand him just anything. If Style asked for strength, I’d give him elegance. I skillfully prepared a Death in the Afternoon, a dangerously seductive mix of absinthe and champagne that didn’t go easy on the inexperienced. I poured each ingredient with the delicacy of an artist—with the kind of care only someone who truly respects their craft would have.
When I handed it to him, I looked at him with a touch of satisfaction, knowing I was about to serve him a reality check in liquid form. Style took the glass without hesitation, and with all the reckless enthusiasm in the world, took a long, bold sip. His face changed in seconds. His eyes narrowed, his eyebrows arched, and that confident smile he always wore melted into a grimace of surprise and revulsion. He coughed a little, closed his eyes, and muttered through stifled laughter:
“Damn, Kant! Are you trying to kill me or make me fly?”
"You asked for strong," I said with a restrained smile as I polished a glass with a cloth.
And then, between the laughter and the burn of the alcohol, Style leaned toward me, lowering his voice but keeping that spark alive.
"You can’t handle a gentle sip anymore, my friend," I said with a crooked grin, giving him the kind of teasing reserved only for real friends.
I leaned my elbows on the bar, letting the weight of my body settle there as I watched him try to form words. His face was a blend of surprise, defeat, and just a touch of theatrical drama that came so naturally to him. Always over-the-top. Always wanting to leave a mark. His eyes, usually full of life, now looked a little glassy, and his lips moved with little coordination.
“Water… I need… water,” he whispered hoarsely, as if the absinthe had dried out not just his throat but his very soul.
I couldn’t help but let out a short, dry, but genuine laugh. My voice got lost in the music, which had already picked up, and in the overlapping chatter of the customers who were finally loosening up after their first drinks.
"And here I thought you were an expert in ‘intense experiences,’" I said in a playfully mocking tone as I turned to grab a cold bottle of water we kept exactly for moments like this. I pulled it out from the compartment beneath the bar and handed it to him with a triumphant gesture, still smiling.
Style took it as if I were offering him the Holy Grail. He ripped off the cap and drank desperately, letting out a loud sigh of relief after the first few gulps. He closed his eyes like the water was bringing him back to life.
“Bless you,” he said, voice steadier now, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Shit, man,” Style added, his voice still slightly slurred from the punch of the previous drink. “That was no light drink… but never mind that, listen to me. As soon as your shift ends, go straight to his house. Everything’s ready. I got you a meeting with a new roommate. And, Kant, you have to see that place... it's huge. Modern. Clean. And also…”
His words sped up with each syllable, his overwhelming excitement bordering on childish. And while part of me couldn’t help but catch a bit of his energy, another part—more tired, more clear-headed—was already starting to suspect there were strings attached to this story. I frowned, cutting him off without ceremony.
“You did what? Wait—” I narrowed my mouth even more. “Did you read my messages?”
I knew the answer before he even opened his mouth. Yes, I had written to him. In the middle of my desperation the night before, tossing and turning in that tiny room that was about to stop being mine, I had asked for help. But I did it half-hoping he wouldn't read them. Hoping he’d spare me the humiliation. I hadn’t wanted to bother him—especially not him, or his father, who had already given me a roof once.
“Of course I read them,” he replied with that shamelessness so typical of him, shrugging like it was no big deal. “But that doesn’t matter anymore. What matters is that the guy at this house is looking for a roommate. And he owns the place, so no middlemen. You only pay what he decides. The app said all you have to cover is food, drinks, and the internet. That’s it.”
His smile widened, just like the excitement in his voice. He sounded like someone announcing you’d just won a trip to Bora Bora. But I… I couldn’t help frowning, still not entirely convinced. Part of me wanted to believe him. I wanted to grab his hand, thank him, hug him if I had to, and tell him this was a miracle. Because it was: a big house, no fixed rent, only splitting minor costs… it meant I could still send Babe what he needed for college. It meant I wouldn’t have to abandon everything just because I didn’t have a roof over my head. It was, on the surface, the perfect solution.
And that was exactly why I doubted it.
“Style…” I began, rubbing a hand over my temple. “This sounds like a scam. It has to be. Who in their right mind looks for a roommate and charges almost nothing? Just food and internet? No one, friend. No one does that. Not without a reason. He’s probably some weirdo. Or worse… dangerous. What if he’s one of those guys who keeps bones under the mattress?”
My voice dropped, dragged down by suspicion. I let myself sink behind the bar again, eyes settling on the empty glass in front of him with resignation. Style watched me, head tilted, clearly torn between his bubbling excitement and my creeping doubts. He was just about to reply when a sharp sound broke the moment.
It came like a blow. A murmur turned shout. A raspy, irritated voice coming from the back of the bar. An echo I knew way too well.
Ray.
I turned almost instantly toward the hallway that led to the staff bathrooms. I could hear him more clearly now, arguing with someone. Again. That uneasy feeling returned to the pit of my stomach. It wasn’t my responsibility. It shouldn’t matter to me. But…
Why did he always do this?
I sighed in frustration, ran a hand through my hair, and stepped out from behind the bar without saying a word. I walked briskly down the hallway, feeling the music’s vibration in the floor, the neon lights flickering above my head. When I pushed open the bathroom door, the scene unfolded like some cheap tragicomedy. Ray. Half-wearing his jacket, brow furrowed like the world owed him something, standing with the posture of someone who had no intention of backing down. In front of him, an older man in a ripped t-shirt, holding a roll of toilet paper like they were fighting over the last piece of gold in the universe.
“I told you I was using it!” the man roared—a chubby guy in his fifties, shirt unbuttoned down to his navel and his face red like a broken traffic light.
“And I told you it’s for everyone, you sick old man!” Ray shot back, raising his voice like he was in a courtroom instead of a bar bathroom where the cheap air freshener struggled to mask the stench of cigarettes, liquor, and sweat.
I froze as I crossed the threshold, the echo of the music still buzzing at my back, and blinked a couple of times. For a moment, I thought my brain had made it all up: Ray, jacket slipping off one shoulder, clutching a roll of toilet paper like a weapon, and the other guy standing with his hands on his hips, like a fed-up mother on the verge of a breakdown. I held back a laugh. Not because it wasn’t funny, but because I knew Ray well enough to know that any attempt at humor would only egg him on.
“This is what you’re making a scene about?” I asked finally, crossing my arms as I stepped forward. “Toilet paper? Seriously?”
Ray turned his head toward me, slightly startled. I saw it—that fleeting flicker of relief in his eyes the moment he saw me. Like, despite all his front, he’d hoped I’d show up. But, as always, he buried it under a practiced layer of arrogance.
“This guy started it,” he said in an accusatory tone, pointing at the man like he’d committed a federal crime.
“Me? You barged into the stall while I was still in there! You stole the damn roll while I was pulling up my pants!” the man barked, taking a step toward Ray.
Ray stepped back slightly, but not out of fear—more like to gain a better verbal attack angle.
“You can’t hoard toilet paper like it’s the goddamn apocalypse! This is a public restroom, not your private throne, you two-bit Nostradamus!”
I brought a hand to my face, massaging the bridge of my nose with resignation.
“Sir, please…” I cut in, my voice calm. “Would you mind giving us a moment? I promise I’ll sort this out without any more medieval battles.”
The man snorted like a bull, shot me a disbelieving look, and finally gathered what was left of his dignity, muttering something under his breath like, “I don’t even argue about this crap in my own house.” He walked out, leaving behind an awkward silence and the unmistakable sound of his grumbling as he disappeared down the hall. Once we were alone, I gently closed the door, turned around slowly, and locked eyes with Ray. He was leaning against the sink, arms crossed, jaw clenched, his gaze darting away from mine like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
“What the hell was that?” I asked—not angrily, but with that worn-out patience of someone who’s lost count of how many times they’ve said the same thing.
“He was hoarding the damn paper,” he muttered. “Did you know he’s been in there for like half an hour? And it’s not even the first time. Every night, same guy, same stall, and he always leaves with the roll. That bathroom’s for everyone!”
I looked at him. For a moment, I just looked. His words didn’t sound entirely rational, but there was a strange logic buried in his indignation. Like, in his world, these small injustices were the only things he could control. The only battles he could fight without falling apart.
“Ray, you can’t make a scene over that.” I leaned against the sink, right in front of him.
“You can’t pick fights over toilet paper like it’s a matter of life and death.” He lifted his head and held my gaze.
“It wasn’t just about the paper, alright?”
His voice hit the silence of the bathroom like a sharp blow. He wasn’t yelling anymore, wasn’t throwing sarcasm around like shields. It was barely a tense whisper, loaded with something thicker than anger. Pain, maybe. Loneliness, probably.
“So?” I asked, not raising my voice, not dressing it up. I just offered it to him like a bridge.
Ray shrugged—a small, almost imperceptible gesture, but charged with a vulnerability he rarely let slip. His shoulders dropped slightly, like he’d been dragging the weight of an invisible backpack for days.
“That’s it,” he finally muttered. “The music sucks. People think they’re funny when they’re drunk. The air feels thick and sticky like wet cloth. You look at me like I’m a walking problem…”
“Because you act like one, Ray.” My words weren’t harsh. There was no venom in them, not a trace of cruelty. They were simple, honest—like opening a window in a stuffy room and letting the air rush in, no matter what it carries with it. I didn’t say it to hurt him. I said it because it was true, and he knew it.
Ray turned his face toward me and locked eyes. It was a hard look to hold. There was fury, yes, but underneath it, deep down, there was something fragile and sad—like a lost child in the middle of a crowded supermarket full of strangers.
“So what? Does that bother you?” he asked, with a crooked smile that looked more like a wound than an expression.
“Does it bother you to have to come rescue me every time?”
“Yes. It bothers me.”
I didn’t think about it. I didn’t plan it. I just said it—raw, unfiltered, no soft edges.
“I don’t know why you do it. Every time you pull some dumb stunt like this, every time you start a pointless fight or make a scene over nothing… it feels like you’re waiting for someone to stop you. For someone to actually see you and tell you to cut it out before you destroy yourself completely.”
The silence that followed was so dense I could almost hear it breathing between us. The fluorescent lights above buzzed like a mosquito in my ear. Outside, the music kept pounding, completely unaware of the universe contained within those four walls—where the world had suddenly become small, intimate… human.
Ray lowered his gaze. The roll of toilet paper still hung from his hand like a useless relic. He gripped it tightly, unconsciously, like it was a lifeline in the middle of a shipwreck.
“Sometimes I just…” He swallowed hard. “I just want someone to listen. That’s all.”
His voice cracked at the end. Just a flicker, a tremble—but it cut deep. Because it was the first time he said it out loud. The first time he dropped the shield, didn’t use jokes or insults to cover up the wound.
I stepped closer. Not to hug him. Not to touch him. Just to be near.
Sometimes, all someone needs is for you not to leave when the silence gets unbearable.
“I’m always here. But don’t make me come looking for you in the middle of shouting matches and stupid fights over toilet paper. Don’t hide behind that.”
Ray stood frozen for a few seconds. The silence was thick, sharp, like all the air in the bathroom had been sucked out at once. His shoulders barely moved with restrained breath and, when he finally looked up, the familiar shadow in his eyes came back stronger than ever. It was like watching someone regret, in real time, ever being vulnerable—even for a second. His hardened face became a mask again, the perfect shield against everything that hurt.
“So what now? You want a round of applause for coming to rescue the poor idiot again?” he snapped suddenly, his voice sharp as a blade, taking a quick, aggressive step toward me. His words weren’t a question—they were a sentence. An accusation soaked in years of poorly digested rage.
“Ray, I think we can talk about this like two grown men…” I started, raising my hands slightly in a calming gesture, but I didn’t get to finish. He cut me off with a contained explosion that had no brakes left. He straightened up, defiant, like every muscle in his body was preparing for a fight he didn’t even want to win. His eyes, glistening on the verge of tears, turned into a stormy sea where anger and sadness clashed with no mercy.
“You think this is some kind of fucking joke? You always thought that about me, didn’t you? You’re not some hero, Kant! You came to save me? Is that what you tell yourself at night to help you sleep? Because you’re not. In case you forgot, I can defend myself,” he threw out—but his voice cracked at the end, a small stumble he tried to cover with a bitter, distorted laugh, like a broken chuckle that burned on the way out. Then, without warning, his tone shifted. Something darker slipped into his words, like he’d decided the only way to hurt me was to go after what was raw, what was private.
“Come on, admit it…” he whispered, stepping even closer. “You want me. And you know it. Isn’t that what this is really about? Haven’t you thought about fucking me since the first time you saw me? You don’t have to pretend anymore.”
I pushed him—hard. Not out of violence, but out of self-defense. Not just physically, but emotionally. I turned around immediately, heart pounding in fury but my mind sharp. I wasn’t going to play that game. I wasn’t stepping into the space where he hurt himself and dragged everyone down with him. I was twenty-nine, covered in scars and running low on patience to feed the self-destructive rage of someone who didn’t know how to love without wounding.
“Do whatever you want, Ray. Think whatever the hell you want. I don’t care what you believe,” I said coldly, walking toward the door without looking back. “Keep ruining your life if that’s what you want.”
But before I could reach the doorknob, I felt his hand clamp hard around my wrist. He pulled me back with more strength than I thought he still had and yanked me toward him, gripping my waist like his life depended on the contact. His eyes were a whirlwind.
“You think I don’t know you go home with other guys every night?” he spat, and his voice was now a mix of jealousy, rage, and desperation. “Is that it? Are you trying to make me jealous? Trying to show me I don’t matter to you? That much is obvious…”
“You have no idea what you’re saying,” I murmured, exhausted. My gaze hardened, but the fire he was looking for wasn’t there. Just ashes. I couldn’t keep up with this anymore.
I pulled away again—this time without force, without energy to argue. I looked at him, completely lost in his internal storm, and I knew that nothing I said would change the fact that he needed help I couldn’t give him.
“I have a bar to run,” I said, without raising my voice. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m walking away from this childish fight. And you should stop acting like a spoiled brat. No one’s coming to save you if you keep this up.”
I took a step toward the door. Then another. I wasn’t going to look back.
“You’re a fucking hypocrite!” Ray screamed, his fury tearing through his throat. His voice ricocheted off the bathroom walls like a gunshot, leaving a bitter vibration hanging in the air.
But I didn’t stop.
Falling into the games of a spoiled child was never my thing. Never had been. No matter how many times Ray tried to pull me onto his emotional rollercoaster, I wasn’t going to keep feeding into that cycle. He had a way of showing his vulnerability that wasn’t healthy, or clear, or fair. He took it out on others, flung his pain like stones at whoever stood nearby, and then expected someone to pick him up off the floor, hold him, and tell him it was all okay.
But it wasn’t okay. It never had been.
And I was done pretending it was.
It wasn’t like he had a safety net to catch him. Cheum, Mew, Boston… none of them were truly his friends—at least not in the way someone like Ray needed. They cared about him, yes, in their own ways—sometimes with affection, sometimes with impatience—but they weren’t the people he needed. Ray wasn’t looking for party buddies or disaster accomplices; he was searching for someone who could see past his self-destructive impulses, who wouldn’t flinch when he screamed, who wouldn’t walk away when he became unbearable. And maybe, in some twisted corner of his mind, he believed I was that person. That I could handle everything. But I couldn’t. Not anymore.
There were moments—like this one—when I wondered if I’d ever stop caring. If the day would come when I wouldn’t give a damn where he was, who he was with, or what he had done. Maybe it would. Maybe time would sand down the sharp edges of his presence in my life and leave only a blurry shadow that no longer hurt. Maybe that day would come—but not today. Today, however, I could draw a line. And this was the line. This bathroom, this moment, this ridiculous fight born of wounded pride and poorly channeled desire.
Ray was just a boy who didn’t understand the limits of reality, who thought himself immortal as he ran toward the edge with a broken smile on his lips. And I… I was the one who always ran after him, hoping to reach him before he fell completely. But I was tired. I was done playing the savior in a story that wasn’t mine. I knew it. I knew it with a painful clarity: in a few days maybe even tomorrow I’d get another call, another message, a silent plea hidden behind yet another catastrophe. And with a kind of learned resignation, I’d go looking for him again. Because Ray didn’t know how to stop. Because he didn’t want to.
But in this moment, while his shouting still echoed behind me and I walked away without looking back, something inside me was fading. A dim light, a spark of hope that whispered maybe… Maybe he could change, maybe he wanted to. That voice now barely murmured. Because no matter how many times I tried, he was still that damn spoiled boy with childish thoughts, with a rage he wore like armor and a heart so shattered even he couldn’t bear it.
And I didn’t want to be the adult picking up the pieces anymore.
☁️𓈒⩩₊˚̣ ❛ 𝓉𝒽𝓇𝑒𝑒 𝒹𝒶𝓎𝓈 𝓁𝒶𝓉𝑒𝓇 ❜ ⋆｡˚ ⏳ 𓂂
꒰ 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓁𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝒸𝒶𝓂𝑒 𝒷𝒶𝒸𝓀, 𝒷𝓊𝓉 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓅𝑒𝒶𝒸𝑒 ꒱
𓍯˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳ ✧ 𓈊 ⌕ ✦ 𓂃 𖥔 ˚｡⋆
Style insisted with a stubbornness I didn’t know he had. Day after day, with messages, calls, even absurd little hints on social media, until I finally understood he wasn’t going to leave me alone unless I agreed. And I gave in. Sometimes we give in more out of exhaustion than conviction, and this was one of those times. I agreed to go see that house, even though from the very first moment I knew—or rather felt—that something was off. It wasn’t just distrust; it was that kind of discomfort that clings to your back like cold sweat, the kind you feel just before something in your life changes—for better or for worse. I was certain it was a scam, a grand scam dressed up as an opportunity, a fresh start, a “sign from the universe.” I knew Style’s games, his pathological optimism, his habit of seeing light where there was only cheap neon. And still, I got in the car.
It wasn’t really my car, not truly. It was the one my parents left me. A pristine, bright white car, like a frozen sigh. They gave it to me just before they died. And ever since, every time I sat in the driver’s seat, I did it with my heart clenched tight. The steering wheel was more than a tool: it was a reminder, a symbol, a rolling tomb with luxury wheels.
I drove there with that knot pulled tight in my chest. When I arrived, the first thing I saw was the building—modern, tall, so spotless it looked like an architect’s model, a promise of stability and success. I got out of the car with no expectations, just the weight of my own assumptions hanging from my shoulders. The apartment was on the second floor, unit 204. From outside, it was already obvious the place was luxurious—too luxurious for someone like me, used to the elegant precariousness of middle-tier neighborhoods. The building had a spacious lobby, almost absurd, with golden details that looked like they were stolen from a modern fairytale. Everything was shiny, cold, and perfect. I felt small, out of place, like a mistake in the equation.
I thought of Style and his crazy ideas, how quickly he trusted people he barely knew, how much he idealized what I, frankly, feared.
I decided not to take the elevator. I took the stairs instead maybe to buy some time, to think of what I’d say if this turned out to be some cruel joke. As I climbed, the silence of the building wrapped around me like a heavy blanket. No sounds, no voices, no music. Just my footsteps and the echo of my own breathing. Each step was one more toward the unknown.
When I reached the second floor, I looked down the hallway. The doors were perfectly aligned, golden numbers gleaming under the soft white ceiling lights. Number 204 was on my right. A door so flawless it looked like a movie prop. So pristine, so absurdly beautiful, that it felt like something on the other side was mocking me. I stood in front of it for a few seconds, not yet daring to knock. I thought about everything the drive, my doubts, my parents, what I’d left behind. And in the end, I knocked. Almost on impulse. No resentment, no fear—just the resignation of someone who’s already lost everything.
No answer.
For a second, I felt my suspicions were confirmed. A scam, of course. What else? I crossed my arms, furrowed my brow, and knocked again, this time with a bit more firmness.
That’s when I heard it.
A voice.
A voice that seeped through the door with a tone far too familiar. I froze. The air grew heavier. Why did that voice make my skin crawl? Why did that sound pull me so far back in time? My heart started to race, but my body didn’t move.
It couldn’t be.
It shouldn’t be.
And then, in less than a second, the door opened.
And the world—at least mine—stopped.
There he was.
Ray.
My brain took a second too long to process it. My eyes recognized him before my mind could accept it. That face... no, that damn face. The messy hair, the insolent, crooked smile like he was just about to throw out a provocation, that mocking expression he always wore when he knew he was about to ruin someone’s night. It couldn’t be. It shouldn’t be. But it was. Ray. Ray Pakorn. The guy I inevitably ended up arguing with every Friday at the bar. The one who always got into trouble with half the city and, for some reason not even God could explain, I was the one who ended up dragging him out before someone kicked him out themselves. That Ray. The guy who doesn’t know when to shut up, who doesn’t understand boundaries, who makes you want to smash your empty glass over his head—and yet, somehow, has such a cynical way of smiling that it completely disarms you. He was there, standing in front of me like it was the most normal thing in the world.
My stomach tightened. Was this going to be my roommate? The same guy I once shouted at, calling him “a walking storm”? Was I really going to have to see him every damn morning drinking his coffee with that “I don’t give a fuck” smile?
This couldn’t be happening.
And yet, there he was.
With that same smile that always announces chaos.
“Ray?” I murmured, feeling the ground tremble beneath my feet, even if I was the only one who could feel it.