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Wan had everything: fame, talent, and a voice that could move millions. Her concerts sold out within minutes, and her albums topped the charts. But despite her success, there was one thing missing—she couldn’t write a love song to save her life. No matter how hard she tried, the words felt hollow. After all, how could she write about love when she had never experienced it?
That’s where Pleng came in. Quiet, talented, and devoted, Pleng was Wan’s songwriter, always in the shadows but always ready with the perfect words. Every hit love song Wan sang came from Pleng’s pen, and the world fell in love with them—love songs that spoke of passion, heartache, and longing.
Unbeknownst to Wan, every lyric Pleng wrote was a love letter. Not to some imagined lover, but to her. Ever since their first meeting, when Wan had burst into the studio full of nervous energy and laughter, Pleng had been captivated. The way Wan smiled, the way her voice could make the simplest phrase sound like poetry, the way she was completely unaware of her own beauty—it was everything Pleng had ever dreamed of.
So Pleng poured her feelings into the songs. Every line was crafted with care, each chorus a quiet confession. She watched from the sidelines as Wan performed them on stage, her heart breaking a little more every time the crowd roared, thinking it was Wan’s love they were hearing. But Wan had no idea the songs weren’t about some mystery man or woman, but about her.
As Wan’s fame grew, so did her dependency on Pleng. Late-night calls asking for help with lyrics, last-minute requests to tweak a chorus, or simply long conversations where Wan would talk about her life, her dreams, her loneliness. Pleng always listened, her heart aching with every word. Wan was lonely. She was searching for something she couldn’t name, while the answer stood right beside her, pen in hand.
One night, after a particularly successful concert, Wan invited Pleng to join her at a rooftop bar to celebrate. They sat under the stars, the city lights glittering below them. Wan, tipsy and relaxed, leaned in closer to Pleng.
“You know, sometimes I feel like your lyrics are the only thing that keeps me going,” Wan admitted, her voice soft. “You write about love so perfectly. I wish I could feel it the way you do.”
Pleng’s heart raced. She wanted to tell Wan everything, to finally let the truth spill out. But fear held her back. What if Wan didn’t feel the same? What if she ruined everything?
Instead, Pleng smiled sadly. “Maybe one day you will.”
As the night wore on, Wan fell asleep on the rooftop, her head resting on Pleng’s shoulder. Pleng stayed still, watching Wan’s peaceful face, knowing that even in this perfect moment, her feelings would remain a secret.
But things began to change. Wan started dating someone—a fellow celebrity, charming and handsome. The tabloids loved them together, calling them the perfect couple. Wan seemed happy, but the more she smiled for the cameras, the more distant she became from Pleng. Their late-night talks grew shorter, and the requests for songs became more formal, businesslike.
Pleng continued to write, but her heart wasn’t in it anymore. The words felt empty now, and she struggled to create the same magic. The truth was, every song had been about Wan. Without that secret love to fuel her, Pleng wasn’t sure if she could keep going.
One evening, after finishing yet another song for Wan, Pleng found herself at the same rooftop where they had once shared that quiet moment. She sat alone, her notebook in hand, scribbling lines that would never make it into a song. Her phone buzzed—it was Wan.
“I need to see you,” the text read.
A few minutes later, Wan arrived, her usual radiant energy dimmed. She sat beside Pleng, unusually quiet. “I broke up with him,” she said after a long pause.
Pleng wasn’t sure what to say. “I’m sorry.”
Wan shook her head. “I realized something. All this time, I’ve been trying to chase something I don’t even understand. I’ve been singing all these love songs, and I don’t even know what real love is.”
Pleng’s heart pounded, but she stayed silent.
“And then I started thinking… those songs… they never felt like mine,” Wan continued. “They felt like they were coming from someone else’s heart. And it hit me. Pleng, all this time, you’ve been writing about your own feelings, haven’t you?”
Pleng’s breath caught in her throat. She wanted to deny it, to laugh it off, but the look in Wan’s eyes told her that the moment of truth had come.
“Yes,” Pleng whispered, barely able to get the words out. “They were all about you.”
For a long moment, Wan said nothing. The silence stretched on, heavy with everything unsaid between them. Finally, she reached out and took Pleng’s hand.
“I should have known,” Wan said softly, her eyes filling with something new—something Pleng had never seen before. “I’ve been singing your heart this whole time. Maybe it’s time I started listening to it.”
The city hummed around them, the stars shining just a little brighter as they sat together, no longer songwriter and singer, but something more. Something real.
Pleng couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Wan’s hand was warm in hers, and for the first time, it felt like all the unsung words in her heart had a chance to be heard. The world around them seemed to fade as she searched Wan’s eyes, looking for some sign that this wasn’t a dream, that maybe, just maybe, Wan felt the same way.
“You don’t have to say anything,” Pleng murmured, her voice barely a whisper. “I never meant for you to find out. I just wanted to give you the songs you deserved.”
“But I want to say something,” Wan replied, her grip on Pleng’s hand tightening. “All these songs—every one of them felt like they were reaching for something, something I couldn’t understand. And now I know why. It was because they weren’t really mine. They were yours.”
Pleng blinked, her mind racing. She had never wanted Wan to carry the weight of her unspoken love, yet here it was, laid bare between them. Wan’s words were soft but firm, and there was something new in her expression—a vulnerability Pleng hadn’t seen before. It wasn’t the glamorous, untouchable Wan that the world adored, but a person who was just as confused, just as lost as Pleng had been all these years.
“I don’t know how I didn’t see it,” Wan continued, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “I mean, I guess I was just so caught up in the idea of love, of trying to understand it, that I didn’t notice it had been right in front of me the whole time.”
Pleng felt her throat tighten. “And now?” she asked, barely daring to hope.
Wan let out a shaky breath and glanced up at the stars before looking back at Pleng. “I don’t know what I’m feeling right now,” she admitted. “But I do know that I’ve never felt like this with anyone else. Not with him, not with anyone. When I’m with you, it’s different. It’s real.”
Pleng’s heart thudded in her chest, a mix of fear and anticipation. “Wan, I—” she started, but Wan interrupted her.
“I don’t know what this means, or how to figure it out,” Wan said, her voice trembling slightly, “but I don’t want to run from it anymore. You’ve been giving me pieces of your heart for years, and I’ve been singing them without even knowing. I want to know what it’s like to hear them from you.”
A tear slipped down Pleng’s cheek, and she quickly brushed it away, overwhelmed by the moment. “I was so scared,” she admitted. “I thought if you ever knew, I’d lose you.”
Wan smiled, a sad but tender smile. “You could never lose me. Not when you’ve been a part of me this whole time.”
They sat in silence for a while, their hands still intertwined, the night air cool and calming. For the first time, there were no walls between them, no unspoken feelings weighing them down. Just the quiet understanding that something had shifted—something powerful and fragile, but real.
“Can I ask you something?” Wan said, breaking the silence.
“Of course,” Pleng replied.
Wan hesitated for a moment before asking, “If you could write a song right now, what would it say?”
Pleng thought about it, her eyes drifting toward the stars before settling on Wan’s face. For once, the words came easily, flowing from her heart to her lips without the need for pen or paper.
“It would say,” Pleng began softly, “that love isn’t always easy to recognize. It can be quiet, like a whisper that’s been there all along. But once you hear it, really hear it, you realize it’s been singing to you the whole time.”
Wan’s eyes glistened in the dim light, and she leaned in, her voice barely above a whisper. “Then I think I’m finally ready to listen.”
And in that moment, the world seemed to hold its breath as Wan closed the distance between them, her lips brushing against Pleng’s in the softest, most tentative kiss. It wasn’t like the grand, cinematic kisses Wan had performed in music videos or imagined in her mind. It was gentle, hesitant, and filled with all the unspoken emotions that had been simmering between them for years.
When they pulled apart, both breathless and a little uncertain, Wan smiled—a real, genuine smile that made Pleng’s heart soar.
“I’ve never written a love song before,” Wan said softly, “but I think, with you, I could try.”
Pleng’s smile widened, and for the first time, the fear that had gripped her heart for so long began to ease. The lyrics, the secrets, the silent confessions—they had all led to this moment. And maybe, just maybe, the story of their love was only just beginning.
Together, they sat under the stars, their hands still intertwined, the night air filled with possibilities. This time, when Pleng looked at Wan, it wasn’t with the quiet ache of unrequited love, but with the knowledge that the person she had been writing for all along was finally listening.
And the melody that filled her heart was sweeter than any song she had ever written.