Meant To Be

by PhanteraPanrruk

Summary:

Milk and Love were never supposed to work. Their story began in high school, fueled by a misunderstanding that turned them into constant banters. But what neither of them realized was that their clashes only hid a growing, unspoken tenderness. Once Milk recognized her feelings, life intervened before she could act.

Their journey is a tender and grounded exploration of interracial love, emotional growth, and the complicated beauty of becoming someone’s safe place.

This is a story about choosing each other while navigating the challenges of adulthood, identity, and the kind of love that doesn’t arrive fully formed but built piece by piece gently.

Chapter 1: The Kitten & The New Girl

Milk Pansa woke that morning expecting nothing extraordinary, just another episode of her sprinting through the biting London autumn wind. No other because she repeatedly failed to respect alarms. The sky wore its usual bruised-grey tone, that cold misty film hovering low over the pavement. Her hoodie clung damply to her neck as she jogged down the stairs of her house building. She shoved her hands into her pocket, grumbling about the cold, and being fully prepared to face the day’s sequence of predictable annoyances.

She did not, however, expect the fragile cry that drifted from the alley beside her building, thin and barely stronger than the hiss of wind brushing against brick walls. Milk stopped mid-step, as her breath created faint puffs in the air. She turned her head sharply, instinct overriding everything else. The alley next to her was narrow, framed by overflowing trash bins and a broken street lamp that flickered weakly. The sound then  came again, but smaller this time, almost pleading. Milk’s body moved before her mind caught up.

She found the kitten curled beside its unmoving mother. That grey tabby had lingered near the building for days, begging for scraps even from residents who rarely offered kindness. Yesterday, Milk had overheard the landlord complaining about stray animals, and threatening to “clean up the mess.” But she hadn’t expected the heartless follow through to come so soon. The mother cat laid stiff, unbreathing, tossed carelessly against the wall like debris. Milk’s jaw clenched.

“Bastard,” she muttered.

“Couldn’t even check if she had a baby.”

The kitten, far too small to be alone. With patchy fur, unsteady breath, and tiny eyes that barely open. Milk crouched and scooped it gently into her palms. Its head lolled weakly toward her fingers and released a mewl. It’s so faint that Milk felt it rather like a punch to the chest rather than a sound. The cold seeped into its skin, almost like the world had already decided that it shouldn’t survive.

“Hey… hey, it’s okay,” she whispered, voice softer than she intended. “I got  you.”

Action came naturally whenever something vulnerable crossed her path. She never overthought it. It was an instinct she rarely questioned. She then looked around and quickly assessed her options. Her school bag was her only carrier, but the textbooks inside were thick and heavy. No way she was letting this tiny thing get crushed.

“Okay, that’s not happening,” she mumbled.

Her eyes darted across the alley until she spotted a stack of black plastic bags leaning beside the bins. She grabbed one and tore it open, wrapping the kitten just enough to retain warmth and shield it from the damp air. Her hands worked quickly, guided by something tender than urgency. She tucked the little bundle into her backpack and left the top slightly unzipped for airflow.

“Operation Sneak a Kitten to School,” she whispered with a sigh. “Let’s go.”

The journey to school felt longer than usual. Milk checked her bag constantly, fingers brushing the edge to ensure the kitten was still breathing. Every train vibration made her tense up. She reached the school grounds just as students were flooding in. The courtyard buzzed with chatter that echoed against stone buildings, but Milk didn’t stop. She beelined for the quiet garden behind the old music room, an area most students forgot existed.

She gently lifted the kitten out from her bag and placed it on the grass. It trembled, fragile but alive. Milk opened a small carton of milk she had bought on the way and dipped her finger into it, letting the kitten lick weakly. Its tiny body nudged her thumb with a trust she didn’t feel deserving of, yet it melted something inside her just the same.

“You’re killing me, dude,” She sighed as she stroked it with the faintest touch.

“I’ll come back during lunch. Don’t die, okay? I mean it.”

She wouldn’t have left if the bell hadn’t chimed at that exact moment. Milk then jumped up in panic. She placed the kitten gently beneath a wooden crate, propping it carefully to create a safe nook shielded from the wind.

“Shit—first period.”

“Stay,” she whispered. “Please.”

Then she sprinted across the courtyard and burst into her classroom, breath hitting her chest in ragged bursts. She scanned the room, expecting to be greeted by an annoyed teacher but only to find the desk empty. A relief then washed through her, loosening her shoulders. Emi, one of her best friends leaned over with her usual bright grin.

“Morning, Milk! You look… chaotic.”

Namtan added, tossing her hair dramatically,

“Translation : you look like you outran a bus.”

“I basically did,” Milk muttered as she sank into her seat.

She prayed they wouldn’t probe further, but their curiosity was ravenous. But before they could start interrogating her, the classroom door slid open. Conversation died an instant, clipped away by a hush that spread through the room. A girl then stepped inside with quiet confidence. Petite frame, straight posture, soft brown hair tied neatly with a ribbon. Her eyes are large, round, gentle in a way that feels almost unreal. Those eyes swept the room with composed politeness. The girl walked with the kind of grace that came from strict upbringing.

Love Pattranite Limpatiyakorn.

Students murmured immediately. 

“She’s so cute—”

“Is she new?” 

“Those eyes—oh my god—”

“What school is that badge from?”

Milk stared a little longer than intended. The badge embroidered on Love’s blazer bore a foreign crest. Looks like an overseas academy, private, and prestigious. But that wasn’t what caught her attention. Because Love’s gaze briefly flicked to her just a second, barely a shift but something in that glance felt charged. Milk didn’t know why.

What she didn’t know was that Love had already seen her earlier that morning, in the alley. Love had stepped out of her car on the opposite street and witnessed Milk crouching by something small, something wrapped in a black bag. Love hadn’t gotten close enough to understand, but she had seen the kitten. And she had seen Milk tuck something small into the plastic bag.

Love kept her face calm, carefully blank. But her stomach twisted sharply, the memory resurfacing like a warning sign. She watched Milk from the corner of her eye, unsure how to interpret what she’d seen. To her Milk looked ordinary, but maybe a bit rough around the edges. Someone who moved with purpose but also with an edge of chaotic impulsivity. Love’s father had drilled into her a mindset that first impressions matter. Yet this one confused her. And Love despised confusion.

Classes passed slowly. Milk’s mind lingered in the garden behind the building, worry gnawing at her stomach. She texted Emi and Namtan that she’d meet them later, opting to slip away during lunch to check on the kitten. When she lifted the crate, her heart steadied. The tiny creature slept curled in the plastic wrapping, its chest rising and falling faintly. Milk let out a shaky breath.

“Good job, little guy.”

The kitten stirred enough to nudge her palm. Milk lingered longer than she should have, she then shielding it from the chill wind with her jacket. She was reluctant to leave, but the bell eventually forced her. Each class afterward blurred. Milk couldn’t remember what the teachers said. Her foot tapped under the desk, her mind looping through worries.

Meanwhile, Love found herself surrounded by people the moment the final bell rang. A whirlwind of classmates swarmed her. Boys sliding closer with faux confidence, girls bombarding her with questions. “Where are you from?” “Do you have a boyfriend?” “Your accent is so cute!” “Do you like London so far?” “Go to prom with me!”

Love maintained her training with polite smiles, nods, and noncommittal answers. But inside, her nerves frayed. She wanted distance. She longed for quiet. She wanted the day to just stop. And finally by the time she managed to slip out from the crowd, she felt like she’d been breathing through cotton.

Meanwhile Milk didn’t stay even a second after the bell. She shot up from her seat and bolted for the door, Emi and Namtan stumbling after her.

“Oi—Milk—slow down!” Emi shouted.

“We don’t get paid enough to chase you!” Namtan added dramatically, nearly tripping as she ran. 

Milk didn’t waste breath responding because she was running on worry. She then reached the garden and skidded to a halt. The crate was there. The grass was there. But the kitten—Gone. The blood drained from her face.

“No… no no no—where are you?”

Her voice cracked as she searched the bushes, lifted crates, and checked under benches. Each empty spot tightened the knot in her throat. Emi and Namtan finally reached her side, panting.

“Okay—start talking,” Emi demanded. Milk swallowed hard, her voice small.

“I… found a kitten this morning. I kept it here. I was gonna take it home. Now it’s gone.”

Both froze. Emi’s eyes softened.

“Milk…” Namtan rested a hand on her shoulder.

“Maybe someone took it in. Or the janitor moved it. We can check outside the building.”

They searched the entire school, circling buildings, calling softly into bushes, checking near bins and fences. Nothing surfaced. The kitten had vanished as though it never existed. Milk’s chest ached with a dull and heavy pressure. She didn’t trust her voice enough to speak. After nearly twenty minutes, Emi sighed.

“We should go home. Maybe someone found it and took care of it. Milk… maybe this isn’t meant to be.”

Milk hated that answer. She hated helplessness. But her legs were tired, and her heart felt too heavy to argue. They then decided to walk toward the school gate. The wind had picked up, rustling leaves across the pavement in spirals. As they approached, Film suddenly appeared, carrying a black plastic bag full of snacks.

“Uh… Film?” Milk blinked.

Film’s smile was shy, soft, almost glowing. 

“This is from my mum. She said to give it to you. Just something to cheer you up.”

Milk softened immediately.

“That’s sweet of her. Thanks.” 

Film almost levitated from joy. She gave a tiny wave before leaving, cheeks flushed with shy pride. Emi elbowed Namtan instantly. 

“Future mother-in-law gift package.” Namtan snorted. 

“Film is so in love with Milk. It’s adorable.”

“Not today. Seriously.” Milk groaned. But they were relentless. 

“Imagine Milk marrying into Film’s family—”

“Unlimited snacks—”

“A pantry full of—”

Milk froze mid-step. Her expression darkened instantly. Emi, sensing impending doom, widened her eyes. 

“Namtan… shut up.” 

Namtan didn’t catch the cue. She kept going. Emi grabbed her wrist and shouted, 

“RUN! RUN FOR YOUR DAMN LIFE!”

They sprinted, laughing and screaming. Milk chased them, fury clashing with exhaustion. The chase lasted only a few seconds before Milk gave up, panting heavily and chest burning. Her day had been terrible. She wanted it to end.

She stood near the roadside gutter, still holding the black plastic bag Film had given her. Her chest tightened again as frustration swelled. The unfairness of the day, the helplessness, the worry, the exhaustion. It all merged into one impulsive action.

“Stupid day…” she muttered. 

She then hurled the bag toward the gutter. It landed directly in the rushing water from last night’s rainfall and instantly drifted away.

A car rolled past the gate at that exact moment. And inside was Love, seated in the back. She noticed Milk immediately. She noticed the motion and the black plastic bag. And in all of  Love's assumptions earlier that day which actually half-formed, she felt anxious, too quick and of course emotional. She connected the pieces with lightning speed :

This morning’s alley.
The kitten.
The black plastic bag. 

Milk leaving with it and now throwing it away without hesitation. Love’s stomach dropped, cold and sharp. Her mind didn’t even pause to question the context. It stitched the narrative instantly.

She threw it away.
She threw the kitten away.
Milk didn’t even look.

Love’s knuckles tightened against her skirt. Her eyes stayed locked on Milk through the tinted window. Milk stepped away from the gutter with a heavy, exhausted gait, unaware she was being watched and unaware that her worst moment had become someone else’s damning misunderstanding.

Love’s breath trembled for a fraction of a second. Then her expression shut down entirely. Milk Pansa is not a good person, she thought. The car then rolled forward and Milk didn’t notice the gaze burning through the window because Love didn’t know the truth.

And somewhere in the quiet space between their misinterpretations, a fragile thread snapped, only for fate to quietly knot another in its place, pulling them inevitably toward the storm neither was ready for.

Chapter 2: Uneasy Feelings

Love had been at her new school for only five days when the first love letter slipped into her locker. It wedged awkwardly between the metal slats as if its sender had panicked mid-delivery. And by the tenth day she had three, by the fifteenth she stopped counting altogether because the novelty dissolved into a quiet and familiar fatigue. Attention followed her everywhere, it always did. It never felt like praise though, just another spotlight she didn’t ask for.

The first letter was a pale cream envelope that looked too romantic for a Year 10 student, but she assumed it belonged to someone else. Only when her name appeared on the flap her eyes narrowed ever so slightly. She then opened it out of courtesy, hoping it might be something mundane, but the moment she saw the cramped handwriting, the awkward poem comparing her eyes to “freshly polished pearls,” she regretted her curiosity. She decided to fold it neatly, but her classmates reacted as if she’d won a national award.

“Love, you’re officially the new Queen here!” they squealed, hovering around her desk.

“Look at this—another one! Who is this from?”

“This chocolate is tasty, can I have it?”

Love placed the newest letter on her desk with composed resignation. Her voice held the same polite softness she always used. It was an armor she’d worn long before she learned how heavy it could be.

“Help yourself.”

As her classmates tore open the chocolate with the enthusiasm of treasure hunters, Love quietly arranged her bag, pushing the letters inside. She’d throw them away at home, like always. Keeping them felt dishonest when her feelings toward the boys who wrote them were lukewarm at best. She couldn’t even remember some of their faces.

Still, attention was easier to manage here than back in Bangkok, where her family name, Limpayatikorn, was always pressed on her like a shadow. Here in London, the surname drew almost no recognition. And anonymity, to Love, was a small miracle.

The school itself was polished and marble-floored hallways. Tall glass windows that caught the sun, staircases that echoed slightly when students rushed between classes. The atmosphere held both wealth and ambition, but the kind that came with invisible boundaries. Love noticed how old money moved in quiet clusters, speaking with relaxed confidence. While new money clung together in loud, shimmering flocks, and showing off designer shoes as if they were badges of survival. Love could read all of it at a glance, the same way some people could read sheet music.

Her own “friends" the ones now crunching through the chocolate on her desk, hovered around her out of curiosity wrapped in sweetness. She knew their type. They admired her soft accent, her calm posture, the quiet neatness in the way she prepared her notes. But their eyes sometimes flicked sideways, measuring. They had definitely looked up her background, Love thought. Because Love could feel the faint, a polite curiosity whenever they asked questions that sounded casual but weren’t.

What surprised her, though, were the three girls she saw every day in the cafeteria. The trio who didn’t fit into any of the unwritten social categories : Milk Pansa Vosbein, Namtan Tipnaree, and Emi Thasorn Klinnium. They sat wherever they wanted, laughed as loud as they wanted, and wore their identities without hesitation. Milk leaned back in her chair like she owned the whole room, Emi talked with animated hands, and Namtan raised her eyebrows at anyone who dared irritate her.

Love watched them from afar, fascinated in spite of herself. They were freshmen too, but they didn’t look lost the way new students usually did. Instead, they moved through the school with a strange, natural comfort. Namtan’s upbringing was very obvious, the kind of old money carried itself with a certain unconcerned poise. Milk radiated warmth and street-smart confidence, the kind that came from growing up without relying on status. And Emi, who could laugh even when her lunch was a plain sandwich, had the grounded simplicity of someone who never pretended to be more than she was.

But Milk, she drew Love’s gaze more than the others. She had a smile that shone too brightly for London weather, a laugh that pulled students toward her without effort. She joked easily, listened intently, and carried herself in a way that made people relax. Milk felt like spring sunlight pushed into a person’s shape.

But every time Love found herself watching that light, another image stabbed through her mind like a needle. Memory of the alley, the kitten crying inside a plastic bag, and the way Milk had wrapped it that morning and walked away. And then, the fact that later Milk throws a black plastic bag into a rushing gutter, her expression dark and careless. Love’s chest still twisted sharply when she remembered it. An angel’s face meant nothing if the hands acted cruelly. She reminded herself of that fact every time Milk smiled.

One afternoon the cafeteria hummed with layered noise. Students clicking open soda cans, chairs scraping lightly, a dozen conversations blurring into a warm cloud of chatter. Love ate quietly, listening more than speaking. Her classmates tried to recruit her into their circle of gossip again, but her attention drifted almost unconsciously toward the trio across the room.

Milk reached across the table to steal a fry from Emi’s tray while Namtan launched into a dramatic retelling of something that had happened in maths class. A few tables away from them, Love found herself staring before she realized it.

“Staring again, huh?” Film’s voice came suddenly to her shoulder.

Love almost jolted. She turned, poised and calm.

“I… wasn’t staring.”

Film then tilted her head, following the direction of Love’s gaze.

“It’s a rare sight, isn’t it? Those three. Like they’re mocking our entire social hierarchy.”

Love blinked. She hadn’t thought of it that way, but Film wasn’t wrong. They didn’t follow the invisible lines dividing everyone else. Film then gasped theatrically.

“Oh! Wait—have you formally met them yet?”

“I… have not.” Love stiffened.

“Unacceptable,” Film declared and grabbed Love’s wrist before she could react. 

“We’re fixing that.”

“Film—wait—”

“Nope. Too late. Socialization time!”

Love was dragged across the cafeteria. The trio looked up as they approached, Milk’s smile warm and welcoming like she’d been expecting them.

“Hi Milk!” Film chirped, too sweet.

“Hi, Film. How’ve you been?” Milk said then smiled back. 

Love watched the shift in Milk. The sudden softness and the sincerity. It irritated her more than it should have. A bit of small talk then followed, Film nearly glowing, until Namtan cut to the point.

“So,” Namtan said bluntly,

“Are you going to introduce her, or are you just here to talk to our Milk?”

Film glared while Namtan smirked.

“Just kidding~,” she sang.

Emi then tapped her fork.

“Pretty sure the teacher introduced us during homeroom, but this is our first real interaction. So…” 

She paused expectantly. Film blinked.

“So…?”

“So hello, Love! I’m Emi Thasorn Klinnium. You can just call me Emi.” Emi gestured. 

“Nice to meet you.” Love nodded politely. 

“I’m Namtan Tipnaree. Preferably called Tan.” Namtan then nodded back.

Love recognized the Tipnaree name immediately. Old money and untouchable. Then Milk. Milk looked up at her with those crescent-moon eyes and said gently,

“I’m Milk Pansa Vosbein. You can call me Milk or Pansa. How’s your first week been? I hope you’re adjusting well.”

Love forced a small smile. The warmth in Milk’s expression cut against everything she remembered from the alley.

“I’m alright. Everything is going smoothly. Thanks to the supportive environment.”

Milk’s smile widened softly to her but the bell rang short after. Film perked up. 

“Let’s walk together!”

Love didn’t have a chance to decline. She was pulled along, listening to Namtan teasing Film, Emi laughing, and Milk chattering with them easily. At one point Film nearly tripped but Milk caught her instantly. 

“Careful!”

Film melted by that. Love rolled her eyes internally. But then when Milk looked back just for a moment  their eyes met. Milk’s gaze was soft, curious, and warm. Love hated the way something fluttered painfully in her chest. She hated that warmth, hated that smile. Because no matter how bright Milk looked now, Love still saw a kitten crying in a black plastic bag.

Notes:

Woah, hello!! I totally didn’t expect to get a comment on the first chapter, thank you so much for the enthusiasm!

Anyway, here’s chapter two! this one zooms in more on Love’s perspective as she tries to survive her new school. I’m gonna let that little misunderstanding simmer for a bit longer, haha. And of course… a sprinkle of MilkFilm to keep things fun.

Tell me what you think in the comments, I'd like to chat with you all!

Chapter 3: Before the Council, Before the Chaos

Summary:

New clubs, new chaos, and a certain girl who keeps her distance.
This year, the student council isn’t the only thing stirring up trouble!

Days blurred into weeks, smudging together like watercolor left out in the London drizzle. And before Love fully registered the passing time, her freshman year had shaped itself around her. The city somehow still felt foreign with the quick rain showers that came without warning, the clipped politeness of strangers, and the undercurrent of old stone and old rules. Even the school had its own rhythm, measured and deliberate, a pace she learned to imitate more than understand. But she adapted because adaptation is survival. 

Love walked the halls with careful precision, observed, and memorized faces. She smiled, laughed when she was supposed to, and nodded when it was socially correct. During this period, Clubs were mandatory at school, or at least strongly encouraged. But Love had zero interest in offering commitments. Robotics feels too loud, full of clattering nerd and confident voices. Theater too dramatic, too demanding, too exposed. Music club?  a nightmare waiting to happen because just the thought of singing or playing in front of people made her stomach tighten.

Only one option appealed to her : the student council that isn’t play-pretend, order and responsibility. A place where she could prove she isn’t just “the new gorgeous Thai girl” that everyone cautiously observed, she wanted to prove that she's competent, collected, and cut from sharper cloth.

But the student council only accepted second-years. So she settled for the Entrepreneurs Club, which aligned neatly with her father’s expectations anyway. She could still hear his voice during the dinner Sunday evening, the faint clink of his chopsticks against a ceramic bowl marking each sentence.

“Business builds futures. Choose something useful.” Useful,  Fine. She could be useful because she always had been.

Meanwhile, life around her pulsed with a more chaotic rhythm. Embodied most clearly by the trio who seemed to orbit their hallway with unstoppable momentum. Namtan, a gravitational force into herself, a self-proclaimed casanova, full-time menace, and unlicensed comedian whose presence stretched far beyond her. She decided to join the music club for the flimsiest reason “It felt cool” she said. And within a week, she was already confidently strumming a guitar she barely knew how to tune. She’d written three half-baked songs about girls she hadn’t even met.

“My singing can melt girls,” she declared.

Namtan then leaned back dramatically against a locker as if posing for an album cover. 

“Sooner or later, they’ll line up.”

“You sound like a dying kettle,” Emi said without even glancing up from her textbook.

Milk laughed loudly enough that a group of students turned to look, and Namtan bowed graciously, as though applause had followed.

Emi, being the one who is driven by athletic enthusiasm and misguided confidence. She tried out for basketball but she failed spectacularly. She didn’t speak for two hours afterward. Just kept brooding with her face buried in her arms, until she finally rose, declared the sport “rigged,” and joined the medic club instead, claiming it was “strategic” because she could watch the basketball practices from the nurse’s office anyway.

Milk hadn’t planned to join any sports, but Emi dragged her to the basketball tryouts to keep her company. Ironically, Milk passed the test. Her movements, although quiet and very precise, almost instinctual and it made the coaches exchange impressed looks, and before she could protest, her number was already listed among those who made the team.

“Oh my god,” Emi groaned dramatically, tossing her water bottle in the air,

“you didn’t even WANT to join!”

“I still don’t,” Milk replied, deadpan.

But she joined anyway. Right after Film heard Milk had made the team, she immediately registered for the medic club.

“For support,” she said casually, brushing off Namtan’s accusing stare.

“You just want to sit next to Emi while you ogle your crush,” Namtan teased. But Film didn’t deny it, her silence was enough to answer.

Despite observing the trio, Love hadn’t spoken much to them, aside from the moments when Film enthusiastically dragged her into their orbit, insisting she “needed to socialize.” But Love noticed things, she always noticed things.

Namtan, the loudest of them, humor sharp enough to cut, confidence loud enough to echo. She carried herself like someone who pretended not to care yet never scored below a B. Milk, on the other hand, is the soft-spoken one, observant, but quick to laugh especially when Namtan says something ridiculous. Students had whispered about her “gentlewoman vibe,” which Love secretly understood because Milk always had that composed and charming air that didn’t need effort. Meanwhile Emi, the easiest to read because she blushed first, panicked second, and laughed last. A bit of a dirty minded but her kindness is obvious. She often refused to take money even when Namtan or Milk often offered to treat her.

They weren’t perfect, but together they formed a warm constellation, a little messy, a little chaotic, but strangely comforting to be near. Love would never admit it aloud, but she liked their presence. It steadied something in her she didn’t have a name for.

However, from Milk’s perspective, Love was a puzzle wrapped in layers of carefully measured distance. Love never said much, always polite, always proper, but never fully open. Milk assumed it made sense because Love is a new student in London, after all. New country, new friends, everything unfamiliar. Maybe she needed time and space. But something bothered Milk more than she wanted to admit. Because Love laughed freely at Namtan’s antics. Love also softened around Film’s enthusiasm. And she teased Emi sometimes, small nudges here and there. But whenever Milk was nearby, Love’s entire posture changed, more guarded shoulders and eyes that flicked away as if Milk had been caught doing something wrong.

Milk replayed every interaction in her head, frowning at the ceiling most nights. Had she said something awkward? Something rude to Love? She couldn’t think of anything. Maybe Love just simply didn’t like her. Milk sometimes didn't want dwelled on feelings she didn’t understand, so she shrugged it off, let the confusion settle, and kept her distance too.

By the time second year finally rolled around, a buzz of excitement rippled through the school corridors. The student council had finally opened registration. Posters lined in the walls, banners fluttered near the stairwell, and of course clusters of students excitedly debated who would run.

Love had waited for this moment all year. She wasn’t arrogant, rather she was prepared. Her Entrepreneurs Club record, her grades, and her teachers’ recommendations. Everything stacked neatly in her favor. Confidence can came naturally when she had proof of her own capability. One day Film walked beside her down the hall, practically bouncing.

“Aren’t you excited? You can finally join!”

Love tried to sound modest but couldn’t hide the flicker of pride in her tone.

“I hope I get accepted.”

Film snorted loudly.

“Please. You’re a guaranteed pick.”

Behind them, chaos materialized in predictable form. Namtan whined theatrically while dragging Milk by the sleeve, sliding across the polished floor as though filming a drama trailer.

“Come on, Milk! You have potential! Charming smile! Stellar grades! The charisma of a future vice president! Sign up with me!” Milk just stared at her with an exhausted expression.

“You just want to use me for votes.” said Milk flatly

“…Okay, maybe a little,” Namtan admitted, pouting. 

“But imagine it! Us—president and vice president! names etched into school history!”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

Namtan turned her pleading eyes toward the next target. 

“Emi then! Emi, join me!”

“Why me? I’m busy!” Emi blinked, wide-eyed.

“Right, the medic club,” Namtan cut her off with a smirk. 

“Busy flirting with Bonnie, hm?”

“W–WHAT?! I— no— I—” Emi went red so fast it was almost impressive.

When the registration was about to close, Milk still refused to join. That was when Namtan decided to operate as a certified agent of chaos, executing her master plan with terrifying confidence. She managed to submit Milk’s name secretly into the system. And later Milk found out only when she had already passed the documentation screening. Milk then cornered Namtan after class with murder in her eyes.

“Okay listen—first of all, I’m sorry.” Namtan begged

“It’s too late Tan. Come here, swear I’m gonna kick your ass—!” Said Milk

“WAIT! Let’s be reasonable—!” Namtan begged again

“I TOLD YOU I’M BUSY! How did you even put my name—” Milk shouted

But before Milk could strangle her, someone cleared their throat sharply.

“What is happening here?”

Ling stood there as the head of the Security Committee, posture straight, expression sharp, carrying an aura so intimidating the entire hallway seemed too quiet. Both froze like guilty children. Namtan gave a shaky laugh. 

“Haha—this? Theatre practice! I’m composing a song for our act, Milk is helping me workshop the dialogue.”

Milk, to her credit, immediately picked up the cue. 

“Yeah—she’s snobby and has never been beaten before, so I was… helping her feel the emotion.”

Ling looked and sighed. 

“Just don’t disturb others. Break time is ending. Back to class.” 

As soon as she walked away, they exhaled simultaneously. Then Milk glared.

“Explain. Now.”

“…I made a bet with Film.”

“You WHAT?”

“She said she knows you better than I do! Obviously that’s wrong, so we bet”

“How much money did you bet? You’re rich. Just pay it off.” Milk said as she rubbed her temples.

“It’s not about the MONEY! She has to know she’s NOT the one who knows you best!”

Milk just  snorted. 

“Your fragile pride was destroyed by Film Rachanun. Classic losers.”

While Namtan pointed dramatically. 

“Mock me all you want, just please come to the interview tomorrow, yeah?”

Milk crossed her arms. 

“What do I get?”

“Anything!” Namtan said too quickly.

Milk’s smirk was slow and dangerous.

“First: If I get in, you help me train basketball.”

“…Fine.”

Milk then continued,

“Second: Don’t force me to be VP just to get votes.”

“Also fine.”

“Third… if you and Film ever date, you owe me matcha for a month.”

Namtan nodded—then froze.

“WAIT—NO— I WOULD NEVER DATE HER—”

Milk burst into triumphant laughter and walked away, leaving Namtan sputtering behind her. Their day ended with insults, a sealed deal, and an unspoken promise of impending trouble that neither fully acknowledged but both understood. 

The following week after that, interviews began. Everything that had quietly brewed beneath the surface, the tension, the shifting dynamics, and the unspoken questions would begin to reshape their lives in ways none of them could yet imagine.

Notes:

Just a bit of chaotic dynamic between our character here!
I'll try to keep the dialogue lively!

Let me know what you think of this chapter and thankyou for reading!

Chapter 4: A Slap Between Them

Summary:

A misunderstanding, a spill, a slap— Rumors spread, apologies pile up, but the truth is far messier than anyone knows.

Milk had never tried to be lucky because luck simply followed her like an easy shadow. So of course she breezed into the student council without breaking a single sweat. While the announcement board was still crowded with students pressing forward, some crying, some groaning, some cheering, Milk stood among them with her usual calm expression, hands in her pockets, almost bored.

“As expected from Milk, the luckiest girl in this entire school.” Emi muttered as they walked away from the crowd.

“You didn’t even want to join the basketball club back then, because I dragged you. And now you get into student council? How much luck do you have, huh?”

“For real, I almost didn’t pass the test,” Namtan said, though her face showed zero disappointment. 

“But what’s more important is right now I have to go somewhere. See you later, guys!” And she sprinted off like she was late for a drama show.

“What’s going on with her? Where is she going?” Emi blinked after her.

“Probably going to meet Film to brag,” Milk answered with a light shrug.

“I swear, those two… Why would they even do a stupid bet like that?” Emi sighed, adjusting her bag. 

“Anyway, I have to go too. Meeting with my club.”

Milk smirked. Ever since the medic club happened to Emi, Bonnie, the infuriatingly beautiful head of the medic club entered Emi’s orbit, and the girl had been transparent as glass.

“Yeah, yeah, go ahead. I guess no one can resist a pretty face like Bonnie’s,” Milk teased.

“Just—shut up,” she muttered before hurrying away. Emi’s ears turned bright red.

Milk left alone for the first time since morning, she exhaled softly and tugged her hood down, feeling the London wind brush across her face. Something tugged her feet toward a place she hadn’t visited in a long time. An old hideout at the far back of the school. Hidden by tangled bushes, half garden shed, and half forgotten patio. It used to be the trio’s escape during the first year. No one else ever went there, well except for today.

When Milk pushed the door open, past the bushes and stepped into the clearing, she froze. Love was sitting on the wooden railing. On the thinnest, most dangerous part where the drop to beneath is easily enough to break bones. Love’s legs dangled carelessly in empty air. Milk’s heart lurched violently, her breath caught and a chill struck her spine so sharply.

 “Hey—hey! Come down. Quickly.” She rushed forward without thinking.

“What the—?! Why are you here? Let go!” Love jerked in surprise and immediately scowled. 

Milk grabbed her wrist firmly. She could feel her own pulse pounding against Love’s skin. 

“I said come down.”

Milk’s voice trembled with a fear she didn’t bother masking. Love’s brows knitted slightly realizing Milk wasn’t acting. Her face pale, her grip tight, like she truly believed something horrible was seconds away. Love sighed and hopped off the railing. 

“There. Happy?”

But instead of stepping back, Milk pulled Love into an abrupt, overwhelming embrace. Love stiffened. Milk’s arms locked around her so suddenly, so completely, that made Love’s breath caught in her throat. Milk then pressed a hand to the back of Love’s head, fingertips shaking as they wove through her hair, as if reassuring herself that Love was actually here, grounded, and alive. It lasted only a second before Love’s brain caught up and then stomped on Milk’s foot.

“Ow—?! What is wrong with you?!” Milk yelped, hopping backward.

“I should be the one asking!” Love snapped. “Why the hell did you do that?!”

“You should’ve seen your face! When you sat there I thought you might—God! And I just thought you were going to end your life! I panicked!” Milk’s voice cracked, high and exasperated.

“Me? Jump? I’d never throw away a precious life.” Love scoffed.

Even as she said it, a memory flickered in her mind, the kitten incident. The first day she met Milk cradling a stray kitten. The later day, when Love saw Milk picking up the same kitten using a plastic bag and tossing it aside into a gutter like it was trash. Love had never forgotten that memory and never ever forgiven it. It’s ironic for Milk to be known as the gentlewoman,  the saint, and the school’s moral compass. How laughable.

“Still, you shouldn’t sit there like that,” Milk insisted stubbornly. “It’s dangerous.”

“Stop playing a hero you’ll never be,” Love snapped. “I know what kind of person you are, so drop the act.”

“What do you mean?” Milk frowned.

“Maybe you can keep your mask on for everyone else,” Love said, meeting her eyes with icy clarity. 

“But don’t act like that in front of me. It’s disgusting.”

She then turned to leave, but Milk grabbed her hand. 

“Wait—I really don’t understand. Is that why you’re avoiding me? What did you mean by you’ve seen enough?”

“You can smile all you want,” Love whispered, “But I’ll never be fooled.”

With a sharp jerk, she freed herself and walked away, leaving Milk staring after her, confusion twisting in her gut.

“What the heck…?” Milk murmured to no one.

Over the next few days, Love’s words lodged themselves under Milk’s skin. Milk was never one to care about rumors because Namtan is the one who lived for gossip, not her. But Love’s certainty kept replaying in her mind.

“I’ve never heard someone badmouthing you,” Namtan said when Milk finally cracked and asked. 

“Most students think you’re the perfect boyfriend material. But, you know—without a cock.”

“I’m serious, Namtan.”

“I’m serious too!” Namtan’s grin was too bright.

“Your reputation is cleaner than marble! Sparkling! Like saint-level sparkling.”

Milk groaned. If Love wasn’t referring to rumors… then what? She then checked the school’s X feed, scrolling through her own name. But what she found made her want to evaporate.

“Milk from student council is literally my moral compass.”
“I’d let her step on me.”
“If Milk told me to submit my homework I would bark.”
“Milk smiling? Death. Milk frowning? Death again.”
“Milk in a ponytail should be illegal for minors.”

Milk slammed her phone facedown on her pillow. “Ugh.” Useless. All of it.

And offline effort wasn’t any better because Love’s friends had suddenly begun orbiting her like bodyguards, flawlessly blocking Milk’s attempts to approach. Desperate and annoyed, Milk then turned to Film for help. 

“Can you help me talk to Love? Just for a moment. Please.”

Film studied her for a second but nodded.

“If you say it’s important, sure.”

The plan was simple : Film would distract Love’s friends and Milk would catch Love alone.

The chance came during lunch. The staff had forgotten to refill the sauce station, so Love headed to the side pantry to get some. A tiny, quiet room without any STAFF ONLY signs. Milk watched her slip inside and followed after a beat.

Love closed the door behind her. The stainless steel shelves inside were lined with containers of sauces, neatly labeled. The room inside smelled faintly of broth and herbs, warm and comforting. Moments later Milk stepped inside the room.

“Hi,” she said softly. “I just want to talk. Please.”

Love stiffened, fingers tightening around her cup.

“About that day,” Milk continued.

“I’d be really grateful if you could explain what I did that made you say you’ve seen enough of me.”

Love exhaled sharply. She had tried so hard to avoid this confrontation. Her eyes sharpened, her expression shifting, nothing like the doll-like sweetness others saw, but something colder and sharper. Meanwhile Milk felt her throat tighten.

But before either could speak, the door burst open. A staff member pushed a trolley through the doorway straight into Milk’s back and it made Milk jolted forward. Her shoulder then slammed into Love’s arm. Love’s soup cup flipped moments later and hot broth splashed across her uniform. Love then hissed at the heat as the white fabric clung to her skin, turning nearly transparent. Milk gasped.

“Oh shit—Love—I’m so sorry—wait—” She grabbed her handkerchief, hands hovering uselessly.

“Hold on—I didn’t—let me just—”

In her frantic attempt to help, she reached forward and her fingers grazed Love’s breast. Time just froze and Love stared down at Milk’s trembling hand. Then—SLAP!

The slap echoed off the metal shelves. Milk’s head snapped sideways, her hair bouncing. The staff stood frozen as Milk blinked and stunned. Love then leaned close with her eyes cold. 

“Gentlewoman my ass.”

She placed the almost empty cup on the trolley, then walked out without looking back. She left Milk standing there with a burning cheek, a ruined apology, and absolutely no idea how everything had gone so catastrophically wrong.

Milk had not been as lucky as her friends believed. After the plan failed spectacularly, she stepped out of the room with a clear red, hand-shaped mark on her cheek, numb at first and then slowly beginning to throb. Only then did she realize how strong small hands could be.

Emi spotted it immediately. She then poked Namtan, and the two of them sprinted toward Milk. Emi, being in the Medic Club, inspected the mark closely. Then Emi and Namtan exchanged a look. Namtan just sighed and said,

“Okay. We got you, mate.”

They then dragged Milk to the school medical unit. Ice was already pressed to her face. The two of them exchanged another worried glance. They did not know about Milk’s plan, but they had seen something before. They saw how Love stormed out with a wet uniform and a deathly glare, and then moments later Milk emerged from the same room with a bright red slap mark. They had their theories, but they stayed quiet to give Milk room to speak first.

Milk just stayed silent. Her face burned under the cold compress but perhaps the burn inside her heart felt worse. She had, unmistakably, lost her face in front of Love. She frowned, eyes shut, swallowing the shame merged with disappointment and confusion. Then she lifted her head, met her friends’ eyes, and whispered,

“Not today, guys. Can you leave me alone?” Namtan and Emi shrugged and went.

That night, the school’s X account exploded with photos and rumors. Some students said Milk and Love had fought. Others claimed Love had bullied her. Others insisted Milk had confessed and been rejected. Namtan called the whole thing absurd and Emi agreed. But Milk still had not said a word. The red mark faded but remained obvious enough to become a symbol of Milk’s fanbase’s loyalty. Because wherever Milk went, someone offered her cream for her cheek. And online, people lined up to attack Love, despite the lack of confirmation. Silence, it turned out loud, was even louder than explanation, especially when Love tried to stay composed.

Love had seen the posts. She had also seen the red mark. The exact shape of her palm. After cooling down that day, she admitted she might have overreacted. She knew Milk had only wanted to help, and that the place where Milk’s hand landed had been an accident.

“Great. Just great,” she muttered. 

Still, whatever complicated feeling she held toward Milk, combined with the things she thought she had “seen” before, made her snap. But guilt slowly crept in her. Days later Milk had been sending apologies to her, quietly and in a way Love had never expected. 

A hidden matcha latte left on her desk each morning, each cup bearing a tiny note that read “sorry.” Love knew at once it was Milk because boys usually scrawled “you’re beautiful” or “I like your eyes”. To her own surprise, Milk had remembered Love’s casual mention of matcha latte during introductions on the first day.

 

---

 

The next day, X buzzed again. Someone tweeted that a staff member claimed Milk had been slapped by a kitchen worker because she spilled food. It was almost believable since Milk was famous for being a foodie and friendly with the head chef. Some students bought it “She can access the kitchen, right?”. Others scoffed “Why slap her in the face though?”. As always, drama won, the rumor immediately diverted attention away from Love.

“That whole thing nearly turned the school into a warzone,” Emi said, exasperated.

“Alright,” Namtan replied seriously.

“We did what you wanted. X quieted down. Now it’s your turn, Milk.”

They gathered at Milk’s large, empty house that evening. Her parents were out of town for work, leaving her alone. Milk sighed and finally spoke.

“It’s about Love Pattranite. I might’ve… harassed her.”

“Might have?!” Namtan snapped.

“Tan, let Milk talk,” Emi warned.

“Do you remember our old hideout?” Milk asked.

“It started there. One day I went and found her sitting on the railing. And yes, I jump to conclusions, I admit that. But after what happened before, my heart just raced. I ran to her and asked her to come down. When she did, I hugged her. I panicked. She looked like she was about to… you know.”

Namtan and Emi exchanged uneasy looks.

“She got angry, of course. She stomped my foot, I let her go, we argued. But I didn’t understand half of what she said. She kept accusing me of putting on a mask and saying she’d seen enough to know everything’s just an act.”

“That’s weird,” Emi said. Namtan nodded.

“I know, right? We barely talk. Where did she even get that idea?” Milk sighed.

“Is that why you’ve been digging up rumors about yourself?” Namtan asked, and Milk nodded.

“That bitch,” Namtan muttered. “Why is she so judgmental?”

Meanwhile Emi just cleared her throat.

“And the kitchen?”

“I still wanted to talk to her. I wanted to clear things up. I asked Film for help to separate Love from her group so I could speak to her.” Milk paused.

“But when we talked, a staff member barged in pushing a trolley. I got shoved forward and her soup spilled on her uniform. I tried to help with my handkerchief but—”

“But what?” Emi interrupted impatiently.

Namtan remembered the photo of Love’s damp uniform, the chest area particularly obvious. She gasped, loud enough to startle Sugus, Milk’s cat.

“She slapped you because of that?!”

“Because of what?” Emi asked, panicked.

“My hand was over her chest. And… her breast. I swear I didn’t mean to.” Milk said it finally.

Emi and Namtan both gasped.

“I think you’re not that lucky, mate,” Emi teased.

“Shut up,” Milk muttered.

The next day, the buzz eased slightly thanks to the kitchen rumor. Love privately told classmates she had spilled soup on herself and insisted it had been her own mistake. Some believed her while others, like Film, remained suspicious. Film knew Milk had asked for help, and while that warranted caution, it was not her place to pry. Maybe one day she would ask, she thought.

Days passed and after two weeks of matcha lattes and “sorry.” notes, Love finally replied with a simple “okay.” The matcha stopped, and their fragile connection turned into something quiet, awkward, unresolved.

For the past weeks Namtan kept telling Milk not to overthink people’s reactions. “Live nonchalantly,” she said. But Milk’s family had raised her with modesty and humility, she is not Namtan, who grew up with old money confidence. Milk could not simply shrug things off.

But soon, midterm exams took over the students’ lives and when the exam season ended, the new student council members began their activities and the regeneration for positions like president, vice, and secretary started again.

 

Chapter 5: Sky’s Worst Week Ever

Summary:

Welcome to the worst week, Sky… and the beginning of a very complicated partnership.

When mid-exam season finally ended, the school exhaled. Rumors wilted, including the one about Milk and Love, mostly because everyone was too exhausted to care. But peace never lasted long here. The next wave of chaos rolled in instantly since student council regeneration. Clubs scrambled to choose representatives. Teachers shoved Google Forms at students like flyers on a street corner. Seniors pretended to be apathetic but campaigned with thinly veiled desperation.

Namtan, who once swore she was born to be student council president, had long abandoned that dream. Music club is her new religion, basketball still eats her afternoons, and the student council now ranked somewhere below “cleaning her locker” on her priority list.

Milk, on the other hand, is thriving. Too much, actually. She designed council materials, fixed layouts, rewrote proposals, organized schedules, and still managed to show up to basketball training with enough energy to bully Namtan into running laps. She juggled everything so gracefully people half-believed she had secret clones. Milk loved the pace and the pressure. She was soaring, until she got the message.

Sky: Hey Milk, it’s Sky!

Sky: Would you be interested in pairing with me for student council head?

Sky: Let’s meet to discuss, alright?

Milk stared at her phone for five full seconds. 

“…Fuck.” She whispered.

Because Sky is known to be loud, persistent, and alarmingly good at getting what he wanted. Meanwhile Milk famously terrible at saying no. Talking to Sky is like stepping into a human thunderstorm because he spoke with his whole body, his volume could resurrect the dead, and Milk struggled to keep up. Which was impressive considering Namtan had set the bar high. Eventually, Milk lifted a hand like she was stopping traffic.

“Why me?”

“Because we’re perfect opposites. Balance.”

“That’s not a reason. That’s a horoscope,” Milk deadpanned. Sky laughed, unfazed. 

“Okay, logical version : I overwhelm people.” Sky said

“My personality,” he clarified. “I scare quieter students. Introverts. Anyone who doesn’t process sound at 200 decibels.”

“Okay, that’s the nicest insult I’ve ever gotten,” Milk muttered.

“You’re energetic but not terrifying,” Sky continued. 

“You speak well. People listen to you without panicking. You lead calmly. You connect with everyone.”

“There are other people like that,” Milk argued. “Why me?”

Sky paused. He looked down, thinking. Then finally said,

“Because you’re the only one people trust to bridge the grades.”

“What does that even mean?” Milk frowned.

“You treat juniors like equals. Seniors like equals. You don’t play favorites. You don’t suck up. You don’t look down. You help everyone the same. That matters more than charisma.”

Milk stared at him. She had never thought of herself that way.

“And… I know you’re scared to disappoint people,” Sky added quietly.

“That’s exactly why you won’t.”

Milk hated how much that hit. She let out a slow breath.

“…Fuck.”

But this time it wasn’t a rejection. It was a sign she was about to do something either incredibly meaningful or incredibly stupid.

After their discussion, they moved to the courtyard to look over a draft schedule. Sky was still talking and gesturing wildly, asking for her opinion, but Milk’s gaze flicked past him. Milk saw Love was standing near the railing. Quiet, observant, and unreadable. Love saw Milk and Sky together and Milk saw her noticing. Love just turned away instantly and made Milk’s stomach drop. Sky kept talking, but Milk didn’t hear a single word. She then acted on instinct.

“I—uh—Sky, excuse me. One sec.”

“Now?” he blinked. “We were just—”

“Two minutes!” Milk bolted.

Milk caught up to Love near the vending machines.

“Love! Wait!”

Love stopped, slowly. Like someone forcing themselves to comply. Milk then opened her mouth, finally ready to fix whatever this invisible wall was but Love beat her to it.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t just change my perspective of you,” she said, voice flat.

“What?” Milk asked.

“You keep trying to clear the air, but I don’t want to talk about it.” Love’s gaze stayed firmly away from her.

“About what exactly? What did I even do?” Milk demanded.

Her father’s voice echoed in Love’s memory: Explanations expose attachment. Attachment makes you weak. Never explain more than necessary. Love swallowed. Her eyes hardened.

“Look… let’s just forget it. There’s no point. It’s too late. I don’t hold grudges anymore, but please, stop trying.”

Milk went still, like someone unplugged her from the world. Shock hit first, then confusion, then something sharper.

“Are you serious?” Her voice cracked with disbelief.

Love still wouldn’t look at her. And something in Milk snapped cleanly.

“Fuck you, You’re a waste of my time.” she whispered, breath unsteady.

“God, I should’ve listened to Namtan. You’re— you’re a waste of my time.”

Love flinched. Barely. But Milk wasn’t finished.

“And get this, you ungrateful human. Everything I did back then? Trying to talk? Trying to understand? That wasn’t even for you. It was for my own sanity. For clarity. None of that was about you.”

Milk then stormed off before Love could react. Sky was still in the courtyard, scrolling his phone. He looked up as Milk approached—flustered and fuming.

“Oh—did you forget something, Milk?”

“Yes,” she snapped. “I forgot to say I agree.”

Sky blinked. 

“Agree… to what?”

Milk threw her hands up. 

“To this! To you! To be vice president! Whatever! I agree!”

Sky lit up, but before he could hug her, Milk spun around and marched out of the building, muttering curses in three different languages.

Later Love carried Milk’s words with her the entire drive home. “Fuck you. You’re a waste of my time”. They looped in her head like she was poking a bruise to see if it still hurt. She sat at her desk with her physics book open, pencil poised, and eyes unfocused. The corridor replayed behind her eyelids. The way Milk angry, confused, and disappointed but Love kept insisting it didn’t matter. Suddenly the door opened without warning.

“Your physics score dropped,” her father said.

“It’s still ninety-four, Pho. I—”

“Stop justifying.” He didn’t even look at her.

“Fix it.”

“I wasn’t. I was explaining—”

“Love.” His tone sharpened, sudden and cold.

“Strong people don’t explain themselves. Only weak people need others to understand them.”

Her grip tightened on her pencil until her knuckles ached. The instinct to clarify is always quick, always ready but shrivelled under the weight of his stare.

“…Yes, Pho.”

He left the room without turning off the lights, even without checking if she was breathing properly. The door clicked shut, and Love’s shoulders dropped instantly. This is why she kept everything clipped and cold. Why apologies felt like ambushes and why explanations tasted like danger.

Her father had taught her that explanations shrink you, attachment exposes you, and silence protects you. So when Milk asked, “What did I even do?” Love simply couldn’t speak. Now she sat alone in her dimly lit room, palms pressed to her eyes, fighting a sting she refused to acknowledge.

Meanwhile, Namtan’s massive room became the Emergency Emotional Trauma Center that night. Milk just burst in like she had kicked the door open with her whole soul.

“I need therapy. Immediately. Urgently. Spiritually.” Said Milk

Namtan nearly spilled her iced tea.

“Jesus Christ—what happened?”

“I told Love fuck you.’” Milk said it flatly, like reporting a weather forecast of doom.

Emi, who had been calmly eating chips on the floor, froze mid-crunch.

“I’m sorry—YOU WHAT?”

Namtan hopped off the bed and began clapping like she was at the Olympics.

“Finally! She’s ALIVE. She SPEAKS. She has SPINE.”

“We are proud of your emotional awakening.” Emi said as she nodded sagely.

 “Stop cheering. I feel horrible.” Milk groaned into a pillow.

“You feel relieved,” Namtan corrected. “Don’t lie.”

“She’s been treating you like the villain in a telenovela,” Emi added,

Milk threw a pillow at her. Emi accepted it like an award.

“And you finally delivered the season finale.”

But two days later, Sky appeared out of thin air with catastrophic enthusiasm. Bursting through the courtyard gate like a rogue firework. The school grounds were just easing into the lazy warmth of the afternoon. Students are drifting between buildings, leaves whispering overhead, the hum of distant chatter blending with the muffled thud of a basketball game by the gym. Milk had been walking along the shaded path beside the old science block, enjoying a rare pocket of quiet, when Sky materialized.

“Milk! Guess what!”

“No,” she replied instantly.

“Burke invited Love to be his vice president candidate. And she said yes!”

Milk froze mid-step, mid-blink, mid-life. While Sky beamed. 

“I know! Amazing, right?”

Milk’s brain exploded. Oh, so she can say yes to him? Answer him instantly? Hold a normal conversation with him? PERFECT. WONDERFUL. FANTASTIC. Meanwhile Sky kept talking, tragically oblivious, and Milk walked away before she could scream into his chest.

“Burke’s really responsible! Great teamwork! They’re super compatible—WAIT, MILK—!”

Then campaign week arrived like a riot wearing a necktie. Sky strategized like someone who took military warfare as a hobby. Milk became a caffeine-fueled machine. Designing posters, writing scripts, scheduling events. Burke and Love ran their campaign with terrifying smoothness. Prim and Film were suspiciously calm. When the election day came, votes were counted, Sky and Milk won by a landslide.

The final structure announced :

  President: Sky
  Vice President: Milk
  1st Secretary: Burke
  2nd Secretary: Love
  1st Treasurer: Prim
  2nd Treasurer: Film

Sky practically floated. Burke shook Milk’s hand like he was trying to detach it. Love clapped without looking anywhere near her. Milk pretended not to notice but failed spectacularly.

Sadly their first official meeting was when Sky realized the truth : Milk and Love could not exist within ten meters of each other without summoning a small tornado.

“Let’s assign booth layouts to Milk and Love,” Sky said cheerfully. Unknowingly summoning death.

They answered at the same time 

“Give me literally any other task.” Milk said

“I prefer someone else.” Love said

Milk’s head snapped so fast it could’ve created wind.

“Sorry, what did you say?”

“You heard me.” Love didn’t blink.

“Say it again. Louder. In full sentences this time.”

“I don’t repeat myself.”

“Of course you don’t. You also don’t explain yourself.” Milk scoffed.

Burke and Film exchanged looks like they were drafting their wills. Love typed calmly. 

“Her last layout was too crowded.”

Milk then slammed her pen.

“It was FLOW-OPTIMIZED.”

“It was ugly.”

“It was efficient.”

“Still ugly.”

Sky then shot up from his seat fast.

“OKAY! You two NEVER work together again. Not on layouts. Not on anything. Not even on breathing.”

“Excellent.” Milk said as she crossed her arms.

“Perfect.” Love mirrored her.

“Should we… separate their workstations too?” Film asked timidly.

“No, because they are not toddlers. Probably. I think.” Sky said and dragged a hand down his face.

“This is day one.” Burke whispered,

“This is hell.” Sky whispered back.

But it only escalated. By weeks, their tension had become a living organism. Every task, no matter how small, became a battlefield. When assigning colors for the campaign, Milk would tighten her jaw the moment Love clicked on a swatch, as if the very existence of Love’s taste offended her. Love, in turn, reacted to Milk’s suggestions the way one might react to mold: vaguely disgusted, mildly inconvenienced, and absolutely determined to remove it.

During document sorting:
Milk: “You alphabetized by first name? Are you a librarian?”
Love: “No. I simply know the alphabet.”

During planning:
Love: “Use a ruler.”
Milk: “My eyes ARE the ruler.”
Love: “Then your eyes are defective.”

During budgeting:
Milk: “We need better markers.”
Love: “You killed the current ones.”
Milk: “I used them to DECORATE—how—”
Love: “Your existence is so loud.”
Milk: “Did—did you just insult my personality?”
Love: “Observation.”

The room paused as Sky spiritually left his body. Soon their arguments stopped being arguments. They sounded like an old married couple that hated each other in a domestic way.

“Move your chair.”

“You move YOUR chair.”

“Your chair is noisy.”

“Your face is noisy.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“NEITHER DO YOU.”

Prim thought they were cute. Burke thought they were flirting. Emi thought it was premium entertainment. Namtan recorded everything. But Sky finally snapped. He slammed his notebook so hard the pens jumped.

“ENOUGH! New rule—YOU TWO are working together for the next project. No negotiations.”

“I will, IF she stops nagging about microscopic problems.” Milk nearly hurled a stapler.

“Maybe if the vice president did her job correctly—” Love said and sat straighter.

“Oh my God,” Sky exploded.

“STOP. BOTH OF YOU.”

Silence. He then pointed at them like they had personally ended his future.

“Figure out whatever is going on between you two. I want a SAFE work environment. I’m getting wrinkles.”

Sky then marched out, slamming the door. The room immediately  froze. For the first time both Milk and Love didn’t have a comeback. And that silence? It was louder than any of their arguments.

Chapter 6: Locked In (Literally), team Building (Allegedly)

Summary:

One rain-soaked incident that makes everything worse (or better).

Sky’s announcement dropped into the room like an anchor. No theatrics, no build up, just a flat decision that the creative director and the event planner would work side by side for the upcoming school event. Both Milk and Love reacted like they had been sentenced to community service for crimes they did not remember committing. 

Milk argued that her workload as vice president was heavy enough while Love stated she preferred to collaborate with literally anyone else. Sky ignored both of them and said the pairing was final. He added that time was running out and neither of them would sabotage their own professionalism.

Milk was the first to fold as she rubbed her temple and sighed. She did not want their entire event to collapse because the two of them treated planning like a battlefield. Love then followed a moment later with a tight nod, she did not intend to be the weak link. The compliance that followed was not harmonious but it was at least a beginning. Professionalism was a mutual religion they both refused to betray. They both accepted the situation with the stiffness of people signing up for something unpleasant but necessary.

The following days, they sat through planning meetings together. The first planning session happened in the student council room while the afternoon sunlight filtered through the dusty curtains. Milk placed her folder on the table with a small thump. That already annoyed Love, though she would never admit why.

Milk then placed her portfolio on the table with a quiet confidence that radiated like stage lights. She cleared her throat and opened her sketchbook and slid a page across the table. Milk said almost with pride, that she had prepared a concept beforehand. 

A tech integrated visual theme, something sleek and modern. Something that blended digital art with staging, lighting, and interactive installations. She described a light tunnel that responded to motion. She showed sketches of panels that shifted colors when touched.

“Okay, hear me out,” she said, tapping the sketch with the back of her pen.

“This isn’t just decor. I don’t want people to walk past it. I want them to  walk through it.” Milk said as she slid the paper closer to the center of the table.

“The tunnel responds to motion. You step inside, the lights react to you. Faster movement, sharper color shifts. Slower movement, softer gradients. It feels alive.” She looked up briefly, eyes bright despite herself.

“Like the space is aware you’re there.” Milk said as her finger moved to the next drawing.

“And these panels,” she continued, voice gaining momentum, “they’re touch-sensitive. Heat, pressure, even sound could trigger color changes. It turns the crowd into part of the installation. No stage separation. No passive audience.”

“Technology doesn’t have to feel cold. If we do this right, it becomes art.”

Love skimmed the first page, then the second, then the seventh, each turn more rigid than the last. She set the folder down and tapped the paper with the kind of politeness that usually meant danger.

“Milk, this is going to devour the budget.”

“The school can cover it. We’re a private institution and this is the annual showcase. They want innovation.” Milk said and lifted her chin.

“Innovation is one thing. A full tech labyrinth is another. We’re high schoolers. You’re asking for coding, lighting engineering, hardware rentals, technicians. You seem to forget we aren’t a professional studio.” Love said her response was a slow inhale.

“I know talents who can do it. Real ones. They owe me favors.” Milk said and leaned forward with a glint that was almost too sharp. That made Namtan grin and Emi fall into quiet worry.

“Favors won’t lift the weight for the rest of us. The schedule is tight. The manpower is limited. We cannot gamble the entire event on an experiment.” Love said and remained calm, but the calm had a temperature.

“It’s not an experiment. It’s the future,” Milk said. “You keep saying it’s unrealistic, but everything becomes realistic when people actually try.”

“You’re being unreasonable.” Love said as she closed the folder softly and placed it between them like a border.

“And you’re being afraid of effort,” Milk shot back before she could stop herself.

Part of her didn’t want to stop it, Milk even enjoyed the push, the challenge, the rise of heat that transformed their usual cold distance into something charged. She countered Love every time she found an opening, not only to defend her concept, but to prove she wasn’t the softhearted girl. 

There was a sting of pride under her ribs, especially when she met Love’s gaze and saw the unreadable wall behind it. Milk fought harder than necessary, and Namtan caught the shift with a smirk while Emi kept glancing between them as if she could sense the crack in Milk’s usual composure. 

Meetings then stretched like taut strings. Every debate between Milk and Love rang with a strange echo, part irritation and part something no one could name. Burke tried to intervene but Sky signaled him to let them run out of steam. And when they finally reached a stalemate, their faces equally stiff, they both muttered that they would consider revisions.

One afternoon after one long meeting ended, Sky called them aside privately. He spoke with the offhand tone of someone picking socks from a drawer. The school needed items retrieved from the storage warehouse. He assured them it would take fifteen minutes. Sky then added, no one else was free, with suspicious smoothness and no room for refusal. 

“Can’t the logistics team—” Love frowned.

“They’re busy,” Sky cut in smoothly. “All of them. Very tragic.”

“Consider it team bonding.” Sky said almost pleasantly,

“That’s not—” Milk started.

“Non-negotiable.” Sky finally looked at them both, smiling far too sweetly.

And with that, he turned and walked away, humming to himself, leaving Milk and Love standing there with identical expressions of disbelief and the sinking realization that they had just been expertly set up.

Milk and Love agreed out of obligation rather than choice. Both left their backpacks and phones in the council room as they assumed this errand would take ten minutes. Milk even boasted that she’d grab the items first and return before anyone noticed. Love, hearing that, chose to follow empty-handed as well, not wanting to carry extra weight for such a short walk.

The warehouse smelled of metal shelves and old paint. Milk pulled the door open with one hand and glanced over her shoulder with the faintest grumble about Sky assigning them chores. Love then stepped inside with the same expression she wore during uninteresting lectures. They started to search for the boxes labeled Audio Equipment Reserve and stacked them near the door. 

“Why are the labels handwritten?” Milk muttered, crouching to peer at a half-faded marker scrawl. “Who writes like this? It looks like a ransom note.”

“Because the warehouse hasn’t been updated since the Stone Age. Try shelf C.” Love said as she scanned the shelves methodically.

“I am at shelf C.”

“Then you’re standing at it incorrectly.”

“Shelves don’t have orientations.” Milk shot her a look.

“They do when you’re bad at reading,” Love replied without looking up.

Milk huffed and dragged a box out. Dust puffed into the air.

“Audio Equipment Reserve,” she read aloud. “Why is this under Sports Day 2010?”

“Because no one here believes in logical systems,” Love said. She bent down, lifting another box with practiced ease. “Or maybe because people like you put things wherever they feel like.”

“I’ve never been in this warehouse before.” Milk said and nudged the box toward the door. 

“Hey, if I die from tetanus, I’m haunting you.” Milk said again.

“Good,” Love said calmly. “At least then you’d finally stop talking.”

Once they were ready to carry them out, Milk gave the door handle a turn. Nothing moved. She tried again. The knob spun with no grip. She pushed the metal with her shoulder. The door did not budge, and the tiny sliver of hallway light that should have slipped through the frame stayed dark.

Milk pushed it again. Nothing happened.

She pushed harder. The lock rattled from the outside.

“Oh brilliant,” Love muttered. “It’s locked.”

“From the outside?” Milk rattled the door harder. “Who closes a door like this without checking if someone’s inside?”

Love tested the hinges, even tried the small window, though she barely bothered applying actual strength. Milk watched her with growing frustration.

“Can you try properly?”

“I am trying.” Love’s face twitched.

“No, you’re pretending to try. That’s different.”

Milk didn’t wait for permission. She crossed the space, grabbed the handle herself, and yanked hard. The metal rattled uselessly. She shoved her shoulder against it, once, twice. Nothing. Her jaw clenched.

“Great,” she muttered. “Fantastic. Locked in a warehouse with you.” 

“HELLO?” Milk shouted. “ANYONE?”

The sound bounced back at her, hollow and unhelpful. She tried again, louder, desperation creeping in despite herself. Her voice cracked just slightly on the last word. She didn’t like that. 

“HELP! WE’RE LOCKED IN HERE!”

“Well, your shouting doesn’t seem to work either.”

Milk puffed up, ready to argue again, but the futility of the situation pressed against her back. They both gave into silence for a moment until Love sat on a nearby wooden crate with a sigh that sounded annoyed at existing.

“Why are you stopping?” Milk pointed at Love.

“Because this is a broken door and I’m not built like a battering ram. My father will notice if I’m late. He always does. Someone will search for me.”

“So help is coming.” Milk said as she dropped to the floor in relief.

“Yes.”

Minutes then crawled by. The warehouse dimmed as clouds thickened over the courtyard window. The patter of rain arrived first, soft and steady, then evolved into a downpour that sounded like pebbles thrown from the sky. Thunder cracked hard enough to rattle the thin glass. Milk froze a little and Love noticed it but didn’t comment, assuming it was annoyance, not fear.

Milk started talking. Too much, too quickly, her jokes flying out like she was paying a debt to an invisible audience with each one. Love’s brows twitched at every punchline. Most landed with the grace of a brick, but one slipped through with unexpected precision. 

“Do you think Sky will put this under ‘team-building expenses’ or ‘unfortunate loss due to poor leadership’?”

She sighed, then added, deadpan,

“On the bright side, if we miss dinner, my legacy will be that I died hungry and underappreciated.”

Love burst into laughter, real laughter, not the restrained breath through her nose she often gave people. It filled the warehouse with a warmth that softened the edges of everything. Meanwhile Milk froze mid-sentence and turned slowly, like she was afraid the sound might vanish if she moved too fast. Milk watched her silently, Love’s face transformed when she laughed, all sharpness softened. Milk couldn’t unsee it.

“Oh,” Milk said softly, stunned and a little breathless. “So you do have a laugh setting when you're with me.”

Then the next thunderclap tore the moment apart. It slammed into the walls and shook dust from the shelves. Milk went quiet, so quiet as if someone had pressed a hand over her voice. She then flinched visibly as another crack followed, louder, rattling the window frames. Milk’s posture shrank with every sound. Her skin drained of color, beads of sweat glossed her forehead. She looked like a person enduring something far larger than sound.

Love turned toward her fully at last. She opened her mouth to tease, then stopped before anything escaped. She recognized that expression from long ago within herself, the way loud noise used to paralyze her. Something inside her shifted. She moved closer, not too close, but enough for Milk to sense her presence.

“Come here.”

Milk didn’t argue for once. She slid closer with hesitant steps. Love guided her to sit against the wall beside her and spoke in a low tone, sharing a grounding trick she had used during thunderstorms as a child. 

“Okay,” Love said quietly, keeping her voice level, almost careful. “Listen to me, yeah?”

“I’m listening.” Milk said, then nodded.

“Don’t look at the windows,” Love continued. “Pick one thing near you. Something solid.” She tapped the concrete beside them. “The wall works.”

“Okay.” Milk then pressed her palm against it, cold seeping into her skin.

“When the thunder comes,” Love said, “don’t count the sound. Count your breathing instead. In through your nose for four, hold for two, out through your mouth for six.”

Milk followed each instruction slowly. Bit by bit her shoulders unknotted, her breath evened, her eyes eased shut. She did what Love told her to do, quietly. One. Two. Three. Four. Pause. Then slower, stretching the release.

“Imagine the sound passing through you,” Love went on. “Like it doesn’t have to stop inside your chest. It can move on.”

Milk’s grip on the fabric of her sleeve loosened. Her breathing steadied, syncing unconsciously with Love’s cadence.

“Good,” Love said when she noticed. “That’s it. Just stay there.”

Milk’s eyes then fluttered, blinking hard, but then she decided to close it.

“I’m not… sleeping,” she mumbled.

“I know,” Love replied, almost fond. “You’re just resting your eyes.”

Love checked her expression once, expecting tears or panic, but what she saw instead was someone trying so hard to stay awake out of pride because Milk resisted sleep until the resistance dissolved. 

As minutes passed, Milk’s eyelids grew heavy. She shook her head, trying to stay awake, but exhaustion took over. She fell asleep sitting up, her head drooping forward. The storm softened into background noise. 

Love watched her as if observing a quiet, rare animal that only appeared when the world wasn’t looking. When asleep, Milk looked unnervingly calm, her usual brightness traded for something serene. Her face was composed, quiet, almost elegant. Love almost scoffed at the thought, mentally calling her ridiculous. 

“Of course you look like this,” she muttered under her breath, barely louder than the rain against the roof.

She tilted her head, irritation curling warm and familiar in her chest. No noise. No commentary. No grin that demanded attention.

“Unfair,” she whispered. “People are supposed to look stupid when they sleep.”

“Even unconscious, you’re unbearable,” Love said quietly, eyes tracing Milk’s calm expression.

“Do you practice this or does it come naturally?”

She looked away for a second, annoyed at herself, then glanced back. Her lips pressed together as if that might stop the next thought from forming. It didn’t, because the truth was right in front of her. Milk could outshine half the school while unconscious. It was infuriating for Love.

“…Show-off.” Love said.

Meanwhile, in another part of the city, London’s rain battered the windows with the force of a wild mood. A man in a dark coat walked through the corridor with steady purpose. A cut marked his left eye, the fading bruise spreading like borrowed ink. His expression remained composed as he opened the door to a room lined with maps, photographs, and strings of information pinned across the walls. A larger man sat at a cluttered desk surrounded by folders. He looked up only when the coat-wearing man set his hat on the table.

“Enjoying work?” the newcomer asked quietly.

“For a special client, of course,” the larger man replied, smiling without warmth.

The visitor wandered to the nearest display, eyes flicking over school records, building layouts, printed forms. He picked up a page featuring a student council list and let out a slow whistle.

“Quite the stellar student, isn’t she?”

He then tossed a file onto the desk. The larger man opened it, scanning names and connections. He paused at a note referencing relatives in Thailand.

“So the Thailand family still stays in contact,” he murmured.

The visitor took his hat again and nodded. The larger man leaned back, fingers steepled.

“I know a weak point we can use against them.”

“Good,” the visitor replied softly, voice steady as the rain outside.

Back in the warehouse, Love stayed awake while Milk slept, her gaze drifting occasionally to the window where lightning painted brief silver stripes. She lost track of time until a faint voice echoed through the hallway beyond the door. Someone called her name. She stood quickly and strained to hear again. The voice repeated, louder now.

“Finally,” she whispered, then reached for Milk, shaking her shoulder. Milk blinked awake in confusion until Love pointed at the door.

“Help is here, sleepyhead.”

They then shouted together, and a man’s voice answered. A moment later the lock clanked from outside. Light spilled into the warehouse as the door opened.

Love’s father stood there in a composed stance that hid more worry than he intended. His eyes assessed them like a silent interrogation. Love swallowed a greeting that barely formed. He gestured toward the hallway, his tone clipped. 

“Let’s get into the car.” He said before turned to Milk.

“And miss?”

“Vosbein,” Milk replied.

“Miss Vosbein. I assume your driver is waiting?”

“No sir. I take the tube. And the door locked from the outside. We can file a report. It was an accident.”

“As expected from the vice president. Do you need a lift?” He offered a polite smile. 

“I’m alright, sir.” Milk said after she shook her head.

They separated at the school gates. The rain still fell, gentler now. In the car, silence sat between Love and her father until he finally broke it.

“Is what she said true?”

“Yes pho.”

“I was worried sick.” His voice cracked with restrained fear.

“I’m sorry.”

“Be more careful. There are people out there who won’t show mercy.”

Love only nodded, apologizing again, her voice kept small the way it always became around him. The rest of the drive passed in near silence, broken only by the steady hum of the engine and the rain tapering into a thin mist.

Meanwhile, at her own home, Milk pushed through the front door and let it swing shut behind her. The house answered her with nothing. No footsteps, no voices, no lights already on. Alain and Victoria Vosbein were away again, somewhere between meetings and time zones, chasing contracts and crises that always seemed to multiply the moment they boarded a plane. 

Milk dropped her bag by the door and kicked off her shoes without bothering to line them up. The echo of it bounced through the wide hallway, too loud for how tired she felt. She glanced toward the dark kitchen, then the staircase, then the living room where the curtains hadn’t been drawn yet.

“Great,” she muttered into the empty space, voice flat.

“How did you sleep in a warehouse during a storm, you unbelievable disaster.” She said as she imagined Love preparing new insults for her the next morning. 

And she was right.

Chapter 7: Two Idiots, One Kitten

Summary:

When something inconveniently soft starts leaking through...

The chaos began before the after-school meeting could even settle into its carefully scheduled calm. The student council room with long tables aligned perfectly beneath warm recessed lighting, the school crest watching from the wall like a silent authority. Sky paced in sharp, restless strides, tension radiating from him as if the day had personally wronged him. Milk had only just taken her seat when the door opened again, quietly but decisively, and the facilities supervisor stepped inside, cap held respectfully in both hands, his posture stiff with formality and regret.

“I, uh… excuse me,” he said, bowing slightly. “I wanted to apologize to the council. About yesterday. The warehouse door. Maintenance confirmed the lock was jammed from the outside.” He said as the room collectively leaned forward.

“I’m really sorry about trapping two of your members inside after hours,” he added earnestly. “We didn’t realize until Mr. Limpatiyakorn and Miss Vosbein called.” Silence. Then realization detonated.

“Wait,” Sky said slowly. “Two members?” Sky rubbed his temples. ”Guys, why didn’t you tell me? I could've helped you.”

“Hold on. What do you mean, Milk and Love?” Emi’s head snapped up.

Milk stiffened, Love did too. Then a fraction of a second later.

“Yes,” the man nodded. “They were very… cooperative, all things considered.”

Prim’s pen paused mid-word, Burke blinked, and Film’s eyes widened just enough to be dangerous.

“You’re telling me,” Emi said carefully, already standing, “that these two were locked together. Overnight.”

“It wasn’t overnight,” Milk said too fast.

“Don’t be dramatic Em,” Love added, equally sharp.

Emi ignored both of them and crossed the room in three dramatic strides, hands already out.

“Milk, don’t move.”

“What are you doing?” Milk demanded.

“I’m checking you for injuries,” Emi said gravely, lifting Milk’s wrist, then her elbow. “Confinement. Stress. Potential trauma. Are you dizzy? Lightheaded? Emotionally compromised?”

“I’m sitting right here,” Milk said. “Clearly alive.”

“No visible scratches… no bruises… wow. I’m shocked.” Emi squinted. 

“Stop it.” Love snapped out of her chair and lightly punched Emi’s arm.

“Ow,” Emi said, not convincing anyone. “That’s assault.”

“That’s mercy,” Love replied flatly.

“You’re telling me the two of you were alone. Locked in. And didn’t kill each other.” Namtan said.

“We talked,” Milk said through clenched teeth.

“Barely,” Love muttered.

“Honestly? I’m impressed.” Burke said, leaned back, folding his arms.

“I’m disappointed,” Namtan said, phone already out. “No screaming? No explosions? Missed opportunity.”

“It was an accident,” Milk said. “Can we not turn it into a headline?”

“Oh, it’s already a headline,” Prim said calmly. “In my head.”

“So… did you reconcile?” Film said as she tilted her head. 

“No,” Milk and Love said at the exact same time. They glared at each other immediately after.

“Then why didn’t you fight?” Namtan pressed.

“We were trapped, not stupid.” Milk said and crossed her arms. “Though I will say, some people gave up on escape impressively fast. Five minutes in and you were already treating the warehouse floor like a luxury lounge.”

“You know, for someone who talks a lot, you went very quiet the moment the thunder hit.” Love said, leaned back in her chair, arms crossed. 

“I did not.” Milk said, her spine stiffened. 

“You froze,” Love said mildly. “Like the power button on your personality got switched off.”

“That was strategic silence,” Milk snapped. “I was listening.”

“To the thunder?”

“To danger.”

 “I don’t like where this is going.”

Sky glanced up. Too late.

“Wait, you’re scared of thunderstorms?” Emi said, eyes lit up. 

“I am cautious around loud, unpredictable natural phenomena.” Milk said as she wheeled around.

“You become stiff,” Love added.

“I adjusted my posture.”

“You nearly crawled into my lap.”

“Nearly?? OH GOD!” Namtan gasped, delighted. 

“CAN WE NOT REWRITE HISTORY, You told me to move closer!" Milk slammed her palm on the table. 

Love tilted her head, expression infuriatingly calm. 

“And then,” Love continued, “five minutes later, you fell asleep.”

Silence. Milk stared at her, unbelievable.

“I rested my eyes.”

“You drooled.”

“That is a LIE.”

“I assign one project and unlock a full psychological profile.” Sky said cut it sharply. 

“So Milk Vosbein. Thunderstorm victim.” Emi said while grinning so hard it looked painful. 

“You are never allowed to comfort me again.” Milk said as she pointed her index finger at Love. 

“You say that like you didn’t grab your own sleeve and refuse to let go.” Love raised an eyebrow.

They were standing too close now, neither of them quite aware of when the distance had disappeared. Milk’s shoulders were squared and hands clenched like she was one sharp word away from swinging. Love faced her head-on, posture just as taut, but the difference in their height tilted the moment into something visually unbalanced. Milk was taller by a noticeable margin, fourteen centimeters, that forced Love to angle her chin upward. 

Milk’s height gave her an accidental dominance, her shadow cutting across Love’s frame. But Love didn’t shrink from it. If anything, she leaned into it, standing firm on her feet, eyes locked on Milk’s with quiet defiance. Milk noticed how Love refused to step back even when she had to look up, how stubbornness tightened her jaw instead of fear.

To anyone watching, it looked like the seconds before a fight broke out. But something was off because Milk’s fists never rose. Love’s hands stayed loose at her sides, fingers twitching like they couldn’t decide whether to grab Milk by the collar or steady themselves against her. Their faces were close enough now that the height difference became intimate instead of imposing, Milk having to lower her head while Love having to tilt hers. Close enough for breath to brush skin. Close enough for the tension to bend into something else. 

But then Sky slammed his notebook down. The sound cracked through the room like a gunshot, sharp enough to make everyone flinch. For a split second after, his jaw tightened and his eyes flicked between Milk and Love, something like dawning regret flashing across his face. This was his fault. He could see it clearly now. Asking them to work together yesterday had been efficient on paper and catastrophic in reality.

“Alright,” Sky said, voice dangerously calm. “New rule.”

“I don’t care who started it,” he continued, louder now. “I don’t care who slept, who screamed, who cried at the thunder, or who thinks they’re morally superior because they stayed awake.” Sky said and then leaned forward, palms flat on the table. 

“If you two keep acting like this, I’m cancelling the meeting. And if this keeps bleeding into the next one—” his gaze hardened, deliberate as it cut between them, “—I will cancel the entire event.”

That landed. Burke’s eyebrows shot up. Prim stopped writing. Even Namtan straightened a little. Milk clenched her jaw. Love’s lips pressed into a thin line.

“You think I’m bluffing?” Sky went on, voice cold now. “I will shut it down. No event. No showcase. No portfolio boost. I’ll tell the school board we’re not ready because the creative director and the event planner can’t stop circling each other like feral cats.”

“This isn’t about your pride,” Sky said. He straightened, breathing hard. “This is about work. So you either get it together, right now, or we all walk out of here and pretend this whole thing never existed.”

Sky’s words ended the banter abruptly, the door swinging shut with an echo that lingered in the room like leftover smoke. For a moment, no one spoke. Milk and Love were already gone, they stormed out in opposite directions with both looking like their blood pressure could power the entire school’s electricity bill.

“Well… that was something.” Burke said and cleared his throat.

“At this point I’m convinced they’re allergic to teamwork.” Prim said as she leaned back in her chair, calmly scribbling in her planner.

“Or they’re still bitter about… you know. The election thing.” Film commented.

But Namtan just stretched her legs out dramatically under the table, exhaling like a retired queen exhausted by palace drama.

“Oh please. They’re not bitter,” she said.

“They just want to strangle each other.” She paused, then added, deadpan

“Give them a room again and they’ll kiss each other for sure.” 

And the room exploded. Burke choked. Prim’s pen went flying. Film shook her head. Emi, being the representative for the medic club sent to assist, slapped her hand on the table like she had just witnessed divine revelation. Meanwhile, somewhere in the hallway, Sky sneezed without realizing why.

 

---

 

The next morning, Milk and Love’s “collaboration session” began exactly as everyone predicted, horribly. Milk arrived first, spreading her notebooks across the student council table like someone preparing for a test she forgot existed. Love walked in seconds later, spine straight, expression unreadable, aura sharp enough to slice wood. They sat opposite each other. Silence filled the room like a third, very judgmental presence. Milk cracked first.

“Look,” she said, trying and failing to sound casual.

“If we’re gonna work together, then just… say it. What do you hate about me?”

Love’s pen-tapping stopped. The rhythm faltered, small, but telling. Milk waited. And waited. Finally Love inhaled, lifting her eyes with a steadiness that looked painfully rehearsed.

“I hate that you always have a way with people,” she said quietly, each word sharp and deliberate.

“I hate how charming you are. How everyone gravitates to you like it costs you nothing.”

Milk blinked, stunned. Love wasn’t finished.

“You win people with warmth,” Love continued, her gaze unwavering now. “With jokes. With charm. You don’t force it. You don’t calculate it. It just… happens.”

There it was. Not a lie but not the truth either.

“That… sounds like jealousy,” Milk said.

The smack came instantly. Love’s hand hit Milk’s shoulder so fast Milk yelped like she had been tackled by gravity.

“I’m not jealous,” Love snapped, cheeks warming with something absolutely not jealousy but absolutely looking like it.

“Okay, okay—sorry. Bad joke.” Milk said as she rubbed the spot, wincing.

Milk then studied Love’s face. The tension, the walls, the way her fingers curled as if holding back something heavier.

“It just feels like there’s more to it,” Milk said softly.

“But I’m not gonna force you. If you don’t want to talk, you don’t want to talk.” Milk said and Love shut down immediately.

“Start working on the schedule and timeline,” she said.

“We’re wasting daylight.” 

“Got it.” Milk said and just exhaled sharply.

The distance remained. Not hatred anymore, just confused with heavy gravity. The shift came unexpectedly three days later when Milk found another stray kitten, small, trembling, barely coordinated. She froze, breath catching. Instinctively she crouched, scooping it up, letting it curl against her chest. Her voice softened in a way she never used with people.

“Hey, baby,” she whispered.

“I’m not losing you too.”

And Love saw her from across the courtyard. Instantly, her chest tightened. Lightning struck : the old memory, the plastic bag, the gutter, the water, the cold certainty that Milk is someone who discarded life without blinking. Seeing Milk with a kitten again and Love walked toward her before she even realized it.

“What are you doing to it?” she demanded.

“Taking care of it?” Milk startled.

“Right. Like the last one?” Love’s tone sharpened.

“What?” Milk froze then she breathed.

Love looked away, jaw tense.

“I saw you that day. You stuffed it in a plastic bag. After school, you threw the same bag into the gutter without even checking it.”

Milk stared at her stunned and something between disbelief and heartbreak cracked across her face.

“Oh my god,” she whispered.

“You thought… you thought I threw the kitten away?”

Love didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. Milk then let out a disbelieving laugh, thin and hollow.

“Love… that bag was snacks. Film gave them to me. I was pissed at Namtan and Emi and threw it like an idiot. But I never, ever, hurt that kitten.”

Love’s certainty cracked.

“What happened to it, then?” she asked, barely above a whisper.

Milk’s eyes dimmed.

“I lost it. Someone probably took it in. I looked everywhere.”

For the first time, Love saw the truth. Sincerity and softness. The real Milk, the one she wasn’t supposed to see. Milk then pulled out her phone.

“Look. This is my cat, Sugus.”

Sugus, round, grey, dramatic. Rolled across the screen like a furry monarchy. Love’s lips twitched. Milk saw it. Love saw Milk seeing it. Both immediately looked away like cowards.

“I… didn’t know,” Love murmured.

“I thought you were being… cruel.”

Milk’s smile softened, slow and warm.

“I wouldn’t hurt an animal. Ever.”

The air then shifted. No longer sharp, no longer poisoned, but with something warmer threaded between them, hesitant and charged. Love stepped closer so the kitten could nuzzle her finger. Milk watched Love and her eyes tracing the line of Love’s jaw, the focused crease in Love’s brow. Love felt the gaze, pulse stumbling, but pretended not to notice. Milk then spoke quietly.

“So… misunderstanding cleared?”

Love nodded, cheeks warm.

“Maybe I was… mistaken.”

Milk let out a small breath, half laugh, half relief.

“Maybe, huh?”

The kitten curled into both their hands like it was signing a treaty. Neither pulled away. They didn’t say it aloud, but the war ended right there. In a quiet courtyard, holding a stray kitten and realizing the person they hated was dangerously close to someone they could understand. And maybe—just maybe—someone they could like.

Notes:

Hope y'all enjoyed it so far!

Chapter 8: This Is Not a Date

Summary:

When simple convenience store run becomes dangerously close to domestic.

From that day forward, something changed between them. Not drastically and not loudly, but enough that everyone else noticed before they did. Their bantering still existed, but it sounded different now. More like two people who secretly liked the argument more than the victory. And the way they worked? Flawless. Side by side, passing documents, finishing each other’s sentences in meetings, catching each other’s small mistakes before they became big ones. It was efficient, smooth, suspiciously harmonious, and suspicious enough that a rumor started circulating around the student council room.

“They’ve been replaced,” one sophomore declared with absolute confidence.

“Sky swapped them with aliens. It’s the only explanation.”

“Yeah,” another agreed.

“Look at them. They’re… cooperating.”

Stupid rumor, but undeniably funny. Even Namtan and Emi wouldn’t let Milk breathe about it. The moment they saw her grab an extra notebook so Love wouldn’t forget hers again, the teasing began.

“Oh?” Namtan sang, leaning her chin on her palm.

“Is this the beginning of an enemies-to-lovers story?”

Emi nodded solemnly, like a scientist confirming a discovery.

“I always knew. Chemistry like that? With that much bantering? Top tier.”

Milk nearly choked on her drink.

“Please,” she scoffed.

“That will never happen between me and Love.”

Emi and Namtan shared a look that clearly meant : She’s in denial, painfully. Because Milk was wrong, so deeply, and undeniably wrong. Milk had known for a while how beautiful Love is. The kind of beauty that hits unexpectedly, like catching sunlight on water. Love’s small and soft build paired with her fierce nature is a combination Milk tried very hard not to think about. And ever since the misunderstanding cleared, Love had been different. Well, not quite warm enough, but her walls lowered in tiny and precious increments.

Milk noticed that Love was always good at taking care of people. Especially when she thought they wouldn’t notice. Love checked everyone’s schedules, reminded her friends to eat lunch, and silently fixed things before they break.

Milk saw all of it and it pulled her in. The closeness from their daily work only pushing her deeper. She started noticing too much. Like the way Love’s brows furrowed when she concentrated, the small smile she hid when a plan went perfectly, the soft lines under her eyes after long nights.

Milk fell quietly, slowly, and helplessly. But she would never admit that out loud, especially to Namtan and Emi. But unfortunately, her own body language sold her out every single time. She walked slower so Love could keep pace. She handed Love water during long meetings before Love realized she was thirsty. She hovered protectively when Love’s shoulders slumped after a tough day.

It was obvious to everyone except Love. Love simply assumed Milk was naturally gentle with everyone. Fair enough, Milk was indeed gentle. Just not this intentional and this careful. Luckily, Prim saw everything. She cornered Love one afternoon behind the library shelves, glasses slightly askew from her hurry.

“Love,” she said quietly.

“You do know Milk treats you… differently, right?”

“No, she doesn’t.” Love blinked.

“Oh my god. You’re blind.” Prim stared.

“Milk is like that with people.” Love said, her denial was immediate and instinctive.

“She is not like that with me,” Prim deadpanned.

“Or Namtan, or Emi, or literally anyone else.”

“You’re reading into it.” Love said as she crossed her arms, stubborn.

Prim then gave her a long, pointed look.

“Are you sure you’re not the one avoiding reading it?”

From that conversation onward, Love did exactly what she always did when challenged. She tested the theory like a problem set. She started watching Milk closely, not obviously, not in a way that would invite teasing. But with quiet vigilance. If Prim was wrong, Love would prove it with evidence. Love reminds herself : patterns, repetition, consistency.

And at first, the proof lined up neatly, Milk was kind to everyone. Love watched her lean over Film’s laptop one afternoon, lowering her voice so the others wouldn’t hear. Film had been staring at a spreadsheet like it personally offended her. Milk didn’t touch the keyboard at first. She just pointed, explaining patiently, breaking the task into pieces small enough to breathe through. When Film’s shoulders finally loosened, Milk smiled and slid her snack bar from her bag without comment, as if it had simply appeared there on its own.

Another day, Film showed up late, hair still damp, eyes glassy. Milk didn’t scold. She just shifted the agenda without fuss, reassigned one task so Film could sit and catch up, then stayed after the meeting to help her rewrite notes she had missed. No one asked her to but Milk just did it.

With the juniors, it was the same. She always remembered names, asked about exams, checked in when someone looked overwhelmed. She listened like time bent around her and offered help the way other people offered jokes. Easily and reflexively.

See? Love told herself. Prim was totally wrong. Milk wasn’t special with her, she’s like this with everyone. But to her own surprise, Love felt a strange sense of relief settle into her chest. The relief didn’t sit right. Because it twisted low in her stomach, a small, irrational knot that refused to loosen. Love dismissed it immediately. Hunger, probably or irritation, she thought. Maybe just the lingering annoyance of Love being observed like a puzzle someone else thought they had solved.

Being clueless, it surprised Love how quickly irritation followed her when Milk’s laughter wasn’t directed at her. How her eyes lingered a beat too long when Milk leaned close to someone else’s shoulder. How she found herself cataloging small things about Milk that she had never bothered to notice before. It’s in the way Milk’s hands moved when she explained something technical. The way she chewed on the inside of her cheek when she was thinking too hard. The knot still remained because Love doubled down on logic. Annoying habits, Love told herself firmly. Nothing more.

Luckily the opportunity to stop thinking about Milk arrived, the concept they made becoming real. Once approvals were finalized and budgets allocated, the student council room transformed into controlled chaos. Wires snaked across tables. Screens leaned against walls. Sketches were taped, removed, replaced. Milk is totally in her element, or so everyone assumed.

But Love noticed the cracks first. Milk stayed later than usual, staring at her laptop with a tension that didn’t match her confidence. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, paused, typed, deleted. She muttered under her breath in three languages, none of them seemed to be polite. When someone passed by, she straightened instantly, posture immaculate, and screen angled away. Love watched it all without comment for nearly an hour. Eventually, Milk exhaled sharply and leaned back, rubbing her eyes. 

“So,” she said lightly, strolling over. “How’s the future of technology treating you?”

“Fine.” Milk said and didn’t look up.

Love glanced at the screen anyway. Lines of code sat half-finished, mismatched, errors blinking with smug persistence.

“Mm,” Love hummed. “Because it looks like it’s actively resisting you.”

“It’s under control.” Milk said then snapped the laptop shut.

“Of course it is,” Love said sweetly. “Just like the warehouse door was.”

“Low blow.” Milk shot her a glare.

“You set the precedent,” Love replied. “Didn’t I tell you this would be difficult to execute?”

“You said it would be annoying,” Milk corrected. “There’s a difference.”

“There really isn’t.” 

“Are you enjoying this?” Milk said as she leaned forward, chin in her hand, eyes narrowed.

“Immensely.” Love said.

Love’s palm settled flat against the table as she leaned in, the other hand resting at her waist. The posture was relaxed but deliberate, a quiet claim of space. A small smile then curved her lips, restrained and sharp. The kind that made it clear she was enjoying every second of Milk’s struggle far more than she should have.

“You know what the problem is? The school firewall hates custom interaction scripts. I have to reroute the input detection or the light panels lag.” Milk said after scoffing.

“So… you’re stuck.” Love said as she tilted her head. 

“Temporarily delayed.” Milk bristled.

“You should’ve listened to the event planner.” Love smiled, sharp and victorious.

“You should stop gloating before I unplug your sense of superiority.”

“Tempting,” Love said. “But you look one error message away from throwing that laptop out the window.”

Milk hesitated. Just for a second and Love caught it.

“Do you need help?” she asked, casual, as if the question cost nothing.

“No,” she said, too quickly. Then quieter. “Maybe. A little.” Milk opened her mouth again. 

“Miracles do happen.” Love raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t make this worse.” Milk groaned.

“I wouldn’t dare.” Love replied playfully and pulled up a chair beside her. “Move over. Show me where it hurts.”

“Okay, that was completely unnecessary.” Milk shot her a look before smiling.

“And yet,” Love said, leaning in, eyes already scanning the code, “you smiled.”

By late afternoon, the council room had fallen into a tired stillness that comes after prolonged concentration. Milk sat hunched over her laptop, eyes narrowed, fingers moving with stubborn precision. Lines of code stacked neatly on the screen now, no longer fighting her at every turn. The rest of the building had long quieted. Even the hum of distant voices had faded, replaced by the faint buzz of electricity and the occasional click of keys.

Love now stood beside her, close enough to see everything, and close enough that Milk could feel her presence without looking. They tried to solve it together, technically. Milk did the heavy lifting, untangling logic and fixing errors, while Love followed carefully, absorbing what she could. Love was smart. That was undeniable, but this was unfamiliar territory, a world where intelligence alone wasn’t enough without experience. She asked questions, thoughtful ones, but offered no real breakthroughs. It frustrated Love more than she let on. When the solution finally held, the victory felt quiet. No cheers, no dramatic payoff, just the dull relief of something finally working.

“It runs,” Milk said, disbelief slipping into her voice before she could stop it.

Love leaned forward, peering at the screen, then checked the time on her phone. Outside, the last traces of daylight had drained away completely.

“And it’s late,” she said. “We should stop before you start arguing with the computer again.”

Milk leaned back in her chair with a laugh that sounded more tired than amused. Hunger had been creeping up on her all day, ignored in favor of deadlines and pride. Now it demanded attention. Right on cue, her stomach then growled, loud and unapologetic. Milk froze, then laughed under her breath and rubbed her face. Love just arched an eyebrow, eyes flicking pointedly to Milk’s midsection.

“So,” she said dryly, “is that your laptop overheating, or your stomach staging a rebellion?”

“Traitor,” Milk groaned, then muttered, then straightened. Dignity patched together with effort.

“Okay. Fine. I surrender. If I don’t eat something in the next ten minutes, I might actually pass out on this keyboard, and I refuse to be remembered like that.”

“I guess you skipped lunch again.” Love said as she tilted her head. 

“It was a strategic sacrifice,” Milk said. “For the project and now I’m paying interest.”

She spun her chair slightly toward Love, eyes brightening with an idea that had been waiting for permission.

“There’s a convenience store down the street. Nothing fancy.”

Love hesitated. Just for a moment and Milk caught it instantly, lips curving.

“Oh,” Milk added playfully, “my bad. I should’ve known a princess can’t eat convenience food.”

“Who said I can’t?” Love said and her gaze sharpened. 

That was how they ended up walking side by side toward the convenience store. The banter returns almost automatically, like muscle memory. Milk tossed out a comment she half-expected Love to dismiss, something about princesses and convenience food. Instead, Love bristled, chin lifting, eyes sharp with challenge. Love walked with purpose, chin lifted, like she was personally determined to disprove Milk’s accusation.

Inside the store, the fluorescent lights washed everything pale and overly honest. Love moved through the aisles with surprising familiarity. Panaeng Curry with Minced Pork Omelette, packaged rice, even a small container of street-style som tam, and vegetable dumplings. Milk just stared openly. 

“You’re kidding,” Milk said.

“You actually eat all of  that?” Her eyes flicked between the food and Love herself.

The contrast short-circuited her brain. Love was all sharp lines, a small figure that looked like it should be fueled by salads and restraint. Instead, her basket was a riot of spice, oil, and flavor, loud in a way Love rarely allowed herself to be.

Milk glanced down at her own selection. Plain sandwiches, beige pastries, something that claimed to be chicken but refused to prove it. Just food straight out of a London afternoon, polite, muted, afraid of seasoning. Meanwhile Love didn’t even look at her as she placed her own food in the basket.

“Unlike you, I don’t pretend to be above food that tastes good.”

They paid quickly and took their food outside, settling at a small table under buzzing lights. Love’s attention shifted to her phone, fingers moving fast, expression tightening as she typed. Serious, focused, and carefully composed. Milk noticed, without thinking and without asking, she reached over and took the bag of food from Love’s hand.

“I’ll hold it,” Milk said. “Type properly.”

Love blinked, surprised, but didn’t protest. She finished her message with both hands, sent it, then took the food back when she was done. They sat down once Love finished texting.

“You’re texting your boyfriend?” Milk teased lightly, unwrapping her food.

“If I had one, he wouldn’t survive my father.” Love scoffed.

Milk laughed, the sound easy and unguarded. They ate slowly and comfortably, the kind of quiet that didn’t need filling, only shared. While the street hummed faintly with distant traffic.

At some point, the smell of Love’s food betrayed Milk. The curry was rich and fragrant, layered with spice and something sweet underneath, while the som tam sat sharp and bright beside it, unapologetically alive. Milk tried very hard to mind her own beige business. But she failed.

“…That smells illegal,” she muttered.

“You chose sadness. That’s on you.” Love said didn’t even look up.

Milk hesitated. Then leaned closer and finally said,

“Can I try? Just a bit.”

Love glanced at her, one brow lifting. There it was. That look. Then she casually nudged the curry toward Milk and added a small scoop of som tam, far too innocent for someone who definitely knew what she was doing.

Milk took one bite and then regret arrived instantly. The heat exploded across her tongue like a personal attack. Her eyes widened, her breath hitching as she sucked in air that did absolutely nothing to help. She grabbed her drink with both hands, coughing once, twice.

“Oh my god,” she croaked. “You did that on purpose.”

“I gave you food.” Love finally looked over, chewing calmly. 

“You gave me a weapon.” Milk protested.

“You asked.” Love smiled, slow and victorious. 

“You could’ve warned me.” Milk narrowed her eyes, still recovering.

“You’re weak,” Love said, entirely pleased. “If you’re like this, you wouldn’t survive Thailand’s street food. Who’s the loser now?”

“You’re enjoying this way too much.” Milk dabbed at her eyes with a napkin.

“I am immensely,” Love replied. Her smile lingered, quiet and victorious.

When they were done, the street had grown quieter, traffic thinning into a distant hum. Love checked her phone again, the screen lighting up her face in soft and clinical white. She scrolled once, then tapped to call, turning slightly aside as the line connected. She then spoke briefly with a low and efficient voice. She then gave her location and a clipped instruction to come now. 

“I was just texting my chauffeur earlier,” she said, almost immediately, glancing at Milk. “Telling him not to… mention this to my father.”

“Makes sense.” Milk said as she nodded, easy, unbothered. 

Silence then followed. They just stood there quietly, the kind of quiet that came after good food and no immediate obligation. Milk stretched her arms once and looked down the street, mind already drifting toward the walk home.

Love, however, stayed very still. Why did I explain that? The thought arrived inside her head sharp and unwelcome. She frowned slightly, replaying the moment in her head. Milk hadn’t asked and there had been no need to clarify anything at all. And yet, the words had come out on their own, instinctive, as if being misunderstood by Milk would have been unacceptable.

“You can go,” Love said finally. “My chauffeur will be here.”

“I’ll wait,” Milk replied immediately.

“You don’t have to.”

“I know,” Milk said. “I want to.”

They stood there, debating softly, neither willing to yield. But moments later, a man stumbled into Love, hard enough to knock her off balance. The collision was sudden and rough. Milk reacted instantly, her hand shooting out to grab Love’s wrist and steadying her. Love didn’t fall. Instead, she froze for a heartbeat, startled, then tightened her grip on Milk in return. 

“Sorry, miss,” the man slurred, scratching the back of his neck. “My bad. My bad.”

The man’s classic hat fell to the ground. Milk bent to pick it up, polite words leaving her mouth automatically, even when the sharp smell of alcohol hit her. Milk kept her face neutral though her nose burned.

Love noticed more than Milk did. The smell, the unsteady movements, the faint and ugly mark near the man’s eye. Her instincts kicked in fast. She pulled Milk closer, fingers curling around her palm protectively as if positioning her behind something solid. Milk responded without thinking, brushing her thumb gently against Love’s hand, a grounding motion more than anything else.

The man apologized clumsily and disappeared back into the store, leaving them behind in an uneasy quiet. Love let go of her hand almost immediately, as if realizing what she’d done only after the afterthought. Just then, headlights cut through the dusk, an Aston Martin rolled up smoothly to the curb. The chauffeur then stepped out, opening the door with practiced precision.

“Good night,” Love said quickly, already stepping away.

“Good night,” Milk replied, watching as the car pulled away, leaving behind a strange and quiet echo.

 

---

 

Later that night, around seven, the city told a different story. A narrow alley sat tucked between buildings, dimly lit by a flickering lamp. The air smelled of damp concrete and old smoke. Somewhere deep inside, a small pub glowed warmly, its windows fogged, laughter muffled behind thick walls. The man with the classic hat entered first. Inside, a larger man sat near the window, posture relaxed but alert. He looked up immediately, recognition flashing across his face. 

“Mr. Q,” the man said, grinning.

The grin that answered him was sharp and practiced. Mr. Q approached the table, his earlier charm giving way to something colder as he sat down. Business replaced pleasantries effortlessly. Mr. Q sat across the larger male, his grin then fading into something sharper.

“Any updates, Som?”

“Halfway there. The man’s attention was easy to catch. Tough outside, soft inside.” Som leaned back.

“Proceed the next step then.” Mr. Q nodded once. 

“And the girl?” Som asked.

When the question about the girl came, irritation flickered briefly across Mr. Q’s face. But he nodded anyway. His grin widening once more, this time edged with something unsettling. He then spoke of nostalgia, of Songkran, the water festivals and chance of meetings. Memories that clung longer to him than they should.

“Yes. She reminds me of someone.” His voice softened. “Songkran, once. Unexpectedly. Unforgettable.” Mr. Q said as he stared into his glass. 

“She has her eyes,” he then murmured, more to himself than anyone else.

Notes:

Totally not a date~ sure sure~

Chapter 9: All According to Plan

Summary:

The event succeeds. The night sparkles.
And somewhere quieter, a plan moves forward exactly as intended.

Weeks passed fast but with purpose. The whiteboards filled with arrows and timelines, then were wiped clean only to be filled again. Coffee cups keep multiplied along the edges of tables and shelves, abandoned when hands had shaken or been pulled away too quickly to remember them. 

The student council room developed a permanent low hum, laptops breathing softly, printers coughing out drafts. Sky’s voice grew hoarse from reading the same lists aloud, crossing things out, adding them back, then crossing them out again. Deadlines stacked neatly and then vanished, replaced by new ones that arrived with more weight.

Love’s schedules became color coded to the point of obsession. It began as a practical system, but evolved into something meticulous and precise. She is already calculating and adjusting everything. If a task depended on too many people, she simplified it until only the necessary remained. The time bent quietly around her because she anticipated it.

Milk, meanwhile, slept less and less. Her world narrowed to screens and logic paths. To clean lines of code and predictable outcomes. If something could be tested, she tested it twice. She collaborated easily with people who spoke the same technical language as her, senior students with backgrounds in engineering, alumni who volunteered to give advice through late night calls, IT staff who normally did not involve themselves with student projects but lingered because they’re drawn in by the scale of what was being attempted. Milk listened carefully, absorbed what was useful. 

They both moved like synchronized machinery without ever naming it as such. When Milk checked a system, Love was already scanning the schedule for where its failure would matter most. When Love forgot a minor detail, Milk remembered without commenting and fixed it before it registered as a problem. When Milk hesitated, Love adjusted the room around her, dimming lights, redirecting interruptions, shifting priorities so hesitation was no longer necessary. They did not talk about feelings because it worked better when they did not question it. Whatever existed between them functioned best as it is right now.

 

---

 

Event Day

The day of the event arrived polished and intimidating. The school transformed under careful hands. Banners were hung straight and signage guided guests without shouting. Other elite schools filled the hall with their quiet confidence, the students dressed in uniforms tailored to fit ambition while the Parents arrived in controlled clusters. Posture relaxed in a way that came from knowing their influence didn’t need to be announced. Administrators lingered too long near entrances and exits, eyes sharp. This was the kind of event where mistakes echoed long after apologies were made.

Milk stood behind her laptop. Grounded, alert, eyes sharp as she tracked inputs and outputs with practiced ease. The integration of tech and art was not really a chaotic spectacle after all. Screens responded the moment they were touched, light panels shifted smoothly in response to movement and sound. Interactive elements behaved as they were meant to, no lag, no flicker, no stutter. The system breathed exactly as she had designed it to. When something spiked unexpectedly, she adjusted parameters without anyone noticing. To the audience, it looked effortless. But to Milk, it was the result of weeks of refusing to accept that working is good enough.

Love was everywhere and nowhere at once. She stood at the edge of the main hall, then near the side entrance, then behind the stage, then beside a confused group of volunteers who immediately straightened when she spoke. Staff moved when she spoke and Love’s nod can redirect traffic. Her lifted finger delayed a transition by seconds that mattered. She did not rush. The schedule bent quietly around her presence, accommodating adjustments she had already planned for before anyone else realized they were necessary.

When Sky stepped onto the stage for the opening speech, it was the first time both of them breathed fully. Milk glanced up from her screen and Love looked over from the aisle where she had paused mid step. Their eyes met across the space. No words passed between them. Just shared pride, recognition held long enough to register and be felt. Then Sky spoke again, his voice being carried in the air, and the room moved again. 

By the time the event ended, its echo still filled the building. Folding chairs were stacked in clean lines. Cables were coiled, labeled, and returned to cases with practiced efficiency. Staff exchanged relieved smiles like survivors of a pleasant disaster, their exhaustion softened by satisfaction. Sky ticked boxes off his clipboard with the visible relief of someone finally unclenching muscles he had forgotten he was holding tight.

Milk moved through it all with a radiant smile. Her laptop tucked under her arm, her posture finally loosened up in weeks while compliments landed and slid off her easily. Namtan and Emi flanked her at one point, laughing loudly. Namtan then exaggerated wildly, claiming she had personally saved three separate disasters, while Emi corrected her with the seriousness of someone documenting a medical chart. Milk laughed, her shoulders shaking as she tried to defend herself from their teasing. For once, she did not feel the need to monitor anything. The system was stable and the day was done.

When Sky announced the party, the room erupted. Cheers bounced off the walls. Someone whistled. Someone else nearly cried in relief. Milk laughed without restraint while Love allowed herself a smile that was not strategic and not measured for effect. Namtan, already vibrating with ideas, immediately began listing details that made Sky visibly regret the announcement. Venues, invitations, music, she had planned further than anyone suspected. It was clear this would not be a small celebration. 

 

---

 

Party 

The next evening, the party escalated quickly. As if enthusiasm itself had weight and mass. Music was too loud, bass pressing into chests. The space filled beyond expectation, bodies pressed close, laughter overlapping into noise that felt alive. Namtan’s idea of celebration clearly exceeded Sky’s tolerance for chaos, but it was too late to rein it in. The venue pulsed with movement and color, lights shifting, conversations colliding.

Love stood out, not because she was uncomfortable, but because she belonged there effortlessly. People recognized her, or thought they did. Conversations then bent toward her without effort. Someone mentioned Thailand casually, admiringly, speaking of family business and influence as if it were weather, inevitable and impressive. Love responded with practiced ease, politeness, and being present without revealing more than necessary.

Milk noticed some of it, distantly, but she was always being dragged into photos, arms slung around her shoulders, flashes catching her mid laugh. She was teased about university, about how far she will go, about how easily she seemed to step into a future already prepared for her. Someone clinked a glass near her and said while smiling wide, 

“With a brain like that, you’ll own half of London before you even graduate.”

Nearby, a group of soccer players clustered around Love, their confidence loud and unearned with laughter that’s too sharp. One of them leaned in closer than necessary, his eyes lingering where they should not have. He said something about her eyes, about how unreal they were, voice thick with admiration he mistook for charm. 

Milk saw it. Noticing not just the compliment itself, but also the proximity. The way Love’s space was being crowded. Something hot and irrational twisted low in her chest before she could name it. She crossed the space on instinct, slipped an arm around Love’s shoulder as if it had always belonged there. The gesture was casual, practiced, entirely too natural.

“There you are,” Milk said, voice bright and familiar. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Love blinked, surprised, then looked up at her. For a fraction of a second, she did not pull away. Milk turned her attention briefly to the group, smiling politely, then leaned closer to Love’s ear and added with softer voice,

“You look distracting when you smile like that.”

The warmth crept up Love’s neck immediately. She cleared her throat, muttered an excuse, and let Milk guide her away without protest. Milk did not analyze why her pulse was racing, or why her hand lingered a second longer than necessary before she dropped it. The music swallowed them again, laughter rising around them, the night stretching wide and bright, full of promise neither of them thought to question.

Elsewhere while the party swelled and laughter bouncing on the walls, a different current ran underneath the night. It did not announce itself. It moved quietly, unseen, and carrying a story.

Som stood in the kind of room with no obvious markers of importance. No signage, no windows that looked out onto anything recognizable. Wood panels had darkened with age and absorbed more than polish ever could. The air carried the faint, stubborn traces of spice and old alcohol, a scent that suggested familiarity rather than indulgence.

Regardless, Som treated the space like an office. His jacket was draped neatly over the back of the chair, his sleeves rolled just enough to suggest readiness. He spoke without flourish, voice steady, the way people sounded when something complicated had already become routine.

The data had been seeded weeks ago. Credentials had followed, harvested patiently, each one unlocking another door that was never meant to be questioned. Pressure points had been identified through observation. Som listed them calmly, names were implied, not spoken. Processes were described with technical pride. Everything important had already been done. And across from him, Mr. Q listened.

Mr. Q did not sit forward or nod. His fingers rested loosely around a glass, the amber liquid inside barely disturbed. His attention was completely directed to one thing without being obvious. When Som spoke, Mr. Q allowed the words to settle, to find their place in the room before responding. And when Som finished, silence followed, comfortable and unchallenged.

Mr. Q did not intend to ask whether the plan would succeed. That question belonged to amateurs and people who needed reassurance. He lifted his gaze instead, eyes sharp.

“When?” he asked.

“Soon.” Som replied without hesitation. 

“Once the breach surfaces, accounts freeze. Investigations begin almost immediately. It won’t take long to unravel.”

“Reputation,” Mr. Q said mildly, “is a fragile thing in certain circles.” He continued as he turned the glass slightly, watching the liquid shift against the sides.

“Especially when the family name is well known and admired. People enjoy watching something admired fall.” 

“Yes,” Som he agreed then nodded, already aligned with the thought.

“Admiration makes the echo louder.” Mr. Q said before his mouth curved into a smile.

The conversation drifted then, not away from the subject but deeper into it, Mr. Q spoke of markets that remembered everything and forgave nothing. Of families whose power depended on being untouchable rather than merely wealthy. He referenced Thailand obliquely, mentioning traditions, legacy, the way pride became both shield and weakness when carried too openly.

Som listened, absorbing the direction without needing explicit instruction. He assumed that he understood the target. Powerful business and prominent lineage. The kind of structure that collapsed spectacularly when its foundation cracked. Mr. Q then lifted his glass again, finally taking a sip. His eyes remained distant, focused on something Som could not see.

“London,” Mr. Q said, almost conversationally, “is lucky to have a future heir like that.”

The words were light, spoken as though they carried no more weight than feathers. Som smiled faintly in agreement then a nod followed. He did notice the way Mr. Q’s fingers tightened briefly against the glass before relaxing again.

There was history there, buried deep enough to remain unnamed. Mistakes that had never made into reports. Choices made long before Som’s involvement and before the current plan had taken shape. Mr. Q did not share those thoughts. Instead, he let the conversation conclude naturally, with efficiency rather than ceremony.

“Proceed to the next stage.” Mr. Q said simply.

“Yes, sir.” Som replied.

Mr. Q remained seated. He stared into the glass for a moment longer than necessary, the reflection catching his eyes and distorting them slightly. Mr. Q then exhaled slowly, the sound barely audible, and set the glass down untouched. 

Somewhere else, laughter rang out bright and careless. The party had crossed into that soft, lawless hour where everyone spoke a little louder and listened a little less. Music pressed against the walls and spilled into the corridors. The lights warmed everything they touched, turning faces flushed and familiar. 

Milk leaned back against the edge of a table, one heel hooked casually on the rug beneath it, posture loose in a way she rarely allowed herself. Her laughter came easy tonight, unfiltered, and slipping out between sentences. Love stood close enough that their shoulders brushed whenever Milk shifted her weight, close enough that the contact no longer startled either of them. Namtan noticed first, of course she did.

“Oh,” she said, eyes narrowing with delighted suspicion as she looked between them. “This is new.”

Milk didn’t even glance her way. She took a slow sip from her cup.

“What is?”

“This.” Namtan said, gesturing vaguely at the air between them. “The proximity, the vibe, the fact that you’re standing like you own her personal space.”

“Do I need to file paperwork?” Milk said then hummed thoughtfully.

Emi snorted, nearly choking on her drink. Bonnie’s phone lifted immediately, the camera angled just enough to be threatening. Milk didn’t bother reacting. She stayed relaxed, her expression calm and unapologetic. The nonchalance suited her. With one shoulder tipped back and a smile lazy at the corner of her mouth. It sharpened her presence, confidence settling into her posture, it became impossible not to look twice at her.

“Ignore her.” Love shot Milk a warning look.

“She can’t.” Milk tilted her head, grin lazy.

“And I love it,” Namtan shot back at Love. “I admit it.”

Love then glanced at Namtan, brows lifting. But Milk just shrugged, unbothered. 

“I love efficiency.”

“Efficiency?” Love asked.

“Mm,” Milk replied. “Standing close saves time.”

Love’s ears warmed. She looked away, lips pressing together as if to contain a smile that insisted on forming anyway. Emi then leaned against the table beside Milk, eyes bright.

“So,” she said, dragging the word out, “senior year.”

“Here we go.” Milk groaned softly.

“No escape,” Emi continued cheerfully. “Universities. Scholarships. Who’s leaving and who’s pretending they aren’t.”

“I’m not pretending.” Milk waved her hand.

“There it is.” Namtan clapped once.

“I mean, if it happens, it happens.” Milk smiled, unapologetic. “You’re all obsessed.”

“We’re invested,” Emi corrected. “You’re our bragging rights.”

Love watched Milk as she spoke, the way confidence settled on her like it had always been there, quiet and solid. Milk caught her looking and raised an eyebrow.

“What?” Milk asked lightly.

“Nothing,” Love said too quickly.

“You sure?” Milk said as she leaned in a fraction, lowering her voice just enough. 

“Yes.”

Love’s breath hitched, barely. Milk smiled like she knew better. Namtan then made a sound of exaggerated disgust. 

“You two are unbearable.”

“Then leave,” Milk said pleasantly.

“And miss this?” Namtan replied. “Never.”

Emi then nudged Love’s arm. 

“What about you? Any plans for next year?”

Love hesitated for a while then answered.

 “I’ll figure it out.”

“You always say that.” Milk scoffed gently.

“And you always act like you already know.” Love said then glanced at her.

“I trust my odds.” Milk shrugged.

“Confident.” Namtan said as she waggled her eyebrows.

Milk’s gaze flicked back to Love, something playful sharpening there. 

“I have reasons.”

“You’re impossible.” Love swallowed.

That was when the basketball players drifted into the edge of the group, laughter echoed loud and careless. One of them leaned toward Love with a practiced grin and lingering eyes.

“Hey,” he said, voice pitched low like he thought that helped. “I didn’t get your name earlier. I just wanted to say, your eyes are unreal. Like, I can’t stop looking.”

Love stiffened, polite smile sliding into place out of habit. But Milk immediately moved before anyone else could comment. She stepped closer, slipping an arm around Love’s shoulder without ceremony, hand resting warm and familiar like it had always belonged there.

“Careful,” Milk said lightly, smiling sharp. “She notices when people stare.”

Love turned to her, startled. Milk leaned in, close enough that her breath brushed Love’s cheek. Love’s ears burned.

“And I notice when she does,” Milk added softly.

“Milk.” Love said and cleared her throat, trying to recover. 

“Too much?” Milk grinned.

“Absolutely,” Love said, but she did not move away.

The player laughed awkwardly, the sound coming out thinner than intended. Recognition flickered in his eyes, respect cutting through as he registered who Milk was. The former basketball captain whose reputation still carried weight. He then stepped back without argument, muttering something under his breath that sounded like annoyance.

“Right. Okay, I’ll, uh. See you around then.”

“Probably not,” Namtan said cheerfully as he retreated.

Milk watched him go, then looked back at Love, expression openly pleased. She didn’t fully understand why she had stepped in like that, why the instinct to claim space beside Love had risen so fast and so sure, it had felt natural, almost necessary.

“You okay?”

“Yes.” Love nodded. 

“Good.”

Emi made a choking sound, eyes going wide as she glanced between Milk and Love. Across the table, Bonnie lifted her gaze from her phone just long enough to catch it, then exchanged a look with Namtan, the three of them sharing the same quiet, knowing recognition, like they had just witnessed something finally say the part out loud that Milk never would.

“I hate this. I love this. I need context.” Emi said.

“There is none,” Love said quickly.

“Senior year energy, maybe we are finally getting along.” Milk shrugged.

“That’s not senior year energy. That’s unresolved tension with a deadline.” Namtan said then smirked.

“You’re dramatic.” Milk tipped her head back, laughing.

“And accurate,” Namtan replied.

Milk stayed where she was, arm still around Love, nonchalant and bold, laughing like nothing in the world could touch her yet. Love leaned in despite herself, warmth settling between them. Moments later, that was when Film appeared, bright and decisive, already tugging at Milk’s sleeve.

“Come on,” she said, already pulling Milk.

“They’ve got that snack you used to steal from my bag when you’re at my home. Don’t lie, you smelled it.”

Milk laughed and let herself be dragged away, barely resisting. Emi watched Milk go, then shifted her gaze to Love. Bonnie followed the same path, eyes sharp and knowing. Love stood very still, fingers curling once at her side before she caught herself, her expression carefully neutral again. 

Namtan had been watching Film instead. She looked away the moment Film disappeared into the crowd, lips pressed together. Her posture stayed relaxed, but her eyes tracked movement she pretended not to care about. Emi caught it, Bonnie did too. Their eyes flicked between Love and Namtan, then met each other just briefly. Emi then tilted her head, eyes half-lidded as she leaned closer to Bonnie, clearly performing for an audience that did not need to understand the context.

“I think,” she said lazily, “I suddenly remembered something I wanted to do with you somewhere quieter.”

“Oh? Urgent?” Bonnie said and raised an eyebrow, her lips already curling.

“Extremely.”

Bonnie nodded, slipping her phone into her pocket and following her without question. As they moved toward the quieter edge of the room, Bonnie leaned in just enough that her voice wouldn’t carry.

“Well,” she murmured, eyes flicking once toward where Milk had disappeared and then back to Love, 

“That just crossed the line from ‘banter’ into ‘someone’s feelings are officially in danger.’”

“Plural.” Emi huffed a quiet laugh.

But the night did not belong to one place alone. While music still pulsed through the party, another room held the same hour with a very different posture. It was still the same night, still the same city, but here the sound was muted, folded inward. The warmth came not from bodies pressed together but from old wood and low lamps. Mr. Q sat comfortably, coat draped over the back of his chair. He looked relaxed with the calm of someone who knew the night would bend eventually. 

“Young people,” Mr. Q said eyes drifting toward the window. 

“They’re loud when they think they’re invisible.”

“Sir?” Som blinked, caught off guard.

“At celebrations. Endings or beginnings. They believe nothing bad can reach them.” He then tapped his finger once against the glass, thoughtful. 

“I remember being like that.”

Som waited. He had learned when not to interrupt. Then Mr. Q slowly smiled faintly.

“There was a girl,” Mr. Q continued, voice light, as if recounting something unimportant. 

“At a gathering where the music was too loud. When everyone was pretending they weren’t watching each other.” His gaze sharpened, briefly.

“I didn’t even know her name at first. But  I remember thinking I’d never seen eyes like hers.”

He paused, then repeated it with faint amusement, the words almost identical in cadence to something Som had overheard earlier from their meeting.

“Unreal,” Mr. Q said softly.

“The kind you can’t stop looking at, even when you know you should.”

Mr. Q’s smile widened a fraction, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Som nodded, misunderstanding it comfortably. 

“Those are dangerous.” Som  agreed. “That kind of beauty?”

“Not dangerous,” Mr. Q corrected. “Inconvenient.”

Silence settled between them, not heavy, but deliberate. Som shifted the conversation back to where it belonged, opening his folder and sliding it across the table.

“Everything is in place,” Som said, then exhaled slowly.

“Loss projections are… significant.” Som said again.

Mr. Q drank slowly and deliberately. When he finally set the glass down, he did so with meticulous care, aligning it as though even the smallest spill would be wasteful. The movement carried a quiet viscosity to it, unhurried and intentional.

“People think businesses are built on numbers,” he said. “They’re not. They’re built on trust. And trust is sentimental, easily wounded.”

“Which is why,” Som added, eager to prove alignment, “targeting the core operation makes sense. Once the flagship entity collapses, everything attached follows.”

“The business isn’t the end goal,” Mr. Q clarified, tone unchanged. “It’s the entry point.”

He leaned back slightly, gaze lifting to meet Som’s fully now. The correction was small, almost polite, but it shifted the room’s gravity. Mr. Q waved a hand dismissively. 

“Money is loud. It makes people panic. That’s useful.”

“And the family?” Mr. Q continued. “Once it hits, it won’t just affect the company.”

Mr. Q’s expression softened, just a little, as if something old had brushed against him.

“Children inherit consequences they never agreed to,” he said quietly. “That’s the tragedy people pretend not to notice.”

“Is that… a concern?” Som hesitated.

“No,” he said. “It’s a certainty.”

Mr. Q looked at him, really looked at him, and for a moment the charm fell away entirely. He then stood, smoothing his coat, their conversation clearly over.

“By the time anyone realizes what’s happened,” he added lightly,

“The knife is already falling and it has no handle.”

 

---

 

The group clustered together again near the edge of the room, half-shouting over the music, half-laughing at nothing in particular. Emi was already planning senior year like it was a military campaign, Namtan listing trips they absolutely had to take and rules they absolutely had to break. Bonnie chimed in with dramatic additions, insisting that whatever happened, they would survive it together. Film laughed and tried to rein them in, which only encouraged them more. 

Love listened more than she spoke, gaze moving between faces she knew well. When Milk laughed, Love found herself smiling too, a quiet reflex she did not bother to hide. The closeness felt natural, unexamined, like something that had always been there.

Milk leaned back against the table, shoulder brushing Love’s without ceremony. She let the noise wash over her. Every so often, someone would turn to her and say something about university and about how far she was going to go, she waved it off easily. They talked about senior year like it was already waiting for them, bright and forgiving. Assumed everything would stay the same even if they all pretended they knew what came next.

Notes:

This goofy trying to write a mysterious and serious chapter duhh. Let me know what you think

Chapter 10: Almost Is Never Enough

Summary:

Just when “almost” starts to feel safe, it stops being enough.

The senior year quickly arrived and with it came the student council’s three-day bonding outing. With cabins, bonfires, team activities, late-night talks. For once, Milk and Love got to be around each other without agendas or deadlines breathing down their necks.

Without meaning to, they gravitated toward each other. They shared food during the bus ride. They accidentally got paired for the scavenger hunt, and Love tried not to laugh when Milk slipped on wet grass. Milk showed Love constellations after lights-out, pointing them out through the cabin window. They talked, really talked. About books, movies, and the future. Somehow their interests lined up more than either expected. Their way of thinking, their humor, the way they saw the world, it matched too neatly to ignore.

Love kept telling herself not to want this. Not to want her. But a part of her, even if it was small, timid, but real. She admitted, in a whisper-thin moment on the second night.

“I used to hate you. Because of the kitten. Because I thought your kindness was fake.”

Milk, sitting beside her by the lake, nodded slowly.

“And now?” Milk asked.

Love hesitated, staring at their reflections rippling in the water.

“Now… I’m not so sure. You’re different from who I thought you were.”

Milk didn’t answer, she just smiled. Soft, a little sad, but warm enough to settle deep inside Love’s chest. Their feelings weren’t mutual yet. Not fully, not evenly, and not safely. But the distance between them was shrinking. They were learning about each other and learning about themselves too. What they wanted, what they didn’t, what they were terrified to admit. The path is still rocky and still uncertain. Still messy with unspoken words and uneven steps. But for the first time since they met, they were walking it together. 

But Film noticed it long before anyone else did. She had always admired Milk, the kind of admiration that settled gently but persistently in her chest. She convinced herself it was harmless. Milk was warm, thoughtful, and genuine with everyone, but Film felt lucky whenever that warmth happened to land on her.

However, things changed when Love appeared. Milk’s attention shifted in ways Milk herself probably didn’t realize. Milk started waiting for Love without meaning to. She remembered Love’s smallest preferences, smiled differently at Love’s jokes, and leaned closer when Love spoke, drawn in by an invisible force neither of them acknowledged. And Film saw all of it. The more she saw, the more she felt the ache of knowing she wasn’t the one Milk gravitated toward.

When the retreat brought all of them into the same space, Film hoped distance might blur her feelings, but the opposite happened. Without school routines to distract her, everything Milk felt for Love sat on the surface. Love, too, seemed less guarded now. A softness had crept into her voice when she addressed Milk. A subtle one, but Film always noticed it.

She did not resent either of them. She only needed clarity. She needed to know if Milk was falling alone or if someone else was falling with her. And the bonfire night gave her the chance.

The group revived the old senior dare rule, mostly harmless, fueled by laughter and chaotic nostalgia. The loser gets kissed by the winner. It sounded idiotic, which meant everyone immediately agreed. Film then watched Milk groan as the bottle pointed her way again.

“I swear this bottle is rigged,” Milk complained.

“You’re just cursed,” Sky teased.

“Pick the truth!” Prim urged.

“Dare,” Film cut in before Milk could choose, smiling innocently.

“That’s suspicious.” Milk shot her a look.

“It’s tradition. Don’t disrespect the ancestors,” Film said, which made the circle roar with laughter.

“Fine. What’s the dare?” Milk said and sighed dramatically.

“If you lose the next round,” Film said lightly, “The winner gets a kiss.”

Milk’s jaw dropped.

“Absolutely not—”

“Classic senior challenge!” Sky whooped. “You can’t escape it!”

The game began before Milk could protest further. It was messy, loud, and ridiculous. Shouts, groans, laughter echoing into the trees. Film played hard. Milk fought back even harder. Then Milk stumbled on the final task and the circle then erupted.

“FILM WINS!”

“Poor Milk!”

“We’re resurrecting history!”

Film stood, heartbeat steady, though her chest felt tight with a strange calm. Milk sat frozen, cheeks burning. Film then stepped closer while Milk’s eyes flicked up to hers, wide.

“This is so embarrassing,” she muttered.

“It’s quick. Then it’s over.” Film lowered her voice.

“Just… don’t make it weird.” Milk swallowed.

“I won’t.” Film said, though she suspected that was already impossible.

She cupped Milk’s jaw gently, steadying her. The kiss was soft at first, a brief press of lips meant to fulfill a dare. But then when Milk inhaled sharply, not pulling away, not resisting, just startled, Film felt it. The tiny shift that made everything tilt. Her hand tightened slightly against Milk’s jaw. Milk’s fingers curled in reflex toward Film’s sleeve. Something warm flickered between them. Film deepened the kiss just a little, enough for the circle to explode into louder, wilder noise.

“WOAH—OKAY—”

“No way!”

“GET A ROOM, YOU TWO!” someone shouted, probably Emi.

Milk jerked slightly at that, but Film didn’t pull away immediately. The kiss lingered for a heartbeat longer than it should have, slow and undeniably real, before she finally let go. Milk’s face was an explosion of red.

“I hate all of you.” Milk mumbled, 

Milk then buried herself in her hoodie as the circle practically collapsed with laughter. Film laughed too, though her chest felt strange but not painful. She looked across the fire and saw Love sat absolutely still. Someone beside her nudged her with an elbow. 

“Wild, right?”

“Yeah. Sure.” Love blinked once. 

That was all, no jealousy, no tension, no sharp inhale. Nothing. Film then exhaled softly, almost smiling because that told her everything she needed.

But across the circle, Namtan stiffened. She forced a laugh with everyone else, but her eyes lingered on Milk far too long. She saw Milk wipe her lips shyly and look away. Something hot churned low in Namtan’s stomach. She didn’t know why it bothered her so much, but the feeling didn’t fade.

The retreat cabin softened by midnight. After hours of team activities, messy cooking attempts, half-serious debates about future majors, and Sky giving three separate speeches about “leadership development,” the entire student council had settled into something warm and familial. Film talked dreamily about architecture; Sky mused about law school; Emi wanted communications; Namtan announced she’d marry rich if her GPA failed her; and Milk and Love, oddly the calmest of them all. Sat side by side reviewing the next day’s schedule like it wasn’t way past ten. The night passed on a comfortable hum. One by one, the rooms quieted. Love, however, couldn’t sleep at all.

She lay awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying the moment she kept insisting didn’t matter. Milk’s surprised sound. Film’s hand on her jaw. The way the kiss had deepened. The way Milk’s shoulders had relaxed for half a second.

“It was a game,” Love whispered to herself. “Just a stupid dare.”

But each time she closed her eyes, she imagined what it would feel like to kiss Milk herself. She imagined it too vividly, then cursed herself for imagining it. Eventually Love slipped out of the room to the kitchen.

The kitchen was quiet, lit only by the fridge door as she opened it for no reason at all. She leaned on the counter and groaned softly into her palms.

“It shouldn’t bother me,” she muttered. “Why does it bother me?”

 

---

 

And the next morning quickly crept in. Soft sunlight filtered through tall windows, dust motes floating like slow snow. The cabin felt suspended in a rare peace, well at least until Namtan padded into the living room, rubbing her eyes and yawning like a resurrected zombie.

 

She blinked once.

Twice.

Then she froze.

 

Milk and Love were asleep on the couch. They were curled in a way that screamed intimacy without permission. Milk sat upright, head tilted slightly sideways, a pillow beneath her head. Love, wrapped in a blanket, lay curled against her, head tucked on Milk’s lap as if it belonged there. Milk’s hand which is completely unconscious rested near Love’s waist, fingers lightly curled as if protecting something fragile.

Namtan mouthed a slow “WHAT THE—,” reached for her phone, and immediately snapped three pictures with the precision of a journalist capturing a political scandal. This is going in the wedding slideshow, she thought. Then she loudly cleared her throat.

Milk’s eyes fluttered first. She blinked, confused, then followed the warm weight on her lap. Love, and Milk’s soul left her body. Love stirred next, eyes half-open, and then realizing exactly where and how she was lying, she shot up so fast she nearly punched air.

“It’s not what it looks like!” Love squeaked.

“I swear I didn’t— she just— I— we— Namtan, put the phone down!” Milk, equally panicked, added.

“So I should delete the evidence of the cutest accidental couple nap of the century?” Namtan said as she raised a brow.

“Delete it!” Love’s jaw dropped.

“Absolutely not,” Namtan said cheerfully.

“I’m keeping this locked in the vault until your wedding day.”

“Namtan—” Milk groaned into her hands.

“Okay, okay,” Namtan said, still grinning like a devil.

“Explain.”

Love had already fled to the kitchen in pure embarrassment. Milk stayed, cheeks burning.

“Spill,” Namtan said, arms crossed. Milk then inhaled shakily.

“I couldn’t sleep. I went to make hot chocolate. Love was already there.”

“Oh? Midnight rendezvous?” Namtan said as her eyebrows shot up.

“Namtan, please, for once in your life—just listen.” Milk glared.

She then told her everything. It had started in the kitchen hours before dawn. When Milk padded in, hair messy, hoodie slouched off one shoulder. She stopped when she saw Love sitting alone on a stool, scrolling her phone with a blank expression a little too tight.

Flashback On

“Oh,” Milk said sleepily. “It’s you.”

“Disappointed?” Love asked.

“A little,” Milk teased weakly. “Thought I might run into a ghost.”

“You ran into me instead.” Love snorted, barely.

“You look cold.” Milk said as she boiled water.

“I’m fine.”

“Mmhm.” Milk poured hot chocolate into a mug and set it in front of Love. “Here.”

“What are you, somebody’s grandma?” Love said, eyebrows knitted.

“Drink it or don’t,” Milk shrugged, sitting beside her. “I’m not bribing you.”

Love muttered something about idiotic artists, but she took the mug. A quiet settled between them, a soft one. Suddenly Milk studied her posture, the tension in her shoulders.

“Stand up.”

“Why?” Love frowned.

“Just do it.”

Love grumbled but obeyed.

“There. Standing. Happy?”

“Okay. Now I can keep stirring without thinking you’re gonna pass out.” Milk exhaled.

“You’re ridiculous.” Love stared at her. 

Milk then perched on the couch, placing a blanket beside her. 

“Come sit. You look like you’re freezing.”

“I don’t need your—” Love shot her a look that could cut glass.

“I know,” Milk said gently. “But I’m offering. Not insisting.”

Love hesitated, then she sat there. Stiffly at first, then slowly leaning into the warmth of the blanket Milk draped over her. Her denial was strong, but exhaustion was stronger.

Silence then bloomed. Love’s eyes drifted shut for a second. Then another. When Milk reached for a glass on the table, Love, barely conscious, tipped sideways. Her head landed on Milk’s shoulder. Milk froze immediately while Love didn’t move. Her breathing only deepened, soft and steady.

Milk swallowed hard, heart pounding in a way she’d never admit. Then carefully, she slid her arm and guided Love’s head onto her lap instead, adjusting the blanket with unbelievable tenderness. Love then curled closer. Milk whispered quietly almost to herself,

“You try so hard not to fall apart… it’s okay to rest, you know?”

She stroked Love’s shoulder once, barely a touch. Then leaned back and let herself sink into the quiet. Until morning arrived with Namtan’s chaos.

Flashback Off

“And that’s what happened.” Milk finished with a sigh.

Namtan listened, uncharacteristically quiet for a moment. Then—

“Holy shit, you’re in love.”

“NO. Namtan, no—don’t start—” Milk choked.

“Oh please.” Namtan gestured to the couch dramatically.

“You tucked her into your lap like she was a sleepy kitten.”

Milk threw a pillow at her. Namtan dodged, laughing. Love suddenly reemerged from the hallway—hair messy, ears red, pretending absolutely nothing happened.

“Breakfast,” she announced, stiff as an embarrassed soldier.

But she didn’t meet Milk’s eyes, Milk didn’t meet hers either. But Namtan? She smiled like God just gave her front-row tickets to a romance show.

 

---

 

Their routine at school began without either of them naming it. Love “accidentally” passed by the basketball court where Milk practiced, just always when Milk happened to be mid-laugh, hair tied back, sweat glinting on her temple, looking absolutely gorgeous. Love would stand there, pretending she coincidentally needed to cross that specific area. And Milk always waved at her first.

Meanwhile Milk “accidentally” lingered by the library gate every afternoon. Just long enough to catch Love closing her book, tucking her hair behind her ear. They always walked to the school gate together. Milk talked. Love listened. Then they switched. Then they bickered. Then they talked again. Their friends saw everything but no one mentioned it directly. Except for Namtan and Emi, who mentioned it daily.

Academics grew heavy as exams approached. But they slipped into a rhythm that neither of them dared label. When Milk studied too long, Love sent her recorded notes. When Love forgot meals, Milk shoved snacks into her hands. When Milk’s parents traveled for yet another business crisis, Love silently left warm food at her doorstep. When Love stressed herself into a headache, Milk dragged her to the garden to breathe.

They argued a lot. But they cared more. Always more. They took the university entrance exam in the same university and sat two seats apart. Milk once tapped her pen in a rhythm to calm herself and Love noticed it, she tapped back.

Both passed and were accepted into their dream university. Milk into Arts & Design meanwhile Love into Business. They celebrated quietly, with hand brushing their hands under the table as their friends cheered loudly around them. They promised, softly, almost shyly to thrive together in college. 

Later, when the noise became overwhelming, they slipped out through the pub’s back door to breathe. The night air was cooler, the kind that softened streetlights and made everything feel closer than it was. Their footsteps matched unintentionally as they walked down the quiet alley. It was peaceful, and with no one else watching, their banter flowed easily and lighter, with more teasing.

“So,” Love said casually, kicking a pebble, “How does the future Arts & Design maniac feel?”

“How does the future business tyrant feel?” Milk huffed.

They exchanged grins. Playful, teasing, too comfortable. Then came the real subject.

“You know…” Love nudged her.

“You have so many secret admirers. That girl from class D literally follows you around like a duckling.”

“You’re one to talk. Half of the soccer squad acts like you’re running a cult.” Milk smirked.

“It's not my fault they have taste.” Love said

“Not your fault?” Milk raised a brow. “You flirt with people by accident.”

“I do not!” Love choked.

“You do. And you’re so cute you don’t even know it.”

Love pushed her shoulder, flustered, and Milk laughed. They slowed near the quiet corner of the street. The distant music grew muffled, and in the dim light. For a brief moment, Milk forgot where she was. She looked at Love, really looked, and felt a pull so strong it startled her. For a second, she considered leaning in, closing that last millimeter between them. But Love didn’t see the thought running through Milk’s head. Milk thought : You have no idea what you’re doing to me.

Milk took half a step closer, then cold wind brushed past them and Love shivered in the cold. That’s when reality snapped back around Milk. Without a word, she removed her leather jacket and settled it over Love's shoulders. The simplicity of the gesture steadied her more than anything else.

“You’re freezing,” Milk murmured and shrugged off her leather jacket.

“Wow… it’s heavy.” Love said as she slipped it on.

“It’s leather, of course,” Milk replied.

“Smells expensive.” Love said as she sniffed the collar.

“It was on sale.”

“It’s expensive.”

Milk rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her.

“Come on,” Milk said softly. “Let’s head back.”

Just as they reached the bar, they witnessed a scene at the entrance. Namtan walked out while holding hands with an unfamiliar girl, her expression unreadable but for a brief moment, she looked a little sad. Behind her, Film stood frozen, watching with a mix of confusion and resignation.

Milk and Love shared a look, the atmosphere around them shifting. Something significant had happened. They didn’t intervene because some moments weren’t meant to be interrupted, but both carried the image with them as they returned inside.

“That feels… tense,” Love whispered.

“Feels like someone got rejected,” Milk muttered.

Over the next several days, they found themselves talking more. What began as shared curiosity over Namtan and Film’s strange dynamic became a nightly excuse to stay connected. They teased, speculated, and analyzed the situation, but underneath the topic ran a current of something softer, something that kept them on the phone far longer than necessary.

“You know,” Milk said one night, sprawled across her bed, phone pressed to her ear, 

“Maybe Namtan’s had feelings for Film all along.”

“What makes you say that?” Love asked.

“I’ve known Film since we were kids. And Namtan… She always teased her differently. Argued differently. Like—like an old couple.” Milk said.

“Like what we used to do?” Love snorted.

Milk froze. Heat crawled up her neck. 

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Are you saying we didn’t act like one?” Love said.

“Love…” Milk exhaled sharply, mortified.

“Are you that into me? Imagining us as a couple?” Milk asked.

Love sputtered while Milk laughed quietly, victorious. And the calls continued. For weeks, every night,  and both pretending they weren’t waiting for it.

But life rarely cooperates with promises. Because Milk’s phone rang one evening, her father. She answered with a smile, expecting congratulations. But instead came trembling apologies. Her uncle had moved money without authorization. Accounts that should have been untouchable were suddenly empty. Transfers traced too late. Contracts breached. What began as a discrepancy had unfolded into something vast and ugly. Debt. Legal exposure. Partners withdrawing. The word chaos did not need to be said for it to settle between them.

Milk sat down slowly on the edge of her bed, phone pressed to her ear, smile fading without resistance. She listened, nodding even though he could not see her, as if understanding might keep everything from collapsing. Then h er father’s voice broke as he said the words :

“Milk… we can’t afford your university enrollment this year. I’m so sorry.”

Milk’s breath left her. The world blurred into static. Her hands shook, her throat closed. Yet she didn’t cry, not at first. She just whispered,

“It’s okay, Dad. It’s okay.”

She said it because she had always said it. Because someone had to hold the line, even as it snapped. But when the call ended and the silence pressed against her chest, when the weight of losing her dream hit her fully, Milk broke. Quietly and completely. 

The rest came quickly after, as if the world had been waiting for permission to fall apart. Milk’s grandfather collapsed the following morning, chest pain sharp, the shock of the news striking a heart already tired from years of carrying the family’s weight. He was immediately rushed to the hospital, monitors chirping softly as doctors spoke in careful tones that tried not to frighten anyone but did anyway.

Alain did not waste time. When he called her again, his voice was controlled, but there was an urgency beneath it, he told her to come home. Immediately. They would manage the crisis together, he said. They would find solutions. But she needed to be there.

Milk then packed without thinking, movements automatic, mind still numb. Somewhere between folding clothes and zipping her bag, the truth began to settle, heavy and cold. This was a mistake. This was carelessness.

The pieces came together later, in fragments Milk overheard from conversations meant to be private. Investigations uncovered a breach that had started with her uncle that flowed through him. Adrien had been approached, guided gently into decisions framed as opportunities. He had trusted the wrong people, signed what he did not fully understand, believing himself clever enough to navigate it. By the time he realized the trap, it was already closed. The uncle had been the lever. 

 

---

 

Somewhere else, in a room that smelled faintly of spice and old wood, a man had set his glass down carefully, satisfied. Som had already finished his report and now stood a little farther back, posture relaxed in the way of someone whose work was done.

“To timing,” he said at last, voice low and measured.

Som inclined his head. He did not ask questions anymore. Mr. Q drank. Not greedily. He let the alcohol sit, let it warm his throat. 

“People like to believe collapse comes loudly,” he said, “But it’s usually quieter than that. Just one weakness pressed at the right angle.”

Mr. Q’s gaze drifted, unfocused. For a moment, the controlled sharpness fell away, replaced by something older and more brittle. Mali had known the risk. Doctors had warned her gently, then firmly. Her body was not made for it. Pregnancy would strain her heart beyond what it could safely endure. He remembered the way she smiled afterward, small but resolute, hands folded over her abdomen, thumb brushing the place as if already memorizing it.

“She died giving them a future,” he continued, voice steady now. “And they called it unfortunate. Necessary. A tragedy without a culprit.” He said as his fingers tightened briefly around the glass.

“Funny thing,” he added, softer, almost reflective. “Every time I see that girl smile, I remember how Mali smiled before everything went wrong.”

“And now,” Mr. Q said, the edge finally sharpening, “the Vosbeins lose everything they built that future on.”

 

---

 

Milk didn’t tell Love or everyone about what happened. But the distance between them, especially with Love, had been narrowing day by day and was about to be tested in ways neither of them were ready for. 

Love didn’t understand when the silence first began. One day Milk was still beside her, annoying, warm, clumsy, too gentle for her own good and the next, she simply wasn’t. No explanation, no goodbye, just absence. Like someone had cut Milk out of the frame they were both standing in. Rumors about Vosbein’s chaos rippled through her circle, and even though Love pretended not to care, she waited. For a message, a line, even a wrong-number call, anything. But Milk stayed gone.

It surprised Love how deeply it hurt. She kept telling herself they weren’t anything, that what they’d built was just routine and banter and accidental closeness, but she still found herself staring at her phone at night, whispering, 

“You could’ve told me… just once.”

 

---

 

Uni During Freshman.

By the start of the new university year, Love had trained herself not to think of Milk. She started university with Emi, Namtan, Film, and Bonnie, a close-knit group, but one with a missing piece none of them acknowledged out loud. They laughed, studied, and survived freshman year together, but still Milk’s absence cast a quiet shadow. It changed the texture of their hangouts. Even Film, who rarely voiced her feelings, carried a persistent heaviness when Milk’s name emerged.

But Love perfected the art of pretending she was fine. With perfect grades and perfect attendance. Perfect posture around her father as always. But in private, she frayed. Nights were the worst, when she allowed herself to collapse against the back of her door and let the ache spill through her body, silently, like a wound she refused to show.

Their promise to thrive through college is stupid, soft, hopeful and it cracked like thin glass. She tried to hang out with Namtan, Emi, and Film the way she always did, but there was a hollow now, a shape the size of Milk. Sometimes Namtan tried to reassure her,

“Milk’s done this before, you know. She disappears, then shows up like a cockroach doing a glow up.” 

“She came back stronger last time.” Emi added, quieter.

Film never said much, but she watched Love with a knowing grimness, as if she could see the question eating her : what if Milk doesn’t come back this time?

Love buried all of it deep. Her father saw only pristine grades and an obedient daughter. The professors saw a model student. Strangers saw a girl who had everything under control. But alone, Love felt herself fraying. Nights when she’d close her door and let her body crumble silently against it, she whispered when no one heard cause no one needed to.

“You left me… why does it matter this much?”

The semesters moved forward without mercy. The first semester ended—felt nothing. The second semester and the next came—still felt nothing at all. But Love, of course, scored another perfect GPA. When she celebrated with Namtan, Emi, Film and Bonnie, she insisted she was fine. She always said that. But two drinks later she’d start with a joke, something stupid like, 

“Can you believe how annoying it was?”

“I guess I got dumped by someone I wasn’t even dating,” 

And by the time her voice broke, Namtan and Emi were already dragging her out of the bar. 

“Okay, comedian, time to go home,” Namtan muttered

Love half-laughed, half-sobbed into Emi’s shoulder. Film and Bonnie followed behind them like a shadow, troubled but silent. But life always had a cruel sense of humor, everywhere she turned, she saw Milk’s silhouette. Someone with the same height, someone with the same cap, someone with the same careless stride. She stopped twice, spun around, muttered,

“I’m losing my mind…” Love said only to find strangers blinking back at her. She pressed a palm to her temple.

“Great. Now I’m hallucinating.”

Notes:

Yeaah Milk is mixed. Thai, Brit, and French, her mother from Thailand while her dad half Brit and French.
Did you guess it's going to be Love's family? hehe a bit of twist there...
And so, the yearning begin...

Wow 10 chapters...hope y'all enjoyed it!
As always let me know what you think about in the comments!

Chapter 11: Two Paths

Summary:

Two paths appear. Neither is as clean as promised.

By the time the new semester breathed its way into campus with soft sunlight through the lecture halls, a breeze heavy with the smell of old books and fresh stationery came within. Love had made a quiet vow to herself. She didn't announce it out loud, she didn’t declare it with grand gestures or drunken promises to her friends. Instead, it lived quietly inside her. Move on.

It had been almost a year since Milk vanished from her life, leaving behind nothing but a hollow she didn’t know how to fill. The kind of emptiness that lingered in the pit of her stomach when she was alone too long. The kind that made her avoid certain places because she could still feel memories trapped there.

So she did the only thing she knew when her heart felt too empty. She downloaded dating apps she once swore never to. The bright neon icons glaring up at her like accusations. She told herself she was just “exploring”. Love told herself that she needed a distraction or a fresh storyline and obviously a new face to overwrite the one she never stopped looking for in crowds.

That’s how she met him. Chimon.

He wasn’t flashy, not  really the type that swaggered into a room. His charm was quiet,  soft-spoken, and polite. The kind of person who noticed when someone needed a chair or when a girl seemed uncomfortable at a bar and discreetly intervened. He had gentle eyes and an even gentler way of speaking. Somehow that disarmed Love more than any flirtation could have. She intended it to be a one-night stand. Nothing deep, sticky, and nothing with consequences.

The plan dissolved in less than a heartbeat when Chimon leaned down to kiss her. Love’s whole body froze, out of her fear and something bone-deep and unspoken. Something like betrayal, guilt, or both tangled messily together.

Chimon stopped instantly. He didn’t push, tease, and didn't do the typical “It’s fine” with a disappointed sigh. Instead, he stepped aside, offered her a blanket, and asked if she wanted to go somewhere quieter.

They ended up lying on the rooftop of his apartment, a cold breeze brushing over their cheeks as they looked at the sky scattered with stars. Love didn’t realize she had fallen asleep until she woke up with Chimon’s jacket covering her.

It should’ve meant nothing. Yet something shifted, gently and quietly. Like a door opening without a sound. But two weeks later, she was calling him again and two weeks after that, she said yes when he asked her out properly. It wasn’t dramatic or intense, it’s steady and predictable. However the group reacted exactly as expected : a perfect storm of shock and noise.

“YOU? DATING?” Namtan yelled loud enough for the entire cafeteria to turn.

Emi nearly choked on her iced latte.

“Wait— REAL dating? Like, boyfriend dating?”

Bonnie squealed. Film blinked twice, processing. Love just rolled her eyes, cheeks warm. 

“Calm down. He’s just… nice.”

“Nice?” Namtan clapped her on the back. “Girl, you’ve gone soft.”

But they congratulated her anyway. Even Film, who simply murmured, “Good for you,” with a small and unreadable smile.

And just like that, Love’s life shifted in rhythm. Suddenly there were morning texts waiting for her, warm hands she could hold, dinners that didn’t feel lonely, and laughter she didn’t have to hide behind sarcasm. Chimon was steady and predictable in a comforting kind of way.  It should’ve been enough. Sometimes, Love even believed it was enough.

Chimon fit into Love’s life with a gentleness that felt intentional. When they were together, his eyes were steady, hands warm and reassuring. He laughed softly, touched her wrist when she spoke, brushed her hair behind her ear with a familiarity that suggested care rather than claim.

Chimon’s confidence appeared in small ways. The way he chose the restaurant without asking because he already knew what she would like. The way he guided her through a crowd with a hand at her lower back, firm enough to be decisive, gentle enough to feel protective. When they kissed, he set the pace. Love told herself it was comforting, the relief of not having to decide.

Chimon spoke often about balance,  structure, and about how people thrived when their lives had rhythm. He said it the way some people talked about weather or nutrition, it comes easily. He liked order, and he liked placing it gently into her hands as if it were a gift she had been missing. He suggested routines before she asked for them. Morning plans, study blocks, rest windows. It did not feel invasive, to Love it felt familiar.

Love knew how Chimon liked knowing her schedule because he said it helped him support her better. He asked what time her classes ended so he could plan dinner. He reminded her when to sleep so she would not be exhausted the next day. Always steering her attention back to what mattered as he smiled and said he only wanted her to succeed. He believed in her potential too much to not let her waste it.

For someone else, it might have felt restrictive. The quiet monitoring. The way choices became suggestions and suggestions became expectations. But Love had grown up inside that shape where control dressed as concern.

Because the truth is, her father had spoken the same way for as long as she could remember. Always calm and always reasonable. Always certain he knew what was best. Thanks to him, her grades had never been just grades. They were tracked, compared, charted like stock prices rising or falling with each semester. Every report card was followed by analysis. Every success was acknowledged briefly before the next benchmark appeared. There was always a timeline, always a projection, always an end goal outlined so clearly it left no room to wander.

Every call from her home ended the same way, a reminder to stay focused and to graduate on time. To remember her responsibility to the family, the company waiting for her, a place already prepared for her with a role already defined. Just like her older brother who already positioned neatly where he belonged, already proving himself capable, reliable, and worthy. 

Love carried it quietly. The pressure stacked in her chest, layer by layer, invisible but heavy. The fear of disappointing someone she had never stopped trying to please shaped her choices more than she admitted. She told herself that this is normal. 

So when Chimon mirrored it, when he spoke in the same measured tone, when he offered guidance instead of commands, it slid easily into place. But Chimon also always noticed the tension. The way Love’s shoulders tightened when her phone buzzed and the way she stared at her notes without reading them. 

One night, Love sat on the edge of his enormous sofa, notebook abandoned beside her like an accusation. Chimon leaned against the backrest, watching her with quiet patience, as if he had been waiting for this exact moment. 

“You’re spiraling,” he said gently, not unkind, not accusing. Just observant.

“I’m not,” Love replied automatically 

Love’s fingers were knotted together in her lap but Chimon reached out and pried them apart with ease, thumbs brushing over her palms. 

“You are. You do this when you’re carrying too much.”

She looked away but Chimon shifted closer.

“Chimon, I really should finish reviewing—”

“You will,” he interrupted softly, smiling. His fingers closed around her wrist and then her waist, guiding her closer until her balance tipped and she ended up seated on his lap 

“After. Trust me, you’ll think clearer once you relax.”

Love hesitated but Chimon's hand already slid to her waist, warm and grounding. Heat crept up her neck anyway, a fierce blush betraying the thought she didn’t dare finish forming. The nearness. The possibility of a kiss hovering just close enough to feel inevitable.

“Stress is just energy trapped in the body,” Chimon murmured near Love’s ear. 

“You need an outlet.” A pause, deliberate. “Let me be that for you.”

“You mean…?” Love said while her breath stuttered.

“I mean,” Chimon said calmly, confidently, “I’ll be your favorite stimulant.”

The words landed heavy and intimate. Chimon then kissed her before she could decide whether to argue or accept. He kissed her sow at first, patient enough to feel like a choice.

Love let herself lean into it, telling herself it was fine, that this was what intimacy was supposed to feel like. Because Chimon framed intimacy as relief, closeness as a way to release stress she did not have time to process. 

Moments later, Chimon was frustrated by the amount of clothing layers on himself, he then peels off his sweater and throws it off to the side. He then quickly grabbed love by the face to pull her into a hungry and messy kiss. When the kiss broke he swiped love’s lower lip to explore the wet caverns of her mouth, his eyes already darkened with lust. 

“You’re beautiful,” he said quietly, almost reverently. 

“I’ve imagined this. This exact moment. More times than I should admit.”

Love swallowed, heart pounding, the realization settling heavy in her chest. Tonight wasn’t going to stop at a kiss. Chimon had been circling this moment for weeks now, leaving careful hints in his touches and words, and she had kept sidestepping them every time. But here, with his hand firm at her waist and nowhere left to retreat, she knew she was running out of excuses.

“Chimon..” she whispered, voice unsteady. 

“This is… I mean, I’ve never— this would be my first time.”

Chimon stilled for a beat, then smiled, something pleased flickering behind his eyes. 

“Then it’s an honor,” he said, leaning in again. “You can trust me.”

He kissed her again, more urgent this time, the patience giving way to intent. Love gasped but then she kissed him back, that made Chimon smile. His strong arm then wrapped around Love’s waist, steadied her and instinctively pulled her even closer. Chimon moves his head to change the angle of the kiss, capturing the bottom lip in between and nipping at it until the shorter woman sighs into her mouth. Love felt like she needed to hold onto something to keep herself upright.

Chimon then hurriedly unzipped his pants, freed himself from it. The cum stain on his underwear was clear enough since the tip of the bone was already wet. Love froze again, it was more from whatever she had expected. Her eyes widened, fingers curling reflexively into the sofa as if bracing. Chimon caught the reaction and let out a quiet, pleased breath.

“Yeah,” he said softly, almost amused by her surprise. 

“I get that a lot, you're gonna like it more once it enters you.” There was an easy confidence in the way he said it, like this was something he already knew about himself.

He then leaned in forward to Love, kissed her neck as though reassuring her rather than rushed the pace. But Love stopped him from getting closer. 

“Wear a condom.” Love said.

“I know what’s best, a condom will make it uncomfy…”

“Do you want the night to end?” Love asked.

“Alright,” he said, gentle again. “If that’s what you need. We’ll do it your way.”

Chimon kept guiding her with a quiet certainty, kisses mapping reassurance along her jaw and down her throat, slightly rushed but never asking more than what felt uncomfortable for Love. As Love trembled beneath him, he murmured something soothing against her skin, easing her back until there was no fabric left. Chimon then stood on his knees, smiled and moved his hand forward to rub Love’s clit. Love bit her lip and looked away.

“I must make you so wet, Love.”

But then Chimon’s hand paused, his expression shifted, subtly frustrated. Like he was continuing to adjust the plan.

“Hey,” he murmured, low and calm. “You’re not quite there yet.”

Heat rushed to Love’s face, embarrassment blooming fast. She nodded once, unable to form words, shame tangling with uncertainty. Chimon leaned in, brushing his lips against her temple, soothing the moment before it could spiral.

“That’s okay,” he said easily. “First times are like that. Your body just needs a little help catching up.”

Chimon then reached toward the side table with unhurried certainty, already deciding the next step.

“We can use lube,” he added, tone reassuring, almost instructional. 

“It’ll make it easier and more comfortable. I don’t want this to hurt you.”

The sofa then groaned beneath them as Chimon moved with a hunger that refused subtlety, the cushions dipping and shifting as if struggling to keep up. A glass tipped on the low table and spilled, ice skittering across the rug, unnoticed. The music kept playing somewhere behind them, its rhythm drowned by the heat of breath and the way Chimom lost himself, voice rough and unfiltered now, filling the room without restraint. 

“Love—” he said, the word breaking apart as it left him, half a breath, half a plea. 

“God— you feel…good, I’m trying, but—” He laughed once, low and shaky, forehead dropping to her shoulder. “Shit— I’m losing it. Don’t move, stay.”

Love felt it. The slight rush in his movements, the way his breath and reaction kept slipping ahead of hers. She pressed a hand lightly against his chest, grounding rather than pushing away.

“Slow down,” she murmured, trying to steady the moment.

“The night’s still long. We don’t have to rush.”

He swallowed hard, a shaky breath breaking free as he nodded, even as his body betrayed him. His voice was rough, unsteady, like he was barely holding himself together.

“I swear I’m trying to slow down, I am! You just— you’re making it really hard to think–” 

“Shit— look at me,” he murmured urgently, almost pleading. 

“Please— don’t look away. I need to see you right now, AH—”

Chimon’s breath broke first, a sharp, helpless sound torn from him as his body tensed and stilled, the moment overtaking him before he could pretend otherwise. Love came later, there was no cry, no gasp to announce it. It surprised him and surprised her even more. But It moved through her quietly yet completely, leaving her frozen in place, trembling in a way that felt unfamiliar and overwhelming all at once. 

Love clung to his shoulder, overwhelmed by sensation she had no language for yet, everything sharper because it was new. It matched how it felt to be here for the first time. Her body simply locked, eyes squeezing shut, lips parting in a soundless plea as the sensation finally caught up to her. By the time it passed, her fingers were still curled tight in his shirt, like she hadn’t realized she was holding on.  Chimon smiled, low and pleased.

“You okay?” he asked, already certain of the answer.

“I think so.” Love said and nodded

He chuckled quietly, affectionate, brushing it off as if smoothing a wrinkle in fabric.

“That’s normal,” he said. 

“First times are always like that. Your body’s just… catching up.”

“Like what?” Love frowned faintly.

“Overwhelmed,” he supplied easily. 

“And confused. You’ll get used to it.” He said as he kissed her forehead. 

“Next time it will feel better. Trust me.”

The words settled between them before she could stop them. She shifted, wincing slightly, and Chimon noticed, though he didn’t mention it. Instead, his hand slid along her arm, grounding.

“You did great,” he added, softer now. 

“You just need time. I know how to handle that.”

And slowly, familiarity replaced confusion as the desire followed routine. Chimon liked control that dressed in sweetness. He decided when they met, how long they stayed, what they did afterward. When Love suggested alternatives, he always smiled and adjusted them back to what he thought was better.

The second time, and the third, Love already learned his patterns. She learned how to respond. She told herself this was intimacy, that compromise was part of it. When he praised her afterward, when he told her how good she was for him, it filled a little hollow space she had been carrying for too long.

“Fuck, I’m close— how about you?” Chimon asked. 

Each thrust now deeper, more intense, Chimon didn't stop his movements, the pace only quickened and harder.

“Yeah—same,” Love replied.

“Like that?” Chimon murmured, moving his hips, body already tipping forward.

“Mm,” Love breathed, mimicking what she thought he wanted to hear.

“Just… keep going.”

He groaned, encouraged while she closed her eyes, counting instead of feeling.

“See? You’re getting it.”

Another time. Different lighting, the same room arranged just a little more neatly. She already knew what to expect, knew the rhythm he preferred, and knew when to react. Chimon kissed her like a routine, familiar and confident. She followed his pace, echoed the sounds he seemed to need, learned when to nod and when to breathe out just enough. When it ended, he pulled her close, pleased and said, “See? You’re getting better at this.” Love just smiled into his shoulder, unsure why the word better sat so strangely in her chest.

But then it happened without warning. Not planned, not timed for him. Her body betrayed the careful usual script, tension finally snapping instead of smoothing out.

“Chimon—” Love said, breath breaking. 

The sound was raw and startled even to her own ears. She clutched at him, not to please but to ground herself, nails digging in as sensation rushed through her too fast, too sharp. Her eyes squeezed shut, a sound tearing free before she could swallow it back. Chimon froze for half a second, then laughed softly, breathless.

“There it is,” he said, almost relieved. “That’s the real one, come for me, Love—”

Love shook, pulse racing, the moment cresting and fading before she fully understood it had happened. When she opened her eyes, he was already smiling, satisfied, brushing her hair back like he’d solved something.

Love’s fingers curled into the fabric beneath her, the sound that left her real this time, unplanned, spilling out of her chest before she could stop it. Chimon stilled, then smiled again, triumphant.

“Told you,” he said softly. “You just needed a few tries.”

She lay there afterward, heart racing, the truth settling in slowly. It had finally happened. And somehow, it still hadn’t felt like it was for her.

 

---

 

Love truly did not see the dots, or maybe she did and chose not to connect it. It felt easier to accept certainty from someone who held her gently while delivering it. Easier to believe that being guided meant being cared for. But somewhere beneath the tenderness, beneath the rhythm Chimon praised so often, the same old weight settled in her chest. 

Still on campus walkways, in crowded elevators, she’d still see a familiar silhouette. Just a flash. A figure with the same posture, the same stride, the same careless ponytail or oversized jacket. Her breath would catch every time. Milk? She thought.

The ghost of Milk lingered like a shadow against sunlight. Never real, but always there. In the quiet moments. In the spaces between sentences. In the orbit of her thoughts no matter how far she tried to run.

But she wasn’t entirely wrong. Milk is back. She is here, real, solid, and present. Love just didn’t know it yet. Then it happened during Love’s break, when she went to the library to hide in her usual corner. Except someone was already there. Tall, shoulders relaxed, dark silk hair tucked under a cap, a tote bag slung carelessly over one arm. An enormous art book covered most of her face. Love stepped forward, irritated at first.

“Excuse me, that’s actually—” And then the person lowered the book slightly.

Love’s breath stopped. Her words were tangled. Her pulse leaped painfully. She saw Milk looked up, her eyes gentle in that same infuriating way Love remembered, the same eyes Love had tried so hard to forget. And just like that, after months of silence and pretending she didn’t care, Love finally saw her again. Milk is real because Milk has come back.

Love didn’t know whether to scream, cry, or walk away. But she did know one thing : the hollow she’d been carrying all this time cracked open, flooding her senses with something she wasn’t ready to care about yet. Milk blinked once, confused, almost shy.

“...Love?”

Love’s voice refused to come out. She then left the library so fast she barely heard her own footsteps. She didn’t look back, though a small, pathetic part of her hoped Milk would follow and call her name, stop her, offer anything. But Milk did nothing. She stayed sitting under the same pool of library light, that absurdly large art book still open on her lap, watching Love who has vanished.

The next days became a punishment from the universe itself. Despite how massive the university was, they kept stumbling into each other. The cafeteria, the garden path, the humanities hallway, always close enough to feel the tension crackling, never close enough to speak. Both avoided eye contact like it was dangerous. Both pretended to be in a hurry. It was embarrassing, ridiculous, and almost cruel.

The worst encounter came when Love was walking with Film. Somehow being flanked by a friend made it easier for both of them to pretend they were fine, or worse, Love couldn’t decide. They turned a corner just as Milk approached from the opposite direction. It was impossible to flee now. Film blinked once, then exploded.

“Milk? Oh my god—it’s you, Milk!”

Milk only managed a polite smile before Film flung her arms around her. Milk hugged back stiffly, eyes flicking past Film’s shoulder, to Love. When Film finally let her go, Milk and Love stared at each other like two people who had rehearsed a reunion but forgot their lines. Love forced a soft laugh, brittle as glass.“Wow. Surprise.” said Love. Milk raised her eyebrow, as if humoring her. “Surprise,” Milk echoed with that smile, that damn smile that always made Love want to smack or kiss her. Love cursed internally.

The tension was thick, but somehow the group decided to have dinner together. Love wasn’t sure who suggested it first or why she agreed. They ended up cramped around a booth, the air heavy with everything unsaid. 

Namtan and Emi treated Milk like she’d never disappeared, teasing her, bullying her affectionately like they are truly her seniors. Film joined in here and there, but she kept glancing at Love, as if checking whether the ground beneath her was cracking. Love’s face stayed unreadable, but she drank steadily, her fingers tight around her wine glass. And Milk, the unwilling centerpiece of the night, laughed along like she wasn’t quietly falling apart.

When dinner ended and they stepped out onto the street, Namtan, who is now fully drunk, grabbed Milk’s collar and yanked her down to her level.

“You damn—how dare you? Vanish like that? You promised us! You promised you’d never do that again!” 

Milk didn’t move, letting Namtan shake her. But then Namtan’s fury crumpled, her eyes watering.

“And… damn, you got buff. How the hell did you come back healthier? Lucky bastard with good DNA…” She collapsed into Milk’s shoulder. Emi, just as drunk, poked Milk’s arm. 

“Shit, this is sturdy. Who knew skinny Milk would turn into this? Huh? Huh? Be honest! you just hid to go gym, right? Damn you, we could’ve worked out together!” Emi slapped both of Milk’s cheeks with her palms, pouting like a scolded child.

Milk only smiled. Someone had to stay sober enough to remember this. But her eyes kept drifting to Love. Love who sat stiffly, Milk wanted her to say something, anything. But Love didn’t look up once.

Film returned from the restroom just as Namtan grabbed her face and kissed her fully on the mouth. Film didn’t flinch, instead she kissed back, calm and practiced. Milk just stared at them and Namtan who saw the look just smirked. 

“You really have a lot to catch up on.”

 Film elbowed her immediately, whispering. Then she turned to Milk.

“Not tonight.”

“Our ride is here. I’m glad to see you again, Milk.” 

“Likewise, Film.” Milk just nodded.

Moments later Bonnie arrived to fetch Film, Namtan, and Emi. She reminded Milk of herself hastily, but Milk recognized her clearly.

“So you’re back,” Bonnie said. “Anyway, we’ve got to go. Goodbye, Milk.” 

And just like that, they were gone leaving only Milk and Love under the quiet streetlights. Milk inhaled, gathering courage.

“Love—”

“Don’t.” Love said, sharp. A clean cut.

Milk blinked. 

“…I need your address for the taxi. Film forgot to tell me, and I can’t reach her.”

“Why?” Love asked, voice eerily steady.

“Why?” Milk repeated.

“Yes. Why?” Love asked again.

Milk froze. It could have meant anything. So she asked softly, 

“Why what, Love?”

Love looked away first.

“…Nevermind.” 

Her small grin was full of disappointment she didn’t bother to hide. She had waited. For an explanation, for a reason, for anything. She finally mumbled her street name. But Milk frowned. 

“That’s just the street. I need to—”

But the sentence died when Love cupped her face with both hands. Warm palms, trembling. 

“Come with me,” Love whispered. “I’ll show you.”

“Love… I don’t think that’s a good call.”

A sharp slap cracked across Milk’s cheek—not violent, but desperate. The warmth spread instantly, and Love let out a broken, muffled sound, almost a sob.  Milk exhaled. 

“…Alright. Let’s go.”

The taxi ride was filled with Love’s quiet, devastating cries soaking into Milk’s hoodie. Love curled into Milk’s shoulder, fists gripping the fabric, her whole face buried against her. Milk threaded her fingers gently through Love’s hair, not sure if she was comforting Love or holding herself together.

When they reached Love’s condo, Love unlocked the door with shaky hands. Inside, the silence tightened around them, thick and breathless. Milk watched her quietly before speaking again. 

“You probably won’t remember this tomorrow, but I’m sorry, Love. I’ll say it again when you’re sober.”

Love’s response cracked through the room like lightning.

“I hate you.” She started hitting Milk’s chest—again, and again.

“I hate you.” Love said again.

Milk didn’t move, didn’t block, didn’t flinch. Her voice was soft, unbearably so.

“I know, Love. I know. I'm sorry”

Notes:

Patience is key as Sun Tzu said "The two most powerful warriors are patience and time"

555555
Hope you guys enjoyed it!

Chapter 12: Merry Christmas Please Don’t Call

Summary:

Christmas lights, shared laughter, and old feelings hum under the surface. New boundaries bruise and some choices echo louder than carols ever could.

Morning spilled into Love’s condo in thin, pale stripes, landing right across her eyes. She stirred, mumbled, and brushed at the brightness like it offended her. When she sat up, it felt like her skull was expanding as her head throbbed to the beat of last night’s wine.

“Great,” she grumbled. “Worst one yet.”

Love then dragged herself to the kitchen, each step a reminder that she wasn’t built for alcohol.Then she stopped short at the sight of a hangover drink already waiting neatly on her counter. Love didn’t think twice and downed it immediately. Only after her eyebrows knit together, slow and confused, because the film reel of last night snapped violently into one name : Milk.

Milk guiding her to bed, Milk’s arms around her, and how Milk lowered her carefully onto the mattress. Love’s breath caught and her hands immediately flew to her own clothes. Still intact, Love sagged in relief before embarrassment slammed into her so hard she had to grip the counter to stay upright.

The memories slowly came in pieces, scrambled but clear. The taxi ride and her ugly crying into Milk’s shoulder, how she dragged Milk into her condo like she owned her. Hitting Milk’s chest over and over and Milk whispering sorry like it hurt her too. Then finally, the way they held onto each other, Milk trembling, crying quietly into Love’s neck as if she had no one else to collapse against. Love shut her eyes.

“Kill me. Kill me right now.”

Love snatched her phone, texting a friend that she was skipping class and needed notes. She was not stepping foot outside. The universe clearly had an ongoing contract to mess with her, and she was done being its main character.

A soft knock then hit the door. Love froze mid-breath. “Please… please, don’t,” she whispered as she tiptoed toward the door. She peeked through the hole. “Thank god.” She exhaled sharply. Chimon stood outside with his usual bright, harmless smile. She opened the door.

“Hi, darling. How’s your hangover?” Chimon asked warmly.

“Not that bad. Thanks to you for the drink.”

Love forced a relieved smile but Chimon blinked. Confused.

“Darling… I was literally coming to give it to you. Here.” He held up another drink.

Love’s expression blanked. Her mind rewound, turning toward only one possibility. Milk must’ve put it there quietly before leaving.

“Maybe you’re mixing it up? Could’ve been Film who left it?” Chimon said and tilted his head.

“Yeah. Probably that. My bad.” Love said and nodded quickly.

She wasn’t explaining anything. Not now, not ever. Chimon then just smiled and kissed her cheek.

“I’ll make breakfast for you,” he said softly.

Love watched him walk to her kitchen as her heart twisted painfully and last night’s ghost pressed hard against her ribs. Everything warm, fragile, and dreamlike from last night clashed violently with her current life, like two realities trying to occupy the same space.

Meanwhile, in Milk’s small condo, she had been awake for hours. She had slipped out of Love’s place at dawn, exhausted, emotionally hollow, but somehow able to sleep after crying like a child for the first time in months. She stared blankly at her laptop, lines of code blurring. She tried focusing, but her mind kept drifting to Love’s cries soaking into her hoodie and to the way her own voice had cracked when apologizing. The terrifying ease with which all her defenses had fallen apart. She shook it off, burying her head back into her work.

After her family’s business collapsed, she’d gone home to help rebuild what little remained. Their empire had nearly died overnight. Her parents worked like they were trying to beat time. Just months ago, Milk insisted on postponing college until things stabilized, but her father refused. He wanted her to live her life too, not just salvage theirs.

“Build connections,” he said. “Let us carry some burdens.”

So here she is taking IT, the major she thought would guarantee future stability. Art would’ve been a long, risky path. But IT, supposedly her second-strongest suit? It was frying her brain.

“What the hell is this error,” she muttered.

Milk rubbing her eyes. Then her thoughts betrayed her, sliding right back to Love. Has she eaten yet? Did she drink the cure? How do I even face her again? But suddenly her phone buzzed, snapping her out of it. Namtan called.

“Meet me at my building. Important,” she said, voice clipped and eerily formal.

Milk arrived fifteen minutes later. Namtan sat on a bench waiting for her, waving her over silently. Milk then sat beside her, sensing the heaviness.

“A lot happened,” Namtan started.

“I’m truly sorry about your family. You know you could’ve asked us for help… but I get why you didn’t.” Her tone softened.

“So I want to help another way.”

Milk stayed still and listened while Namtan inhaled.

“Prepare yourself… Love has a boyfriend. We found out recently. And before you say anything, yes, we know how you feel about her. We’ve known about it for a long time.”

Milk stiffened, but Namtan continued.

“We’re telling you this because we don’t want you running away again. When it hurts, let us in, Milk. Please.” Said Namtan hesitated, but then added,

“Maybe it’s ruthless to tell you now, after last night. We thought giving you two spaces was the right thing to do, like Sky did back then…”

“But I think honesty is better now. You deserve the truth.”

Milk exhaled slowly, rubbing her palms over her face.

“I’m sorry,” Milk said quietly.

“For vanishing. For ghosting. For everything. I just… didn’t want to burden anyone. But I’ll try not to shut you out anymore.” Milk swallowed.

“About Love… I get it. You’re just making sure I don’t cross lines. That I don’t get hurt worse. It’s okay. Don’t worry.”

Namtan’s eyes softened with relief. She then pulled Milk into a tight hug,

“Good to hear that.”

Later, back in her condo, Milk sank into the couch. The memories hit her one by one. The trembling embrace from last night, Love crying into her chest, the small warmth of their shared breath, the gentleness she never expected to give again. And now, knowing Love already had someone else, something inside her cracked all over again.

It was too much, all of it. Milk covered her eyes with her arm, her throat tightening until the tears came. Quiet, exhausted, and unstoppable. And just like that, for the second night in a row, she cried herself to sleep.

The next morning, the world felt strangely hollow. Milk dragged herself out of bed with the numb automatic movements of someone who hadn’t slept well. Her eyes were swollen, her body heavy, but she forced herself into sweatpants and walked to the campus gym. She didn’t want to think, yet her mind wouldn’t give her even a moment of silence.

On the treadmill, the dull thud of her footsteps did nothing to drown out the echo of Namtan’s words. She had seen it herself. How Namtan had grown into someone steadier, calmer, more grounded than the girl Milk used to know. How Emi, once carefree and soft, now carried the weight of being the head of her family without complaint. Film and Namtan, two people who once bickered like natural enemies, were now dating and strangely perfect for each other. Everyone is now different. Everyone had grown. Life had moved forward without waiting for her. And the hardest truth of all was the one Namtan said gently but clearly: Love had someone.

But still, “What even are we?” The question then came quietly in Milk’s head, nearly drowned by the thud of her feet against the treadmill. Sweat gathered along her temples, headphones hanging loose around her neck because she preferred the noise of her own breath lately. It reminded her that she is alive.

Ever since the catastrophe with her family, movement had been the only place her mind stopped hurting, or at least hurt in a more manageable way. The campus gym was cheap, crowded, and imperfect. But it was somewhere Milk could outrun her thoughts, even if only for minutes at a time.

She let her mind drift again, the way it always did whenever her body warmed. With Namtan and Emi, she had learned loyalty that felt almost like blood. With Film, she had learned that steadfast people existed, quiet, solid, unshakably there. And with her old high school friends, she had learned that fierce love could be loud, chaotic, sometimes insane. All those versions of caring, all those different shapes of affection. She understood them.

But Love, Love lit something entirely different in her chest. A burn she couldn’t categorize. A burn she kept trying to stamp down. Maybe, just maybe, they could go back to normal once she found a way to control whatever this was inside her. She had to. Love belonged to someone. That truth had stung every time it crossed her mind, like a lemon juice on cracked skin. Milk then squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head sharply, nearly losing her balance on the treadmill.

“Control it,” she muttered under her breath. “Just… control it.”

She gripped the treadmill rails, inhaled and exhaled, then stepped off. She should have apologized to Love properly the way she apologized to Namtan, Emi, and Film. But Love, how did you apologize to someone who had become more than a friend to you without meaning to? How can you speak to someone whose presence felt like gravity? Milk rubbed her palms on her gym shorts.

“Just apologize as her friend then,” she told herself. “That’s all it needs to be.”

Milk had gone back and forth all afternoon, opening her notes only to close them again, drafting apologies in her head and tearing them apart just as quickly. Every version sounded wrong, too dramatic, or too distant. In the end, she decided the only honest thing left was to show up, without speeches, and without armor. An apology didn’t need to be perfect. It just needed to be real.

So she texted Love, kept it simple, and waited with her heart knocking hard against her ribs. When Love agreed to meet, Milk felt both relief and dread coil together in her chest. By the time she reached the garden, her palms were damp, her thoughts frayed, but she told herself she owed Love this much. Because silence would hurt more.

The garden breeze later felt too soft that evening. Almost ticklish against Milk’s skin, as if it mocking her nerves. Love stood across from her, petite, deceptively delicate. Every bit of the storm Milk struggled to withstand. Milk cleared her throat but her words scattered the moment she met Love’s eyes. Meanwhile Love tilted her head, studying her quietly. Milk’s voice wavered as soon as she tried to speak.

“I’m really sorry,” she said, slowly, like each word weighed something.

“I know disappearing like that wasn’t fair. I should’ve talked to you. I should’ve explained instead of running.”

“I thought we were going to be more than friends,” Love said lightly, too lightly, the words dressed up like a joke she’d told herself too many times.

“I think I just… read it wrong,” Love added, letting out a small laugh that rang hollow. She waved a hand, casual, dismissive.

“We were teenagers. Everything feels louder when you’re that age, you know? Closer. Like every connection has to mean something big.”

“Maybe I mistook comfort for love. It’s easy to label that as romance when you don’t know better.”

“And you were a safe space but that doesn’t always mean it was supposed to be more.” Her voice softened, almost forgiving herself.

“And the other night?” Another laugh, sharper now. 

“Please. I was drunk. Emotional. You know how I get. Crying doesn’t mean anything. I cry at commercials.” Love scoffed softly, shoulders lifting in a shrug that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“So yeah. Just… stupid feelings. Easy mistake.” Love smiled, brighter, brittle.

Milk felt the ground tilt. Just a little, just enough to shake her own body. Then Love continued,

“So,” she said, tone carefully casual, “let’s just keep it simple, yeah?”

“Friends. Just friends.” Love said as she glanced at Milk, offering a smile that tried to pass as easygoing.

Milk wanted to scream. She wanted to grab her by the shoulders and say I felt it too, you aren’t wrong, you’re not imagining it. But she swallowed everything because of Love’s boyfriend, her own family mess, her own unsteady future.

“I’m sorry,” was all she managed. Soft and too small for everything it carried.

“Okay.” Love looked at her a bit too long, then nodded.

And just like that, assignments soon swallowed their lives after that day. Milk buried herself in coding and algorithms that fried her brain daily, while Love dealt with upper-semester deadlines and projects. They passed each other sometimes, and Milk saw Love walking with Chimon. Love noticing Milk surrounded by an ever-growing circle of admirers. Neither ever commented but neither ever stopped looking.

Milk, a freshman with a strange gravitational pull. Love, an upper-semester student with a professor’s favorite label. They had no reason to talk. But everything in them ached for it anyway.

December then arrived gently, padded in by semester break and the slow glow of Christmas lights strung across the city. Deadlines loosened their grip as campuses emptied. It was that moment where Namtan invited everyone over, a proper dinner at her place this time. Her place is a penthouse, all glass walls and warm amber lighting, the city spread beneath it like something ornamental rather than real.

Milk froze at the entrance, not because of the height or the glass walls but because of the effort. The place had been transformed with intention. Warm string lights traced the edges of the ceiling. A Christmas tree stood near the windows, layered in gold and soft red ornaments, each one placed deliberately. Candles flickered on side tables. Even the rugs looked curated. It wasn’t intimidating wealth that stopped her, it was care. The kind that made her sneakers feel too loud, too careless, like she hadn’t prepared properly for something that clearly mattered.

“Relax, it’s not a gala,” Namtan said when Milk froze at the entrance, sneakers suddenly feeling inappropriate against marble floors. But she waved them in like this was nothing.

Milk arrived with Emi, who of course had Bonnie’s hand already laced with hers. Film emerged from the kitchen carrying wine and commentary. The room filled easily with them, laughter settling into the corners Namtan had carefully prepared.

Love came last. She stepped in wearing a dress that fit the night perfectly, not too formal, not careless either. The fabric fell softly against her frame. It was the kind of dress that didn’t demand attention but earned it anyway, elegant without trying, familiar in the way Love always was.

Milk noticed immediately, Chimon followed a half step behind her. Hand resting at Love’s lower back as if it belonged there. He leaned in to murmur something that made Love smile before she even greeted the room. Milk felt it then, sharp and sudden, the way presence could change a space without a single word. Chimon then took Love’s coat, murmured something in her ear,

“You look incredible,” Chimon said, eyes flicking over her dress with open approval.

“Told you this one was perfect. I know your taste better than you think.” He smiled, self-assured, like this was another quiet proof that he’d gotten it right.

Milk looked away too fast, then back again despite herself. Every small gesture felt like a thin blade. The way he remembered what Love liked. The way Love leaned into it without thinking. Milk forced her breath to steady, focused on the glass in her hand, the reflection of lights trembling on its surface.

The shift was subtle but unmistakable. The moment Chimon stepped fully into the penthouse, Film paused mid-commentary and Namtan’s expression flickered with quick calculation. Not displeasure, not exactly. More like a collective inhale, the quiet awareness that an extra variable had entered the room. This could be awkward or it could be fine. No one knew yet. Love noticed the shift almost immediately and leaned toward Film and Namtan, voice lowered.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know he’d be free tonight. If this makes things weird—” Her words rushed, apologetic.

“It’s fine,” Film said, smiling easily. “We’re all just glad you’re here.”

“Yeah,” Namtan added, glancing between them.

“It’s been ages since everyone was in the same room.”

The tension didn’t disappear, not completely, but it loosened. Enough to breathe again. Enough to pretend, at least for tonight, that this was just another dinner.

Dinner then eased into something warm despite the faint undercurrent that lingered at the edges. Plates moved around the table, wine was refilled without ceremony, and laughter slowly found its footing again. When Chimon ended up seated beside Milk, it felt incidental rather than intentional. He glanced at his plate, then at hers, curiosity softening his expression. Milk and Chimon spoke briefly with polite curiosity in his tone.

“So, what are you studying?” he asked.

“I’m… IT,” Milk replied after a beat. “I took a gap year first.”

“Oh?” He nodded, impressed.

“That takes discipline.” There was no recognition in his eyes.

Beside Chimon, Love watched the exchange without meaning to. Her gaze lingered a second too long on the way Milk spoke, calm and careful, on how easily she smiled. Film noticed before Love did and nudged her knee gently under the table, already reaching for the serving spoon.

“Eat,” Film murmured, pushing more food toward her plate. “You barely touched anything.”

Love blinked, then nodded, forcing her attention back down, back to the table, back to the present.

On the other end, Emi and Bonnie were halfway lost in their own orbit, knees brushing, shoulders pressed together like gravity was optional. Bonnie leaned in to whisper something, and Emi laughed too hard, cheeks warm.

“You two are disgusting,” Namtan said fondly, pointing her fork at them. “Bonnie, I swear you’re even naughtier than I am.”

“I don’t deny it,” she said sweetly. “Emi likes it when I’m bad.” Bonnie only grinned, unapologetic.

Emi groaned, hiding her face in Bonnie’s shoulder as the table erupted into laughter, the noise filling the room and briefly smoothing over everything no one wanted to name.

“Honestly, you too Namtan, both of you should give a proper girlfriend treatment. Hazard pay, at least.” Film snorted and Milk laughed, genuinely, grateful for the noise.

Later, the gift exchange began, messy and loud. They had decided on chaos for fairness. Names written, folded, tossed into a bowl, then drawn blindly while everyone else shouted advice that made no sense. At one point, Namtan insisted they all tie scarves over their eyes while picking, just to make it worse. People bumped into each other, someone nearly tripped over the rug. Laughter carried them through it.

Wrapping paper tore. Someone cheered too early, someone else complained about the rules changing mid-game. Namtan unwrapped Bonnie’s gift with theatrical disbelief, holding it up like evidence in court. Film went quiet in a rare and sincere way when she opened what Chimon had gifted. Milk opened Namtan’s gift and nodded approvingly, already teasing her about how on-brand it was. Love didn’t realize whose gift she’d drawn until the card slid into her palm. Milk’s handwriting, neat and familiar.

Love froze for half a second before opening it. Inside was something simple but thoughtful, a request themed subscription box, the continued box will arrive monthly. Monthly books, candles, perfumes, any small comforts chosen as needed. A card tucked inside it, there were written words that promised future calls, future help, no explanations required. Bonnie tilted her head, reacting.

“Wow,” Bonnie teased.

“You really said, I don’t know what to get you, so I’ll just… stay available forever.”

“Actually, that’s thoughtful.” Chimon laughed softly.

“Baby, you should choose the expensive candle you always use.” He said as he leaned toward Love. Love then just smiled, but her fingers lingered on the card longer than necessary.

When the gifts were cleared and the room softened into that after-dinner quiet, Love leaned back against Chimon, relief settling into her bones. Her friends were okay and the night hadn’t fractured. No one looked uncomfortable. For a moment, she let herself enjoy it.

“Are you having fun?” Chimon murmured, fingers brushing her knee.

“That dress is dangerous, by the way. I’m behaving. Barely.” His voice dipped, playful.

Love laughed quietly, the sound light enough to pass, but her eyes betrayed her. They drifted, uninvited, pulled across the room as if by muscle memory. Milk, still there. Watching. Not openly, not boldly, just present in that careful way that pretended not to ask for anything.

Their eyes met, slipped apart, met again a heartbeat later. Too fast to be accidental but too slow to mean nothing. The air between them tightened, stretched thin with everything unsaid. Love felt it settle in her chest, that familiar pressure, not pain exactly, but something close enough to make her breathe shallow and look away first. Then the music shifted suddenly.

“I’m done with old Christmas songs,” Namtan declared, grabbing the remote.

“If I hear Last Christmas one more time—”

“No,” Emi groaned immediately. “That’s a classic.”

Film didn’t argue. She simply queued a new song, stole the mic from Milk’s hand, and dragged Milk up with her.

“Absolutely not,” Namtan protested weakly.

But it was already too late. Milk then found herself singing along when Film pulled her back in, the lyrics sliding too cleanly into her chest.

“But you should know that I died slow,” Milk sang, voice steady despite everything.

Inside, the words unraveled her as she thought about timelines that never happened. About staying. About not vanishing when things at home collapsed, when her family’s business wobbled and fear took over everything else. She imagined a version of herself who had been braver, who had sent a message instead of silence, who had trusted Love enough to let her see the mess. No matter how many excuses she stacked, the blame always slid back to the same place. Herself.

“Running through the halls of your haunted home,” Film followed, eyes bright.

“And the toughest part is that we both know,” they sang together.

“What happened to you,” Bonnie chimed in, laughing. “Why you're out on your own.”

Across the room, Love stiffened almost imperceptibly. The lyric struck deeper than she expected. Her mind slipped backward, to late nights of hearing rumors, to the moment Milk had gone quiet and then gone. She remembered piecing it together later, how the family business collapsed. The sudden weight that had pulled Milk out of orbit without explanation.

Love had wondered if things would have been different if Milk had stayed. If Milk had chosen her instead of distance and silence. But she pushed the thought down. Milk had made a choice. Love had told herself it wasn’t her place to resent it now, it’s all in the past. So she smiled, nodded along with the laughter, and kept the truth contained.

“Merry Christmas, please don’t call,” Milk continued, the words landing sharper than she expected. She both meant it and didn’t. The contradiction burned her.

“I want one ticket out of your heavy gaze,” Film sang, softer now.

I want one ticket out of your heavy gaze, Love repeated silently, her fingers tightening in Chimon’s sleeve. Love felt the line settle in her chest like a confession she wasn’t brave enough to voice. Even now, even here, Milk’s eyes still carry weight.

Merry Christmas, I’m not yours at all. Please don’t call, Milk thought, even as her eyes betrayed her and looked anyway.

Notes:

I'm BACKK, how's the chapter?? hope you guys enjoyed it!
Yep, just wrote this while blasting the song hahaha!

Chapter 13: Even When You Weren’t Mine

Summary:

A quiet, aching chapter about the spaces between two people.

The new semester arrived quietly without ceremony. Sunlight sometimes poured through the lecture halls with students still complaining about schedules and deadlines. But something in Love’s life had shifted its weight, not loudly, just enough to make the days feel slightly misaligned. She noticed it in small things. In how she paused longer before replying to Chimon’s messages. In how routines that once soothed her now felt more rehearsed.

Not many know about this, but Love’s relationship with Chimon had begun from a one-night stand that somehow became a commitment. Chimon was good, good in a way that was almost too polished. People said he was too good for Love, and Love let them believe whatever they wanted. They didn’t know her father. They didn’t know what she grew up with. Chimon’s steadiness had felt familiar in the beginning because at first it had felt safe.

Until it changed, the first time Love saw something shift in his eyes, that same flicker she used to fear at home. Until his hands, always warm before, started gripping too tightly when he was angry. Not enough to bruise, not enough to scream. Just enough to trap her breath.

“Don’t make everything about you,” he had snapped once, pushing her hand away.

“Why are you always so dramatic?”

Another day :

“Stop acting like a victim. I’m just talking.”

The fights didn’t always turn physical. But the words did and of course the familiarity of it all broke something in her in a way she refused to name. When it became unbearable, her legs always somehow brought her somewhere warm, to Milk.

It started one evening before exam week. Love stood in front of the library, eyes red, shoulders trembling, expression empty. Milk spotted her immediately. Something about Love’s stillness reminded her of those tiny stray kittens she once tried to save. Fragile, shaking, and pretending they weren’t hurt. Milk then walked straight to her.

“Hey,” she said gently. “Come with me.”

Love didn’t argue and didn’t ask, she just followed. Milk then brought her to her condo, switched on the lights, and tried to joke.

“Are you doing that thing again where you pretend you’re fine? Because it’s not working.”

Love didn’t respond. Her gaze was somewhere far behind Milk, out of reach. So Milk stepped closer, hesitated at first but then wrapped her arms around Love and pulled her into a hug. She felt the quiet shudder in Love’s breath. Milk then squeezed tighter, her own eyes stinging. Love’s hands clutched the back of Milk’s shirt. She didn’t speak because she didn’t have to.

“I’m here,” Milk whispered into Love’s hair. “Okay? I’m here.”

That night, they ended up sleeping in the same bed. Not touching at first, but then slowly drifting until their hands brushed, fingers curling lightly, barely there. Love slept tucked close, their legs almost intertwined. Milk stayed awake awhile, listening to Love breathe.

In the morning, Love’s eyes held a little bit of light again. It was enough to make Milk smile. They parted ways without talking about any of it. Just before Love left, Milk leaned her shoulder against the doorway and asked gently,

“Did you sleep okay?”

Love paused, fingers hovering over her bag strap.

“…Yeah. Better than usual,” she admitted softly.

Milk nodded, relief slipping into her smile.

“Good. You looked like you needed it.”

Love’s eyes flicked up to her, tired but warm.

“Thanks… for yesterday.”

“You don’t have to thank me for showing up.” Milk shrugged, pretending it was casual even though her heart pressed painfully against her ribs.

“I do. Not everyone does it.” Love said, her voice lowered a little.

“Well… I will.” Milk said as she met her gaze, soft and steady.

Love looked away quickly, like the words landed somewhere too tender.

“I should go. I don’t want to be late for class.”

“Want me to walk you?” Milk offered.

“…No. If you walk me, I’ll get used to it.” Love hesitated, just one second too long.

“Oh.” She swallowed. “Right. Then… see you?” Milk blinked, heat rising to her cheeks.

“Yeah,” Love said, breath catching faintly. “See you.”

But it didn’t stay a one time thing. It became a pattern, a fragile and dangerous ritual that neither of them ever named out loud.

It started innocently enough. After last Christmas, after the laughter and the noise had settled into memory. Milk had mentioned the gift she gave Love, almost offhand. She told Love could try it. The subscription to request a box and the one call away Milk promised folded into paper and ribbon. Milk had laughed softly, said something about how it wasn’t meant to be grand, just practical. Something to use when somehow things felt too heavy. Love had nodded, distracted, noncommittal. She didn’t say she already knew exactly how she would use it. Because when Love broke, she didn’t request candles or books. She requested Milk’s tenderness.

Whenever the pressure became unbearable, when the structure around her tightened until she couldn’t breathe, Love showed up at Milk’s door. No warning and explanations. Just her standing there with messy hair, eyes too dim, and shoulders drawn tight like she was bracing for impact.

“I’m running out of my lavender diffuser,” Love said once, forcing a crooked smile. “I can’t sleep without it. Can I come in?”

Milk didn’t hesitate. She never did. Her expression softened immediately, something gentle and instinctive taking over as she stepped aside.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “Of course. Come in.”

Love would take off her shoes then collapse onto the couch, and Milk followed without a word. Love curled into her warmth like she had done a hundred times before, fingers clutching fabric like an anchor. Milk would wrap an arm around her without hesitation, breathing slow, steady, as if lending Love a rhythm she had lost. No questions, no fixing, just presence. And that was the most dangerous part.

And every time, Milk softened instantly. It was almost instinctive, the way her posture shifted, the way her expression gentled without effort. She never asked what happened. Never demanded reasons. Instead she stepped aside, let Love in, and let the door close behind them like a seal against the world.

They cooked ramen together at midnight, shoulders bumping. They fell asleep with Love’s forehead pressed into Milk’s back. Milk helped braid Love’s hair one morning because Love’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Love draped a blanket over Milk when she fell asleep on the couch after coding.

Small things, domestic things, intimate things. Yet there is a line they never crossed. In their own little hidden world, they existed somewhere in-between. And neither of them knew how long they could pretend that was enough.

Later that night, the kitchen was dim except for the stove light. Steam curled lazily from the pot as Milk stirred the ramen, wooden chopsticks tapping softly against the rim. Love sat on the counter nearby, legs tucked in, watching the water roll.

“You know,” Milk said, tone casual as she leaned over to check the noodles,

“I’m starting to think I accidentally designed this entire situation.”

“Designed what exactly?” Love raised a brow.

“Like,” Milk continued, scooping noodles into a strainer and shaking them once,

“I gave you that Christmas gift, but I think now you’re exploiting it.” She glanced over her shoulder. Teasing.

“Excuse you. I’m a loyal subscriber.” Love gasped, hand flying to her arm.

“With no regard for business hours.” Milk snorted, pouring broth into two bowls.

“You literally wrote one call away, no explanations required,” Love shot back, hopping down from the counter to stand beside her. “This is on you.”

“So now you’re blaming me?” Milk laughed quietly, grabbing spoons.

“Absolutely,” Love said without hesitation.

“You made it sound very safe and reliable. One call away, future help, future comfort.” She tilted her head lightly into Milk’s arm. “How was I supposed to resist?” Love added.

Milk shook her head, amused, as she leaned back against the counter.

“You know most subscription services don’t include midnight ramen and emotional support.”

“Well,” Love said, blowing gently on the broth, “yours must be more expensive then.”

“Unlimited usage, premium tier?” Milk said and glanced at her, eyes soft despite the teasing.

“Worth every cent.” Love said then smiled, small and warm.

“Then we’re clear. This is just the gift working as intended.” Milk said as she nudged her knee with her own.

“Just the gift,” Love echoed, nodding solemnly before taking a bite.

They ate in quiet after that, knees brushing under the counter, the excuse settling between them like something fragile but agreed upon

But things always got complicated right when people started pretending nothing was happening. Their friends were the first to catch it. It's obvious from their rhythms, the way Love drifted into morning classes with quiet exhaustion but warmer eyes and the way Milk, who normally slumped half-awake over her laptop in the IT building’s hallway, looked strangely rested on those days. The way Love’s voice softened when she spoke to Milk, and the way Milk’s eyes lifted every time Love walked into the room, as if gravity had a personal preference.

They did not say a word at first. Not even when they met at their usual café tucked behind the Communication Faculty, the one with dim lighting and too many posters from old film festivals.

The place was warm with the smell of coffee beans and the low hum of journalism students arguing over layouts. But on that particular afternoon, something heavier lingered. It was Namtan who finally leaned forward, elbows on the scratched wooden table.

“You two… should be careful.”

Emi nodded while flipping through her mass communication notes, eyes sharp behind her glasses.

“Like, actually careful. Before someone gets hurt. The campus loves a scandal.”

Film, buried halfway under scale rulers and the architecture models she brought for no reason, tried to loosen the mood.

“People talk,” she said, pushing her hair aside as she sketched idly on a napkin. “And they make everything uglier than it is.”

Love lowered her gaze to her iced matcha. Milk stared at the condensation on her glass. Neither denied it because neither could deny.

Chimon grew more volatile the moment he learned about Milk. Not current Milk, the quiet IT student who lived in hoodies and debugging marathons, but the old one. Once he learned about the vice president from Love’s high school years, the pair everyone remembered for their bickering teamwork with the kind of partnership that had chemistry even when they swore it didn’t. He now knows they had history. Jealousy awakened something sharp in him and he started setting rules.

“Don’t sleep over at people’s condos anymore. Especially Milk.”

“People? She’s my friend.” Love blinked, confused.

“Is that a problem if you can’t do that?” Chimon said and smiled as if amused.

“Yes,” Love answered simply.

And something inside Chimon shifted, subtle but vicious. He did not lash out right there. Chimon never did because he planned. He waited, acted gentle, sweet, and asked her out to dinner so they could “talk.”

The restaurant he picked was too quiet, too private. The empty place echoed their footsteps. And that was where things then turned ugly. When they returned to his condo, he cornered her. His hands grew rough and his voice sharpened.

“Stop,” Love breathed out.

“You’re being dramatic,” he snapped, fingers tightening.

“I’m your boyfriend, Love.”

The room felt colder than it should. The world immediately shrank. Love’s mind curled in on itself, telling her it was normal, relationships were messy, maybe this was just love’s price. But every time shame felt heavy in her throat, and as always her feet led her somewhere safe. To Milk.

Milk’s condo is tiny, cluttered with computer parts and open textbooks, LED strips glowing faint blue against the walls. When Love stepped in, Milk didn’t even ask, she just opened her arms. And in that space, in the soft hum of Milk’s PC fans and the faint scent of lavender from her desk diffuser, Love finally breathed.

Milk never crossed a line, she never touched where she shouldn’t. She listened, held her, anchored her. Integrity radiated off her like a quiet aura. Love never told her the details of what Chimon did. But Milk saw the aftermath every time, because it was clear in the tremble of Love’s hands. In the quiet way she curled against Milk’s shoulder and the stiffness when her phone buzzed.

Their friends began piecing things together too. Film heard from a friend in the architecture studio who claimed she saw Chimon kissing someone outside a bar. There had been no proof, so they hoped that it wasn’t true.

Milk began noticing smaller things : how Love tensed when someone closed a door too fast, how she zoned out during their group lunches in the Communication building courtyard, where Emi and Namtan debated campaign ethics while Love just stared into her drink.

Then one day Emi arrived with a storm. She burst into their group chat with Milk and Namtan, furious enough to send voice notes for the first time in years. Later they gathered alongside Film in one of the Communication Department’s press rooms. Printers humming in the background, outdated posters peeling off the walls. Emi tossed a stack of unpublished magazine drafts onto the table.

“He was drunk during the interview,” she announced.

“Completely unfiltered. Said shit about ‘power in relationships’ and how he uses discipline with his partner. Detailed disturbing discipline.”

“Bastard.” Namtan said as she slammed her hand down.

“Dickhead,” Emi muttered, her jaw tight.

“That better not get printed.” Film said halfway through building a miniature roof truss model on the table, only groaned.

“It won’t,” Emi assured.

“My team buried it. But I heard it and… now you know.”

Milk stayed silent but her stomach twisted. Every piece of the puzzle locked into place. She had seen Love’s trembling breath, her sudden silence, the bruised vulnerability hiding under her jokes. They wanted to intervene, every one of them. But they didn’t know how to bring that up, especially Milk.

 

 

Notes:

Writing this while watching starlympics2025, sooo much moments!

As always let me know what you think, hope you enjoyed it!

Chapter 14: The Rumor, The Threat, The Blow

Summary:

Get ready for a sharp and breathless turning point that changes everything.

Love woke the next morning with the faint sweetness of lavender lingering in the air. The place is quiet now, sunlight edging through the curtains and cutting soft lines across the tiled floor. Love blinked her eyes open, cocooned in the leftover warmth of Milk’s blanket, and breathed out slowly. For a moment, the weight inside her chest loosened.

She could still hear Milk laughing from last night, a small, husky sound that had felt like a hand pulling her back to shore. The cookies they made were lopsided and half burnt, but Milk had insisted they tasted perfect because Love had made them. Love, in return, joked that Milk needed her tongue checked. It felt childish, too simple compared to the mess her real life was in. But it indeed feels warm cause Milk was warm, and for a few hours she felt like she could breathe.

She sat up slowly, touching her wrist without thinking. A faint bruise surfaced under the sleeve of Milk’s hoodie, the kind that wasn’t an accident, but not dramatic enough to raise questions. Chimon always knew how to leave marks that blended into shadows. Always subtle, always calculated.

Her chest tightened and she looked away. Milk wasn’t in the bedroom. Love heard the faint sound of water running, maybe from the shower. She then rubbed her palms together, grounding herself, trying to reclaim that soft domestic bubble before her mind spiraled somewhere darker. Then Milk’s voice floated.

“You’re awake?”

Love startled, but relaxed when Milk appeared, towel draped around her neck, hair damp and curling at the ends. Milk dressed simple today with white tee tucked into slouchy trousers, the type of effortless style that looked accidental but wasn’t. Love’s gaze lingered a beat too long. Milk always had that effect on her. Love then hummed softly.

“Yeah. Sorry for… knocking out on your place again.”

“If you’re going to apologize,” Milk said lightly, “at least pretend you’re not using your Christmas gift exactly as intended.”

Love blinked, then huffed a quiet laugh.

“Wow. Calling me out already?”

“I gave you a subscription with zero rules,” Milk continued, mock-serious, tilting her head.

“Unlimited comfort. No explanations required. Turns out you're a very dedicated user.” Milk added.

“You’re definitely going to regret adding that ‘no limits’ part.” Love said then huffed softly, tugging the sleeve of her sweater down over her hand.

“Then it’s clearly a design flaw. I should’ve added a disclaimer.” Milk smiled and tapped the couch’s armrest lightly. Then, softer, steadier, she added,

“But you never have to apologize for needing rest.”

Her voice wasn’t loud, yet it felt like it filled the whole room.

“Still. I don’t want to be a burden.” Love swallowed.

“You’re not.” Milk said simply.

And Milk said it like it was the simplest truth in the world but it made Love look away before she melted. Milk then grabbed a plate of cookies from the kitchen and sat beside her.

“Breakfast of champions,” she joked. “And sleep-deprived college students.”

“You baked these. Don’t act innocent.” Love snorted softly.

“I have yes, I supervised with great skill.” Milk feigned offense.

Love bit into the cookie and felt her shoulders loosen. Milk watched her knowingly, then quietly said,

“You don’t have to rush today. If you want, we can study here or bake again and set my kitchen on fire.”

“I should go to campus. Group assignment.” Love smiled, but the warmth was tinged with something heavier.

Milk nodded. She never pressed, never asked more than what Love was ready to give. She simply said,

“I’ll be there too. Lunch with Namtan, Emi, Film, Bonnie?”

Love agreed because she liked having something to look forward to. But the moment she stepped outside Milk’s condo, reality returned, buzzing with whispering that sticking to her skin. The rumors had been growing louder since the past weeks, and now they are spreading even more.

Milk’s popularity didn’t help because people were drawn to her the way moths were drawn to steady light. Good-looking, sharp, stylish as she stood out in a crowd who claimed not to care about appearances. Add the fact that Milk was seen on campus with Love more than anyone else? The whispers became stories. The stories became accusations.

Love tried to ignore them, but rumors traveled faster than sanity. One morning, the campus morning air had the scent of damp grass and car exhaust. Love made her way through the courtyard but she caught fragments of conversation. None directed at her, but all pointed enough to feel intentional.

“Isn’t that the business major girl?”

“Yeah, the one rumored to cheat on her boyfriend.”

“With that IT girl. The tall one.”

“Milk Pansa Vosbein?”

“Mhm. People swear they saw them kissing.”

“I saw the photo. It’s blurry but—”

Love’s heart dropped. The photo, the stupid vague photo someone took at night when she and Milk leaned too close while laughing about something. The angle made it look like they were kissing, though they didn’t. She remembered the moment vividly when Milk had pulled her hood up because she said Love looked cold. Someone must’ve snapped it from across. She hated how easily strangers crafted entire narratives from a single breath. Love then just hugged her books tighter and kept walking, not wanting to give the voices any acknowledgement.

But when Love reached the library, she heard laughter, louder and brighter. She looked over and paused. Milk stood with Tontawan, her IT classmate. Tontawan is long-haired, sharp-jawed, and definitely the type of beauty that makes people blush. They were leaning together over a tablet, discussing something animatedly. Milk gestured at the screen, Tontawan flicked her forehead playfully, and Milk pushed her back with a grin.

It wasn’t flirtatious, it was friendly and normal. But Love’s stomach clenched anyway. Milk looked happy and relaxed. She looked at ease in a way she rarely showed in crowded spaces. Love then took a step back without realizing she did. She wasn’t jealous, she told herself again about how she wasn’t jealous. Cause after all she had no right to be, still, her heart tightened like a hand pulled its strings too hard.

“Isn't that your friend Milk?” Tontawan noticed her first and waved.

“Morning!” Love greeted nervously.

Milk’s head snapped up. A smile softened her whole face.

“Love.”

And just like that, Milk started walking toward her, steps quick but calm, balanced. But Love noticed how her eyes flicked over Love’s face, reading her in a single second.

“You okay?” Milk murmured.

“Yeah. Just tired.” Love lied.

Milk didn’t push, as always. Instead, she just stood beside her. Tontawan then waved goodbye and went the other direction. Milk glanced sideways at Love, sensing the tension

beneath her skin but waiting, being patient as always for Love to speak first. However the rumors involving both of them didn’t die down. By afternoon, they had even mutated.

“Cheated with a girl.”

“Her boyfriend wants to forgive her.”

“She should be grateful.”

Chimon had leaned into the narrative with sickening ease. He appeared wounded, hurt, but gracious with telling people he didn’t blame Love, because misunderstandings happened and he forgave her. Milk heard about this too, their friends heard it as well. The anger in their eyes simmered beneath polite facades.

By the time the lunch meeting neared, Milk’s jaw was tight the entire walk toward the courtyard. Love walked slightly behind her, small steps, trying to disappear. But as always, Milk kept adjusting her pace to match hers.

But Chimon found her as he had waited near the business building, leaning against the pillar, wearing an innocent expression that made Love’s stomach sink. He straightened when he saw her.

“Love,” he called out gently.

“We need to talk.”

“Not now—” Love swallowed.

“It’ll just take a minute.” Chimon smiled with a soft smile on the surface,

“I’m giving you a chance, you know. To clear things up. You owe me that.” Chimon said with sharp breath underneath.

Milk took one step forward, but Love subtly touched her wrist, asking her not to intervene. Chimon raised a brow at Milk.

“You don’t have to follow. This is between us.”

Milk’s shoulders tightened, but she didn’t move closer. She stayed near enough that Love could feel her presence behind her, like a shield waiting to rise. Chimon then motioned Love to a corner behind the pillar. Love didn’t want to go, but resisting always made things worse. So Love stepped forward cautiously. Chimon’s voice then dropped the moment Milk was out of earshot.

“You made me look like a fool.” His tone was silk over blade.

“After everything I’ve done for you.” Chimon added.

“I didn’t do anything. Stop twisting—” Love kept her eyes on the ground.

“Don’t talk back.” Chimon said as he grabbed her wrist. Not too tight, but firm enough to control.

Love stiffened. She didn’t want to make a scene. People were around. Chimon then just forced a smile, disguising the grip as affectionate when a group of students walked past.

“We should talk tonight. Dinner. Don’t refuse.”

“Chimon—”

“You’re already forgiven, Love. I’m being kind.”

Love’s chest tightened with dread. His fingers then pressed harder. But seconds later Milk called from a distance.

“Love! We’re gonna be late.”

Chimon’s jaw twitched. He leaned close to Love’s ear, whispering,

“Tonight. Or I won’t be so patient next time.”

Then he let her go. Love walked away quickly, trying to keep her breath steady. Milk looked at her face the moment she was close enough.

“What did he say?” she asked softly.

“Nothing.” Love shook her head.

Milk didn’t believe her. But she didn’t push, not here, not now.

 

---

 

Days after that passed with suffocating tension. Love moved through classes like her body was there but her mind wasn’t. And sometimes, when she thought she was alone, she looked at herself in the reflection of a window, touching the side of her neck with trembling fingers. Touching the faint marks she kept adjusting her collar to hide. Love even flinched when someone casually brushed against her shoulder. And the way Love avoided eye contact as though ashamed of something she never consented to in the way she wanted.

Because Chimon wasn’t just holding her too tightly, he also pushed her too far. Whenever she tried to slow things down, to put space between them, he treated it like a challenge. He whispered that she was being dramatic, that she always overthought intimacy, that if she really loved him she wouldn’t pull away. He turned every hesitation into guilt.

One night Love lay still, staring at the ceiling while her heartbeat struggled to slow down. The room felt too quiet and too dim. Her body felt wrong, like her skin wasn’t hers, like she wanted to crawl out of it just to breathe again. She pulled the blanket over herself, curling slightly as an ache spread through her legs and lower back. She turned her face away so Chimon wouldn't see. Chimon slid back into bed after pulling his shorts on, his breath brushing the back of her head. His arm draped over her waist, gently but with a possessive heaviness she couldn’t escape.

“You liked it,” he said firmly.

“It just hurts because you’re not used to someone being as passionate as me.”

Love’s stomach twisted while he kissed her shoulder like he was sealing the narrative into her skin.

“Next time, relax more. It won’t hurt so much.” Chimon said as he pressed his body closer.

“You cried because you’re sensitive, okay? Not because of anything I did. You’re just not used to a guy who can give that much. Most girls would kill for that.”

She cried quietly after, not loud enough for anyone to hear. The pressure didn’t stop from there, Chimon cornered her more often now. Always when she was isolated or when her face softened with relief the moment she thought she was finally alone.

In public he was the sweet boyfriend with a warm voice, gentle touch, and hands that settled lightly on her waist. He kissed the top of her head as if he cherished her. But once the hallway emptied, his hand tightened. His smile sharpened and his whispers dug straight into her nerves.

Chimon always blamed it on her “fragile mood.” He said their intimacy was proof of love, and if she felt hurt, it was because she misunderstood him. He acted like every sign of pain was her own fault for “not relaxing”. He always wrapped an arm around her not to hold her, but to keep her from stepping back. Meanwhile the bruises on Love’s wrist darkened and the soreness lingered longer. The fear settled deeper into her bones.

Sometimes she shifted uncomfortably in her chair and pressed her thighs together with a wince she hoped no one noticed. Sometimes she walked slower than usual, her legs stiff, as if trying to hide soreness she couldn’t explain.

Milk stayed close, never overstepping, always quietly orbiting her. Emi and Namtan hovered, offering snacks and distraction. Film checked on her subtly, always from a respectful distance. Bonnie, meanwhile, showed up differently. She never asked questions, never softened her voice, but she stayed planted nearby like a guard dog pretending she wasn’t guarding at all.

But Chimon cornered her more often. Every time Love gathered the courage to say, “We need to talk,” or hint at the word break up, his voice would soften in that dangerous way. Too calm and controlled. Chimon twisted her words until she doubted herself, making her feel guilty for wanting space or wanting to breathe. Just when guilt wasn’t enough, the threats then slipped in. Sometimes it was about her safety and her future. But sometimes worst of all, he used Milk’s name, dropping it like a secret weapon.

“If you leave me now, people will assume it’s because of her,” he’d say with a smile that wasn’t a smile.

“You want everyone thinking you were cheating? You want her dragged into that?”

Love froze every time. The moment Milk was involved, her resolve collapsed only replaced by fear. Not just for herself, but for the one person she couldn’t bear to see hurt.

Love felt herself shrinking again, yet, every night she ended up in Milk’s condo, not always intentionally. Like how sometimes she simply wandered, and Milk offered a silent company. They baked again, they studied, they sat quietly with music playing low. Milk always created a world where Love didn’t have to flinch. Love never said it out loud, but Milk became her anchor, the one person whose presence didn’t bruise.

One evening, Love sat curled at the kitchen counter while Milk ordered food. The speaker was on, music drifting lazily through the room. Love wasn’t paying attention until a familiar melody slid in, soft and nostalgic, like something she’d once loved and forgotten she still did. The song wrapped around her chest before she could stop it.

But I knew you'd linger like a tattoo kiss

I knew you'd haunt all of my what-ifs

Love watched Milk from across the room, the way she leaned her hip against the counter, the faint crease between her brows as she concentrated on the menu. And suddenly, the lyrics threaded themselves again into Love’s thoughts without permission.

And I knew you'd come back to me

You'd come back to me

Love swallowed. She hated how true it felt. Every time she told herself she’d be fine on her own, every time she tried to be reasonable, she still found herself here. Still watching Milk move around the kitchen like this was the most natural thing in the world.

And when I felt like I was an old cardigan

Under someone's bed,

You put me on and said I was your favorite

Love’s throat tightened. Because Milk did that too, didn’t she? Without ceremony, without asking for anything in return. She simply reached out and treated Love like something worth keeping warm. Milk glanced up then, catching Love staring.

“What?” she asked lightly.

“Nothing,” Love replied too quickly, forcing a smile and looking away before Milk could see too much.

The song kept playing, and Love let it, even as her chest ached. She told herself it was just music. Just coincidence. Just her being sentimental again.

But everything broke on a day that felt too ordinary to be a warning. Love was on her way to meet Milk and the group for lunch, weaving through campus with her bag slung over one shoulder, phone in her hand. Milk had texted her ten minutes earlier :

“I’m waiting near the comms building.”

A simple message that made Love smile despite everything. She rounded the corner behind the business building and froze as she saw Chimon was there again, this time his expression felt so wrong. Too calm and too still. A calm that Love knew it meant danger.

“Love.” He stepped into her path. “We’re talking. Now.”

“We’re done talking, I’m meeting friends—” Her pulse spiked.

“You can meet them after.”

“No,” Love said quietly. “I’m going.”

“Did that IT girl put courage in you? Hm?” Chimon’s eyes flicked, sharp and poisonous.

Love took a step back, unease crawling under her skin. Something in his gaze had slipped. Chimon then grabbed her upper arm, hard this time, mask fully gone.

“Don’t walk away from me.”

“Let go,” Love whispered—too soft, too afraid he would react worse if her voice rose.

But he only gripped tighter. And before he could say another word—

“Let her go.”

Milk stood a few meters away, fists clenched, eyes hard enough to cut steel. Her presence hit like a force. Chimon sneered and Milk walked closer.

“This doesn’t concern you.”

“It does when someone I care about is being hurt.”

Chimon laughed, low and mocking.

“Care? Is that what you call it? Pretty bold for someone who’s been playing hero wannabe lately. You think you can take me?”

Milk didn’t answer. She simply reached for Love’s wrist gently and pulled her behind her, positioning herself between them. Chimon exploded, he unexpectedly lunged but Milk shoved Love behind her and caught Chimon’s arm. He is stronger, she knew that, but she didn’t hesitate. The struggle exploded messy and fast. Chimon threw a punch and Milk barely dodged. But she then landed a hit against his jaw, stunning him for a second. Love screamed, voice cracking,

“Stop! Please stop!”

Chimon growled and rammed his elbow into Milk’s face. Her nose burst red instantly. Milk staggered but didn’t fall. She wiped the blood with her sleeve, eyes cold, breath sharp.

“Don’t touch her again.”

Chimon then unexpectedly grabbed a piece of steel pipe from beside the bushes, rusted, forgotten, but heavy enough. Love’s voice died in her throat when Chimon swung it. Milk had blocked the first hit with her arm, pain surging through her shoulder as metal collided against bone. The sound echoed sharp and violent. Milk fell to one knee, gasping, gripping her shoulder.

“Stop! Stop!” Love shouted.

Love cried, reaching forward, but Chimon shoved her against the wall and it hit her head with a dull thud. Milk saw it and pushed herself up, dizzy but furious. She dragged herself forward, grabbing Chimon’s leg to stop him from advancing on Love, a desperate effort.

Chimon roared and brought the pipe down again. It struck the side of Milk’s head, not once, thrice. Then the world thinned into silence. Milk collapsed, eyes slowly rolling shut, blood beginning to pool. Love screamed until her throat burned.

Chimon stared at Milk’s motionless form definitely not with regret, but panic. His breath trembled. He dropped the pipe and kicked it into the bushes. Then he grabbed Love by the wrist, yanking her violently.

“Get in the car,” he hissed. “Now.”

“No—Milk—Milk—” Love sobbed, reaching out, but Chimon dragged her away.

Chimon then shoved Love into his car, slammed the door, and drove off campus. Love cried soundlessly, body shaking, but Chimon gripped the wheel with white knuckles.

“This is your fault,” he spat.

“If you didn’t make me angry—”

“Please… please stop…” Love said as she curled into herself but he ignored her.

Meanwhile, the cafeteria buzzed with noise. Namtan tapped her chopsticks impatiently, glancing at the entrance. Emi checked her phone again. Nothing.

“Where are they? It’s been an hour.”

“Milk always replies. This is weird.”

“Should we check their condos?” Film said as she frowned. Namtan stood instantly.

“I’ll check Milk’s. Film, go to Love’s. Emi, library. Meet at the library at ten.”

They split up fast. Ten minutes later they regrouped. No sign of either Milk or Love. Their phones are unreachable. Anxiety vibrating in the air like electricity. Emi cursed softly.

“Fuck, something isn’t right.”

Film then pointed toward the comms building.

“Let’s check outside. Maybe—”

“AAAAA HELP!” A scream tore through the air.

The three friends whipped their heads around toward the warehouse area between communication and business major. They ran and found a woman standing near the concrete steps, pale with shock, pointing at the ground. A body lay there, a body belonging to Milk. Her eyes closed, pulse shallow, and blood trickled from her head, staining the floor.

“Shit! Shit!” Emi dropped to her knees immediately.

“Oh my god—Milk—Milk!” Namtan’s voice cracked.

Emi’s medic training kicked in. She steadied her hands, leaning close, checking for breathing. “Pulse weak. Breathing shallow. Film, help me stabilize her head. Carefully. Namtan, call emergency.”

“I already called!” the woman said shakily.

“I saw her lying here when I came to open the warehouse door—”

“How long?” Emi pressed.

“I—I don’t know! An hour? Maybe more!”

Namtan clenched her teeth, swallowing panic. She looked around desperately, then saw something, an old CCTV camera dangling awkwardly from a wire.

“Emi” Namtan whispered sharply.

“Someone who did this… they snapped fast. No control and no planning.” Namtan said and Emi nodded grimly.

Minutes felt like hours until paramedics arrived and carried Milk onto a stretcher. Emi and Film followed the ambulance immediately. Namtan stayed, and she then approached the woman.

“What’s your name? Please tell me everything you saw.”

The woman answered shakily, and Namtan took mental notes, forcing herself to stay cold, stay rational, and stay sharp. The security officers arrived soon after and began questioning them both.

Namtan lifted her eyes to the abandoned CCTV again. She didn’t know if it was functional. Yet she prayed it was. Because someone did this to Milk. And Love is still nowhere to be found.

Chapter 15: The Blow No One Saw Coming

Summary:

When love exists not as comfort, but as something fiercely clung to in the dark.

The sun was sinking low when Love found herself shoved into Chimon’s condo, the door slammed behind them with a metallic echo that seemed to echo through her entire body. Love accidentally hit the wall with a thud, grimacing as pain shot through her side. Chimon’s shadow loomed over her.

Before she could even process what was happening, he had locked the door. Her hands clawed at the handle, but it was useless. She kicked, shoved, and tried to throw her weight against him, but it was like pushing against a wall of iron.

“Wait here!”

Chimon snapped as the door clicked shut completely. Love froze her chest heaving and eyes wide, but Chimon had already bolted. The sound of his car engine roaring to life echoed through the quiet neighborhood, leaving her alone in the condo. She pressed her back against the door, trying to calm the rapid pounding of her heart. Love immediately felt a surge of helplessness. Every instinct screamed to flee, yet there was no way out because her phone had been snatched, her hands tied in a figurative trap.

Outside, Chimon’s plan unfolded with his usual cold precision. He drove back to the campus, eyes flicking to the crowds gathering near the warehouse. The police are present now and casting a formal but chaotic order over the lingering tension. Chimon’s smile, light and insincere, intended to mask his calculation.

Chimon spotted Namtan first, he saw her eyes narrowing as he stepped closer. He knew her well enough, he had memorized the way she moved, the way she would assess situations in moments of crisis. His tone casual and practiced, belied the storm brewing in his mind.

“Where is Love?” Namtan asked him, her voice even, clipped, but loaded with subtle tension. Her gaze didn’t waver.

“I don’t know,” Chimon replied smoothly, shrugging as though her question was trivial.

“Probably in class. I just got back from lunch with my friends. Don’t you guys have lunch together?”

Namtan’s eyes then flicked to his hands. She noticed the careful gestures, the little unnecessary explanations he offered, and how his signature tells. She knew he was lying when her instincts screamed it. But then Film’s message suddenly buzzed in her pocket

Film : Milk is stable but still unconscious”

And with that, Namtan’s mind raced. She decided to prioritize the immediate need to check the hospital while also mapping Love’s schedule. Without a word, she turned on her heel, phone in hand, tracking every possible move Love could make while planning her next steps.

Meanwhile, in Chimon’s condo, Love’s panic coiled tighter. She squeezed her chest until her vision blurred. Her teary face pressed against the cold wall as her mind raced through futile escape plans. The space was stifling, filled with Chimon’s controlling energy, a shadow that seemed to seep from the furniture itself. She tried striking the furniture, shattering the fragile illusion of control Chimon maintained over the room, but the phone that had snatched from her hand reminded her that the options were perilously few.

Then a thought struck. Desperate, almost foolish, she moved toward Chimon’s bedroom, the PC glowing silently in the corner like a small beacon. With trembling fingers, she powered it on, her heart then hammering with hope. The password field stared back at her, a silent challenge. Then clarity struck and prompted a gamble. Her own birthday, 2352000, and the system clicked open.

She exhaled sharply, urgency mixing with fear. She then opened Chrome, logged into Instagram, and sent direct messages to Namtan, Emi, and Film, each containing her precise location for rescue. Meanwhile at the hospital, Namtan’s phone erupted with notifications, each one a shrill reminder of the escalating crisis.

“Who would be texting now?” she hissed, exhaling sharply, but her fingers swiped, scanning the incoming messages.

Her eyes then widened as she realized the source, and adrenaline spiked her veins. Without hesitation, she grabbed her coat, quickly motioning to Emi.

“Follow me. Now,” she ordered, the urgency cutting through their concern.

They moved swiftly, the streets blurring around them as tension tightened like a wire around their chests. They reached the place Love shared. Their knocks echoed off the metals. Through a narrow crack, a piece of paper slid out, showing a desperate sign.

“LOVE IS HERE! HELP!”

Emi sprinted to the adjacent office to secure keys while Namtan attempted to force the door. Their combined effort was almost frantic, body pressed and slammed to the door, muscles straining, until the building’s owner arrived, drawn by the noise and urgency.

Emi explained, phone held high, showing Love’s messages. The man’s brow furrowed, scanning the display, before nodding. The door then creaked open, revealing the aftermath of chaos : shattered glass, toppled chairs, scuffed walls, and splintered furniture. They swept the unit, scanning each corner, but Love was nowhere to be seen. The tense silence broke only when the owner mentioned Chimon Corbyn, and a collective shiver ran through Namtan and Emi.

The footage from the building’s CCTV painted an unbearable reality. Love had been forcibly taken, she resisted initially. Yet the clip later showed how she was draped against Chimon, hoodie pulled low and looking powerless. With the current Milk’s absence, coupled with Love’s captivity, it amplified the group’s panic.

Time then slipped by as they compiled reports, checked schedules, and tried to track every possible move Chimon could have made. Meanwhile, Film relayed information to Love’s father. His reaction was muted, enigmatic, and only the subtlest tightening of his jaw showed concern. His instructions were clear, commanding immediate action. Orders then relayed while Film remained polite but attentive, trying not to intrude and catching every critical detail.

Back at the station, Namtan handed over the footage. But the phone suddenly rang, as the officer picked up the call, her voice clipped and sharp, as the command chain surged into motion.

“Yes, sir. They’ve been spotted almost reaching out of town. Order?”

“Stop them. Immediately. Bring her back,” Came the swift reply.

The officer then moved with a precision that mirrored the stakes. Namtan’s protests were brushed aside, clipped, and urgent.

“But what about my reports?”

“Wait here. This is urgent,” The officer said, voice firm, leaving her with her frustration and dread, the weight of helplessness pressing down on her like a physical force.

Outside, the streets hummed with the normalcy of evening traffic, oblivious to the chaos unfolding within. The warm glow of streetlights clashed against the tense shadows of people moving with purpose and racing against time and fear. Every breath and step carried the knowledge that Love’s fate was now a race against an unforgiving clock because each second stretched like an eternity.

And the friends caught between adrenaline and dread. Namtan, Emi, and Film prepared themselves to do everything necessary. Knowing that the hours ahead would demand every ounce of resolve they could muster. The atmosphere is thick, heavy with tension, the faint metallic scent of fear and uncertainty. The search for Love and the accident involved with Milk was only beginning.

 

---

 

Somewhere the tires screamed against the asphalt. A harsh, grating sound that only amplified the tension inside the cramped car. Love was bound by more than just the oversized hoodie draping her fragile frame, her mouth was sealed with tape. A sticky barrier that muffled her cries and swallowed her protests.

Chimon’s hands were white knuckled around the steering wheel, his jaw taut beneath the shadow of his mask. Every so often he let out a frustrated groan, slamming the wheel with a metallic bang that rattled the dashboard.

“None of this would happen if you stuck with me! You made me do this!” he barked,

Chimon's voice was raw and ragged, carrying the heat of obsession and a volatile edge that made Love shrink further into herself. Love’s eyes then darted to the window, the world outside was a blur of streetlights, fast-moving buildings, and occasional glimpses of onlookers whose faces only heightened her helplessness.

Love's mind raced, thinking about Milk. Her heart was hammering with the need to know that she was safe. The hours felt endless as she counted each second in silent prayer, each one of the prayers a serious plea that someone, anyone, had found Milk before it was too late.

The distant wail of a siren made her stomach drop. Chimon’s grip tightened. He shouted, voice rising in panic, a frantic drumbeat against the rhythmic pulse of fear in Love’s chest.

“Get the hell out of my way!”

But it was already too late. Because a police car emerged from a side street, lights blazing red and blue, orders bellowing through the loudspeakers. Chimon then panicked, pressing the pedal harder, the engine roaring and tires skidding. The chase felt unreal. Cameras flashed from bystanders, capturing the tension and chaos. Love just closed her eyes, the world spinning around her in a dizzying kaleidoscope of fear and adrenaline.

 

The crash was sudden. Shocking.

 

Glass shattered everywhere with a deafening sound that seemed to pierce through every nerve in Love’s body. Love's head slammed against the seat, the tape loosening slightly, then the world around her folding into a blur of pain and light. The sirens, the shouting, the panicked screams, all collided. Moments later, slowly her consciousness wavered. She blinked, disoriented, and realized with a strange clarity that she wanted Milk.

Terrifyingly, painfully, she admitted it to herself. Milk. The warm, steady presence of Milk, the one who had anchored her through storms she hadn’t even dared to name flooded her mind in vivid images. Gentle and reassuring. Yet terror coiled tightly within her chest, whispering that she might simply be trading one dependency for another.

Her memories flickered, unbidden : Chimon’s hands, harsh and unrelenting, the fear and anger twisting her stomach into knots. Love tried to focus on Milk again, the warmth and the quiet understanding, the steady gaze that had always met her vulnerability without judgment. Her eyes then flickered open, only to close again. Her tears brimmed, her heart ached, and she felt a strange sense of peace mingled with fear.

When she opened her eyes properly, she was already in a hospital room. The sterile smell of disinfectant and antiseptic filled her nostrils. The beeping of machines and the faint hum of ventilation were her only companions. Then a voice reached her ears, low and measured, familiar yet distant. Her father.

Love shifted slightly, the movement tugging at places that still ached. Vichai stood near the foot of the bed, posture straight, suit immaculate despite the hour. His face gave nothing away. The same unreadable calm he wore in boardrooms and negotiations. But his hand rested on the metal rail of her bed, fingers curled just tight enough to betray him. A nurse then returned with an officer at her side, his uniform crisp, his expression practiced as he stepped closer to the bed.

“Miss, we just need to ask you a few questions about the incident,” the officer said gently, clipboard angled in readiness. “It won’t take long.”

But Vichai lifted a hand without turning to look at them. Voice firm and clear.

“She’s not answering questions yet,” he said, tone even but immovable. “She needs rest.”

“Sir, protocol requires—” The officer paused.

“You’ll have time,” Vichai cut in, still calm. Then his gaze finally flicked up, sharp and unmistakably final. “Not now.”

The silence stretched in the air. The officer studied Love’s pale face, then Vichai’s unyielding stance. After a beat, he nodded once.

“We’ll return when she’s cleared by the doctors,” the officer said, already stepping back.

The nurse hesitated, then nodded and backed away. Love watched it happen through half-lidded eyes, her chest tightening. He didn’t ask how she felt. He didn’t touch her face or smooth her hair. But he stayed there, blocking the world with his body, making it clear that nothing reached her unless he allowed it.

“You don’t have to speak,” Vichai added, softer now, almost careful.

“Just breathe. I’m here.”

 

---

 

Elsewhere in the campus, Namtan sat hunched over a table with Emi, phones and tablets scattered between coffee cups gone cold. From their perspective, everything had narrowed into fragments of proof, chasing truth with shaking hands and harsh truth. The CCTV cameras near the warehouse hadn’t worked since a long time ago. For a few terrifying days, there was nothing solid. Just rumors, gaps, and the sickening sense that the truth might dissolve before anyone could hold it. Until a student staff member came forward.

He was pale, apologetic, his hands clutching a hard drive to his chest like it might break if he loosened his grip. He then explained it haltingly to Namtan and Emi. He had been filming drone footage for a campus promotion on the day it happened. Wide shots of buildings, slow pans over green courtyards, and students moving like careful choreography. Clean, harmless footage that looks completely unrelated, or so he had thought. Except the drone had drifted. Just for a moment but long enough to catch something else.

He told them the footage had already been uploaded to the campus media social page as part of a draft post. It was a student who noticed first, someone then mentioned it in the comments, and screenshots quickly followed as well as the screen recordings. By the time the staff member realized what the drone had captured, the video was already moving faster than he could stop it.

From above, clear and undeniable, it showed Chimon kicking a piece of steel aside into the bushes. The footage showed him dragging Love away from the area where Milk’s body lay unmoving. The angle might not have caught the violence of it, but the intent is clear. It showed proof that what happened wasn’t an accident and that it wasn’t just Love who had been hurt.

Namtan felt her hands shake when she watched it. Emi went very still beside her. They both knew this wasn’t something that could be buried. The case was already bigger than the campus, bigger than whispers. The truth had escaped, and it was no longer willing to be quiet.

“This is enough,” Emi whispered when they watched it back, fury shaking her hands.

It was more than enough. The campus moved fast after that, Chimon expelled immediately. No appeals and no soft landings. Vichai also initiated legal proceedings without hesitation, his lawyers efficient and ruthless. Assault. Intent to harm. Multiple victims. By the time Chimon was sentenced, Love was sitting up in bed again as color slowly returning to her face. The group came to visit her one afternoon. The atmosphere was quiet and heavy. Bonnie sat on the edge of the chair, fingers twisting together. Emi stood close behind her, eyes soft but rimmed with exhaustion. She hadn’t slept well. None of them had.

Namtan leaned against the wall near the window, arms crossed loosely. She looked composed in the way people did when they were holding themselves together by will alone. Film arrived with her, carrying a small bag of fruit she’d already washed and cut at home. In her other hand was a modest bouquet of Love’s favorite flowers. Film then set them down gently on the side table, arranging them so they faced Love, as if that mattered. Maybe it did. No one rushed to speak. They were all there, present, heavy with things unsaid, filling the room with quiet solidarity instead of words. Until finally Love broke the silence.

“How’s Milk? Is she okay?” Love asked, worried.

“Love,” she said gently, voice steady despite the tremor underneath. “Milk is stable. But she’s still unconscious.”

“I want to see her.” Love said, her breath hitched.

Namtan shook her head, already close, already bracing.

“We can’t,” she said softly. “We promised your father. You need to rest first. Please.”

“Just get better. That’s all you have to do right now. Milk would want that.” Emi said as she leaned forward.

“And once you’re discharged,” Bonnie added quickly, “we’ll go together. All of us.”

Love nodded, but tears slipping free anyway, the group then formed a tight group hug. As the days passed, slowly and measured. Finally, the discharge papers were signed. Vichai already watched his daughter walk out of the hospital like he was committing the image to memory. The group went straight to visit Milk. The hospital room there was quieter than Love expected. Milk lay still, pale against white sheets, bandages neat and clinical. Machines breathed for her in gentle rhythms.

Milk’s parents hadn’t arrived yet. Alain and Victoria were tied up in a meeting that could decide the future of their business, something fragile and vital. They had called Film endlessly, voices tight with worry, asking for updates, asking to see her. Film held the phone up so they could watch Milk sleep, could hear the machines, and could know she wasn’t alone.

Love took the chair beside the bed and never really left it. The group automatically rotated in shifts. Emi brought food if Love forgot to eat. Bonnie folded herself into the corner, keeping watch like it was her job. Film handled calls and logistics, grounding everyone when emotions threatened to spill over. But Namtan insisted on music.

“She needs her favorites,” she said, already plugging in her phone.

Sometimes it was Chinatown by Bleachers. Sometimes Call It Fate, Call It Karma by The Strokes. Sometimes Appergi by Radiohead.

“These are depressing,” Love muttered weakly once.

“It’s more like longing, besides, she loves them. They’ll reach her.” said Namtan didn’t budge.

At night Love insisted on staying, even long after visiting hours ended. She held Milk’s hand, forehead pressed to the mattress, sobbing quietly so the nurses wouldn’t hear. Guilt curled around her ribs, sharp and relentless.

“Wake up,” she whispered once, voice breaking. “You can’t do this.”

“You know you promised,” she murmured, brushing her thumb over Milk’s knuckles. “One call away. This is not acceptable service.”

“I’m filing a complaint,” she whispered. “You don’t get to break your own gift.” Her voice cracked completely.

The machines kept their steady rhythm, indifferent, steady as a metronome marking time without mercy. Love pressed her forehead lightly against the edge of the bed, hands curled into the blanket like she could anchor herself there.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, the words barely sound.

“I’m so sorry I dragged you into this. You were only there because of me.” Her breath shuddered.

Chapter 16: Between Wanting and Waiting

Summary:

Where devotion and healing moves through quiet routines, shared silences, soft humor, and unspoken jealousy.

Between upper-semester classes and the hospital, Love learned how to live on fractions of herself.  Lectures she attended with half a notebook filled but half her attention missing. Her eyes skimming slides while her phone rested face-up on the desk in case the hospital called

For Love lunch was whatever fit in one hand, eaten while walking, because afternoons belonged to Milk. Every day, without exception, Love took the same route, the same elevator, the same hallway that smelled faintly of antiseptic and something floral from the cleaning carts. Homework waited until night. Sleep came in shallow pieces on the hospital couch or with her head bent against the edge of the bed. She became fluent in this split existence, student by day, silent guardian by evening, suspended between responsibility and devotion.

Love remained by Milk’s bedside as the hospital room began to thin out, the orange glow of the sunset painting the walls in warm streaks of light. Namtan already waved goodbye and let Love stay.  Love gazed at Milk’s face, memorizing every line of her face like she was afraid it might fade if she looked away. She then wiped at her eyes quickly, stubbornly, as if tears were another thing she couldn’t afford.

Her heart thrummed, tight and aching, crowded with words she had nowhere to put. But then suddenly, faint yet unmistakable, a sound brushed against her ear. A familiar and fragile voice. Finally,

“Mmm… wakey wakey…” Milk’s eyelids fluttered, her voice raw, weak, yet unmistakably hers.

Love’s breath caught. Without hesitation, she leaned forward and wrapped Milk in an embrace so tight it seemed to steady both of them. Milk flinched slightly, pain radiating from her body, and Love whispered apologies, soft and hurried, pressing her face against Milk’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry… it’s going to be okay now.”

Milk’s fingers trembled as they brushed against Love’s hands, the faintest squeeze answering the embrace, signaling that despite it all, she's here, present, and slowly returning to the warmth she had been waiting for.

Outside the window, the sun started to dipped lower, spilling golden light across the floor. In that moment, the hospital room filled with quiet relief and the steady unbroken heartbeat of trust.  Love pressed her forehead against Milk’s, feeling the fragile rhythm of recovery and the enduring tether that had always existed between them.

And in the gentle glow of the evening, with the world outside continuing unaware, they existed only in that small, fragile space slowly healing, together, quietly reclaiming what had almost been lost.

The days passed quietly and peacefully. Milk’s recovery progressed faster than anyone had anticipated. The bruises faded, the aches dulled, and the lingering fear that once haunted her eyes began to soften. 

Every morning, Love arrived at Milk’s side, carrying a laptop, a stack of books, or simply herself, ready to keep her company. The room, once sterile and tense with monitors and alarms, now felt lived-in, warm. Papers and textbooks spread across the coffee table, notebooks with scribbled code and sketches stacked beside Milk’s laptop. 

Love hummed softly while typing away, or occasionally reading aloud from a business article, while Milk’s fingers absently traced patterns on the edge of the blanket, her gaze focused onLove. Milk had been lying back with her head propped on pillows, felt something shift inside her. The accident had left her with physical pain, yes, but the terror and chaos of Jeremy’s control were gone, sealed off by the sentence and the truth finally revealed. 

“Milk, do you know what happens when demand elasticity meets a monopolistic—”

“No.”

“You didn’t even let me finish—”

“And I still say no.”

Love would roll her eyes, but her lips always twitched into a smile. Milk allowed herself a small smile when she remembered how Love had sat beside her. Love’s hand resting lightly over hers, whispering that it would be okay. Love is officially single now, her heart still fragile from the ordeal, but Milk quietly allowed herself hope. Just a little.

One evening, when the sun had dipped and the hall lights outside turned soft and bluish, Milk noticed Love still hadn’t left. She sat on the small couch beside the bed, chin propped on her palm, reading something she clearly wasn’t absorbing. Milk shifted.

“Love… go home. It’s late.”

“No,” Love said simply.

“You can’t babysit me forever.” Milk huffed.

“I’m not babysitting. I’m supervising.”

“That’s even worse.”

“Too bad.” Love said, didn’t look up.

“You know, the earth is really lucky I didn’t die.” Milk said and let out a laugh, low and tired.

Love’s head jerked up while Milk grinned.

“What?”

“Imagine me gone. No Milk. The universe would be deprived of—”

“Don’t say things like that.”

Love’s voice was sharp. Too sharp and Milk just blinked, taken aback.

“Love, sorry I’m just joking—”

“It’s not funny.” Love’s eyes shone with something raw.

“Don’t ever say stupid things like that again. The world without you—” She cut herself off, jaw tight. 

“Just don’t.”

“…Okay,” Milk murmured softly. “I won’t.”

The next morning, Milk woke to the faint sound of shallow breathing. She then looked over and found Love was curled awkwardly on the couch with the hoodie half slipping from her shoulder. Love’s face pressed into a pillow like she’d collapsed from exhaustion. Milk sighed, rubbing her own temple when she realized that Love had stayed another night here.

She watched her for a moment, this stubborn, fragile storm of a person. Something inside Milk shifted and warmed as she thought of something to herself. Her mind then drifted back, uninvited, to another difficult afternoon when their first real talk after months of separation happened.

Not a full memory, just a blur of soft voices. Love’s fingers brushing her sleeve, and then saying “I thought we were something more”, back when things were different from now. The thought hurt, but it also anchored her.

“Milk?” Love’s voice pulled her back to the present.

“Hmm?” Milk answered.

“What were you thinking about?”

Milk forced a smile.

“Nothing important. I… I just miss our friends.”

Love looked at her for a moment, like she didn’t believe her. But she didn’t push. Instead, she simply nodded.

“Then let’s see them.”

That afternoon, Love gathered everyone. Bonnie arrived first with Emi, chatting loudly. Film and Namtan came second. The room suddenly brightened with their energy. They talked about classes, new clubs, stupid campus rumors. Laughter bounced off the walls, familiar and warm. Milk felt something knit itself back together inside her, but then, during a lull, she leaned back and grinned.

“I almost died,” she said dramatically.

“Yet I hear nothing about my best friends’ biggest love story. That’s unfair.”

Namtan and Film exchanged a look so quick yet so loaded that Milk immediately sensed there was a whole universe behind it. A quiet history and a long one. Love noticed it too, how Namtan’s shoulders stiffened for half a second and Film’s fingers brushed her own wrist as if grounding herself. Before anyone could continue, Emi, who had never once understood the concept of subtlety just continued the topic.

“They’ve been dancing around each other for years.” Emi said.

“I knew it, since junior high school, right?” Milk blinked.

“Milk, please, where have you been? Under a rock? Yes, they’ve been orbiting each other but more intensely since senior year in high school.” Emi snorted.

Love leaned forward slightly, curious despite herself.

“Wait,  so you guys were serious?” Love asked.

Emi lifted both hands, ticking off on her fingers.

“Let’s see—constant bickering over stupid things, calling each other at 2 a.m. for no reason, refusing to admit jealousy, and acting like divorced parents during group projects… yeah, serious years.”

“Emi, please—” Namtan groaned and covered her face.

But Emi was already on a roll.

“You remember that one Christmas in junior high school back then, Milk? When they argued about the tree decorations for three hours? I thought they were going to murder each other and then kiss right after.”

“And then, after all that tension, during college freshman year they finally got drunk and— had drunk sex in a car.”

“EMI.” Film said as she slapped Emi’s arm.

“For the love of god, please… stop talking.” Film added then buried her face in her palms.

But Emi continued, unbothered.

“Classic ‘holy shit, I’m in love’ moment the morning after. Besides Milk and Love, who banter like an old married couple? Yeah, apparently those two had their own thing going on.”

“Emi! What the hell—” Namtan yelped.

Film covered her face with both hands.

“Em… we are going to talk. Later.”

“You dug that hole yourself.” Bonnie said as she slapped Emi’s arm lightly.

“Hey, at least you two are together now. Everyone wins.” Emi said, shrugged, smug.

Film glared at Emi, then at Namtan. Who despite everything, reached for her hand and Film squeezed back.

Milk and Love exchanged a look. One look mixed with amusement, fondness, and a kind of shared ache they didn’t dare speak aloud. Because watching Namtan and Film was like watching a mirror. A possibility and a reflection of everything they were, everything they almost were, everything they might still be.

 

---

 

When Milk was discharged from the hospital, her parents visited almost immediately, worry etched in every line of their faces. Alain Vosbein, ever stoic, paced briefly before finally settling in the chair by her side, his usual reserved self softening as he looked at her.

“You’ve done well, Milky,” he said quietly, pride threading through his words. 

Victoria’s hand brushed against Milk’s arm, her motherly warmth, a balm to the lingering aches. Her eyes glistened, though there was joy behind them.

“We were so scared,” she admitted. 

But their visit carried more than concern because they came with news of a successful business deal, one that claimed to restore their family’s empire to its former glory. Milk felt a bubble of relief and happiness swell within her, mingling with gratitude. 

Despite her parent’s offer to move her into a larger, fancier place, Milk insisted on staying in her old condo, the space that had always been hers. And now, with Love frequently by her side, it has become a shared haven of warmth and familiarity.

The domestic moments between them felt even more effortless, like breathing. They cooked together, experimenting with recipes while laughing when a batter splashed or a spoon slipped. Love would playfully flick flour at Milk, who responded with a mock glare, only to laugh softly.

They binge-watched shows, sometimes leaning against each other on the couch, Milk’s hand resting lazily over Love’s. Late nights were filled with whispered conversations, discussions over assignments, coding errors, or campus gossip, the world outside forgotten in the comfort of their small shared universe.

But even in this closeness, challenges quietly stirred. Milk’s subtle charm had always drawn attention, and despite her reserved IT demeanor, she carried herself with a natural elegance and confidence that made her stand out. 

The first time happened on a late Thursday afternoon. The courtyard felt unusually calm with students scattered lazily under the shade while sunlight filtered through the leaves. Love was walking toward the benches with two iced coffees, mentally rehearsing a joke she wanted to tell Milk. Then she saw Milk sitting beside Tontawan, laptop open between them. Tontawan was leaning in, just a little too close and talking quickly with hands that moved like punctuation marks. Tontawan tapped Milk’s screen, excited.

“See this? That loop is killing your load time. If you change the API call, it’ll run much smoother.”

Milk’s eyes widened. She looked genuinely impressed.

“Oh—so that’s why my script kept looping on me. I thought I messed up the syntax.”

“Nah, your syntax is great. Like, really good.” Tontawan nudged her with a grin.

“Your interface is clean too. I swear, your code is neater than my room.”

Milk laughed, soft and honest. Tontawan then nudged her shoulder again and Milk gave a tiny playful shove back.

“That’s not a very high bar.”

 “Rude. Accurate, but rude.”

And that was when something inside Love tightened. Not violently, just sharply, like someone had plucked a string inside her chest a little too hard. Then, the second time, it was Ciize. Complimenting Milk’s sketches as she holds Milk’s notebook with obvious interest. 

It was in the cafeteria, late afternoon where sunlight spilled across the table like warm syrup. Love came back after throwing away some wrappers and froze at the sight of Ciize flipping through Milk’s sketchbook. Ciize then gasped dramatically.

“Milk! This is insane. You draw like this and never tell anyone?”

“It’s just—something I do when I’m bored.”

“This portrait—who is she?” Ciize pointed.

Love didn’t need to look. She already knew, it was her. Milk’s version of her with gentleness around the eyes, a little idealized, painfully soft. But Milk avoided Love’s stare as her cheeks turned warm. 

“Can you draw me naked like Rose's style from the Titanic as the reference Milk?” 

Ciize only smiled like she was holding a secret she had no right to keep. Meanwhile Love's chest felt too small for her lungs.

By the third, Jing had been lingering at Milk’s side after a study session. The library lights were dimmer than usual, casting everything in sleepy gold. When Love returned from returning a book, she found Jing and Milk standing near the exit, Jing leaning in with that mischievous glint she always wore.

“Milk,” Jing said, twirling a pen between her fingers,

“Teach me some French.”

“Why the sudden interest in French?” Milk blinked.

“Because you speak it. And it sounds attractive.” Jing winked.

“Teach me something please.”

Milk hesitated for a moment.

“Um—‘Bonjour’ means hello. Or ‘Enchantée,’ that's a nice one—”

But Jing cut her off with a grin.

“No no, I want something useful. Like… a French kiss.”

Milk’s brain practically stalled. But Jing laughed and tapped her arm.

“I—Jing—what—”

“I’m kidding! hahaha,”

Milk just groaned into her hands. Love then stepped forward, her voice colder than she intended. Jing blinked, taken aback by the tone. Milk, however, looked quietly relieved when Love led her away.

“The library is closing. Let’s go.” Love said.

And the fourth was Piploy, offering to help Milk carry her laptop bag when Love was momentarily distracted. It was after class, the walkway buzzing with students hurrying to beat the traffic. Love looked away just for one second to check a message, and in that precise second, Piploy drifted closer to Milk.

“Your bag looks heavy,” Piploy said sweetly. “Let me carry it for you.”

“It’s okay, really.” Milk shook her head with a polite smile.

Piploy reached for the strap anyway but Love reacted before she could think.

“Here,” she said, slipping the bag off Milk’s shoulder with easy familiarity. 

“I’ll hold it.”

Milk blinked at her. Surprised first, then amused, then something softer, something that made her stomach go warm. Love then looked away too quickly, pretending to adjust the strap. But the truth sat quietly inside her. She wasn’t upset because Milk drew attention, she was confused with herself and maybe a bit upset because Milk didn’t push them away. Love no longer knew whether she had the right to want Milk to choose her.

The fifth happened just yesterday when a classmate had jokingly tried to sit close to Milk in the café, only for Love to find her own fingers curling tightly around her cup. Each instance was small, seemingly insignificant, but together they built a quiet storm.

Milk of course noticed. The way Love’s eyes followed her a little too closely, the faint clench of her jaw, and the subtle pull back when Milk laughed too brightly with someone else. Rather than confront it, Milk allowed herself a private amusement, a secret joy in Love’s small jealousies. This quiet dance, unspoken yet palpable but slowly forced the question to the surface : What are we now, after all of this?

But without Milk knowing it, internally, Love wrestled with her emotions. The fear of replacing one dependency with another gnawing at her. After Chimon, after the helplessness and trauma, could she truly allow herself to lean again? What if something went wrong again? What if her heart became entangled only to break once more? The fear coiled tightly in her chest, making her hesitate, retreat, second-guess every touch, every lingering glance.

One morning, Love made a decision. She packed her things from Milk’s condo quietly, the soft hum of the road outside masking the pounding of her heart. She then sought professional help, a counselor who could guide her through the trauma and help her learn to trust again. First herself, then anyone else. She admitted to herself that she couldn’t leap into a relationship with Milk while her own heart was still mending. Love needed to stand on her own before intertwining fully with someone else.

Their friends noticed the dynamic shift. Namtan, Emi, Film, and Bonnie exchanged knowing glances and whispered comments whenever Milk and Love crossed paths. Though unspoken, they silently “shipped” the pair again, rooting for the connection that was no longer secret, just quietly waiting for its proper moment.

In the meantime, Milk and Love still walked together, side by side across campus paths, library corridors, and the occasional café. They shared study sessions, coding troubleshooting, business analyses, and design critiques. Milk’s sketches sprawled across the table, while Love’s spreadsheets and marketing plans overlapped with her notes.  They grew together, their steps in sync, their silences comfortable. Yet the tension lingered, an invisible thread, hinting at more than friendship.

Milk observed Love carefully, noticing the subtle cues of hesitation. On how Love’s glances lingered, her fingers brushed sometimes accidentally against Milk’s. Milk understood the signals, chose to enjoy them in secret, thinking maybe Love was slowly untangling her own fears, letting herself inch closer to the warmth Milk offered.

And for Love, she wanted Milk but not as a replacement for her past. Instead, as the one steady and warm presence she could trust, not just the anchor that had saved her once. For now, they walked together side by side. Not yet a couple in label, but connected in every small, intimate way that mattered. They shared their worlds and laughter. Love glanced at Milk one night, almost shy in the dim hallway light.

“Milk?”

Milk hummed in response, hands in her pockets, gaze drifting toward her with that soft attention she reserved for very few people. Love then  took a breath.

“You know… I don’t want something just because I’m lonely,” she said, voice gentle, steady.

“And I don’t want someone just because they make me feel safe for a moment.”

“Okay…?” Milk blinked, brows knitting lightly.

Love continued, words careful but weighted, the closest she could get to the truth without unraveling it completely.

“When I choose someone… I want it to be because I see a future there. Something real. Something that makes sense even after all the noise fades.”

She kicked lightly at the floor, pretending it was a casual thought.

“And… there aren’t many people who feel like that to me.”

“So… you’re saying you’ve found someone like that?” Milk swallowed, slowly.

“Maybe I already have.” Love’s lips tugged into a tiny, private smile.

Inside, the truth stayed carefully folded. Love knew this wasn’t the perfect time. Not yet. Chimon had left behind more than bruises and fear in her. He had chipped at her sense of worth, taught her to second-guess her instincts, her boundaries, and her own desirability. Some days, she still flinched at raised voices. Some nights, her body remembered before her mind could catch up. Love knew she needed to untangle that first, to rebuild herself to become solid and safe before she reached for anything new, even something new that already felt like home.

Milk didn’t push and her eyes softened, a quiet warmth blooming there. Love just felt her chest flutter in a way that terrified her and made her feel alive at the same time. Though the question of what we are lingered, unspoken and tantalizing between them. Both of them understood that growth, healing, and connection came first. Love and Milk were patient, quietly waiting for the right moment, and in each other’s presence, they were already home.

 

---

 

Weeks later the campus theatre buzzed with excitement. The smell of fresh paint, stage props, and faint traces of popcorn lingering in the air. Namtan, in her final year and somehow taking on the role of director, moved around the room with a clipboard clutched in one hand and a stack of scripts in the other. 

Her hair pulled back hastily, a pen tucked behind her ear, she radiated a chaotic energy that somehow kept everyone in line. This year’s production, a drama she had personally scripted, was inspired by what she jokingly called “true love stories from the campus” and no one had been spared, especially her best mates, Milk and Love.

The opening scene was absurd. The main character, a prince, dramatically held a  bag and hurled it into a gutter. It was supposed to set the stage for tension, but Milk and Love exchanged incredulous looks, eyebrows knitting in amusement and disbelief.

“You… wrote this?” Milk whispered, nudging Love under the dim stage lights.

“Apparently,” Love muttered, rolling her eyes, cheeks heating.

The story quickly spiraled into full-blown banter between the prince and princess, complete with over-the-top dialogue and ridiculous misunderstandings. 

Milk and Love both frowned, recognizing snippets of their own interactions coded into lines, and occasionally catching each other's expressions of disbelief. The audience roared with laughter, completely oblivious to the private jokes embedded in the performance.

By the second act, the prince and princess were reconciling, plotting, and bantering as they navigated their “kingdom responsibilities.” Love’s face reddened as the parallels became too obvious to ignore. 

The prince then suddenly received word that his grandfather was dying and he had to leave his princess behind. The princess cried, raged, and eventually reconciled with the prince years later after a battle, a warzone, and countless impossible quests. Then the final scenes flashed of the prince and princess surrounded by the ruins of their friends’ lives, leaving the audience in hysterics. Everyone, except Milk and Love.

Milk simply sulked after, arms crossed and eyes half-closed. Love tucked her face into her hands, silently mortified, wishing she could disappear. Meanwhile, Namtan danced across the back stage afterward with a flourish, celebrating the applause, high-fiving the cast and crew. 

“You have to pay me for this story, or I’ll kill you!” Milk yelled after the show though her voice carried more playful frustration than actual threat.

“OOOOH SCARYYY!,” Namtan responded, twirling dramatically, and Milk groaned.

After the theater chaos settled, campus life then resumed its regular rhythm. Love buried herself in her thesis, focused on graduation requirements, despite her father’s subtle and persistent pressure. But now, with therapy sessions helping her unpack and understand her past, she is now calmer, able to communicate openly, and no longer bottling emotions. 

Milk is always there, patient and understanding, never pushing and crossing lines. Her presence is quiet like a comforting anchor. Love could feel the warmth and the safety, yet every time she noticed Milk’s charm attracting attention and students complimenting her. An itch of jealousy flared. She said nothing, because she couldn’t claim ownership, and Milk, blissfully unaware, went about her life with gentle grace. 

Meanwhile, teasing had become a constant in Milk’s world. Emi and Namtan treated it like a daily ritual.

“She’s a monk, a saint. How do you have that much self-control, Milk?” Emi asked, leaning on the back of the couch.

“Do you not know how to do it with a woman? I can teach you. No need to worry, I’m sure Love will be satisfied! After all, you have quite the slender fingers,” Namtan teased, smirking.

“At this point, Love might as well ask for a ring, but Milk is too clueless about it,” Bonnie chimed in with a grin.

“Hahaha, come on, guys, give her a rest! You’re hilarious!” Film added, laughter booming across the room.

Milk simply sulked but she let them tease, understanding that for now, the balance between her and Love is enough. The closeness, the boundaries, the unspoken affection is more important than the noise around them. Their intimacy remained measured. They hug, hold hands, and share private moments, but always stop before crossing lines that could overwhelm Love. 

One morning, Milk woke to quiet sniffles under the blanket, where Love lay curled up beside her. The night before, they had shared a closeness that triggered raw emotions, so they stopped immediately. Milk’s finger brushed against Love’s back as she sobbed softly, apologizing to Milk over and over.

“I’m sorry, Milk…”

“It’s okay, Love,” Milk whispered as she then gently brushed strands of Love’s hair, grounding her with warmth.

They shared updates daily. Love would recount her therapy sessions and progress, while Milk described her latest IT projects, sketches, and creative experiments. They lived what felt like a couple’s life, yet without the official label.

 

---

 

But then a new sudden storm arrived. Milk mentioned it one day, offhandedly, that she was applying for an abroad student exchange. Just a casual whim born from boredom. But when the acceptance letter came, it turned real. French, six months away.

Love’s chest tightened, she felt a pang of fear she couldn’t name. She had no right to stop Milk because after all their relationship is still undefined. But the thought of separation gnawed at her heart. Still she forced herself to smile, to support Milk, though her hands clenched in quiet tension.

Milk, oblivious to the depth of Love’s internal struggle, assumed that the news might prompt them to finally push for a status. But Love stayed silent, the truth, of what Milk did not know was, Love was still too afraid. Too respectful and too aware of her own limitations.

The day of departure then quickly arrived. The group were there to see Milk off with a mix of excitement and tension in the air. Milk’s parents, Alain and Victoria Vosbein, were present too. Their faces are a careful blend of pride and worry.

“Remember to call often,” Victoria said, pressing a small travel kit into Milk’s hand.

“Behave yourself,” Alain added with a faint smile, one hand resting briefly on Milk’s shoulder.

Milk laughed softly, nodding. Her gaze found Love in the crowd. Love's lips pressed together in a line of control. The thought of leaving Love behind for six months felt like a small knife twisting in her chest, but she held it with grace. Love waved to Milk, subtle but meaningful when the fingers trembled slightly. Milk nodded back and stepped toward the departure gate.

For Love, the world seemed to slow down. Watching Milk walk away, the weight of unspoken feelings pressed heavier than before. She realized, fully and painfully, how much Milk meant to her, how much her presence anchored her, and how the lack of label, didn’t diminish the ache of separation. And yet, amid the chaos of departure, a quiet certainty settled in Love’s chest : Love would wait for them, then grow together, and return to each other mattered the most.

Notes:

Hello, jello!
how's the chapter so far?
btw from this day till 25th I'll update 2 chapters a day! Christmas Eve~~

Chapter 17: The Tender Unraveling

Summary:

Memory, distance, and longing blur together, leading not to answers yet, but to a calmer knowing.

Love sat across from Eliz in the quiet room that always smelled faintly of lavender and old books. The ceiling lights softened by a warm shade that made everything feel slower and gentler. The ticking of the small clock beside the tissue box was steady, almost too steady, like it was trying to guide her breath back into a normal rhythm. She tried to follow it and tried to pretend she wasn’t terrified of her own voice.

Eliz waited with that patient stillness she always had. Her pen is resting idle next to her notebook. Love had learned what this meant, she was giving space, not pressure and it helped. Or at least it kept Love from bolting out of the room. When Love finally exhaled, something inside her cracked open, and then she began speaking. Her voice started small, almost brittle, but it carried the truth she had been trying not to look at.

Love talked about the night she confronted Chimon’s rage, how she’d thought she could reason with him, calm him, and talk him down the way she had learned to navigate her father’s moods.

But there had been a moment, sharp, quick, and unmistakable. Where she realized she wasn’t reasoning with him at all. She was surviving him. The same way she used to survive the tension that thickened the halls of her childhood home. And then she said it : that she hated herself for freezing. For feeling disgusted afterward. For feeling like the terror that consumed her was somehow familiar and normal.

The word lodged in her throat, but she forced it out anyway. The understanding of normalcy as if danger was a language she was raised to understand. Eliz didn’t interrupt, she only nodded once, gently, to tell Love she wasn’t being judged.

Love then swallowed hard, her voice shaking as the truth bled through. She didn’t know what hurt more, the memory of Chimon’s fury or the sickening understanding that she had seen that kind of expression before. Even long before she knew what intimacy or dating was. And the realization then hit her body, she reacted not with surprise, but with old, inherited instinct. That was the part that scared her most. Her chest tightened. She closed her eyes.

“I feel disgusted,” she whispered.

“I feel like the part of me that froze…is the same part that learned to be small at home.”

“It wasn't a weakness. It was survival.” Eliz said, her voice was calm, steady.

But the words couldn’t settle inside Love yet. Not when she still saw pieces of herself she couldn’t stand. And then, in that same trembling breath, she drifted backward into her past.

Her parents’ divorce had happened before she even entered elementary school. A memory she couldn’t fully grasp but carried in fragments. She remembered her father differently with gentle hands and tired eyes that softened when she smiled. Love remembered the faint scent of cigarettes he tried and failed to hide. He used to pick her up and spin her around, he also used to hum while cooking fried rice on Saturday mornings.

However after the divorce, everything shifted. He didn’t yell and strike at first. The changes came in more subtler ways. It’s in the way his silences grew longer, the shadows under his eyes darker, and how the stack of paperwork on his desk higher every week. The house quickly became a place where footsteps mattered. Where the weight of his sigh could determine whether dinner would be peaceful or punishingly quiet.

Then came the control. It controlled how Love studied, ate, spoke, even walked. He said it was how people of their “class” were supposed to behave. Her father said that everything reflected on the family name. He said Love needed discipline but masked it both in punishment and correction. Love had accepted it with a quiet obedience that now made her stomach churn.

She also remembered the moment Leo, her older brother, one time stopped accepting the control. Their age gap was wide enough that Love hadn’t yet learned to fight back, while Leo already learned how to do it. But each rebellion ended with their father’s voice rising, the sound of something breaking against a wall, and a horrible silence afterward. Leo never cried in front of her. But she remembered the shaking in his hands.

And she remembered their father telling her that if she dared misbehave the way Leo did, he would treat her the same. After that, Love locked up every instinct she had, the silence and compliance felt safer than thought of rebellion.

Love’s voice trembled as she told Eliz about moving to London. Her father’s business had grown rapidly, and with it she and Leo were enrolled in private schools. Their environment changed, but the pressure didn’t. If anything, it only tightened.

And then, in high school, she met Milk for the first time. Love almost smiled at the memory, but it flickered quickly, replaced by the uneasy embarrassment she felt even now. Because the misunderstanding between them had been ridiculous and stupid. Something she should have cleared up immediately but she hadn’t. Because she didn’t know how to confront things and didn’t know how to admit she misunderstood. Back then she didn’t know how to say what she really felt or thought.

The first time Love saw Milk throw the plastic bag, she froze. Milk hadn’t even noticed her watching. Love had just assumed the worst and carried the wrong conclusion in her chest for far too long. Instead of clarifying, she let the assumption grow roots. It grew, forming a tension, then banter, then a strange animosity that wasn’t even real but had shaped their dynamic. Love knew that deep down, that Milk had tried to clear things up. But in Love’s mind, which was molded by her father’s belief that unnecessary explanations were pointless. She couldn’t tell the truth and couldn’t admit the misunderstanding.

Their interactions spiraled into something messy and sharp. They behaved like an old married couple who didn’t know they weren’t actually fighting. Milk tried to break the tension many times, but Love had kept the misunderstanding locked inside, which only frustrated Milk further. And somehow, despite all of it, something warm grew between them. Something unspoken, unnamed, too fragile for either of them to acknowledge.

Love talked about how everything changed when Milk vanished. Right before they started university, Milk’s family business collapsed. She disappeared without a warning, without explanation, and how their “almost something” dissolved into uncertainty.

When Milk returned, everything was already different. They rebuilt slowly, cautiously, and for a moment it felt like there was a chance for something more than friendship. Both Love and Milk felt it. They then hovered in that strange liminal space, not quite together but never felt enough to be just friends.

Love’s voice dimmed when she mentioned how she met Chimon beforehand. She didn’t describe him with bitterness, because he wasn’t, at least not at first. She then explained how numb she had felt, how lost, how hurt by Milk’s sudden disappearance. And Chimon had seemed like warmth at a time she felt abandoned.

Their meeting at the bar had been impulsive and confusing. They never had sex that night because Love was scared, and Chimon had respected it. He seemed like a gentleman. He seemed steady. He seemed safe.

Love then admitted something she had never said aloud : Chimon’s early stability reminded her of her father, not the violent parts, but the parts before the divorce. The protective shadow, the authority, and the decisiveness. It’s what made her trust him and made her overlook the early signs.

Then she told Eliz about the first moment she saw something shift in his eyes. The first time he gripped her arm a little too tightly. Not enough to bruise, not enough to make her scream but just enough to remind her of old ghosts. Each incident added a stone to the weight on her chest. Love paused then, her eyes glassy. When she blinked, tears dripped silently down her cheeks. She wiped them with the back of her wrist. Embarrassed by the tremor in her breath. Eliz leaned slightly forward, her voice soft but firm.

“We can stop here, if you want.”

Love nodded. A small, fragile motion. Part relief, part exhaustion. She took the rest of the session to breathe.

When she finally stepped out of the clinic, the cool evening air pressed against her skin. Her phone buzzed, she checked it. She always updated Milk after each session, even after Milk flew to French. It had become part of her routine, a thread connecting them despite distance.

Love typed her message slowly and carefully. She told Milk she had finished her session. Told her she was going home. Told her she hoped Milk's day wasn't too stressful. But hours passed and there was still no reply. Love tried not to overthink it, but there was a cold drop of worry sliding down her spine. She reminded herself that Milk must be tired, busy, or just overwhelmed with her own schedule. She repeated it silently like a mantra. Maybe she’s tired or just distracted.

But the truth is that Milk, miles away in Paris. Was staring at her own phone with a tightness in her chest she didn’t want to admit. She had expected… something. Maybe a push for a label, maybe fear of losing her, maybe a confession.

Milk smoked in the quiet hallway outside her apartment, letting the cold night air bite her fingers. Her neighbor had introduced cigarettes to her as casually as asking for a penny. Milk never planned to pick up the habit, but she did. Stress made it worse. And no one knew, especially not Love.

 

---

 

The next morning in London, Love woke with sunlight touching her cheek and a knot in her stomach. She reached for her phone immediately, still nothing. Her chest hollowed at the sight, a quiet ache settling under her ribs. She lay there for a while, breathing slowly. And as the minutes passed, she felt something she hadn’t allowed herself in months : clarity, she truly wanted Milk.

It wasn’t just longing, it wasn't a dependency. It wasn't an escape. It was desire, heavy, warm, and real. A desire that used to scare her because Chimon had twisted her understanding of intimacy into something painful, something taken, something rough and unkind. In the way he had touched her without truly seeing her and without listening.

And yet, in the privacy of her own mind, she thought about Milk in ways she had been too afraid to acknowledge. She thought about how she wanted to touch Milk slowly, gently, and honestly. How the idea of being close to Milk didn’t trigger terror, but instead a soft heat that spread quietly across her skin. She thought about wanting to explore something deeper than a kiss, something that would require trust, vulnerability, choice.

She flushed at the thought, but didn’t push it away this time. She let it exist. She let herself feel it, even if it made her heart race with fear. Because this desire is the most liberating thing she’d felt in a long time.

Love stared at her phone again, the screen still empty. A piece of her ached, but another part understood. Love exhaled slowly, letting the morning light wash over her face.

For the first time, she recognized that healing wasn’t just about breaking the past. It was about building the future with intention. And she refused to let the past define the intimacy she wanted to create. Love fiddled with the edge of her blanket, cheeks warming again.

“I want to choose this. I want to choose you… at my own pace.”

“And I want to feel things without flinching, without running, without apologizing for wanting something gentle.”
Her thumb traced circles on the back of her phone, faintly smiling at the thought of Milk’s sleepy, crooked grin.

“I think…” she whispered, breath trembling just a little,

“I think I’m allowed to want someone who makes me feel safe. And warm and… good.”
She then covered her face with both hands, groaning into her palms. But when she lowered her hands again, her eyes held a resolve that hadn’t been there before.

“God, Milk… What are you doing to me?”

“I’ll take my time,” she murmured to herself. “But I won’t run from this anymore.”

She wanted Milk. Fully, fiercely, tenderly. In ways that terrified her but also in ways she was finally ready to work toward. And when the moment came, when she is ready, she would choose Milk with all her whole heart.

Notes:

Will they survive 6 months apart?? we'll see!

Anyway thankyou so much for your enthusiasm! someone requested more chapters for Christmas so from this day until 25th I'll post twice a day~