Chapter Text
Chiang Dao hadn’t changed, and that was the cruelest part. The same rows of low shophouses, their faded paint peeling like old skin. The same tin-roof cafés, their fluorescent lights buzzing with a phantom hum that echoed past laughter through the thick monsoon air.
And the same sprawling banyan tree, its ancient roots twisting into the earth, marking the exact spot where Joong once waited on his scooter, impatient but secretly thrilled, for Dunk to get off football game.
Every detail was a whispered accusation of time passed and chances lost. He felt it keenly, as if he’s still here in every shadow.
The shophouses’ signs, with their looping Thai script advertising khao soi and gaeng hang lay stood as silent witnesses to their youth, unchanged by the years that had stretched between them.
Joong could still picture Dunk weaving through the market, teasing him for always picking the spiciest larb, their laughter mingling with the calls of vendors during the Loy Krathong festival, their krathongs floating side by side on the river.
He hadn’t planned on staying more than three days. Three days to revisit old ghosts, perhaps, or to finally bury them.
He certainly hadn’t planned on the sheer, visceral punch of hearing their playlist again. It came on unexpectedly. It was a soft, insidious melody that seeped from a corner café near the old temple.
The song, “Moonlit Promises,” a mellow acoustic track they’d found one humid night, sparked a memory of Dunk calling it “too sappy” while Joong insisted it captured their unspoken vows.
A mellow acoustic song Joong didn’t even realize he’d downloaded with Dunk during their last summer together. His hand, sweating around the icy glass of his coffee, froze mid-air.
The mundane act of sipping a drink became an anchor, tethering him to a memory so sharp it stole his breath.
His heart, a muscle he thought had long since forgotten how to truly ache, twisted into a shape it hadn’t known in years. It became a familiar, suffocating knot of longing and regret.
They used to add one song to the playlist every week, a ritual as sacred as any prayer. They’d slow-dance in Dunk’s small, cluttered bedroom, the worn wooden floor creaking beneath their feet, their bodies pressed close, moving to rhythms only they understood.
Or they’d argue, fiercely but fondly, about the meaning of obscure lyrics on the back of Dunk’s old bike, the wind whipping their hair, their voices carrying over the drone of the engine.
One night, speeding past rice paddies, Dunk had laughed so hard at Joong’s dramatic take on a ballad’s chorus that he nearly swerved off the road, their shared joy a fleeting shield against the world’s demands.
They’d let music stitch meaning into silence, a language built between them, a fortress against the outside world. Now, that fortress felt like a prison. Joong couldn’t escape it.
The playlist lived on, becoming Spotify’s ghost in the machine that haunted his every step. It was a constant, digital reminder of a love he’d left behind. He found himself sinking into a wrought-iron chair at a table meant for two, a setup that served as a cruel irony.
He set his coffee down, the condensation forming a small ring on the dusty surface. He closed his eyes and listened, letting the notes wash over him, each one a wave of unbearable, beautiful memory.
The pain was exquisite, a testament to what they had, what he’d walked away from, and what he now desperately yearned to reclaim.
Joong stayed at the café with the playlist looping in his earbuds, each song acting as a tether to a past he’d tried to outrun. Bangkok had been a whirlwind of auditions, late-night shoots, and the relentless grind of building a name as an actor in Thailand’s cutthroat entertainment industry.
He’d landed roles in popular dramas, his face plastered on billboards, his name whispered in casting rooms. But success came at a cost: nights spent alone in a sterile condo, the hum of the city drowning out the quiet moments he’d once shared with Dunk.
Four years ago, their last night in Chiang Dao had ended in a tearful argument where Dunk begged him to stay while Joong insisted he couldn’t miss his shot at a breakout role in a Bangkok drama. “I’ll come back,” Joong had promised, but the calls grew sparse and the distance became a chasm until silence replaced their shared songs.
He pulled out his phone and scrolled through old messages from Dunk, finding mundane texts about groceries mixed with heartfelt confessions.
One caught his eye, sent the day he left for Bangkok: “Take care, Joong.” No anger, just a quiet acceptance that had haunted him more than any argument could. “Why didn’t you fight for me?” he whispered to himself, the words lost in the café’s hum.
He wondered if Dunk had ever stood in these same streets, asking why Joong hadn’t stayed.
A waiter approached, snapping him out of his thoughts. “Another coffee, sir?” Joong shook his head, forcing a smile. “No, thanks. Just… remembering.”
The waiter nodded, his eyes kind. “This place does that. Makes you see what you left behind.” Joong’s smile faltered, the truth stinging.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “It really does.”
Dunk still lived in a charming, weathered cottage nestled behind the school. Its wide, inviting porch, shaded by a gleaming tin roof, was where he'd often sit, the distant cheers of football games carrying clearly on the air, a vivid contrast to the quiet hum of his own solitude within the beautiful, gently fading pastel walls of his home.
He’d stayed in Chiang Dao not just for the familiarity, but because the town’s simplicity anchored him, its rhythms a counterpoint to the chaos of Joong’s departure.
Coaching the local kids gave him purpose and a way to pour his heart into something steady, even if it meant setting aside dreams of a bigger life like teaching at a university or coaching a professional team.
He’d chosen the kids, the field, the town, because they needed him, and because he couldn’t bear to chase a dream that might pull him away from the memories he still held close.
He hadn’t known Joong was back until Lalita, the café owner’s daughter, mentioned it with the casual cruelty of small-town gossip. “Your Bangkok boy’s home,” she’d said, her eyebrow raised, a knowing smirk playing on her lips.
“He still looks like he walked off a magazine.” Dunk had only nodded, a noncommittal gesture that masked the sudden, dizzying rush of blood to his ears. Joong. The name, unspoken, felt heavy on his tongue, a forgotten taste.
He had spent years carefully sealing off that part of his heart, building walls stone by painful stone, and Lalita’s careless words had just blown a gaping hole right through them. Truly, nothing’s been deleted.
That night, he sat on the small, wooden porch, the humid air clinging to his skin, his headphones firmly in place. Not because he wanted to block out the world, but because he still played the playlist sometimes.
The one with their name on it. The one Joong had made, with that cheeky, infuriating grin, titled Soft & Dangerous (Guess Who’s Which). Joong had always claimed he was the dangerous one, the unpredictable force, the wild card.
Dunk had always let him think so, amused by Joong’s bravado, secretly knowing his own quiet strength was the true anchor.
Now, the playful title was a fresh wound. The songs, once filled with shared laughter and whispered dreams, just hurt. Each note was a sharp shard, embedding itself deeper into his already tender heart.
He hadn’t removed a single track. Not even the one Joong added right before he left, a melancholic ballad that had felt like a silent farewell. He couldn’t bring himself to do it.
Deleting them would be an admission that it was truly over, a final surrender to a future without Joong’s unpredictable light.
And a part of him, a stubborn, hopeful, foolish part, still clung to the possibility that the music, like their story, wasn’t quite finished yet.
He was haunted by the ghost of a promise.
Dunk leaned back against the porch railing, the wood creaking under his weight. The playlist looped to a song they’d argued over. It was a slow, jazzy tune Joong called “soulful” while Dunk deemed it “depressing.”
He could hear Joong’s voice, teasing and warm, from a night by the riverbank, the air thick with jasmine. “This song’s about longing,” Joong had said, lying on the grass, his arm behind his head. “Wanting something you can’t have.”
“Why want what you can’t have?” Dunk had countered, tossing a pebble into the water. “Fight for what you can.” Joong had gone quiet, his eyes soft, and Dunk had felt the weight of unspoken words. I want you, Joong’s gaze had said, but he’d stayed silent.
Dunk had wanted to bridge the gap, but fear held him back.
He’d been afraid of losing Joong to Bangkok’s dazzle, afraid his own quiet life of coaching kids and tending to the town’s small needs couldn’t compete with the city’s promise of fame.
Now, Dunk pressed his fingers to his temple, the memory a fresh ache. He wondered if Joong ever regretted that silence, if he’d carried the same questions Dunk had.
The playlist was a lifeline, but also a reminder of what was lost when Joong left for Bangkok, chasing a dream that left Dunk behind.
He stood and yanked off the headphones, letting the night’s silence rush in. His eyes caught on a Polaroid taped to the fridge showing him and Joong laughing by the riverbank, carefree. He hadn’t taken it down as it was a quiet testament to a love he couldn’t erase.
The football field sprawled before Dunk, its lush green a stark contrast to the faded echoes of a past he’d tried to outrun.
His whistle sliced through the humid Chiang Dao air, sharp as a blade, urging his young, sweat-drenched, and eager players to sprint faster and pivot sharper.
Coaching was more than a job; it was a lifeline, a way to patch the void Joong had left when he vanished to Bangkok’s glittering chaos.
Dunk hadn’t expected him today. He was leaning against the chain-link fence with studied nonchalance, wearing dark sunglasses and a fitted shirt that exuded that infuriatingly effortless charm.
Dunk’s eyes flicked past him, refusing to linger until the final whistle echoed and the boys scattered, leaving only the ghosts of their shared yesterdays.
You never came looking, he thought, the old wound throbbing like a bruise pressed too hard.
Joong didn’t hesitate. He crossed the field with predatory grace, boots sinking into the manicured grass, each step closing the chasm of years.
“You’re still out here, commanding the field like it’s your kingdom,” he said. His voice was a low, velvet rumble that stirred an unwelcome shiver in Dunk’s spine. It was a tease, a challenge, and a memory woven into one.
Dunk unlooped the whistle from his neck, the metal warm against his calloused palm, and dragged the back of his hand across his sweat-damp brow.
He met Joong’s gaze, defiance sparking in his eyes. “And you’re still striding in like you own every inch of this place.”
The retort was a mirror, sharp and familiar, echoing their old rhythm without yielding ground.
A ghost of a smile flickered on Joong’s lips, but it never reached his eyes, shadowed by the weight of their unspoken history.
They stood, two sentinels in a fragile truce, the air thick with words neither dared to voice.
Joong’s gaze drifted to the grass and then to the chipped goalposts which were relics of a life he’d abandoned. “I stopped by Kwanjai’s last night,” he said, his voice softer and threaded with a vulnerability that caught Dunk off guard.
Kwanjai’s was their noodle shop, a shrine of ginger-scented nights and stolen spring rolls. Dunk’s shoulders stiffened as memories flooded back. He remembered Joong’s teasing grin as he swiped the last crispy bite, their laughter mingling with the clink of bowls, and the glow of streetlights through the window.
“That table by the window,” Joong murmured, almost to himself, his voice heavy with nostalgia. “It’s still there, same as we left it.”
Dunk’s throat tightened, the taste of khao soi sharp in his memory. He looked away, fixing his gaze on a stray blade of grass, fighting the ache of those shared moments.
The question slipped out, raw and unbidden, edged with a pain he thought he’d buried.
“What, did you sit there alone, pretending we were still us?” Joong’s silence was answer enough. It was a heavy, suffocating void filled with years of solitary meals and a space left empty at that window table.
“Dunk,” Joong’s voice cracked, raw and thick, as he closed the distance between them. His fingers brushed Dunk’s arm, then fell away, as if he feared he’d lost the right to touch.
His eyes, wide and pleading, locked onto Dunk’s. “I know I left you here, with nothing but memories. I walked away, and I’ve spent every day since regretting it.” His voice trembled, a man stripped bare.
“But I’m back now. I’ve extended my stay. It is not for a week or a month. I’m here to fight for you and to rebuild what we had if you’ll give me a chance to try.”
Dunk flinched, a subtle recoil, his gaze snapping up to meet Joong’s, sharp and searing. “Rebuild what we had?” His voice was low, laced with a bitterness that cut like glass.
“You vanished, Joong. Years went by without a word. Even while your face was on every screen and every billboard, you couldn’t spare a moment to reach out? And now you show up, acting like you can just step back into my life? What was I supposed to do, wait forever?”
The words dripped with quiet scorn, each one a shard of the hurt he’d carried.
Joong stepped closer, desperate, his eyes brimming with regret. “Dunk, please, I know I hurt you.” His voice was a strained whisper, his breath warm against Dunk’s skin, their foreheads nearly touching.
“I was a fool, running from what mattered most. I’m not proud of the man I was. But I’m here now, begging you to let me make it right. Let me stay. Let me prove I’m not going anywhere this time.”
Dunk’s jaw tightened, his body taut with the weight of Joong’s plea. He didn’t pull away, but his eyes narrowed, skepticism warring with the raw hope in Joong’s voice.
“Prove what, exactly? That you’ll stick around until Bangkok calls you back? It will be another script and another spotlight. What happens when your world pulls you away again?”
Joong’s shoulders sagged, the question striking like a whip. He leaned against the fence, his confidence fraying.
“It’s not just about the work,” he said, voice steady but laced with vulnerability. “I’m in the middle of a drama series which is a big production with high stakes and people counting on me. That’s my reality.”
Dunk’s eyes flickered with hurt, curiosity. “So you’re just going to walk away from it all? For what, a summer in Chiang Dao?” His tone was sharp, testing, daring Joong to falter.
Joong held his gaze, unflinching. “I’m not walking away. I’m making space. I told my agent I’m scaling back by choosing projects that fit and ones that let me come home. Script readings on calls, meetings from anywhere. I turned down a lead role last week to take a smaller part instead which wraps in three weeks. They didn’t push back.”
His voice brightened, a spark of hope breaking through. “There’s a shoot in Seoul this summer, during your school break. It’s short, a few weeks. I was thinking… you could come with me. We could wander the city, make it ours for a bit.”
Dunk’s heart thudded, Joong’s words a fragile bridge over the chasm between them. “You’re not giving up your career,” Dunk said, his voice guarded but softer, testing the weight of it.
“No,” Joong admitted, stepping closer, his eyes burning with sincerity. “But I’m carving out room for what matters more. You. This town. The life we could still build together.”
Dunk looked away, the words sinking deep, stirring a hope he wasn’t ready to trust. The field stretched silent around them, the air heavy with the scent of grass and memory.
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper, raw with the weight of old wounds.
Joong’s eyes held his, a quiet vow. “I’m done letting you down.”
***
The drama teacher had quit two weeks ago, leaving a gaping, dramatic void in the school’s extracurricular schedule.
Dunk, in a moment of misplaced generosity, or perhaps a desperate need for a distraction from his own burgeoning internal drama, had offered to supervise the school play while they found a replacement.
It was a chaotic, thankless task, and he immediately regretted it. He’d taken it on partly to keep busy and to drown out the ache of Joong’s return, but also because he saw himself in the kids who were awkward, hopeful, and reaching for something bigger than their small town.
He couldn’t let them down, even if it meant stretching himself thin.
When Joong offered to help, Dunk almost said no. The words were on the tip of his tongue, a knee-jerk refusal born of self-preservation.
No, thank you. I don’t need your help. I don’t need you.
His heart raced with the fear of letting Joong back in, of reopening wounds he’d spent years bandaging.
But then he saw the earnestness in Joong’s eyes, a flicker of the boy who’d once promised forever by the riverbank. Against his better judgment, he nodded, a tentative step toward trust. Almost.