Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The school bell had rung nearly an hour ago, but the rooftop still held onto its warmth. The concrete radiated the heat of the day, and the sky above was beginning to soften, painted in quiet golds and dusty pinks. A soft breeze rustled the edges of a torn school flag, and from below, the sounds of the city hummed like background music; motorbikes, the occasional laugh, the murmur of traffic in the distance.

Up here, it felt like the world slowed down.

Nut lay stretched out on the concrete, one arm behind his head, eyes squinting at the sky. Hong sat beside him, knees pulled to his chest, watching a plane draw a thin white line across the horizon.

Neither of them spoke for a long time.

It wasn’t awkward. It never was.

There were certain kinds of silences that meant comfort.

With Nut, silence felt like a shared home.

“You ever think about what comes next?” Nut said suddenly, eyes still following the fading contrail.

Hong tilted his head. “Next... like university?”

“Yeah. Or just... life, I guess.” Nut’s voice wasn’t his usual teasing tone. It was softer now, almost cautious.

Hong didn’t answer right away. The question felt bigger than usual. He thought about their final year of high school creeping closer, about the way teachers talked more about exams than dreams lately. Everyone was making plans. Everyone seemed like they were moving forward.

Except maybe them.

“I guess I try not to think too far ahead,” Hong said at last. “It makes things feel... temporary.”

Nut nodded slowly, still watching the sky. “Yeah. Me too.”
A pause.

“Sometimes I wish we could just stay like this,” he said. “Right here. Just us.”

Hong looked at him then. There was something fragile in Nut’s expression, like he was trying hard to hold something in. He’d seen that look before; in quiet moments, in the way Nut sometimes stared out the classroom window when everyone else was laughing. Like his mind was somewhere else, somewhere heavy.

“You okay?” Hong asked quietly.

Nut blinked, startled by the question. Then he smiled, the kind of smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Yeah,” he said. “Just thinking too much again.”

Hong hesitated, then reached over and flicked his shoulder lightly.

“You always think too much. It’s annoying.”

Nut laughed, and this time it was real. “You love it.”

Hong didn’t say anything. He just smiled to himself and looked back at the sky.

They had always been like this. From the time they were kids building forts out of cardboard boxes, to sneaking snacks onto the school roof, to now; teetering on the edge of adulthood, pretending they weren’t scared.

They were opposites in some ways. Nut was all energy and warmth, the one who could make anyone laugh, who walked into a room and lit it up without trying. Hong was steadier, quieter, the one who listened more than he spoke— except when it came to Nut. With Nut, he spoke more. Laughed more. Felt more.

They didn’t say things like “I care about you” or “you’re important to me.” Not out loud. But they didn’t need to. It was in the way Hong always shared his lunch even when Nut forgot his for the third time in a week. In the way Nut always waited for him after school, even when he had a ride home.

It was in moments like this.

The sun had dipped lower now, casting long shadows. Nut sat up and hugged his knees to his chest.
“You think we’ll still hang out on rooftops when we’re twenty?” he asked.

Hong gave a small shrug. “If we have a rooftop, sure.”
Nut laughed softly. “Yeah. Let’s buy one. Just for us. One of those fancy ones with plants and fairy lights.”

“I’ll start saving,” Hong said.

“Cool. I’ll handle the lighting. You can cook.”

“You want to die?”

Nut laughed again, the sound light and bright, carried off by the wind.

Then his voice dropped a little. “Promise me something?”

Hong looked at him, serious now. “What?”

“If I ever... like, if something happens. If I ever get lost or mess things up, or disappear like an idiot...” He hesitated. “Don’t forget me, okay?”

There was something in the way he said it — like he already knew he was going to break that promise himself.

Hong frowned, the sudden weight of those words sinking in. “What kind of stupid thing is that to say?”

Nut didn’t answer. He just looked at him for a long moment, eyes soft.

Then he reached into his bag, pulled out a bottle of warm Coke, and held it out.

“Peace offering,” he said. “In case I ever do something dumb.”

Hong stared at it, then took it with a sigh.

“You’re already doing something dumb. But... fine. I won’t forget you. But just know, you are not going anywhere.”

Nut smiled, and this time, there was something content in it. Like that was all he needed to hear.

They sat there a little longer, sharing a warm soda and the last bits of the fading sunlight. The city below kept moving, but up on the roof, it felt like time had stopped.

For now, everything was still okay.

But neither of them knew how quickly that would change.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

The streets were still warm under the dimming sky as Hong walked home, his school bag heavy on his back, the bottle cap from the shared soda still tucked in his pocket.

The scent of grilled pork from a street vendor drifted by, mixing with the usual buzz of motorbikes and the distant call of a neighbor’s radio.

It was quiet comfort; the rhythm of home.

His house sat at the end of a narrow lane, tucked behind rows of blooming hibiscus bushes.

Hong stepped inside, slipping off his shoes and calling out softly, “Mae, I’m home.”

No answer.

He didn’t expect one. His mother worked evenings at the hospital along with Nut’s mother, and most nights it was just him and his sister.

The house was peaceful, with that familiar stillness that meant safety. But tonight, something felt off.

He could hear it — or rather, feel it — in the air. A faint, muffled sound. A hiccup. The sound of someone trying not to cry.

His chest tightened.

He dropped his bag gently on the couch and moved down the short hallway to her room. The door was cracked open.

Inside, his little sister sat curled up on her bed, her back to the door, shoulders shaking.

Hong paused, watching her for a second before he knocked gently — twice, the signal they always used.

She turned slightly, startled, and quickly wiped her face with the back of her sleeve. Her name was Min, and she was ten — small, with round cheeks and soft eyes that always lit up when she saw him.

But not tonight.

He stepped inside slowly and knelt down beside her bed.

She didn’t speak — she couldn’t — but her eyes searched his, wide and wet, asking all the questions she didn’t have words for.

He signed slowly, carefully, so she could see:
“What happened?”

Min looked down and shook her head, pressing her hands into her lap. Her fingers trembled.

He waited, giving her time.

After a moment, she reached under her pillow and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. A note, hastily torn from a notebook. She handed it to him, her face turned away.

Hong unfolded it.

His stomach dropped.

“Mute freak.”
“Maybe if you could talk, people would like you.”
“Stop waving your hands like a baby.”

There were more. Scrawled in messy handwriting, cruel and careless.

He read them all.

Then he folded the paper carefully, hands steady, face calm — not for his sake, but for hers. He set it down on her desk, then turned back to her.

Min’s eyes were filled with fear — not just from the words, but from what she thought they meant. That maybe they were true. That maybe she was broken.

Hong took his head gently, before he signed slowly, clearly:
“These words mean nothing.”
“They’re lies.”
“You’re strong. You’re kind. You’re amazing.”

Tears welled in her eyes again, but this time they weren’t just from sadness.

She signed back, fingers a little unsteady:
“Then why do I feel so... small?”

He exhaled, then pulled her into a quiet hug, wrapping his arms around her like he was trying to shield her from the whole world. Her tiny frame melted against him, sobs quiet but real.

Hong closed his eyes, resting his chin on the top of her head.

When they finally pulled apart, he wiped her tears gently and tapped her nose, just like he used to when they were little.

He smiled, then signed:
“You don’t need to speak to be loud.”
“You’re the bravest person I know.”

Min sniffled, a small, shaky smile beginning to bloom on her face.

Hong stood and went to her bookshelf, picking up the small notebook they used to write notes to each other — her “voice,” when she didn’t want to sign. He opened it to a blank page and scribbled:

“Want me to help you write a letter to your teacher?”
Min nodded slowly.

They sat together at her little desk, shoulder to shoulder, the lamplight soft around them. Her hand rested next to his as she began to write, pausing every few words to glance at him. He’d nod each time, letting her know she was doing just fine.

It wasn’t much. Just a letter. Just a night.

But it meant everything.

Because sometimes, the people who speak the least carry the loudest hearts.

And sometimes, the quietest bonds are the ones that never break.

'*•.¸♡ ♡¸.•*'

Nut couldn’t sleep.

He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, his blanket kicked off and the soft hum of the fan doing nothing to quiet the noise inside his head.

It was never really quiet up there — not lately.
He thought about the rooftop, about Hong’s face in the golden light, about the way his voice had sounded when he said, “You’re not going anywhere.”

Nut had smiled, nodded, even joked a little — but inside, something had cracked.

Because he didn’t know if he could keep that promise.
His room was filled with familiar things: soccer posters peeling off the walls, his guitar with two broken strings leaning in the corner, a cluttered desk with half-finished homework and candy wrappers. It looked like the room of a normal teenager.

But it didn’t feel like one anymore.

He rolled over and reached for his phone. A message from Hong sat unread — a meme, some dumb sticker, probably something about the soda bottle from earlier. Nut stared at the screen for a long time, then set the phone down without replying.

He couldn’t explain it — this feeling like he was slipping away from himself. Like he was a guest in his own life.
During the day, he laughed. He teased Lego and borrowed pens from William and made dumb jokes that got him kicked out of class. He kept the world spinning the way everyone expected it to.

But at night, when no one was watching, the mask fell away.

And he was just tired.

Not the kind of tired that sleep could fix. The kind that clung to your bones, like a weight you carried even when you smiled.

He reached over to his bedside drawer and pulled out a worn sketchbook. Not many people knew he kept one. He wasn’t great at drawing — not really — but it helped. Helped to make something that didn’t need to be explained out loud.

Tonight, he opened to a fresh page and began to draw without thinking. His hand moved on its own, tracing shapes he didn’t fully understand. When he finally looked down, he saw what he’d made:

A figure standing on a rooftop. Alone. Surrounded by empty silhouettes.

The sky above was cracked like glass.

And one word, written small in the corner, barely visible:
“Help.”

Nut stared at it for a long time. Then he slowly tore the page out, folded it in half, and placed it under a stack of old notebooks.

Out of sight.
Out of mind.

He wasn’t ready to talk about it. Not to his friends. Not to Hong.

Especially not to Hong.

Because out of everyone, Hong saw through him the most. And that scared him.

Nut lay back down and pulled the blanket over his face.
He didn’t know why the silence had started creeping in. Or why it felt louder than ever now. But something inside him had shifted, and he could feel it — like standing too close to the edge of something you couldn’t see.

He closed his eyes and tried to pretend everything was still okay.

Because maybe, if he pretended hard enough, it would be.
And maybe, if he smiled enough tomorrow, no one would notice he was already starting to disappear.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*.

Morning came without feeling like it had really arrived.

The light pushed gently through the curtains, but the room stayed heavy, like the air itself didn’t want to move.

Nut woke to the distant sound of dishes in the kitchen — not rushed or angry, just… mechanical. The way someone moves when their body goes through the motions, but their mind is far away.

He stayed in bed for a while, eyes open, staring at the ceiling fan spinning in lazy circles above him.

Then he got up and went to face the morning.

The kitchen smelled faintly of rice and fish sauce. His mother was standing at the stove, hair tied back, apron half-tied like she hadn’t decided whether to wear it or throw it out. Her face was calm, but the kind of calm that came from being numb, not at peace.

“Morning,” Nut said softly.

She didn’t turn around.

She just gave a nod, then said, “There’s food on the table.”

“Thanks,” he mumbled, sitting down.

There was fried egg and rice — simple, but warm. He picked at it slowly, sneaking glances at her back.

He didn’t know when exactly it had started — this distance. It was like she’d built a wall between them brick by brick, each one made of silence, until he couldn’t remember what her voice used to sound like when it was soft.

She turned off the stove and poured herself a cup of instant coffee. Sat down across from him, phone in hand. Scrolling. Eyes never really meeting his.

He cleared his throat. “I was thinking of staying late outside today.”

“Mm.”

A non-answer.

He tried again. “Just to work on a project. With Hong.”
Still nothing. Just the quiet tap of her finger on her phone screen.

“Mae?” he asked, gently.

She looked up — not startled, not angry. Just tired. So, so tired.

“What?”

“I was just saying… I’ll be home late.”

A pause. Then a nod.

That was it.

No “Okay, be careful.”
No “Don’t forget to eat.”
No “Tell Hong I said hi.”

Nut stared down at his plate, suddenly not hungry anymore.

He wanted to say something — anything — to break the wall between them. But every time he tried, the words twisted in his throat. Too heavy. Too complicated. Too full of things he didn’t understand.

Instead, he stood, rinsed his plate quietly, and headed for the door.

“I’m going,” he said, hand on the doorknob.

His mother didn’t look up. Just lifted her coffee mug in a small, distracted wave.

And that was how most of their mornings ended.

The same silence. The same ache.

As he stepped outside into the humid morning air, Nut pulled out his phone. Hong hadn’t replied yet. Probably still asleep. Or maybe at breakfast with his sister, whose smile could light up a room, even without a sound.

He envied that — the warmth in Hong’s home. The way Hong always seemed steady, like he had roots, like he knew where he belonged.

Nut didn’t feel rooted anymore.

He felt like he was drifting — like a kite that had snapped free of its string.

He started walking toward school, backpack slung over one shoulder, earbuds in but no music playing.

He didn’t want sound.

He just wanted not to feel alone.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Saturday afternoons had their own kind of magic.
The sun wasn’t as sharp as it was on school days, the streets quieter, the breeze just soft enough to make you believe the world could slow down for a bit.

Nut was with his people.

The five of them had made plans without really planning anything. One moment someone dropped a message in the group chat — “Let’s get noodles, I’m dying” — and the next, they were all gathered in front of a street cart near the canal, mouths full, bickering over who owed who.

“Oi, Lego, that’s my meatball!” William pointed with his chopsticks, fake-offended.

“Possession is nine-tenths of the law,” Lego replied, grinning with sauce smeared on his cheek.

“You just made that up.”

“Nope, it’s real. Google it. I’m basically a lawyer.”

“Lego can’t even spell ‘lawyer,’” Tui giggled, sipping his iced tea.

Hong sat on the curb beside Nut, quietly chewing and watching the chaos with a faint smile.

Nut laughed along, the sound genuine. He hadn’t laughed like that in days. For a few minutes, it felt good. Real.

But even as he joked, even as he leaned into William’s shoulder and complained that the noodles were too spicy, the weight inside him hadn’t lifted. It was just hiding better in the noise.

Hong noticed.

He didn’t say anything, but he was watching.

Nut caught his eye once, mid-laugh, and saw it — that quiet question, the same one from the courtyard. Are you really okay?

Nut smiled a little too quickly, then looked away.

They finished eating and wandered through the streets aimlessly, ending up at the old train tracks on the edge of town — their usual spot when they didn’t want to go home yet. The tracks weren’t used anymore, overgrown with grass and littered with rusted bottle caps. But to them, it was neutral ground. No parents. No rules. Just sky and gravel.

They sat in a loose circle, legs stretched, the sun dipping toward orange on the horizon.

“So,” Tui said, flicking a pebble down the tracks. “Are we gonna talk about how Nut’s been walking around like a haunted Victorian child lately?”

Nut snorted. “Excuse me?”

“You look like you read sad poetry in candlelight.”

“Dramatic much?” William laughed.

“It’s the hair,” Lego added, squinting. “He needs a haircut. The sadness is leaking out of his bangs.”

Nut rolled his eyes, but the teasing made his chest feel warm. It was annoying, yes — but it meant they noticed. They cared.

“You’re all idiots,” he muttered.

“Yeah,” Hong said beside him, smiling. “But we’re your idiots.”

Nut looked over at him, and for a moment, everything slowed down again — like the rooftop. Like all the quiet moments they never talked about.

Then Hong gently bumped his shoulder. “Come on. Say it.”

Nut raised an eyebrow. “Say what?”

“That you love us.”

Nut laughed. “Never.”

William threw his empty drink bottle dramatically to the ground. “Heartless.”

“Monster.”

“Betrayer of friendship.”

They all piled on at once, voices loud and overlapping, and Nut was laughing too hard to fight back.

And in that moment — that stupid, messy, perfect moment — he felt okay.

But as the laughter faded and the sun dropped lower in the sky, something in him twisted. He looked at the people around him — his people — and felt a pang of fear.
Because he knew.

Somewhere deep inside, even if he hadn’t admitted it yet, he had a strong gut feeling this wouldn’t last.

There was a heaviness in the air that had nothing to do with the heat. Something unspoken. Something waiting.
Nut stood up first.

“I gotta go,” he said, brushing gravel from his pants.
“So early?” Lego asked, frowning.

“Mae wants help with groceries,” Nut lied, not meeting anyone’s eyes.

Hong stood too, dusting off his hands. “Want me to walk with you?”

Nut shook his head quickly. “Nah. You guys hang out. I’m good.”

The others didn’t press him. They never did when he got like this. They just gave him quiet goodbyes and half-hearted complaints, and Nut gave them that same easy smile he always did.

But Hong watched him the whole time.

And when Nut finally turned and walked away, he felt it — that pull in his chest. That ache in his gut. The feeling that something was ending, even if he couldn’t name it.

He didn’t know it yet, but this would be the last normal day for a long time.

The last time they were all together, laughing.

The day before everything changed.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

The sky had turned a soft blue-grey as Nut walked home.
The streets were quieter now, the kind of quiet that comes just before night settles in fully. Muffled motorbike engines hummed in the distance. Dogs barked behind gates. A baby cried faintly from somewhere behind a half-closed window.

Nut kept his hands in his pockets, his backpack slung loose on one shoulder. The echo of his friends’ laughter still rang in his ears, like sunlight trapped in his memory.
He was smiling a little. Just a little.

It felt like things might be okay.

Maybe he’d even talk to Mae tonight. Maybe he’d tell her how heavy things had gotten — not all at once, but just enough. Enough to feel like she still saw him.

The thought gave him a strange kind of hope.

He turned the corner onto the familiar street that led toward home. Just a few more blocks.

He didn’t hear the car at first.

Not really.

There was a blur — a sharp screech of tires, too fast, too close. A horn. A flash of headlights cutting through the growing dark. And then—

A crushing silence.

A sound like the world folding in on itself.

Then nothing.

…

The hospital was loud in a quiet way — nurses’ shoes squeaking on linoleum floors, the soft beeping of machines, muffled voices behind curtains.

Nut’s mother arrived with her work badge still clipped to her shirt. Her hair was messy, half-pinned, the way it always got when she rushed. Her face was pale.

A nurse met her in the hallway and spoke in quick, efficient Thai.

“He was unconscious when they brought him in. A car struck him in a residential zone — the driver stayed, called emergency immediately. His head hit the pavement. There’s trauma to the throat. Vocal cords were affected.”
The nurse’s voice faded in and out like static. The words didn’t fully land.

“Wait—what? Vocal cords?” Nut’s mother asked, voice shaking. “Is he awake? Where—where is he?”

The nurse gestured to a door. “They’re stabilizing him. You can sit. The doctor will explain.”

Nut’s stood in the hallway for several seconds, her breath caught halfway between a sob and a scream that wouldn’t come out.

Her son.
Her boy.

She’d been sitting at home when the call came — dinner still untouched on the stove. She had ignored so many things. She had told herself it was fine. That silence between them was something temporary. That teenagers were always like that.

But now all she could think about were the mornings when she didn’t say good morning.

The nights she didn’t ask how school was.

The hundred times she’d said nothing… when she should have said anything.

Now, she might never hear his voice again.

She sat in the plastic hospital chair like her bones had turned to glass.

Outside, the sky had turned completely dark.

Inside, her heart had never felt more awake.

The hospital lights were too bright. Too white. Too clean.
Nut’s mother sat hunched in a plastic chair outside the ICU, her hands gripping her bag so tightly her knuckles had gone pale. Her feet tapped the floor in uneven, nervous rhythms. Her eyes never left the door.

The minutes crawled.
The hours blurred.

She wasn’t sure how long she’d been sitting there. Maybe an hour. Maybe two. Long enough that her back ached and the tea a nurse had offered her had gone cold, untouched on the side table.

She hated hospitals. And she worked in one.

But it was different when it was your child behind the door. When it was your child whose voice you might never hear again.

She leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes — just for a second — and that was when the memories started coming.

Not loud. Not fast. Just… gentle.

Like ripples on water.

He was five, and he’d run into her room in the middle of the night, crying because he’d had a nightmare. She’d scooped him up, let him bury his face in her shoulder, and whispered, “Shh, shh, it’s okay, Mae’s here.” He’d fallen asleep clinging to her shirt like it was the only thing keeping him safe.

He was eight, and he scraped his knee trying to skateboard down a ramp. He didn’t cry — not in front of the other kids — but when they got home, he sat on the bathroom floor and let her clean it, flinching and hissing, saying, “It’s fine, it doesn’t even hurt,” even as his eyes watered.

He was eleven, and he asked her why she always looked tired. She didn’t know how to answer. So she just smiled and told him grown-ups don’t get enough naps.

He was fifteen, and he started smiling less.

Somewhere along the way, the silence between them had grown. At first, it had been small — just busy schedules, unfinished dinners, forgotten conversations. Then it turned into distance. Then into avoidance.

She always told herself she was doing her best. Providing. Working. Making sure he had everything he needed.

But now, sitting outside this door, all she could think about were the things she hadn’t said.

You looked tired last week. Are you sleeping enough?
I saw that sketch in your book — it was beautiful.
I’m proud of you.
I miss you.
I love you.
Her hands shook as she wiped at her eyes, trying to hold herself together.

It wasn’t fair.
He was still just a kid.
He still left his socks everywhere.
Still forgot his lunch sometimes.
Still came home late and said “Sorry maemae” like it didn’t mean anything.

She would’ve given anything to hear him say it again.

“Mae.”

Even if it was mumbled. Even if it wasn’t genuine.

Because now, there might be no more words at all.

The door opened. A doctor stepped out, clipboard in hand.
She stood instantly. Her breath caught.

The doctor’s voice was calm, practiced. “He’s stable. The damage to his throat was serious. His vocal cords…were unfortunately torn in the impact. He’s awake now — groggy, confused. But… he can’t speak.”

The words landed like glass breaking.

“He may regain some sound, maybe whispers, but he won’t be able to speak the way he used to. It’s permanent.”

Nut’s mother didn’t speak right away. She didn’t cry. She just nodded — like she understood.

Then she sat down again.

Slowly. Quietly.

And for the first time in years, she began to pray.
Not for her son to speak again.

But for the chance to finally say what she’d always meant to say — and to find a way to show him, even without words, that she was still here.

That she had always been here.

Even when she didn’t say it.

(´•︵•`)

The world came back slowly.

First, there was the cold. A strange, sterile chill that clung to his skin and made the tips of his fingers feel numb.

Then there was the light — too bright, too white — leaking through closed eyelids like sunlight on snow.

And then came the sound.

Or rather... the absence of it.

No laughter.
No voices.
No footsteps or chatter or the buzz of someone playing music too loud nearby.

Just a dull hum. A monitor beeping rhythmically beside him, steady and impersonal.

Nut’s eyes opened halfway. The ceiling above him was unfamiliar — square tiles, pale lights. The smell told him everything before his brain fully caught up: hospital.

He blinked, once. Twice. Slowly turned his head.

His body ached. A thick, pressing weight wrapped around his throat like someone had tied silence into a knot beneath his skin.

He tried to speak.
Nothing came out.
Not a croak. Not a whisper.

Just a tight rush of air and the realization that his voice — the one he had always taken for granted — was gone.

Panic surged up his chest, fast and clumsy, and he moved to sit up too quickly. Pain stabbed down his neck, sharp and immediate. He winced, his breath catching, hand flying to the bandages wrapped around his throat.

He tried again.

Still nothing.

The silence rang louder than any noise he’d ever heard.
His heart pounded against the walls of his ribs, quick and wild, like a bird trapped in a cage. He blinked rapidly, trying to breathe through it, to piece together what had happened.

He remembered walking home.

He remembered the corner.

Headlights. Tires. Screaming metal.

Then nothing.

Now this.

He lay back down, breathing through his nose, eyes burning. He didn’t want to cry — not here, not like this, not while machines whispered behind him and plastic tubes looped around his wrist like shackles.

But the truth landed with quiet finality.

He couldn’t speak.

Not now. Maybe not ever.

The silence was no longer a choice. It wasn’t something he could shrug off or hide behind a joke. It had become part of him.

A door had shut.

And all the things he hadn’t said — to Hong, to his mom, to anyone — were still locked inside him.

Trapped.

He turned his face to the window, trying not to think, trying not to feel. Outside, the sky had begun to lighten — a pale dawn creeping in like it didn’t know what had just been taken from him.

The door to his room creaked open softly.

He didn’t look. Not yet.

But in the reflection of the window, he saw her.
His mother.

Standing in the doorway like someone who’d aged ten years overnight. She clutched the strap of her bag like it was keeping her upright. Her eyes were red. Her voice — if she had one — didn’t come.

Nut didn’t move.

For a few seconds, they just stared — his reflection and her stillness.

Then she walked forward.

She didn’t say anything.

She just sat in the chair beside his bed, leaned forward, and gently took his hand.

It was warm.

And trembling.

She held it tightly, like she was afraid letting go would make him disappear again. And for the first time in so long, Nut felt something in his chest crack open — not from pain, but from the sheer relief of being seen.

No words.
Just a hand holding his.
And somehow, that was enough.

Chapter Text

The new hospital he was transferred to smelled different.

Not bad; just a way that didn’t feel like home. The halls were wider, whiter. Nurses moved briskly, speaking in clipped tones that echoed. Everything was clean, efficient. And cold.

Nut sat in a wheelchair by the window of his new room, hospital gown hanging loose on his shoulders, blanket tucked around his legs even though he wasn’t cold. The doctors said it would be “a few weeks” here for rehabilitation. Maybe longer. No visitors outside of immediate family. His mother had decided to transfer to be a nurse at this hospital just to be with him.

She didn’t say much — not yet. But she brought his sketchbook.

That was something.

It sat on the tray beside him now, next to a dull pencil and a glass of water he hadn’t touched. He stared out the window at a tree with no leaves. Just bare branches like outstretched fingers.

There were messages on his phone. Dozens. Some from teachers, classmates he barely talked to. Most were from his friends.

Lego had sent five memes in a row, two of which didn’t make sense and one that was just a poorly drawn frog holding a sad balloon, with a "I miss you, phi" written on it.

William’s were more careful. “No pressure to reply. Just… letting you know we have a group project, okay?”

Tui had sent a voice note, full of awkward pauses and nervous giggles. “You don’t have to listen. I just… thought it’d be weird to not try. I hope you’re good bro. I mean, obviously you are, but… you know what I mean, you’ve been absent for two weeks.”
No jokes. No stickers. No pretending.

Nut read the messages until the words blurred. He hadn’t replied to any of them, not because he didn’t want to, because he didn’t know how to anymore. He didn't even know who is was what he would be like from now on. It was driving him insane silently...

Of course, it was silently.

*＊✿❀○❀✿＊*

The days passed like molasses.

Sticky, slow.
Quiet.

Physical therapy in the mornings. One hour of movement that made his arms shake and his chest ache. Then speech sessions that weren’t really speech anymore. Just breathing exercises, writing on whiteboards, and the dull ache of trying to make a sound that would never come back.

And always the same therapist.
Smiling too much.
She had kind eyes and spoke gently, like she thought if she was too loud it would break something in him.

She always knocked twice before entering. Sat down across from him like he was a puzzle to solve.

“So, Nut,” she said today, her voice careful, slow, like it had edges. “I want to start talking about something new.” He glanced at her without lifting his head.

“I think it’s time we begin learning sign language,” she said. “It could really help you communicate day to day—”

Nut raised a hand and began to sign smoothly, fingers moving with quiet certainty.
“I already know how”

She blinked. “You do?” He nodded once, very slowly because it felt like the world around him was spinning every time he moved a bit too quickly or sharply.

A pause. Then she smiled — softer this time. Not performative. Just surprised. “How?”

Nut hesitated. His fingers hovered in the air for a moment, then shaped the memory carefully.
“Had a friend. His little sister couldn’t speak. She signed. So I learned it.”

The therapist nodded slowly, her expression shifting. She looked at him — really looked — like she was starting to understand he wasn’t a blank slate to rebuild.
“You must’ve cared about her,” she said softly.

He hesitated again. Then shook his head — not in disagreement, but clarification.

“I cared about him.”

She didn’t ask more after that.

*＊✿❀○❀✿＊*

At night, when his mother fell asleep with the hospital TV glowing faint blue across her face, Nut would draw.

He didn’t draw people anymore.
He drew doorways. Open ones. Closed ones. Ones with no handles.
He drew a bridge with no other side.
He drew a figure in a field, mouth open in a scream, but no sound coming out.
He drew a hand — not his — reaching for something just out of frame.

And one night, he drew the rooftop.

Five figures. Shadows. One sitting apart from the others.

That one was him.

In the corner of the page, he wrote just two words:

“Still here.”

*＊✿❀○❀✿＊*

At first, it was just a missed reply.

[Hong]: “You free tomorrow?”

Sent.

And Nut hadn’t replied.

Hong didn’t think much of it. And Nut ghosted sometimes — not in a cruel way, just in that scattered, half-there way he always did. One moment laughing, the next falling quiet. He was unpredictable like that.
But the next day, Nut wasn’t at school.

That wasn’t unusual either. People got sick. Slept in. Forgot there was a math test.

But then he didn’t show up the day after. Or the day after that.

His name stayed on the attendance sheet. His desk stayed untouched.

So did the silence.

By the end of the week, the group chat had shifted from teasing to worry.
[William]: “Where’s Nut?”

[Tui]: “Out with Hong, isn’t he?”

[Hong]: “We didn’t meet. Ignored my messages too.”

[Lego]: “That’s weird. Anyone talk to his mom?”

[Hong]: “She’s not answering either. I tried calling. Twice.”

[William]: “Wait, what?”

...

No one replied for a long time after that.

The next Saturday came, exactly a week since they last saw and heard from Nut. They met up anyway. Just the four of them now. Same noodle cart. Same spot by the canal. Same plastic stools that always wobbled, but something was off, like they were orbiting around a space that used to be filled. Hong sat quietly, poking at his food. He hadn’t said much all afternoon. Not since they got there. Not since he walked past Nut’s usual seat and felt the weight of what wasn’t there.

He wasn’t sure what made the memory surface then.

Maybe it was the sky — the way the golden light fell through the trees. Maybe it was the way William laughed at something Lego said, and Hong turned instinctively to share it with Nut.

But Nut wasn’t there.

And suddenly, he could hear him again. That sunset on the rooftop. That stillness. That silence between words.

Nut had looked serious then. Really serious. The kind of serious that didn’t blink. If I ever... like, if something happens. If I ever get lost or mess things up, or disappear like an idiot...Don’t forget me, okay?” Hong hadn’t known what to say then. Hadn’t thought Nut meant it. It had sounded like a bad joke — like the kind of late-night melodrama you say when you're tired and scared of being real.

He hadn’t realized it was a sign or a warning.

*＊✿❀○❀✿＊*

The silence now was different. It wasn’t lazy or casual or forgetful.

It was total.

Like someone had cut a string and the kite was gone, no trail, no wind to chase it with. They checked social media. Nothing. No stories. No updates. His profile hadn’t changed at all either. Messages were left on read. Lego tried to bike past Nut’s house one afternoon. Curtains were drawn. Mail was piling in the gate slot. Tui stood outside the music room during lunch one day, just staring at the guitar Nut had cracked a string on last semester.

And Hong… Hong stopped sleeping.

Because every time he closed his eyes, Nut’s voice echoed again.

"Don’t forget me, okay?"

It wasn't fair.

Nut had made them laugh. Had annoyed them and hugged them and drawn weird cartoons on the corners of their notebooks. He’d called Hong “perfect” in that way that wasn’t a compliment, but still made his face go hot. He’d made things brighter.
And then he was gone.

Like a switch flipped.

Like a story they hadn’t finished reading, pages torn out without warning.

*＊✿❀○❀✿＊*

Two weeks passed. Then three.

The school refused to tell the students where Nut was, saying something like; "Due to personal reasons Nut will be absent for a while.”

And that was when Hong realized it, he was so damn angry. Not at Nut. Not really. But at the silence. At the not-knowing. At the hole their friend had left behind without telling them why. He wanted to scream into the sky, to demand someone give him back the pieces of the boy who used to sit beside him and say things that sounded like jokes but were really cries for help.

He wanted to rewind time.

To reply faster to him every time he texted.

He wanted to ask, “What do you mean, disappear?” and not let it go.

But he hadn’t and now, Nut was gone and he had left behind an aching silence that was slowly killing Hong.

There was just that last message. “You free tomorrow?”

And the answer, which had never been sent, and Hong was afraid it will never come either.

*＊✿❀○❀✿＊*

Hong laid awake that night, phone pressed to his chest. He whispered into the dark, voice barely audible, like maybe it would carry on the wind.

“I can't forget you, Nut.” And he never would.

"Please just come back to me." he had written in his notebook the next night, next to the confession he had never gotten the chance to say out loud.

He never planned to, and now maybe he never could.

Chapter Text

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
(Flashback)
Nut had kicked his shoes off and was lying on his back, arms folded under his head, hair a little frizzy from the humidity. Hong sat nearby, knees pulled to his chest, chewing idly on a piece of dried mango Nut had brought.

They weren’t talking much. They never really had to.

Nut cracked one eye open. “You ever notice clouds look sad when they’re alone?”

Hong glanced up. “What? No. They just look like clouds.”

“No, I mean—look,” Nut pointed. “That one. He’s floating way off by himself. It looks lost.”

Hong squinted. “Or maybe he wanted space.”

Nut tilted his head toward him, smiling lazily. “That sounds like something you’d say.”

“You’re the one giving clouds backstories.”

“Well. They deserve one.”

Hong smirked, pulling out his phone and snapping a blurry photo of the sky.

“What are you doing?” Nut asked, sitting up slightly.

“Gonna name that one ‘Nut: Cloud Edition.’”

Nut rolled his eyes. “You better not post that.”

“Too late.”

“Ai tee!” Nut lunged at him suddenly, trying to snatch the phone from his hands. Hong yelped, laughing as he stumbled backward, both of them collapsing in a messy, half-hearted tangle on the rooftop.

They stayed like that for a second. Nut hovering above him, breathless with laughter, his hand still gripping Hong’s wrist.

Then the moment stilled.

Not awkward. Not dramatic.

Just…there.

Their eyes met, and for a moment, it felt like something shifted.

Not in the sky…

Not in the air…

But between them.

Nut let out a quiet breath. “You’re warm.”

Hong blinked, caught way off guard. “What?”

“Like—your hands. Your face. You’re warm.”

“You—you sound stupid.” Hong’s ears turned pink.

Nut didn’t move right away. Just looked at him like he was studying something important. Then he let go, leaned back, and said, “That’s a good thing, by the way.”

Hong sat up slowly, brushing gravel from his shirt. “You say really weird things sometimes.”

“Yeah and you remember them.” He winked.

That made Hong laugh. He bumped Nut’s shoulder gently. “Only because they’re awfully poetic.”

They stayed up there until the light turned pink and the sky stopped being sad. When they finally got up to leave, Nut hesitated by the door and looked back.

“If I was a cloud, I’d wanna float near you.”

Hong turned to look at him, surprised. Nut grinned, clearly amused at his own dramatic line. “Just saying.” Then he disappeared down the stairs, leaving Hong behind with a heart that felt way too full for words.

(End of flashback)

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

The memory hit him while he was staring at the ver same photo — the blurry sky with the lone cloud, still saved in his camera roll. He hadn’t thought much of it at the time. Just another silly moment between them.

But now… it feels different. Realer. Like something Nut had been saying without saying. "If I was a cloud, I’d wanna float near you."

Maybe it wasn't just a joke. It was Nut, doing what he always did — hiding real things behind laughter, offering pieces of his heart in sideways comments, hoping someone would notice.

And Hong had noticed.

He just hadn’t realized how much it meant.

Not until now.

He closed the phone because his eyes were stinging, but not from pain this time, but from the hint that maybe…maybe what he and Nut had was never one-sided like he forced himself to believe.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Hong wasn’t even sure why he went back

Maybe out of habit. Maybe hope. Maybe he just wanted to prove to himself that there was nothing left to wait for.

Nut’s house looked the same as a few months ago…or so three months ago. The windows were shut. No slippers by the door. The air felt emptier somehow.

He was about to turn around when an older woman stepped out of the gate next door. The neighbor who always waved at them when they walked past after school.

She smiled, surprised. “You’re Nut’s friend, right?”

Hong hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah…I was.”

The woman came closer, brushing her hands on her apron. “They moved. A few months back right?.”

He blinked. “Moved?”

“To Bangkok,” she said, like it was no big thing. “His mom packed up everything herself. Must’ve been hard. She didn’t ask for help, just loaded a truck and left one morning. Didn’t even leave a number.”

Hong felt the words hit like dull rain.

“Oh,” he said softly.

No goodbye. No message. Nothing.

The woman squinted at him. “You didn’t know?”

He shook his head.

She looked a little guilty, like she’d just handed someone the end of something they hadn’t wanted to finish yet. “Well… maybe they had their reasons.”

Maybe.

He gave a polite bow, murmured a thank you, and walked away before she could say anything else. The bag of snacks in his hand crinkled — stuff Nut used to like. He stared down at it like he’d forgotten he was even carrying it. Seaweed chips. A sweet drink.

Pointless now.

He dumped it into the nearest trash bin on the corner and kept walking. He didn’t take the long way home this time. No rooftop detours. No pretending. He didn’t text the group chat that day.

Didn’t reply to William’s meme or Tui’s latest “where the hell is Nut” voice note. He went straight home, laid on his bed, and didn’t move for a long while. The silence didn’t ache like before. Now it was just… heavy.

Flat.

Like something had finally settled. He stared up at the ceiling, one arm slung over his eyes.

“Guess that’s it,” he whispered, to no one. And for the first time, he let himself believe it. Nut was gone, maybe not forever and maybe not by choice. But still… gone. And this time, Hong didn’t chase him. Not because he didn’t care. But because caring had started to hurt more than letting go.

The rooftop here in the hospital wasn’t much like the one back home…or so his old home.

Just a concrete square, fenced in, with a tired bench and a dying potted plant someone had probably forgotten to water for weeks. But it was high enough that Nut could see the city skyline in the distance — all glass towers and blinking lights and cloud-soft smog. The sun was setting behind it now, washing the sky in gentle orange and purple.

He liked coming up here when the nurses weren’t looking.

It felt the tiniest bit like freedom.

He sat with his knees pulled up, hoodie sleeves over his hands, sketchbook balanced on his lap. His pencil moved slowly, dragging across the page with the rhythm of someone who didn’t know what to say but needed to say it anyway.

He was drawing the sky.

Or… trying to.

It never looked quite right on paper.

He paused, fingers smudged with graphite, and glanced at the second page. A smaller sketch, done yesterday.

A group of five. Rooftop scene. Messy lines, crooked grins.

And there, off to the side…a boy with a calm face and kind eyes, sitting beside another boy whose shoulders leaned just a little too close.

He ran his finger over the drawing, pausing at the small note he’d written beneath it in small, shaky handwriting:

“Still miss you.”

He didn’t know why he wrote it.

He hadn’t sent a single message since the accident. Not to Hong. Not to any of them.

His mom had packed everything for the move. He didn’t even know they had permanently moved here till a few weeks after.

But somewhere inside him, he still wanted to believe that if he reached out now, if he sent even one message, someone might answer.

But then what?

He couldn't even speak anymore.

He couldn’t imagine what he’d say, even if he could. He’d missed three birthdays. A field trip he’d promised Hong he’d come to.

He didn’t know what time felt like anymore. Just that it passed and left guilt in its place.

He pressed his palms to his face, breathing in.

It wasn’t fair.

To him.

To them.

To Hong.

His fingers itched to sign something, even though no one was watching. Sometimes the words built up so hard in his chest they had to come out somehow.

So he signed to the sky — a soft, quick movement:

“I’m sorry.”

And then, after a beat, with a tremble in his fingertips:

“I hope you’re okay.”

The wind picked up, cool against his face.

He looked out again at the skyline, wondering if somewhere, under this same sky, Hong had already moved on. If he still had that pretty and breathtaking smile. If he still carried that sketch Nut had once doodled on his notebook corner.

Or if he’d let it go.

Nut couldn’t blame him if he had.

He didn’t know if he’d have waited this long either. Still… the thought left something hollow in his chest. He looked down at the drawing again — at that quiet rooftop, that closeness he still hadn’t found the words for.

And this time, beneath “Still miss you,” he added something else:

“I hope you didn’t forget.”

The pencil tip snapped from the pressure of the last letter.

Nut didn’t fix it.

He just stared at the page, the sky, the distance that felt longer now than any road between cities.

And somewhere deep inside, he made himself a promise:

If the chance came, even once, he’d go to him. Even if he couldn’t speak.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Hong didn’t expect to think of him again that day. Not more than he already did.

He had come to Bangkok for something else entirely. A cousin’s wedding, a family errand, a brief escape from the weight of school and the ghost-shaped space Nut had left behind. It has been five months now. Too long. Long enough that even Tui had stopped trying to crack jokes about it.

But grief didn’t follow calendars.

And somehow, Nut’s absence still sat beside him in every photo, every silence, every group chat thread no one had the heart to delete.

Hong stepped into a small café tucked off the corner of a quiet side street. It had plants hanging from the ceiling and soft music playing. The kind Nut used to hum to when he thought no one was listening.

He ordered iced tea.

Then sat at the window with a notebook and a mechanical pencil, telling himself he wasn’t waiting for anything in particular.

He flipped open a random page — one that had a tiny drawing Nut had once scribbled in the margins: a dog with wings and sunglasses, holding a sign that said “Chill or die.” Hong smiled faintly.

His eyes drifted outside.

Across the street, there was a small supply store — notebooks, pens, watercolors in glass cabinets. And someone was stepping out of it.

A boy.

Sweatshirt sleeves pulled over his hands.

Backpack slung unevenly. A sketchbook held carefully under one arm.

He looked familiar. From a distance.

Hong sat up.

His heart was racing.

But when the boy turned, he saw it wasn’t Nut. Just someone else with the same tired slouch, the same quiet in their walk.

Hong exhaled slowly and sat back.

It wasn’t him.

Of course not.

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:

it had been a few weeks since Nut was finally free from the tortures of the hospital walls.

He found himself inside a bookstore, an old one.

Nut liked it here.

It was tucked between a pharmacy and a print shop near their new apartment in Bangkok. A narrow little place with more shelves than floor space, and handwritten signs taped to the corners: “Staff picks!” “Don’t steal the bookmarks, please.”

He came when he couldn’t sleep, or when the air in the apartment felt too tight. His mother didn’t ask where he went. Not because she didn’t care — just because she trusted him now, in that quiet, repaired way.

He drifted past the fiction shelf, fingers brushing worn spines, sketchbook tucked under one arm like always. He didn’t read much. But he liked the weight of them. The smell. The quiet.

A bell rang faintly behind him as the door opened. He didn’t turn. Just moved deeper into the rows.
He didn’t notice the other boy walking in. Didn’t see the familiar hoodie. Didn’t hear the familiar hum of a voice he really missed.

And Hong didn’t see or feel his presence either.

Chapter Text

It had been a passing whim — a flash of familiarity as he walked past the window. Something about the handwritten signs and the narrow frame. He’d paused. Blinked. And then, without thinking, he went inside.

He was supposed to be on his way back to the hotel. A family trip. His dad had dragged them out to Bangkok for some cousin’s wedding, and the whole thing had been a blur of awkward reunions.

He hadn’t expected the bookstore. He hadn’t expected the ache in his chest when he stepped in. It reminded him of Nut — not in any obvious way. Just in the feeling. The quiet. The stillness. He walked slowly, letting his fingers drift across the spines. One of them slipped loose and fell. He caught it with a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

For a second, he thought, Nut would’ve called me dramatic for that. Then he corrected himself: Nut would’ve signed it. Even though he never was obligated to learn, he learned to sign for Hong’s sister. And sometimes, it just felt easier to let the emotions out without truly speaking, it was something only they did together. And the thought sat heavy in his chest.

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:

Hong hadn’t meant to go back to the bookstore.

It had been two days since he first wandered in, pulled by nothing he could name. The quiet there clung to him like an afterthought, soft and persistent. And somehow, today, he found himself retracing those steps without fully realizing it.

The bell above the door chimed again as he entered. The same worn wood. The same smell of paper and time. No music. Just the sound of pages being turned somewhere in the back.

He moved slowly, without urgency. Without reason, really.

Until he saw it.

A sketchbook.

Left neatly on the short reading stool between two tightly packed shelves, as if someone had placed it there with intention. Black cover. A little frayed around the edges. No name. Just a faint fingerprint smudge near the spine and a folded scrap of paper peeking out.

Hong hesitated.

It wasn’t his.

But something about it—

He sat down and opened it.

The pages seemed too familiar as they turned. At first, it was just quiet pencil lines — clouds, rooftops, hands half-finished. A cup of tea. A potted plant that looked suspiciously like the dying one on the hospital roof. Then: a boy.

Or maybe a few versions of him, a boy that looked too much…way too much like Honh.

Drawn in soft strokes and lighter pencil. In some pages, he was laughing. In others, staring at the sky with an admiring smile.

The artist's name wasn’t written anywhere, but he didn’t need it to be.

It was him.

His throat tightened.

The next page was messier — quick lines, unfinished corners. A rooftop again, but different. No characters this time. Just space. The kind that made your chest ache.

And beneath it, scribbled faintly near the bottom corner in shaky letters:

“I’m sorry I disappeared.”

Hong’s hand closed the book carefully, his fingers resting on the cover like it might vanish if he let go.

He looked up suddenly, scanning the store; shelves empty, the air still. No sign of anyone. Just the slow tick of a clock on the wall.

He stood, walked to the counter, and asked the older woman behind it, voice softer than usual, “Did someone leave this here?”

She looked up, adjusted her glasses.

“Oh, that? Found it a little while ago. Wasn’t sure who left it. One of the regulars, maybe.” She studied him. “Is it yours?”

He opened his mouth. Then closed it. He didn’t know what to say. Instead, he nodded once. “Yeah,” he whispered. “It is.”

Hong didn’t know what to do, and neither did he know where to go now, so he sat down on one of the nearby tables, staring at the sketch book ahead of him like it would’ve given him the answers he had been dying to ask.

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:

The bell chimed again.

Nut stepped in, quiet as ever.

He wasn’t sure why he came back.

He wasn’t even sure what he was hoping for—that the sketchbook would still be there? That no one had taken it? That maybe, if nothing else, he could sit in the place where it had been and pretend none of it had slipped through his fingers?

He hadn’t expected anyone to be here.

And certainly not…him.

The familiar boy by the window.

Back turned at first. Head bowed. The soft edges of his profile etched by the dim bookstore light.

It took Nut a second to breathe.

His legs went cold before the rest of him caught up. His heartbeat stuttered in his chest—not loud or sudden, just… off, like the world had tripped on something and hadn’t recovered yet.

Then Hong looked up.

And the bookstore fell silent.

The air shifted. Not heavier. Not lighter. Just still.

Like the whole city had paused to watch this one fragile second unfold.

They didn’t say anything.

Didn’t move.

Hong’s eyes locked on Nut’s, and Nut couldn’t look away if he tried. And his face—God—he still looked like him. Pretty as ever—a little more tired. But still him.

Still Hong.

Still the beautiful flower Nut was in love with. .

And Hong… Hong looked like he’d forgotten how to breathe.

For a heartbeat, it felt like the past five months had never happened. Like the space between them hadn’t grown wide and wordless. Like they were still just two boys on a rooftop, talking about clouds and brushing shoulders and not realizing they were already falling into something bigger than either of them knew how to name.

Nut took one small step forward.

He couldn’t speak. That hadn’t changed. But his fingers twitched where Hong could see them—an instinct, a language they hadn’t used in too long.

Hong’s breath hitched, and he stood slowly, sketchbook still in his hand. His voice came out rougher than it should’ve been. Like he hadn’t used it in days.

“Is it really you?”

Nut nodded once. Just once.

And it was everything.

Then, finally, Hong moved—just enough to meet him halfway between the table and the shelf, the sketchbook still pressed to his chest like something sacred. When he got close, he didn’t reach out, didn’t say the thousand things he was probably thinking.

He just whispered, “You left this.”

Nut looked down at the book. Then back up.

He signed again, smaller this time.

“I didn’t mean to.”

And then, with more care than anything he’d drawn in that entire book:

“I didn’t mean to leave you.”

Hong’s breathing felt shaky, his mind still puzzled. But there was only one thing that he could bring himself to ask. “Why? Nut…why aren’t you speaking to me?” The question trembled out of him before he could stop it.

Nut stood still.

His lips parted, as if he wanted to say something. As if something might come. But nothing did.

Just the quiet. Just the slow lowering of his gaze, the way his fingers moved slightly—an anxious twitch, like he was searching for the words in a place his voice could no longer reach.

And then, finally, slowly, he signed:

“I can’t.”

One beat.

Then another, as the words sank in.

“I haven’t since the accident.”

The bookstore faded.

The shelves.

The clock.

The sounds.

All of it dimmed under the sudden, unbearable weight in Hong’s chest.
His breath hitched. He blinked, but it didn’t help—the tears welled anyway, uninvited and stinging.

“You—” he started, but the word cracked. “You lost your voice?”

Chapter Text

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:

Nut’s eyes darted away, his fingers twitching nervously. He didn’t answer with words or sign. Instead, he curled his hands into tight fists, trembling like he was fighting something inside himself.

Hong knew. He could see it all in the small, painful movements—how Nut’s whole body seemed to shrink under the weight of something no one else could see.

Finally, Nut’s hands moved, slow and hesitant. The signs were halting, full of cracks:
“I’m scared.”

“Scared of what?” Hong’s voice was uneven, brittle.

Nut swallowed hard, biting the inside of his cheek, eyes pleading to stay unread. Then he signed again, voice barely there in the way his hands shook:
“If I try to speak… it’ll break. And you’ll leave.”

That hit Hong like a fist to the gut. For a moment it felt the world tilted more than 23.5 degrees.

He wanted to scream that he wouldn’t leave. But the words stuck, caught in a raw, twisting ache that left him breathless.

Instead, he just stared at Nut’s trembling hands, at the boy who was still so far away despite standing right in front of him.

Nut didn’t look up. His shoulders curled inward, like he was retreating into himself. No answer. Just silence stretching between them, cold and empty.

Hong swallowed his own pain. The air felt heavy, suffocating. He wanted to reach out, to pull Nut close and make the silence stop.

Hong’s throat tightened, but this time he bent stepped a little forward. His hands moved carefully, deliberately, slow enough so Nut could catch every sign:
“No one is born to be alone.”

His fingers trembled, but he kept going, voice silent except for the slight catch in his breath as he signed:
“I won’t leave you. Not because of this.”

Nut’s eyes stayed fixed on Hong’s hands. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t even move. But the ghost of a tremble ran through his fingers, and his breath hitched.

Hong didn’t try to press harder. He let the silence stretch — heavy, fragile, full of everything neither of them could say out loud.

And maybe it wasn’t enough. Maybe it wouldn’t be enough.

But it was all Hong had.

Hong stood there for a long time, watching the way Nut’s hands stayed half-curled by his sides, like he didn’t know what to do with them anymore. His

Hong signed again, softly.
“Can I… hug you?”

There was a pause. Not hesitation — just something slower. Like Nut had to search through the silence first.

Then, finally, a nod.

That was all it took.

Hong stepped forward. Closer than they’d been in months. And even though it had been so long, the moment his arms started to lift—out of instinct, out of memory—Nut was already moving.

His arms wrapped around Hong’s body like they always had, low and steady, familiar and grounding. And Hong — like always — curled his fists onto his shoulders, pulling him in like he had a thousand times before, like he still belonged there.

It felt like home.

It felt too much like home.

And Hong broke first.

His breath shuddered out against Nut’s skin, his hands clutching tighter, fingers digging slightly into the soft cotton of Nut’s shirt. The tears came before he could stop them — quiet, not gasping, just leaking out, hot and heavy, as his body trembled in the circle of Nut’s arms.

Nut didn’t cry.

He just held Hong like he was the only thing he still knew how to hold. Like if he let go, the world might fall apart in a way that couldn’t be sketched back together. His arms stayed tight, one hand slowly smoothing down the back of Hong’s shirt, quiet and firm.

Neither of them moved.

There was no apology. No confession. No promise.

Just Hong’s quiet crying, and Nut holding on like it was the only thing he was still allowed to do.

And maybe it wasn’t enough.

But for a moment, it felt like it was all they had left.

Hong shifted slightly, sniffling a little. The tears stopped but his eyes were still glossy.

He slowly pulled back.

Or tried to.

His hands moved first, loosening from around Nut’s neck like he didn’t want to let go, but thought maybe he should.

But Nut’s arms didn’t move.

They tightened. Just a little. Barely noticeable. But firm.

Hong froze.

His fingers curled slightly into Nut’s shirt again. He didn’t lean in, not this time — he just stayed still, head lowered like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to want this. Like it hurt too much to ask for more.

Nut still hadn’t cried. But his chin dipped, just barely, brushing the side of Hong’s temple. And his grip around Hong’s body stayed steady, unmoving.

It wasn’t desperate.

It wasn’t pleading.

It just was.

Like Nut had finally remembered something his body still knew by heart — that this was how he used to hold him. That this was where Hong belonged. And that letting go too soon might make the ache come back all over again.

So Hong didn’t move.

Didn’t pull away.

He just let himself be held, silent and tired and heartbroken, but hoping.

For a moment — just a breath — he let himself believe that maybe he wasn’t the only one who still remembered what this felt like.

What it meant.

Even now.

Even like this.

Even after everything.

Maybe him and Nut weren’t the last page of a sad story, but the first one of a story they will write themselves.

Eventually, Nut pulled back.

Slowly. Gently. Like it hurt.

Hong didn’t stop him this time.

He just stepped back, wiping his face with the sleeve of his shirt, eyes still red and raw. Heart aching but also slowly hoping.

Nut reached into his bag, hands fumbling slightly — not nervous, just shaky, like he didn’t want to do this but knew he had to. He pulled out a folded scrap of paper, torn at the edges. Wrote on it slowly, the pen trembling in his grip.

He didn’t hand it over right away.

He stared at it for a second.

Then, finally, he held it out to Hong with both hands.

Hong took it.

Unfolded it carefully.

The handwriting was familiar. A little messier than he remembered, a little heavier.

“I’m not ready to stay.
But I will come back.
I promise.
Just… not yet.”

There was more.

A smaller line scrawled beneath it, the ink a little smudged:

“Please don’t forget me.”

Hong read it once. Twice. The ache in his chest cracked open again, but this time, he didn’t cry.

He looked up, blinking through the tears that didn’t fall. And then, with hands still unsteady, he signed back:

“I won’t forget you.”

He swallowed hard. Then added:

“But don’t ignore me again.”

Nut blinked.

Hong stepped forward — not too close this time, but close enough. His hands moved again. Slower now. Sharper.

“You don’t have to talk. Just… keep in contact. Okay? Text. Anything. Just don’t disappear.”

There was a long beat.

Nut looked down at the floor, then back up. His jaw was tight. But then, he nodded. One sharp, certain nod.

Okay.

And it wasn’t enough.

But it was something.

And Hong — eyes still glassy, throat still raw — nodded back.

“I’ll wait,” he whispered. “Till you’re ready.”

The air between them felt too big now. But not empty. Not anymore.

It hurt.

But it was a kind of hurt that meant something still lived there.

Still mattered.

And as Nut turned to leave, he left the sketchbook with Hong.

And Hong just stood there.

Waiting.

Already waiting.

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: