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He stands under the scalding spray, eyes shut tight, head bowed, letting water hotter than he can comfortably bear scald his skin until it's flushed and raw—because maybe if he lets it burn enough, it'll wash away memories he can't afford to keep carrying. Steam clouds the bathroom, thickening the air, blurring the mirror and his reflection—exactly how he's felt inside for so long now.
A quiet shudder courses through his shoulders. His fingers curl tightly, knuckles white against wet tiles, clinging desperately for support as grief rises, choking him silently. He doesn’t sob. He can't—someone might hear. Instead, he clamps his lips shut, fighting against a throat that's so tight it aches, forcing every sharp inhale through clenched teeth, every painful exhale into trembling silence.
Because Santa doesn’t talk about it.
Not really.
After all, how do you even begin to explain something like this?
How do you put into words what it’s like to watch your dream die—slowly, painfully, day by day—until there’s nothing left of it but a rotting corpse?
He was nineteen.
Nineteen, and he thought he had a real chance.
He flew to Korea with nothing but hope in his hands and fire in his heart. He knew it wouldn’t be easy. He knew he was behind everyone else—knew that while they had been dancing since they were children, he had only picked it up later.
But he thought, I’ll just work harder than anyone else.
So he did.
For the first few weeks, it even seemed like it was paying off.
Rank 1.
The top spot. The kind of ranking that made him believe, Maybe this is it. Maybe I can actually do this.
And then—
The free fall.
He was too different.
Too foreign.
Too soft-spoken.
Too awkward with the language.
Too much and not enough.
The criticism started small. A comment here, a snide remark there. A trainer sighing, shaking their head. A fellow trainee whispering under their breath.
Then it got louder.
"You don’t belong here."
"Your dancing is too stiff."
"Your vocals aren’t strong enough."
"Lazy Thais”
It wasn’t just criticism—it was a slow, calculated breaking of his spirit.
He pushed himself harder. Harder than anyone else.
But it still wasn’t enough.
Because then—they found out, what really did him in, what made them really turned on him.
They dug up his past.
His acting projects back in Thailand.
And there it was—his role with Cooheart. A BL series.
At first, he didn’t think much of it. It was just a job. Just acting. Just another project from a time when he was still figuring himself out, when he was just grateful for any opportunity at all.
But to them, it wasn’t just acting.
To them, it was a scarlet letter.
Whispers spread, growing louder each day, colder each moment.
"Is he gay?"
"Disgusting."
"Why did they even let him in?"
"This isn’t Thailand."
"He should just leave.”
The memories make his throat tighten painfully. Santa braces one arm against the tiles, holding himself upright as dizziness rolls through him, a wave more from grief than heat.
He felt each whisper deeply, felt it in the way other trainees distanced themselves, felt it when trainers began to ignore him, felt it as his ranking plummeted relentlessly, regardless of how much he bled himself dry.
So he worked harder.
Because what else could he do?
What else did he have, if not his effort?
So he pushed himself past every limit.
How do you explain what it’s like to be nineteen and starving?
Not just from hunger, but from desperation.
To be so exhausted that your hands tremble even as you hold yourself upright, even as you force yourself to keep going.
To be so driven past your limits that your own body becomes the enemy—your stomach clenching from lack of food, your vision going blurry, your knees buckling beneath you because you’ve been dancing for sixteen hours straight and your muscles can’t take it anymore.
But still, you keep going.
Because you thought, If I just work harder, if I just keep going, maybe I can change their minds.
Because if you stop, you’ll fall behind.
If you stop, you’ll lose everything.
If you stop, you might as well not exist.
And Santa—Santa wanted to exist.
He wanted to be someone.
He wanted to prove them wrong.
So he stopped eating.
Not because he wanted to, but because there wasn’t enough time.
Because meal breaks were for people who could afford to rest.
Meal breaks were for people who were already good enough.
And he wasn’t.
So he skipped them. Every single one.
Some days, all he had was a bottle of water.
Some days, even that felt like too much of a break.
He’d hear his stomach growling, feel the hunger clawing at him, making him dizzy, making his legs shake, making the world spin—
But he didn’t stop.
Because if he wasn’t practicing, he was failing.
He stopped sleeping, too.
Two hours a night, sometimes less.
Because every time he closed his eyes, all he could hear were the voices.
The trainers.
The other trainees.
The comments online.
It never stopped hurting.
Even when he told himself not to.
Even now, standing under the blistering shower, those voices haunt him, echoing with cruel clarity inside his skull.
He trembles, unable to hold it back anymore. But still, he doesn't make a sound, holding his agony within, letting tears silently escape down his cheeks—each drop lost, unseen, as if his grief itself is invisible, worthless.
Even when it felt like swallowing glass.
Even when it left him crying into his pillow every night, muffling his sobs so no one would hear.
Because there was nothing worse than being weak.
Weak meant getting left behind.
Weak meant you didn’t deserve to debut.
Weak meant you were a failure.
So he swallowed it all down. The pain. The exhaustion. The loneliness.
Every time he wanted to cry, he went back to the practice room instead.
Every time he wanted to sleep, he told himself, If you close your eyes now, someone else is working harder than you.
Every time he felt like giving up, he whispered, Just a little longer. Just one more day.
But it didn’t matter.
It didn’t matter.
Because in the end—
The choice had never really been his.
He failed anyway.
He had given everything. Every single piece of himself.
And it still wasn’t enough.
He had to stand there on stage, under the bright lights, while the finalists were announced—and his name wasn’t called.
He had to smile.
Had to clap for the others.
Had to pretend like his entire world wasn’t shattering inside him.
So he went home.
Santa sinks slowly against the wall until he's crouched under the rushing stream of water, pulling his knees close, wrapping his arms tightly around himself. He buries his head into the crook of his elbow, letting the tears finally fall freely—silently—mingling unnoticed with the hot droplets cascading over him.
He didn’t even know who he was anymore.
Because the boy who had once dreamed of debuting, the boy who had once believed that hard work could get him anywhere—
He didn’t come back to Thailand.
The person who came back was someone hollowed out, exhausted, broken.
He came back to Thailand with nothing but his failures.
And the industry didn’t even want him.
He got signed with GMMTV. Sure. But what was the point?
He waited for work. None came.
He auditioned. Got rejected.
He waited, and waited, and waited—until the waiting itself felt like a kind of death.
And then, one day, someone decided to pair him with Perth.
It should have been a lifeline, a gentle pull back to shore.
Instead, it was just another reason to be hated.
Another reminder that no matter how hard he worked, no matter how much he improved, people would always find a way to tear him down.
"Who is he? Some rookies?"
"He’s just a replacement."
"I miss PerthChimon."
"He should be grateful Perth is even working with him."
He trembles, fingers gripping his elbows tightly, nails pressing crescents into his own skin. The water continues to pound against his back, relentless, punishing—an echo of every hateful word he’s heard.
He agrees with them.
Because what did he bring to this partnership?
Because Perth—Perth was effortless.
Perth was rich, successful, experienced. He’d been in the industry for years, had fans who adored him, had a career that never faltered.
But more than that— graceful laughter, quiet confidence, easy warmth , that’s who Perth truly was.
Santa was just lucky to be here.
That’s what people said. That’s what Santa believed, too.
Yet still, even in moments when his chest tightens painfully, Santa knows—
He brought something to Perth, too.
He can’t deny the joy he feels whenever Perth looks at him—those eyes gentle and smiling, full of something tender and honest, something Santa desperately wants to hold onto. Perth laughs more now, jokes easily, leans closer without even realizing it, as if Santa’s presence alone is enough to bring him happiness.
Santa sees it clearly. He brought Perth back to life.
Santa knows he helped Perth find joy again, brought warmth back to a smile that once seemed distant, far away.
But who, Santa wonders, will bring that warmth to him?
Who’s going to save Santa?
Because the truth is—
He’s so, so tired.
Tired of quietly trying to prove he belongs.
Tired of pretending the whispers don’t sting.
Tired of wondering how long before Perth sees through him, before Perth realizes that he could have anyone—someone brighter, better, someone who isn't weighed down by silent fears and insecurities.
And beneath all of that—
Santa loves his Phi Perth.
He loves him so fiercely, so quietly, that sometimes it feels like it might break him apart.
Like fingertips touching something beautiful but far too hot.
He loves the way Perth reaches for him, the way he lights up whenever Santa walks into the room, the way his laughter is genuine and carefree whenever they’re together. He loves how Perth looks at him like he’s something special, like he’s someone deserving of kindness, of love.
But even in those soft, beautiful moments, sometimes it still hurts.
Because Santa can see clearly that Phi Perth would do anything for him—but he still can't shake the ache of inadequacy. He still hears those quiet whispers reminding him he doesn't deserve this, that one day Perth might see what everyone else sees and leave him behind, just like everyone else has.
He presses his forehead to his knees, eyes squeezed shut, water dripping steadily down his face, mixing with his tears, falling unseen and unnoticed—just like him.
And worst of all—
He doesn't even think he deserves to complain.
He remains there, folded in on himself, letting the water wash over him, letting it drain him of everything he’d tried so hard to hold onto—dreams, hope, pride—until all that remains is exhaustion and quiet despair.
He lets himself cry, even though no one will ever see or hear.
Because crying helps; it always helps.
And because, despite the quiet pain, despite the gentle ache, he wouldn’t trade these feelings. Not for anything.
Because sometimes, the only warmth you have is worth being burned for.