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The rain fell gently over Hua Hin, turning the coastal town’s streets into mirrors of diffused light. Dunk Natachai, at 24, stood outside Tide & Tunes, a cozy café owned by Joong Archen, clutching a small canvas wrapped in cloth. His heart raced, a frantic drum against his ribs, as he rehearsed the words he’d practiced for weeks. It was a confession, a hope, and a fragile dream he dared to hold. Dunk had spent months diligently showing Joong he cared. He did this through whimsical sketches left on café tables, unexpected late-night visits with perfectly made Kanom Tian, and quiet moments spent simply listening to Joong’s stories of his rich Turkish-Thai childhood. But Joong, with his sharp jawline and famously guarded eyes, always kept a subtle distance. His smile was polite, almost practiced, but cautious, as if Dunk’s genuine gestures somehow hid a deeper, more manipulative motive.
What Dunk didn’t say aloud, and what he hadn’t told anyone, was how much of himself he’d already poured into this pursuit. That every sketch was more than a gesture; it was a piece of his bruised heart offered in silence. Every visit, every attempt at closeness, was a small act of rebellion against the voice in his head whispering that Joong would never truly let him in.
Across the street, Nok, the elderly bookseller, peered at Dunk through thick glasses fogged from the humidity. She often teased Joong that the artist boy was in love, though Joong would never acknowledge it. Inside, Fern, a university student working part-time at the counter, exchanged a look with Tawan, the kitchen assistant. Both had witnessed enough of Dunk’s silent courtship to develop their own opinions. “He’s back again,” Fern murmured, nudging Tawan with a grin.
Dunk pushed open the heavy wooden door. The small bell above chimed softly, a melody that always seemed to herald new possibilities. Joong, 27, stood behind the polished counter, diligently wiping down the gleaming espresso machine. His handsome features, usually sharp and defined, were softened by the café’s dim, inviting light. The café itself, with its artfully arranged driftwood decor, shelves laden with exotic Turkish tea blends, and the faint, comforting scent of roasted beans, was Joong’s undeniable haven. It was a quiet space where he blended the vibrant threads of his time in Thailand and Turkey. “Natachai,” Joong said, his voice warm yet subtly reserved, pulling Dunk from his thoughts. “You’re soaked again.”
Dunk grinned, shaking rain from his dark hair, droplets scattering like tiny pearls. “Got something for you,” he replied, his voice a little breathless with anticipation. He carefully unwrapped the canvas to reveal a painting of the vast, ink-blue sea under a canopy of shimmering stars, the café’s distinctive silhouette a small, warm anchor in the corner. “For the wall,” Dunk explained, his gaze hopeful. “Thought it’d look good here.”
Joong’s eyes flickered with something Dunk couldn’t quite decipher, perhaps surprise or a fleeting moment of vulnerability. However, his smile remained tight, almost strained. “It’s nice. Thanks.” The brevity stung, a sharp prick to Dunk’s hopeful bubble. He wondered, not for the first time, what deep-seated fear or painful memory held Joong back, or what invisible wall kept them perpetually apart.
And worse, whether his efforts would ever be enough to scale it.
Dunk settled onto a familiar stool at the counter, his sketchbook open. His pencil moved with practiced ease as Joong moved with quiet grace behind him, preparing a fresh brew. The air, rich with the comforting aroma of roasted beans, mingled with the subtle, briny scent of salt carried from the nearby sea. It was a constant reminder of the coastal town that had, against all odds, become Dunk’s unexpected home. He’d moved to Hua Hin two years ago, a retreat after a particularly painful breakup in Bangkok had left him wary, almost cynical, about the very concept of love. But Joong, with his quiet charm, his deep-set, expressive eyes, and his unwavering dedication to his café, had slowly, irrevocably, changed that. Dunk didn’t just want to be with Joong; he yearned to free Joong’s heart from its invisible cage and to prove his love was not just real but steadfast.
Dunk had always believed that love required patience. But patience, when stretched over silence, began to feel like self-inflicted pain.
“You’re quiet today,” Dunk observed, his pencil pausing mid-stroke. “Everything okay, phi?” The affectionate honorific felt both natural and painfully inadequate.
Joong’s hands stilled momentarily on the polished coffee pot, a slight tension in his shoulders. “Just a long day,” he replied. His voice was clipped, almost dismissive. It was a wall Dunk knew well and a barrier he hadn’t yet found a way to breach. Dunk knew fragments of Joong’s past: a college romance that had ended in a brutal betrayal, leaving Joong deeply distrustful, his once open heart now meticulously closed off, armored against further pain.
There were scars inside Joong’s chest, invisible ones. They were shattered promises turned to concrete around his ribs.
Dunk leaned forward slightly, his voice soft, an earnest plea. “You can talk to me, you know. I’m here. Always.”
Joong’s eyes, usually so carefully guarded, met Dunk’s. They were sharp and searching, a flicker of something unreadable passing between them. “Why do you do this, Dunk? The paintings, the visits, the constant checking in. What do you want?” The question, laced with suspicion, cut deep, as if Dunk’s genuine efforts were merely a calculated debt Joong was expected to repay.
“I just want you to see me,” Dunk said, his voice raw with unspoken emotion, laying his heart bare. “Not as a friend, but… more.”
Joong’s jaw tightened, a muscle twitching beneath his skin, and he looked away, his gaze fixed on some unseen point beyond the window. “I don’t know if I can do that,” he said, his words a quiet, devastating rejection. Dunk’s heart sank, a heavy stone in his chest, but even through his own pain, he could see the fear in Joong’s eyes. It was the deep-seated shadow of a past that wasn't Dunk’s fault, but one he was inexplicably paying for.
Sometimes, it was harder to let someone in than it was to stay alone, because opening the door risked everything, including the fragile peace you’d learned to survive with.
Across the room, P'Anan, a local potter who sold ceramics displayed on the back shelves, glanced over his book. He’d known Joong for years and had watched his smile vanish the year that boy from Istanbul left. He looked at Dunk, then at Joong, and quietly returned to his page, silently rooting for them.
The rain outside intensified, drumming a steady rhythm on the café’s roof as they prepared to close for the night. Dunk, despite the growing ache in his heart, insisted on walking Joong home, sharing a single umbrella. The streets of Hua Hin were quiet, almost deserted, the distant roar of the sea a constant, melancholic backdrop. Every step was heavy with the weight of Dunk’s unspoken love, his fervent efforts to win Joong consistently met with a frustrating, unwavering distance. He tried to lighten the mood, a desperate attempt to bridge the gap, teasing, “You’re gonna catch a cold, phi. Should’ve worn a jacket.”
Behind them, Uncle Prem, the night-shift guard of the nearby art gallery, gave Dunk a small nod of encouragement. He’d seen them walk like this many evenings, their shared umbrella a flickering hope under the rain.
Joong’s frustration, a tightly coiled spring, suddenly snapped. His voice was sharp, a lash born of deep-seated fear. "Why do you keep doing this, Natachai? Acting like you need to take care of me? I’m fine alone. What's your game, anyway? Is this some kind of trap? And seriously, stop shadowing me." The words were unkind, undeniably harsh, and Dunk felt a burning prick behind his eyes, tears threatening to well.
It was a cruel defense mechanism, the kind people learned after being gutted by love. Hurt them before they hurt you. Push them away before they leave.
“I’m not trying to trap you,” Dunk said, his voice breaking, a fragile whisper. “I just… I care about you, Phi. More than you know.”
Joong stopped abruptly, pulling away slightly, the umbrella tilting precariously as rain dripped onto his shoulder. His expression softened infinitesimally, a flicker of remorse in his eyes. “You don’t get it,” he said, his voice now softer, almost vulnerable. “The last person I let in completely broke me. I thought they were mine, that they belonged only to me, but they weren’t.”
Dunk’s chest tightened. He felt a desperate urge to reach out, to pull Joong into a protective embrace, and to promise with every fiber of his being that he would never hurt him. But Joong’s eyes were distant, unfocused, locked on a past Dunk couldn’t touch, a pain he hadn't caused. “I’m not them,” Dunk whispered, his voice barely audible above the rain. “I just want a chance. A real chance.”
Joong’s silence was answer enough, a heavy, suffocating blanket. Dunk felt the already vast gap between them widen further, his heart heavy, aching with the burden of unrequited love.
And yet, he stayed. Because some people weren’t waiting to be loved; they were waiting to believe they were worth loving again.
Days bled into weeks, and with each passing day, Joong grew colder, his interactions with Dunk becoming meticulously polite, yet undeniably distant. Dunk, stubborn in his affection, kept trying. He left new sketches carefully tucked onto café tables, offered to help with deliveries, and shared enthusiastic stories about his latest art projects. But the more he poured his heart out, the further Joong seemed to slip away, like sand through his fingers. Dunk’s heart was slowly, painstakingly breaking, yet he couldn't bring himself to stop. He was driven by a relentless, illogical hope that he could still, somehow, reach Joong.
He’d begun to feel like a ghost haunting the threshold of Joong’s life, always near but never welcome.
Behind the counter, Fern and Tawan exchanged fewer jokes now. The weight between Joong and Dunk was hard to miss. Even Nok, across the street, had stopped teasing and begun watching them with the wary eyes of someone who had seen too many hearts quietly shatter.
One crisp evening, as dusk settled over Hua Hin, Dunk found Joong at the pier, silhouetted against the fading light, staring out at the vast, indifferent sea. The town was buzzing with a quiet anticipation, preparing for the annual lantern festival, the air thick with excitement. Children ran barefoot down the boardwalk with paper lanterns trailing behind, and vendors were setting up food stalls near the plaza.
Dunk approached cautiously, his voice gentle, almost hesitant. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
Joong didn’t turn, his gaze still fixed on the horizon. “I’m not good for you, Dunk. You deserve someone who isn’t… broken.” His voice was flat, devoid of emotion, yet Dunk could hear the self-condemnation beneath the surface.
A few meters away, Mai, an old fisherman with a voice like sandpaper and eyes like tidepools, adjusted his nets and pretended not to listen. But his fingers slowed as he caught the edge of Joong’s voice. He knew heartbreak when he heard it.
Dunk’s frustration finally boiled over, a surge of desperate anger. “You’re not broken, P'Joong!” he retorted, his voice rising, imbued with a fierce conviction. “You’re just scared. And I’m trying so incredibly hard to show you I’m different, that I won’t abandon you, but you won’t let me in!”
Joong’s eyes flickered with a raw, undeniable pain, a vulnerability Dunk rarely saw. “You don’t know what it’s like,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “To believe someone’s completely yours, to give them everything, then lose them to someone else. I can’t go through that again. I just can’t.”
Dunk stepped closer, his voice steady, resolute. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m here, for good. But you have to meet me halfway, Phi. Just a little.”
But Joong didn’t move. He stood like a statue etched by heartbreak, the lantern lights beginning to flicker behind them as the townspeople readied their wishes. Dunk looked at his profile, noticing the way his jaw clenched slightly and the way his shoulders hunched like he was bracing for an emotional blow that hadn't even come.
“I’ve stood outside this locked door for so long,” Dunk said softly, voice trembling. “And I get it; it’s not easy to let someone in. But have you ever thought... maybe I’m just as scared as you are?”
A mother walked by with her son, overhearing only fragments, and gave Dunk a small, empathetic smile. It reminded him that love stories, the real ones, often unfolded messily and in public, witnessed quietly by strangers who sometimes cared more than they showed.
Joong looked at him then. Really looked.
And for a breathless second, Dunk thought something might change.
But Joong only whispered, “You shouldn’t love someone who can’t love you back.”
The Hua Hin lantern festival bloomed to life, transforming the entire shoreline into a breathtaking spectacle of glowing, floating lights that danced on the gentle waves. Dunk stood by his latest mural. It was a striking silhouette of two figures standing close under a vast, star-strewn sky, a silent, desperate plea for Joong’s hesitant heart. He had poured every ounce of his emotion into winning Joong over, from countless late-night sketches left at the café to tender, lingering conversations. Yet, the deep-seated fear in Joong’s eyes had remained an unyielding barrier.
He’d learned something hard along the way: You cannot rescue someone who refuses to believe they’re worthy of rescue.
On the festival lawn, Fern and Tawan handed out Turkish rose tea samples from a pop-up cart marked “Tide & Tunes.” Nearby, Nok and P’Anan lit their own lanterns, watching from a distance with hopeful eyes. Even Uncle Prem had traded his guard jacket for a neat cap and stood near the mural, smiling at strangers who admired the artwork.
Then, Joong appeared, his familiar leather jacket damp from the evening mist, his eyes, for once, openly searching Dunk’s. “You did this,” he said, his voice soft, almost awed, nodding towards the mural. “For me?”
Dunk nodded, his heart racing a frantic rhythm against his ribs. “Everything I’ve done, including the sketches, the visits, and every late-night conversation, is all for you. Because you’re my dream, P'Joong. You are my quiet, impossible dream. But you keep thinking I’m playing some kind of game.”
Joong’s breath hitched, a faint gasp. “I’m scared, Dunk. So incredibly scared you’ll see the real me, the broken parts, and leave. Someone else did, a long time ago, and it shattered me.” His voice was raw, etched with old pain.
Dunk’s eyes softened, filled with an aching understanding. “I’m my own person P'Joong. I’m paying for their mistakes, for the pain they inflicted, and it hurts. It truly hurts.” He took a tentative step closer, his hand hovering, wanting to comfort. “I’m sorry for pushing too hard, for doing and saying things that might have upset you.”
Joong’s gaze, previously guarded, softened, and a single, unbidden tear slipped silently down his cheek, catching the light of a nearby lantern. "When we first met, I truly believed we could be something real, something beautiful. But my past is like a chain. It keeps me bound," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.
Dunk finally reached for Joong’s hand, his touch gentle but firm, a silent promise. “I care about you, P'Joong. More every single day. And I won’t stop, not ever, even if it feels like it’s pulling us apart.”
Joong blinked slowly, like someone waking from a long, heavy sleep. “Do you think people like us can be okay again?” he asked, barely above a whisper.
“I don’t know,” Dunk said honestly. “But I know I’d rather try and fail with you than succeed with anyone else.”
In that moment, Joong’s carefully constructed walls crumbled, falling away like sandcastles against the tide. He pulled Dunk close, their lips meeting in a kiss that was at first tentative, then desperate, a slow, profound release of years of doubt, fear, and unexpressed longing. The sea whispered its ancient secrets behind them, and the thousands of floating lanterns glowed like scattered stars on the water, reflecting the new light in their eyes. Dunk felt Joong’s heart beating against his, no longer cold and guarded, but warm, vulnerable, and finally, gloriously open.
Nok clapped softly, Tawan whooped in delight, and even Uncle Prem tipped his hat, as if the whole town had held its breath and finally, finally exhaled.