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For as long as Tanrak could remember, the idea had been carved deep into the marrow of his bones—love between men is a sin.
He’d grown up with that belief stitched into the very fabric of his soul, woven through sermons, whispered prayers, and the watchful gazes of devout eyes. It was an unspoken rule as undeniable as gravity. He was to be a man of God, a vessel of faith, pure in thought, in deed, in heart.
But all of that crumbled the moment he met Barth. Barth wasn’t the kind of boy who blended into the background. His presence was a quiet storm—calm on the surface, but beneath it, something wild and untamed churned. His sharp, distant eyes betrayed flickers of warmth only few could see.
To the other seminarians, Barth was cold, unapproachable, a shadow that refused to be touched by light. But Tanrak saw beyond the armor Barth wore like a second skin.
And that was his first mistake—seeing him.
The realization hit Tanrak like an unexpected wave, soft at first but growing, pulling him under with terrifying strength. He tried to ignore it, dismiss it as fleeting admiration, nothing more than companionship forged in the stillness of shared prayers and silent corridors.
But Barth’s laughter—a rare, genuine sound like sunlight cracking through stained glass—stayed with him long after it faded.
So Tanrak did what he thought was right. He avoided Barth. He avoided the warmth of his gaze, the accidental brush of fingers, the casual conversations that lingered too long.
But Barth wasn’t blind. His silence was a fragile thing, and Barth shattered it one evening beneath the dim flicker of a hallway light.
“Why are you avoiding me, Tanrak?”
The question was simple, but it left Tanrak breathless. He tried to lie, to deny the whirlwind brewing inside him, but Barth’s eyes held the kind of truth that made lies feel like ash on his tongue.
“Love is love. Why would it be a sin?” Barth’s voice was soft, yet it echoed louder than any sermon Tanrak had ever heard.
Tanrak had no answer. His lips parted, but words betrayed him. Because Barth was right. Since when had love become a sin?
“Either with a woman or a man, it’s still love. What’s the difference?”
Tanrak couldn’t answer that either. Because there was no difference—no scripture, no doctrine, no rule could explain why his heart raced at the sight of Barth’s smile or why his soul felt lighter when Barth was near.
That was the beginning. Their relationship didn’t ignite like wildfire. It was slower, like a candle flame flickering against the dark—fragile, hidden, precious. They existed in the spaces between what was allowed and what was forbidden, building a sanctuary in stolen moments. A brush of fingers under the table during evening prayers. A fleeting kiss in the shadowed corners of the library. The warmth of Barth’s hand intertwined with his, hidden beneath the folds of their robes as they walked back to their rooms under the indifferent gaze of the moon.
Tanrak was selfishly glad. Glad that no one else could hear Barth’s soft, genuine laughter—the kind that melted the ice he wore like armor. Glad no one else saw the way Barth’s smile stretched, crooked and brilliant, only for him. Glad that the world knew Barth as distant and cold, because the softness belonged to Tanrak alone.
But it wasn’t all tender touches and whispered promises.
Tanrak remembered the night everything shattered and yet somehow came together. The night guilt wrapped around his throat, suffocating him after their first time. It wasn’t planned—it was desperation, longing spilling over like water from a broken dam. Barth’s hands had been gentle, his kisses soft, filled with a reverence that made Tanrak’s heart ache.
But afterward, lying in the silence with Barth’s warmth still pressed against him, the guilt crept in like a shadow. He cried—silent, body-shaking sobs he couldn’t control. Not out of regret for what he’d done, but for what it meant.
I am a sinner.
I am disgusting.
I am unworthy.
But Barth didn’t leave. He held Tanrak like he was something sacred, whispering words Tanrak didn’t believe but desperately needed to hear.
“You’re not disgusting. Loving is not a sin.”
“God won’t hate you. And if there’s someone He should hate, it’s me.”
“If God doesn’t want us to love each other, then what’s the point of having Him in this world?”
Barth’s voice was a lifeline, pulling Tanrak from the depths of his self-loathing. There was something about the way Barth said it—not like a plea, but a fact, solid and unwavering.
Tanrak never understood why those words soothed him. Maybe it was the conviction in Barth’s voice. Maybe it was the warmth of his arms. Or maybe it was because, for the first time, someone’s love didn’t feel like a sin. But faith and fear are stubborn things.
No matter how many times Barth whispered that love wasn’t wrong, Tanrak’s heart remained a battleground. He still prayed until his knees ached, begged for forgiveness he wasn’t sure he needed. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.
Happiness, Tanrak learned, was fragile. It bloomed in fleeting moments, delicate as the petals of wildflowers crushed beneath careless footsteps.
For months, he’d basked in it—warmed by Barth’s laughter, soothed by the soft hums Barth sang against his skin when the world grew too quiet. They built a universe within the four walls of their shared room, stitched together with whispered confessions, lazy afternoons tangled in bedsheets, and the comfort of knowing they belonged to no one but each other.
Barth was brighter now, his once guarded demeanor replaced by warmth reserved solely for Tanrak. He’d talk endlessly—about books, films, the beauty of fleeting sunsets, and photography, his passion. Barth loved capturing memories, claiming that “photos are the only proof that moments truly existed.” Tanrak never fully understood it, but he didn’t need to. Barth’s happiness was enough.
But happiness, as Tanrak now knew, was not built to last.
It happened on an ordinary evening, wrapped in routine and comfort. Tanrak had forgotten his book in class, and Barth—ever the shadow he loved—tagged along. The corridors were quiet, bathed in the soft glow of dim lights, the air thick with the intimacy of stolen time. Barth, playful as always, tugged Tanrak close, stealing a kiss with a grin that always made Tanrak’s heart falter.
But that night, the world shifted.
“Tanrak.”
The voice sliced through the silence, cold and sharp. They froze, lips still brushing, hearts plummeting. Father stood at the doorway, his face unreadable, eyes dark with something Tanrak couldn’t decipher—disappointment? Disgust? Judgment?
“Go back to your rooms,” Father said, his voice devoid of emotion. Tanrak stumbled over his words, desperate to explain, to deny, to fix what had just broken.
But Father didn’t listen.
He only repeated the command, his words final, leaving no room for excuses. That night, fear consumed Tanrak. It crept into his bones, hollowing him out. What if he couldn’t be a priest anymore? What if his sins barred him from heaven, from seeing his parents again? What if Father saw him as something vile, something irredeemable?
He shut Barth out, drowning in self-loathing, believing distance could suffocate the feelings that had betrayed him. Barth, understanding as always, gave him space. But solitude felt different now—emptier, colder. He thought he could endure it, but sometime in the hollow hours of night, he found himself crawling into Barth’s bed, shaking with fear he couldn’t name.
Barth didn’t ask questions. He simply wrapped his arms around Tanrak, pressing a soft kiss to his temple, humming quietly as if his voice could stitch the cracks in Tanrak’s soul. Barth had always been his safe place. But safety was fleeting.
The next morning, Tanrak was summoned.
Father’s grip was firm on his shoulder, his words sharper than any reprimand Tanrak had ever known.
“Stop ruining your future.” Tanrak’s breath hitched.
“You’re confused. This isn’t love—it’s a phase, a mistake. Love between men doesn’t exist. You’re just lost.” The words echoed in his mind, each syllable a dagger.
Father spoke of sin, of repentance, of hellfire wrapped in kindness. He painted Barth as the devil draped in soft smiles and tender touches, claiming Tanrak was throwing away his future—for what? A boy? A fleeting mistake?
“Do you want to see your parents in heaven? Then you need to seek forgiveness. You need to end this… whatever this is.” Father’s words carved doubt into Tanrak’s heart, poisoning the memories he once cherished.
Later that evening, Barth was gone. No note. No message. Just gone. Panic clawed at Tanrak’s chest. Barth never left without telling him. Never.
He found Barth outside, standing beneath the gray sky, face hard with something fierce and unspoken. Father was there too.
“You’re ruining his future. Stop being a bad influence on him.”
Barth let out a sharp, bitter laugh, the sound devoid of humor. “A bad influence?” he scoffed, eyes narrowing. “Is that what you think I am?”
Father’s gaze remained cold. “You’re leading him down a sinful path. He has a future—a bright one—as a servant of God. And you’re poisoning it.”
Barth’s fists clenched at his sides, trembling not with fear but with rage. His voice, when it came, was low and bitter, laced with heartbreak. “I didn’t ruin him,” Barth hissed, “I loved him. But maybe you’re right—maybe loving someone like me is the worst thing that could happen to him.”
Father didn’t flinch. Barth didn’t wait for more. He turned and walked away, his steps heavy with everything he wanted to say but couldn’t.
Tanrak stood frozen, heart shattering in the quiet aftermath. Why did happiness always slip through his fingers?
Was loving truly a sin? Tanrak had no answers. Only the echo of Barth’s footsteps fading into the distance.
The room was cloaked in darkness, save for the faint glow of the moon seeping through the thin curtains. The silence between them was heavy, thick with unspoken words and tension that seemed to choke the air.
Tanrak sat on the edge of his bed, his fingers trembling slightly as he gripped the rosary hanging from his neck. Barth stood by the door, arms crossed, his face shadowed but his eyes burning with something fierce—confusion, frustration, fear.
“We need to talk,” Tanrak’s voice was low, brittle like thin glass.
Barth didn’t respond at first, his jaw clenched, waiting. He’d felt the distance growing between them like cracks on ice. He knew this was coming, but knowing didn’t make it easier.
“I think we should end this,” Tanrak whispered, not meeting Barth’s gaze.
Silence. Deafening. Barth blinked slowly, like he hadn’t heard right. “What?”
“I said… we need to break up.” Tanrak’s voice was firmer now, though it wavered at the edges, betraying him.
Barth’s laugh was hollow, bitter. “Is this because of Father? Because of what he said?”
Tanrak swallowed, forcing the words past the lump in his throat. “What Father said is true. This—us—it’s wrong. It’s a sin. I’ve been blind, but I see clearly now. I can’t… I can’t continue like this.”
Barth took a step forward, his eyes wide, glassy. “Tanrak, no. This isn’t wrong. We love each other. Love isn’t a sin. Since when is love a sin, Tanrak? Since when did holding someone’s hand become a ticket to hell? "
But Tanrak shook his head violently. “Stop saying that! Why can’t you understand? I’m doing this for my future, for my soul. I need to reunite with my parents in heaven. I can’t do that if I keep sinning like this.”
“Sin?” Barth’s voice cracked, disbelief flooding his features. “Is that all you see when you look at me? A sin?”
Tanrak’s heart twisted, but anger flared—anger rooted in fear, in guilt, in everything he couldn’t control. “Yes! This was a mistake—a phase. Men are supposed to love women. That’s the natural order of things.”
Barth’s face darkened, the warmth draining from his eyes, replaced by something sharp and cold. “A phase? Is that what I am to you? A mistake you’re trying to forget?”
“Yes!” Tanrak snapped, the word slipping out before he could catch it. His chest heaved, breath ragged. “You’re just confusion. A distraction. Someone who doesn’t even understand God, sin, or heaven. What do you know about faith? About being pure?”
Silence.
Barth stood frozen, his lips parted slightly, his eyes empty in a way Tanrak had never seen before. Then, slowly, Barth’s expression shifted—not to sadness, but to something worse. Resentment. Disappointment.
“You’re the same,” Barth whispered, his voice hollow, void of the tenderness it once held.
Tanrak's heart dropped.
“Barth, I… I didn’t mean—” But Barth stepped back, shaking his head, a bitter laugh escaping his lips.
“No. You meant it. You just didn’t expect me to hear it out loud.” Tanrak reached out instinctively, but Barth flinched, like his touch was something vile. “I thought you were different.” Barth’s voice was low, trembling with fury. “I thought you saw me—not as a sin, not as a mistake—but as me. Guess I was wrong. I put my expectations too high.”
Tanrak’s throat burned, words trapped behind regret. “Barth, please—”
“Fine.” Barth cut him off, his voice sharp. “Let’s break up. I hate fake people like you.” The door slammed shut behind Barth, leaving Tanrak standing in the empty room, his heart pounding in the echo of the silence that followed.
That night, Tanrak couldn’t find him. Barth didn’t return to their shared room. Tanrak lay curled in his bed, the cold sheets feeling suffocatingly vast without Barth’s warmth beside him.
He clutched his rosary, whispering prayers through choked sobs, but the words felt hollow, meaningless. He thought he’d feel relief. He thought breaking things off would realign him with God’s path, that he’d find solace in his devotion.
But all he found was an ache so deep it felt like his heart was unraveling. Why did it hurt so much? If it was just a phase, why did it feel like dying?
For the first time in his life, prayer didn’t ease the pain. His sobs filled the small room, echoing off the walls like a confession he couldn’t take back.
Days passed. A week. Two weeks. Three weeks. A month.
Barth was a ghost. He didn’t speak to Tanrak, didn’t look at him. The bed that once carried the echoes of their whispered secrets remained cold and untouched. Tanrak’s mornings were empty without Barth’s sleepy grumbles. Their shared routines dissolved into distant memories. Barth skipped classes, missed prayers, disappeared for hours with no explanation.
The other seminarians noticed. “Where’s Barth? You two are always together,” they’d ask.
Tanrak forced a tight smile, shrugging like it didn’t matter. But it did. God, it did.
His heart screamed every time he woke up alone, every time he caught Barth’s silhouette vanishing down the hall, every time their eyes met—and Barth looked away like Tanrak was nothing more than a stranger.
But Tanrak was a man of God.
He couldn’t reach out.
He couldn’t fall again.
He couldn’t sin. So, he ignored.
The morning air was sharp, biting against Tanrak’s skin as he walked alone down the narrow stone corridor. The chapel bells hadn’t rung yet, but the silence felt heavier than their usual chimes. His steps echoed faintly, hollow, matching the emptiness that had settled deep in his chest over the past week.
The halls felt colder somehow, not because of the weather but because Barth wasn’t trailing behind him—no quiet jokes, no stolen glances, no warmth. He could feel it with every step. The absence.
“Tanrak.” He froze mid-step. His heart lurched painfully. That voice—he’d know it anywhere. Barth’s voice. He scoffed softly to himself.
“I’m going crazy,” he whispered under his breath. His mind must be playing tricks on him. He was hearing things, haunted by the echo of someone who wasn’t really there. Barth’s absence had stitched itself into the fabric of his days so tightly that now his mind was filling the void with ghosts.
“Tanrakkk!” A light tap on his shoulder snapped him out of his thoughts. He turned abruptly, breath caught in his chest—but it wasn’t Barth. It was one of their classmates, smiling lazily, oblivious to the storm brewing behind Tanrak’s stoic face.
“You seem okay. I thought you’d be crying your eyes out,” his classmate joked casually.
Tanrak frowned, confused. “Why would I cry?” His voice came out sharper than he intended, but he was too distracted to care.
“Because you won’t see Barth anymore. You know Barth is like your little puppy, always following you around. I figured you’d be sad about that.”
He blinked rapidly, his mind struggling to catch up. “What do you mean?” he asked slowly, dread creeping into his voice.
His classmate’s grin faded, replaced by a frown. “Wait… you don’t know? Yesterday was Barth’s last day. I heard he’s going back to his hometown this morning.”
The world stopped. No, it couldn’t be. This had to be some kind of joke. Barth wouldn’t leave—not without telling him.
“You’re lying,” Tanrak snapped, his voice trembling.
“I’m not,” his friend laughed awkwardly, then paused, realizing something was wrong. His face grew serious. “Wait… don’t tell me you really didn’t know? Everyone in class kn—TANRAK!!”
But Tanrak was already running. He didn’t care about the morning prayer. He didn’t care about appearances or rules. His legs moved on instinct, fueled by pure panic. His heart raced faster than his feet, thudding painfully against his ribs.
“TANRAK, WHERE ARE YOU GOING? TODAY IS YOUR TURN TO LEAD THE PRAYER!”
The voice faded behind him, lost in the roaring of his own pulse. He reached their room, flinging the door open so hard it slammed against the wall.
“Barth!” he shouted, breathless, his chest heaving. But the room was empty. His heart plummeted.
“Barth,” he whispered again, softer this time, like saying it gently would somehow summon him back.
He stumbled to Barth’s locker, yanking it open. Empty. No clothes. No books. Just the faint scent of Barth’s cologne lingering like a cruel reminder.
Tanrak’s eyes darted to the study table where Barth used to sit, hunched over his notes, scribbling in the margins, sometimes doodling little sketches Tanrak secretly loved. But now the desk was bare—no books, no scattered papers, not even a forgotten pen. Panic turned to desperation.
His gaze swept the room frantically, searching for anything—something—that would prove Barth was still here. Still his. Then he saw it.
Barth’s sweatshirt.
The one Tanrak always stole, claiming it was the most comfortable, but really, it was because it smelled like Barth—faint hints of laundry soap mixed with something uniquely him.
He stumbled toward it, his fingers trembling as he picked it up. He pressed it to his face, breathing in the fading scent, his chest tightening with unbearable grief.
No wonder Barth had spoken to him this morning.
“My sweatshirt, is it with you?” Barth had asked quietly, breaking the heavy silence of the past weeks.
Tanrak had just nodded, his mind too clouded to process the simple question. “Wait, do you wan—”
“Never mind. Just keep it. Or throw it if you don’t want it,” Barth had said before walking out.
Tanrak’s knees buckled, and he collapsed onto Barth’s now-empty bed, clutching the sweatshirt like it could somehow hold him together. His breathing grew ragged, his vision blurring with tears.
Then he saw the note. A small piece of paper on his desk, held down by a few polaroids—the ones they’d taken on their last date.
Smiling faces frozen in time, capturing a happiness that felt like a distant memory now. With shaking hands, he picked up the note.
“I’m sorry for everything. Take care of yourself, Tanrak :) I wish the best for your future. —Barth”
Tanrak’s world shattered. The words blurred as hot tears spilled down his cheeks, dripping onto the paper, smudging the ink slightly. His sobs broke free, loud and uncontrollable, echoing in the emptiness of the room that once felt like home.
“No… no, no, no,” he cried, clutching the polaroids to his chest, as if holding onto them could somehow bring Barth back.
His mind replayed Barth’s voice, those soft words from long ago: “Pictures are the only memories left when people are gone. It’s the only thing that stays, for you to remember them.”
Tanrak screamed—a raw, broken sound that tore through the stillness of the small room. His voice echoed off the cracked walls before dissolving into a suffocating silence.
He crumpled over the scattered photos on the floor, his body folding in on itself, shaking violently with grief that felt too vast to contain. His chest burned, his throat raw from the force of his sobs, but he didn’t care.
The pain needed somewhere to go, so he let it spill out, unchecked and ugly. The photos beneath him were creased from his trembling fingers, stained with tears that blurred Barth’s face—his smile, his eyes, his everything.
Tanrak clutched them tighter, but no matter how tightly he held on, the cold reality seeped through: Barth was gone. Not dead, no—but gone from his life in a way that felt even crueler because Barth was still out there somewhere, breathing the same air, just unreachable.
After what felt like an hour—maybe more—Tanrak’s sobs quieted into ragged gasps. His eyes burned, swollen and red, but the ache in his chest remained, hollow and endless. He realized nothing would change unless he did something.
Grief could drown him, but it couldn’t save him. He had to move, had to fight. Breaking up had seemed like the right choice, or at least the only one. Maybe because even in separation, there had been a fragile thread between them—a chance encounter, a stolen glance, the knowledge that Barth was still somewhere close.
But now, that thread had snapped. Barth was nowhere. No accidental glimpses. No shadows in the halls. No stolen moments of watching him sleep, his face soft and peaceful, untouched by the weight of the world.
Tanrak had never imagined a life without Barth in it. He never thought that day would come because, for the past few months, every morning had been a promise. He’d wake up with a quiet smile, knowing Barth was there.
Knowing that even if they couldn’t touch, couldn’t speak, Barth existed within reach. Just a breath away. But now? Now, it was like Barth had been a dream Tanrak had woken from too soon.
Oh.
The realization hit him like ice water to the face. He shot up from the floor, his legs unsteady beneath him. Without thinking, he wiped his tears with the back of his hand, rough and harsh, as if trying to scrub them away.
The apartment smelled faintly of coffee and damp fabric, the windows streaked with raindrops tracing jagged paths down the glass.
“Tell me when you need more money,” she said, slinging her bag over her shoulder, her keys jingling softly.
Barth shook his head, his jaw clenching with stubbornness. “I’m going to find a job tomorrow. You don’t need to give me money.”
His aunt paused, then chuckled softly, ruffling his hair like she used to when he was little. Barth instinctively ducked away, scowling, but she only laughed harder. That familiar warmth in her voice—unbothered, affectionate—made his chest ache in a way he didn’t like.
“Whatever you say, kid,” she replied with a grin, “I’m still giving you money.”
Barth’s hands curled into fists at his sides. He hated this—hated feeling like a burden. His very existence felt like an inconvenience, a mistake carved into the world that no one had the courage to erase. Every breath he took felt like a debt he could never repay.
“About your new school,” his aunt added as she slipped on her jacket, “I’ll try to settle it as soon as possible.” Barth gave a tight nod, saying nothing. His throat felt too tight to form words anyway.
He’d been expelled from his last school for fighting—not that he regretted it. He’d done the right thing, protecting his mother’s name from the filthy words they’d thrown like knives. He didn’t care about the consequences. Let them punish him. He’d do it again if he had to.
But that was the final straw for his family. They decided he needed to be “fixed.” Their solution? Send him to the seminary, claiming it would discipline him, mold him into someone good, someone acceptable. Barth had rejected the idea instantly, his chest burning with fury and disgust. He hated places like that—cold walls and colder people.
His aunt had been on his side at first, promising to handle his school transfer. She’d tried to fight for him, but their family wouldn’t listen. They’d said she was too soft, too easily swayed by Barth’s “troubled ways.” They started whispering about her the same way they’d whispered about his mother—ugly words.
Eventually, Barth agreed to go. Not because he wanted to. Not because he thought it would help. But because he couldn’t bear to see his aunt hurt like that. He couldn’t stand the idea of her carrying the same weight his mother had—being torn apart by judgment and cruelty just for loving him.
But finally he needed her help again. To get out. To leave that suffocating place behind and breathe freely, even if it meant being lost again. And when he’d finally gathered the courage to ask, she hadn’t hesitated. She didn’t ask for explanations. She just nodded, her eyes soft with understanding.
“Drive safely,” Barth muttered as she reached for the door. Rain was coming down harder now, the steady drum against the roof filling the silence between them. His aunt turned, a teasing smile tugging at her lips.
“Look at you, worrying about me. What a good kid you’ve turned out to be.” Barth rolled his eyes, but a faint smile ghosted over his lips before he could stop it.
She always teased him like that, because little Barth had been an expert at annoying her—mischief in every grin, trouble in every word. But who would’ve thought that, years later, she’d be the one person he trusted after his mother?
After saying goodbye to his aunt, Barth quickly ran into his house, slamming the door shut behind him as if he could lock out the emptiness that followed. He shook off his umbrella, drops of rain scattering across the dusty floor.
The chill of the storm clung to his skin, seeping through the thin fabric of his clothes, but he didn’t care. The small house greeted him with suffocating silence. It used to be filled with life—echoes of laughter bouncing off the chipped walls, his mother’s soft voice humming old tunes from the kitchen, the faint scent of jasmine from the flowers she loved to keep by the window.
But now, it was nothing more than a hollow shell. The warmth was gone, replaced by an emptiness that felt colder than the rain outside. The house was smaller than he remembered—or maybe emptiness had made the walls press in closer.
Where there was once light, there were only shadows. Where there was once warmth, there was only the stale, lingering chill of absence.
It was monochrome. Like his life after his mother’s smile had been stolen from it.
Barth rubbed his arms, trying to shake off the invisible weight pressing down on him. He told himself he needed to sleep. Tomorrow was job hunting—he needed energy, needed to be functional, needed to pretend like he wasn’t falling apart.
But the rain outside was relentless, beating against the windows like it was trying to claw its way in. He hated this kind of weather.
It was like the sky was mourning with him—or worse, mocking him. The gray clouds, the hollow wind, the icy rain… It all felt too familiar, too close to what was buried inside him.
The world is just like me, he thought bitterly. Gloomy. Broken. Alone.
He lay down on his bed, softer than the stiff, narrow mattress he’d had at the seminary. But it felt foreign now, like he didn’t belong here anymore. He shifted onto his right side, then his left, restless. No position felt right. Sleep was supposed to be an escape, but tonight, it felt like a stranger.
Then—
A loud knock shattered the stillness, and Barth jolted upright, his heart slamming against his ribcage. For a moment, he just sat there, breathless, wondering if he’d imagined it.
Maybe it was the storm. Maybe—
Another loud knock.
No. Someone was at the door. His pulse raced. Who the hell would be here in this weather? Panic flickered for a split second, then faded as he thought of his aunt.
She probably forgot something, he told himself. She was always leaving things behind. He swung his legs off the bed, feet hitting the cold floor like an electric shock, and called out, “Wait!” hoping whoever it was would stop before the door broke.
He crossed the small living room, unlocked the door, and pulled it open—
Before a weight collided with him.
A body crashed into his, arms wrapping around his waist so tightly it knocked the air from his lungs. He stumbled back a step, instinctively reaching out to steady himself, his heart thundering with confusion.
Then he heard it— A soft, broken sob pressed against his chest.
His breath caught. He looked down. Soaked to the bone, trembling, head buried against him, clutching at his shirt like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to this world— Tanrak.
Barth’s heart twisted violently in his chest, something sharp and painful blooming where there had only been numbness before.
“Tanrak?” he whispered, his voice fragile, like the name might shatter if spoken too loudly.
The arms around him tightened, fingers fisting the fabric of his shirt, as if letting go would cause Barth to disappear.
Tanrak’s sobs grew softer but no less desperate, muffled against Barth’s chest. Before Barth could process anything more, a voice cut through the rain.
“I found him in front of the school,” a girl said casually, standing at the doorstep with an umbrella tilted against the wind. “He was asking everyone if they knew your address. I swear, if dogs and cats could talk, he’d have asked them too.”
Barth’s mind spun, trying to catch up. How did Tanrak find me? Then he remembered—he’d once told Tanrak stories about his old school, little details he never thought mattered. But apparently, they mattered more than he realized.
The girl squinted at Barth through the rain. “Didn’t know you were back.”
Barth swallowed, his throat dry. “I just got back this evening.”
She raised an eyebrow, a teasing smirk playing on her lips. “Thought you weren’t coming back. Never visited us after you left. Guess it’s ‘cause you pulled a pretty one there, huh?”
Barth didn’t know if she was teasing or accusing, but his face flushed anyway. He glanced between her and Tanrak, whose grip hadn’t loosened an inch.
“The others miss you,” she added. “Come say hi if you’re free.” Barth could barely nod, his mind still tangled in confusion and disbelief.
She gave a casual wave before disappearing into the rain, leaving Barth standing there, soaked and speechless, with Tanrak clinging to him like he was the only thing left in the world.
Barth stood frozen, his heart pounding painfully. He didn’t even manage a proper goodbye to the girl, just whispered a soft, shaky, “Thank you,” hoping she heard it.
Slowly, Barth brought his hands up, cupping Tanrak’s face gently, tilting it upward. His heart cracked wide open at the sight. Tanrak’s face was a mess—red, blotchy, soaked with rain and tears. His eyes were swollen, lashes clumped together, his bottom lip trembling. His whole body was shaking.
Barth wanted to ask—Why are you here? What happened? How did you get here? But he didn’t.
Because he knew Tanrak. When Tanrak was like this, he didn’t want questions. He just needed to be held.
“Let’s get you dry, or you’ll catch a cold,” Barth murmured, his voice softer than he’d ever heard it. He guided Tanrak inside, shutting the door against the storm, as if he could lock out the rest of the world.
He led him to the old, worn-out sofa, gently easing him down like he was something fragile that might break apart completely if mishandled.
Barth turned to get a towel, maybe some dry clothes—anything to warm him up. But before he could take a single step, Tanrak’s hand shot out, gripping his wrist with trembling fingers. Their eyes met.
Tanrak’s gaze was glassy with fresh tears, his lips parted like he wanted to say something—but no words came. He just shook his head slightly, a silent plea woven into the small, desperate motion.
He reached out with his free hand, gently prying Tanrak’s fingers from his wrist, his touch as soft as a whisper.
“Just give me one minute,” Barth murmured. His voice was a promise—gentle, steady, something to anchor Tanrak to. “You need to change. I won’t go anywhere.”
Tanrak stared at him for a few more seconds, his breath shaky, his grip reluctant. Finally, he gave a small, fragile nod.
Barth squeezed his hand gently before slipping away. The faint hum of rain outside was the only sound filling the small house.
Barth stood in the dim light of the kitchen, his fingers wrapped around the handle of an old kettle as he waited for the water to boil. The warmth from the stove was comforting, but the hollowness in his chest lingered like a stubborn shadow.
He glanced over his shoulder. The door to his room was slightly ajar, the faint creak from within signaling Tanrak was changing into the dry clothes Barth had given him.
Barth sighed softly, rubbing his eyes. Exhaustion pulled at him like gravity, the events of the day finally catching up to him. He yawned, long and deep, feeling the tug of sleep in his bones.
But then—soft footsteps behind him. Barth turned around slowly, half-expecting Tanrak to still be tucked away in the room.
But there he was, standing just a few steps away, awkward and hesitant, like a fragile shadow unsure where it belonged. His posture was stiff, arms hanging by his sides, eyes cast down like they were too heavy to lift.
Barth had never seen him like this. Not even on their worst days. Even when Tanrak needed comfort, he’d always come straight to Barth without hesitation, burying himself into Barth’s arms like it was the safest place in the world.
But now… there was a wall between them, invisible but undeniable. Maybe it was because they were no longer together. Maybe it was because the pieces between them didn’t fit the same way anymore.
But Barth had never seen Tanrak look so lost.
Clearing his throat gently, Barth picked up the mug he’d just finished preparing. “Here,” he said softly, offering the warm cup. “Drink this before we go to sleep. I don’t want you to get sick.”
Tanrak hesitated, then slowly nodded. He pulled out a chair at the small dining table and sat down, his movements sluggish like his body was too heavy.
Barth sat across from him, watching as Tanrak brought the cup to his lips, the sleeves of Barth’s shirt falling over his hands, too big for him. Barth’s eyes never left him.
“Is it good?” he asked quietly. His voice felt too loud in the fragile silence between them. “It’s been a long time since I made one.”
Tanrak nodded again, his lips parting just slightly as he sipped the hot chocolate. The warmth seemed to bring a faint color back to his pale face.
It was such a simple thing—just a mug of hot chocolate—but seeing Tanrak cradle it like it was the only warmth left in the world made Barth’s chest ache.
Standing up, Barth gently pushed his chair back. “I’ll prepare your bed. Just put the cup in the sink when you’re done, okay?” But before he could turn away, Tanrak’s hand shot out, fingers wrapping around Barth’s wrist.
Barth stilled, looking down at the fragile grip, then back at Tanrak’s face. His expression was unreadable, somewhere between fear and something else—something even more fragile. Barth raised his eyebrows slightly, silently asking, What is it?
But Tanrak didn’t say anything. Instead, he quickly finished the rest of his drink, stood up, placed the empty mug in the sink, and then… he stood beside Barth. Still holding his hand. Barth sighed softly, shaking his head with a faint, exhausted smile. What are you doing to me, Tanrak? he thought, but didn’t say it out loud.
Without another word, they moved together to Barth’s small bedroom, Tanrak’s hand never letting go.
The room was exactly how Barth had left it before his life had unraveled—a small, simple space with photographs pinned on the walls, a few old posters of football players he used to admire, and a couple of paintings, their colors faded from time. It wasn’t anything special. Just… his space.
Tanrak’s eyes scanned the room, lingering on the little things—things that once might’ve been part of his world too.
Barth cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “You can sleep here,” he said softly, moving to tidy up the bed even though it didn’t really need it.
He smoothed the blanket like it was some kind of distraction, pretending not to feel the weight of Tanrak’s gaze on his back.
Tanrak shifted slightly, his voice breaking the fragile silence for the first time since he’d arrived. “H-how about you?” His voice was soft, hesitant, like the words hurt to say.
Barth didn’t turn around. “I’ll sleep in my mother’s room. Don’t worry about me. Just get some rest.”
A pause. “…We’re not sleeping together?” The words hit Barth harder than he expected. He let out a soft scoff, not turning to face Tanrak.
“Why would we?” The bitterness in his voice surprised even himself. It came out sharper than he meant it to, like a blade he didn’t know he was holding.
Silence.
When Barth finally glanced over, Tanrak’s face had crumpled slightly—eyes glassy, lips pressed together like he was trying to hold back something fragile and broken.
Barth’s chest tightened immediately with regret. “No—I mean…” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “We don’t have to. You can have the bed to yourself.”
His voice was softer this time, but the damage had already been done. Tanrak bit his bottom lip, trying to hold it together.
But Barth saw it—the shimmer of tears, the way Tanrak’s chest rose and fell unevenly. And then, without a word, Tanrak wiped his cheeks harshly, as if angry with himself for crying.
Barth couldn’t take it. He hated this. Hated seeing Tanrak cry.
Without thinking, Barth reached out, pulling Tanrak gently toward the bed. He lay down first, his body sinking into the mattress, then gave Tanrak a small nod—a silent invitation. Tanrak didn’t hesitate. He climbed in beside him, and for a moment, they just lay there, staring at each other in the dim light.
It was like déjà vu—memories of cramped dorm beds, whispered conversations, and quiet nights spent tangled in each other’s warmth. He wanted to reach out, to pull Tanrak close, to be selfish. But he didn’t want to ruin him.
Then he noticed—Tanrak was crying silently, tears slipping down his face, his eyes never leaving Barth’s.
Barth couldn’t hold back anymore. Just for tonight, he told himself.
He reached out, sliding his hand under Tanrak’s head, pulling him closer until Tanrak’s face was buried against his chest. Barth wrapped his arms around him, holding him tight, feeling the way Tanrak’s body trembled with quiet sobs.
“Stop crying,” Barth whispered, his voice low and shaky. His hand moved gently, rubbing soft circles on Tanrak’s back, like he was trying to soothe a child. “Let’s just sleep now, okay?”
Tanrak didn’t respond with words, just gripped Barth’s shirt tighter, his tears soaking through the fabric. Eventually, the sobs faded into quiet sniffles, and then—silence.
Barth’s eyes grew heavy, his hand still resting gently on Tanrak’s back.
The soft rays of the morning sun crept through the thin curtains, casting gentle streaks of light across the small bedroom. The warmth against his face stirred Tanrak from his sleep, his eyes fluttering open slowly.
For a moment, his mind was blank, caught in the hazy space between dreams and reality. But as the fog lifted, a hollow emptiness settled in his chest.
The bed was empty. Barth was gone.
Tanrak sat up abruptly, his heart skipping a beat. The space beside him was cold, untouched. His eyes darted around the room—silent, still, lifeless. No signs of Barth.
Panic gripped him. He stumbled out of bed, his bare feet hitting the cold floor as he rushed to the door, his voice breaking through the quiet.
“Barth?” No response. Just the echo of his own voice bouncing off empty walls. His breathing grew heavier, chest tightening with every second of silence.
No, no, no… not again.
“Barth!” he called out louder this time, his voice trembling. But there was nothing—no footsteps, no answer. Just the oppressive quiet, like the house itself was holding its breath.
His heart raced, a suffocating fear clawing at his throat. He left me. The thought screamed in his mind, louder than his own voice. He left me again.
Without thinking, Tanrak flung the door open, stepping outside without caring about his bare feet against the rough, cold ground. The morning air was crisp, biting at his skin, but it didn’t matter.
“Barth!” His voice cracked, desperate and raw, carried away by the gentle breeze. He spun around, searching, hoping—praying—for a glimpse of him. But there was no one.
His legs felt weak, his chest hollow. He stood there, lost, the unfamiliar streets stretching around him, indifferent to his heartbreak. He didn’t know this place. He didn’t know where to go, where to find Barth.
The tears burned behind his eyes, threatening to spill. Did Barth really hate him that much?
But then—
“What are you doing out here?” Tanrak spun around, his breath hitching. Barth stood a few steps away, a plastic bag dangling from his hand, his brows furrowed in confusion.
Tanrak’s chest heaved, relief crashing over him so fiercely it felt like it might knock him over. His voice was shaky, thin, barely holding together. “You… you weren’t inside. I thought you left.”
Barth let out a dry laugh, brittle and hollow—not the warm, easy laugh Tanrak used to know. “This is my house, Tanrak. Where would I go? I just went to buy us breakfast. You were sleeping so deeply, I didn’t want to wake you.”
Tanrak swallowed hard, nodding, though his legs still trembled slightly. He followed Barth back inside, his heart still racing, trying to catch up with reality.
In the kitchen, Barth moved with practiced ease, unpacking the food. “I already put an extra toothbrush in the bathroom. Go brush your teeth. I’ll get this ready.”
Tanrak nodded silently, his throat too tight to form words. The bathroom mirror reflected his disheveled face—puffy eyes, tear-streaked cheeks, hair messy from sleep. He splashed cold water on his face, trying to wash away the lingering fear, but it clung stubbornly. He brushed his teeth quickly, eager to return, to confirm Barth was still there.
When he came back, breakfast was neatly set on the table. Barth was already seated, eating quietly. Tanrak slid into the chair across from him, picking up his spoon. Silence hung between them like an invisible wall.
It wasn’t like before—before, there was always something to talk about. Laughter, teasing, stories shared between bites. But now, the silence was heavy, filled with everything they wanted to say but couldn’t. Tanrak took a bite.
For the first time in a long while, he tasted the food. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d noticed the flavor of anything.
After a few minutes, Barth’s voice broke the silence, his tone flat, distant. “After you’re done, take a shower. I’ll walk you to the bus station. You can catch a bus back to the seminary.”
Tanrak’s hand froze mid-air, the spoonful of porridge hovering before his lips. He stared at Barth’s back as he stood by the sink, washing his bowl like his words hadn’t just pierced through Tanrak’s chest.
“I don’t want to go back,” Tanrak said quietly, but there was steel in his voice—firm, unshakable. Barth turned off the tap, slowly drying his hands before facing him.
His expression was unreadable. “You need to go back.”
Tanrak shook his head. “I don’t.”
Barth’s jaw clenched, frustration flickering in his eyes. “Tanrak, you need to go back. What are you even doing here in the first place?”
A stupid question. A cruel question.
Tanrak’s chest tightened, his fists clenching in his lap. “Because of you. Because I—” His voice faltered, the words lodged painfully in his throat. He took a shaky breath, trying again. “I want to stay here. With you. I don’t want to go back.”
His heart pounded, waiting for Barth’s response. Barth’s face hardened, his voice sharp like broken glass. “Do you even hear yourself? This isn’t your place, Tanrak. You won’t survive here. There’s nothing for you here. Your future doesn’t belong in this life.”
The words cut deep, but Tanrak didn’t flinch. He stared at Barth, his voice trembling but determined. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his fists tightening until his knuckles turned white.
“I know you hate me. I know you hate me for what I said. That time I didn't think before I said anything. I am scared. I’m sorry.” His voice broke on the last word, and the tears he’d been holding back finally slipped down his cheeks.
But he didn’t care.
“Forget about that,” Barth muttered, his voice low and rough, like gravel scraping against stone. “It’s not my first time hearing it.” The words landed between them, heavy and sharp.
But the weight didn’t fall on Barth—it crashed into Tanrak’s chest, splintering guilt through every fragile part of him.
He should’ve never been the one to say those things. He should’ve been the shelter, not the storm.
He was supposed to be the person who said kind things, gentle things—the one who made Barth forget the cruelty the world carved into him. But instead, he’d carved his own marks, no different from the others. No better. Just another person who’d failed him.
“I’m sorry,” Tanrak choked out, his voice trembling like a fragile thread stretched too thin. His eyes burned, glassy with tears he couldn’t hold back.
“Please… please don’t hate me.” His words spilled out, desperate, like he could stitch Barth’s heart back together with apologies. But they felt empty against the spaces where he’d already done the damage.
Barth’s face stayed distant, eyes flickering with something unreadable. His shoulders slumped slightly as he exhaled, his voice soft but unyielding. “Then go back to the seminary. I don’t hate you. It’s not your fault.”
But it was his fault. Tanrak knew it in his bones, knew it in the way Barth’s eyes didn’t shine the same way anymore.
For Barth if he never crossed the lines he’d built around himself, if he’d never pulled Tanrak into his orbit, none of this would’ve unraveled.
“You have a future to chase,” Barth continued, his voice firmer now, as if trying to convince himself too. “There’s nothing here. You won’t survive here, Tanrak. Don’t make such a stupid decision. Don’t ruin your bright future.”
Stupid decision?
Tanrak shot up from his chair, his heart pounding, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. His fists clenched at his sides, nails digging into his palms. His voice came out, cracked and raw.
“What if the future I’m ruining is the one that has you in it? The future where we’re in it together?” The words hung in the air, trembling between them like fragile glass about to shatter.
Barth scoffed, his face twisting into something bitter, something that didn’t reach his eyes. “What are you even spitting right now? There’s no such future. That future doesn’t exist, Tanrak.”
Tanrak flinched like he’d been slapped. His throat tightened, but he forced the words out, even as his heart screamed for him to stop, to not make it worse.
“You didn’t tell me you were leaving… but everyone in class knew,” Tanrak whispered, his voice fragile, trembling with the weight of words he’d held for too long. “I know you hate me. I know. But… the three months we were together—don’t you feel anything? Was there no love, Barth?”
Barth’s face finally cracked—just a little. His jaw clenched, his gaze dropping to the floor for a heartbeat before snapping back up, his eyes dark, filled with something heavy and buried.
“There was,” Barth whispered, barely audible. “There is. Always.” The confession hit Tanrak like a wave, stealing his breath, making his knees weak. But the relief was fleeting, shattered by what came next.
“But let’s stop here.” Barth’s voice was steady now, like he’d practiced these words a thousand times in his head. “What they said is true. What Father said is true. I’m ruining your future. I bring darkness to you—a sin to someone as good as you. That’s why I had to leave.”
Tanrak’s heart cracked, a silent fracture beneath his ribs. His breath hitched, his legs trembling, but he stayed standing, even though it felt like the floor was falling out from under him.
Barth’s eyes softened, just for a second, filled with something raw and broken. “If I’d told you I was leaving,” Barth whispered, his voice thick with something unspoken, “do you really think I’d have been able to go?”
Tanrak felt the tears spill over, hot and bitter against his skin. He didn’t wipe them away.
Because this was what love looked like when it broke.
Quiet.
Messy.
And full of words that came too late.
“I don’t want to go back there,” Tanrak whispered as he stepped closer to Barth. His hands were clenched tightly at his sides, knuckles white from the pressure. “Not when you’re not there. I want to stay with you. Please… don’t send me back.”
His words hung in the air, fragile and raw, like they might shatter if Barth didn’t catch them fast enough. But Barth didn’t catch them.
Instead, he reached out and gripped Tanrak’s shoulders, his touch firm, almost as if he needed to physically hold Tanrak back—not just from leaving, but from crossing a line Barth had drawn between them.
“Tanrak,” Barth murmured, his voice low, trembling slightly, but he forced himself to stay strong. “I don’t have any future. My birth was a mistake—just an accident my mom had to deal with. No one wanted me. I don’t even know why I’m here, what I’m supposed to do with my life. But you—”
Barth’s grip tightened, his fingers digging slightly into Tanrak’s shoulders as if he was afraid Tanrak might disappear if he let go. “You are different. You know what you’re doing. You have something to live for. A purpose. A light. And me?”
He let out a shaky breath. “I don’t even know how long I’ll survive.” Tanrak’s heart cracked with every word, each one a jagged shard cutting deeper.
“So just… forget everything we had,” Barth continued, his voice breaking, brittle with the weight of the lie he was trying to force out. “I don’t want to be someone who drags you down into the dark with me. I don’t deserve you, Tanrak. I never did. I don’t want to ruin you. I love you too much to do that.”
That was when Tanrak saw it—really saw it—for the first time. Barth’s eyes, usually sharp and guarded, glistened with tears. Actual tears. The boy who never cried, who always wore his pain like armor, was breaking right in front of him.
Barth’s voice grew quieter, almost a whisper, as if speaking the words would make them real. “I know you can forget about me. Just… pray. Pray to God like you always do. Pray to Him that you’ll forget me. He’ll grant that kind of prayer for a good boy like you.”
The sight of Barth crying shattered whatever was left of Tanrak’s fragile composure. His tears fell freely, hot and heavy, blurring his vision, dripping down his face like rain against glass. He couldn’t hold them back anymore—not when the person he loved most was crumbling right in front of him.
“If you love me,” Tanrak whispered, his voice raw, “then please let me stay with you.” He took a shaky step closer, closing the distance between them. His hand reached up, trembling, to grasp Barth’s wrist, desperate to keep him from slipping away.
“I don’t want to be there. I just want to be here, with you.” Barth shook his head, his tears falling silently now, streaking down his cheeks as he tried to hold on to the walls he’d built. But they were crumbling with every word Tanrak spoke.
“I want to wake up with you beside me,” Tanrak continued, his voice cracking with emotion. “I want to live a long life with you. I want to fall asleep knowing that when I open my eyes tomorrow, you’ll be there. That’s what the future looks like to me. That’s all I want.”
His sobs grew louder, his body shaking as the words spilled out, unfiltered, straight from the deepest, most fragile part of his heart. “Ever since we met, I didn’t realize how much you meant to me. I thought I’d never lose you. But I did. And I’m scared, Barth. I’m scared of a tomorrow where you don’t exist. I don’t know how to live in a world without you in it.”
Barth’s tears were falling freely now, his face contorted with the pain he’d tried so hard to bury. He wanted to pull Tanrak into his arms, to hold him and never let go. But instead, he clenched his fists at his sides, shaking his head.
“Please don’t do this to me,” Barth whispered, his voice barely audible. “I want to hold you. But being with me won’t be good for you. I’m broken, Tanrak. I’m not a good person. I’m a mess. I don’t want you to regret this someday. I don’t want you to wake up one day and realize you wasted your life on someone like me.”
Tanrak shook his head desperately, tears streaming down his face like rivers. “I can’t give you anything,” Barth continued, his voice shaking. “I can’t give you the happiness you deserve. I want to be selfish—I do—I want to keep you for myself because my life is better with you in it. I didn’t know I could feel warmth again after my mom was gone. I didn’t know I’d ever see color again. But you—”
He choked on the words, his chest heaving with sobs. “You’re so important to me. Too important. And that’s why I can’t be selfish. I can’t ruin you.”
Tanrak couldn’t take it anymore. He collapsed into Barth’s arms, his sobs muffled against his chest. And this time, Barth didn’t push him away. His arms wrapped around Tanrak tightly, holding him like he was the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.
They cried together, tangled in each other’s pain, their hearts beating wildly against the fragile truth they’d been too afraid to admit: They were each other’s light in the dark. And maybe that was both the blessing and the curse. The words spilled from Tanrak like a fragile prayer, his voice trembling but full of desperate conviction.
His hands gripped Barth’s tightly, fingers woven together like threads in fabric, unwilling to let go, afraid that if he did, Barth would slip away like a shadow at dusk. “You don’t ruin me. You never did,” Tanrak whispered, his tears tracing paths down his flushed cheeks.
“This is enough, Barth. You are enough. Just being with you, doing the simplest things, even just feeling your presence—it’s all I need. I don’t want anything else.” His voice cracked, but he didn’t stop, pouring his heart out like it was his last chance.
“I won’t regret choosing you. I won’t regret leaving everything behind for you. I won’t regret choosing this life or this future. You’re not a mess—you never were. I want to live with you, no matter what kind of life that is. You won’t survive alone. I won’t survive alone. But we will—we will survive if we’re together.”
His grip tightened, trembling with emotion. “If we need money, we’ll find jobs together. If we’re hungry, we’ll cook together. If there are chores, we’ll divide them. We’ll survive together, Barth,” he pleaded, his tears falling faster now, his breath ragged.
“So please, please, let me be with you.” Barth’s chest heaved with silent sobs, his face twisted in an ache too deep to describe. His heart felt like it was being ripped apart—torn between the overwhelming fear of ruining Tanrak’s life and the unbearable thought of living without him.
Tanrak’s thumbs gently wiped away Barth’s tears, his gaze soft but fierce. “I know as long as I don’t do bad things, I can meet my parents in heaven. And you said it yourself—loving isn’t a sin. So I’m not doing anything wrong. I’ll bring you to meet them one day—I know they’ll want to meet you.” His lips quivered with a shaky smile, full of warmth and heartbreak all at once. “You’re my kind, Barth. My lovely Barth. They’ll be so happy to meet you.”
He paused, his smile trembling under the weight of emotion. “And we can visit your mother too. I want to introduce myself to her… to thank her for letting me have you.”
The words hit Barth like a tidal wave, drowning him in feelings he’d tried so hard to bury. His knees felt weak, his heart pounding painfully against his ribs.
Barth’s chest rose and fell with ragged breaths, his tears blurring the edges of Tanrak’s face. His heart felt like it was splitting in two, pulled between the crushing weight of guilt and the overwhelming pull of love. He clenched his jaw, trying to fight it, but his voice betrayed him—soft, trembling, yet carrying the final thread of his fragile resolve.
“Five seconds,” Barth whispered, his voice hoarse and broken, barely more than a breath between them. “I’ll give you five seconds to walk away. But if you don’t… if you stay… I won’t ever let you go. Not now. Not in the future. Even if you want to—I won’t let you.”
The words hung heavy in the space between them, like a fragile glass wall waiting to shatter.
One.
Tanrak didn’t move. His tear-filled eyes locked onto Barth’s, unwavering, shining with a love so fierce it was almost painful to look at.
Two.
Barth’s fists clenched at his sides, his nails digging into his palms to keep himself grounded. His breath hitched, his heart screaming at him to close the distance.
Three.
Tanrak’s lips parted slightly, his chest rising with shaky breaths. A single tear slid down his cheek, catching the dim morning light, but he didn’t flinch. He didn’t move.
Four.
Barth’s vision blurred. His body trembled, every part of him screaming to give in. To be selfish—just this once.
Five.
Barth broke.
A strangled sob tore from his throat as he surged forward, his hand shooting up to grip the back of Tanrak’s neck, pulling him in with desperate force. Their lips crashed together, messy and tear-soaked, but filled with the raw, unfiltered truth of everything they’d held back for so long.
The kiss wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t perfect. It was everything they’d been too afraid to say, too afraid to feel. It was heartbreak and hope, fear and forgiveness, all tangled up in the press of trembling lips.
Tanrak’s hands found Barth’s face, cupping his tear-streaked cheeks as if trying to hold him together. Their tears mixed—salt and warmth streaming down their faces, but neither cared. They clung to each other like lifelines, like the only thing anchoring them to this world was the feel of the other’s heartbeat beneath their fingertips.
When Barth finally pulled away, he didn’t go far. Their foreheads rested together, breaths mingling—shaky, uneven, filled with the echoes of everything left unspoken.
His voice was a broken whisper, fragile and raw. “I love you. I love you so much.”
Tanrak didn’t need words. His arms wrapped around Barth, pulling him close, burying his face in the warmth of his neck, his sobs muffled against Barth’s skin.
The hug was tight, desperate, as if letting go would mean losing him forever. They stayed like that, hearts beating wildly against each other, clinging to the only thing that had ever felt real—this. Them.
They didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. They didn’t know if life would be kind, if the world would ever stop telling them they were wrong. But it didn’t matter.
Because Tanrak had already made his choice. And Barth—finally, selfishly—had made his too.
As long as they held onto each other, they’d be okay.
Maybe life wouldn’t be easy. Maybe there would be days darker than this one. But they had each other’s hands, each other’s hearts. And sometimes, that was enough.
That was everything.