Chapter 29

Nani Hirunkit

The apartment is quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that isn't peaceful, but heavy. Suffocating. Like the silence itself is pressing down on me, forcing me to sit with thoughts I don't want to have.

I stare at the ceiling, the weight in my chest growing, spreading through my limbs, making it impossible to move. I hate this feeling. This heaviness. This exhaustion that isn't just physical but something deeper, something rooted inside me that I can't shake no matter how hard I try.

I roll onto my side, grabbing my phone. The screen lights up. 2:47 AM.

I should sleep. I should at least try. But my mind won't let me.

Instead, it replays the day over and over, like a record stuck on a loop. The familiar faces. The laughter. The way they welcomed me back without hesitation. The way Sky looked at me when he saw me again.

"You came back?"

His voice wasn't cold. Just surprised. Cautious, even.

Like he didn't expect me to.

Like I wasn't supposed to.

I shut my eyes, but the words don't fade. They settle deep in my chest, curling around my ribs, making it hard to breathe.

I hate that it still affects me.

I hate that he still affects me.

With a sharp exhale, I push the blankets off and sit up. The air in my room feels thick, suffocating. I need to get out. I need air.

The balcony door slides open, the night breeze rushing in, sharp against my skin. I step outside, gripping the railing, letting the cold bite into me. Maybe if I stand here long enough, it'll ground me. Maybe it'll stop me from feeling like I'm falling apart.

The city stretches out in front of me, lights flickering, streets still alive despite the late hour. I wonder how many people down there feel like this too. Like they're waiting for something. Like they're stuck in a moment they can't escape.

I clench my jaw, my fingers tightening around the railing.

I shouldn't feel like this.

I shouldn't still be holding onto something that isn't mine.

But hope—it's the cruelest thing. It lingers. It tethers you to something long after you should have let go.

I know where Sky and I stand. I know what I am to him.

But I don't know how to stop wanting more.

I drag a hand through my hair, frustration curling in my stomach. I don't want to be this person. I don't want to be the kind of person who lets unspoken words and unanswered questions keep them up at night.

And yet—

I close my eyes, inhaling deeply, trying to calm the storm inside me.

Maybe I should go back inside. Try to sleep. Pretend I'm okay.

But I stay.

Because right now, standing in the cold, drowning in my own thoughts, it's the only thing keeping me from breaking completely.

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The morning light is faint but steady, creeping through the edges of the blinds. I sit up slowly, still feeling the heaviness of a sleepless night weighing me down. The bed feels too warm, too comforting, a stark contrast to the cold emptiness I've been carrying around in my chest. But the moment I let my mind wander, it sinks. I push it away, forcing myself to get up.

I wash my face first, splashing cold water over my skin, trying to wake myself up. I stand there for a moment, staring at the mirror, eyes scanning my face. Dark circles beneath my eyes. There's no hiding that. But I don't have the luxury of time. I grab my makeup bag and work quickly, dabbing concealer under my eyes, smoothing everything out so it doesn't look so obvious. I keep it light, just enough to make it seem like I'm fine, like I didn't spend the whole night tangled in my thoughts.

I breathe out, give myself one last glance. No one needs to know.

I move into the kitchen, the sounds of the house still quiet, too early for the world to be alive. The kitchen smells sterile, empty even with the sunlight filling the space. I don't mind it. It's better this way, easier to focus.

Today, I decide on French toast. I crack the eggs, add a little cinnamon, a dash of vanilla extract, and whip it all together. The pan heats up, a quiet sizzle filling the air as I drop the bread into the mixture. The smell of butter and sugar starts to fill the house, and I feel a strange comfort in it. It's a simple task, easy and familiar. I pour coffee, make sure everything is set, and the moment the plates are ready, I start to arrange them with a side of fruit—just enough to make it look like I've been thinking about this, like I'm putting in the effort.

I hear the shuffle of footsteps coming down the hallway, and I'm not surprised when Win is the first to walk in. His hair is messy from sleep, and his eyes are still half-lidded, but the smile on his face is warm.

"Morning, Son," he greets me, his voice heavy with sleep, but there's an unmistakable fondness in his tone.

I don't react to the nickname; it's become background noise by now. I slide a cup of coffee toward him as he shuffles to the counter. "Morning," I reply, keeping my tone neutral, avoiding anything that would give away the tiredness I'm desperately trying to hide.

Dew stumbles in a few moments later, rubbing his eyes with one hand as he stretches. The second his eyes land on the plates of French toast, they light up with excitement.

"Oh, hell yeah," he says, his voice still thick with sleep, but already filled with enthusiasm. "This is why I keep you around, Nani. You're a life-saver."

I roll my eyes at his dramatics, but a part of me can't help the tiny smile that tugs at my lips. "You make it sound like I want to be here."

Dew doesn't miss a beat. He grins widely, picking up his fork. "I don't know, I think you secretly love being our personal chef." He shovels a large bite of French toast into his mouth. "Mmm, this is perfect, man. Way better than the stuff I try to cook."

Win shoots Dew a look. "You don't cook. You burn things, Dew."

Dew throws him a mock offended look, his mouth full as he chews. "That was one time. And it was a small fire."

"Yeah, one that almost burned down the kitchen," Win adds with a raised eyebrow. "Remember the spaghetti incident?"

Dew smirks, brushing it off. "That was an accident. Plus, it wasn't that bad."

Win shakes his head, picking up his own fork. "Sure, Dew. Just don't ever cook alone again."

I chuckle softly, watching them bicker. The normalcy of it all feels grounding. They're comfortable with each other, and I get to sit on the sidelines, watching the back-and-forth with a little smirk. I take a bite of my own food, savoring the sweetness of the French toast, the warmth of the coffee.

Win suddenly looks over at me, his eyes narrowing as he studies me. "You're awfully quiet today," he says, his voice softer now, less teasing. "Did you sleep?"

I hesitate, not wanting to lie but not wanting to explain either. I keep my voice neutral. "Enough," I mutter, hoping he'll drop it.

He doesn't, of course. He looks at me for a beat, clearly not convinced, but then he just sighs and lets it go.

"Fine," he says, returning to his food. "Just don't make me do all the cooking. Dew might burn the kitchen down next time."

Dew grins. "I heard that, and I'm not the only one with cooking skills around here, Win."

Win rolls his eyes but chuckles, and for a moment, everything feels like it should. There's a kind of rhythm to this. Dew and Win's playful jabs, the way I fit in the space between them, keeping the peace with silence when needed.

I finish my breakfast, a little lighter, a little less tense. It doesn't make the tiredness go away, but it makes it easier to bear.