Chapter Text
Duang and Qin had been together for eight years in total—three years dating and five years married. Every single day they spent together was filled with holding each other close.
Even if it was just walking to the kitchen, going to the bathroom, or taking one step, they always had to be hand in hand, no matter what.
Lately, Qin had been staying late at the practice room, working on his new song. He was more focused on this one than any of his previous songs.
Duang thought maybe Qin just wanted to give it his all to grow a bigger fan base. He wasn’t unknown—he had a pretty big community that loved him and his music.
So when Qin started pulling away to finish his songs, Duang didn’t think much of it. He was genuinely happy his husband had this opportunity to build something bigger for himself.
But as the days passed and Qin stayed out later and later, Duang found himself feeling increasingly lonely. Calling his friends wasn’t the same—they were busy, or with their partners, and Khonfuu, their dog couldn’t understand the ache in his heart. He felt quiet their home.
He waited for Qin—on the couch, at the kitchen seats, even lying on the floor playing softly with Khonfoo—holding onto the hope that things would feel normal again soon.
During those days, Qin would sometimes say a brief “hi” or ask “Did Khonfuu eat?” before retreating back to their room, avoiding any real conversation.
Maybe he’s just overwhelmed, Duang told himself.
Maybe he’s exhausted.
Those thoughts kept swirling in Duang’s mind, but he held back, not wanting to push.
Two weeks later, when Qin came home three hours late, Duang’s worry overwhelmed him. He called three times, heart pounding, before deciding to check the practice room himself.
Just before opening the door Duang called again. Qin answered, his voice sharp. “Stop calling me, I’m busy, Duang,” and then the call ended.
Duang felt a hollow ache.
He’s probably right. I need to calm down, he whispered to himself, as he set down his bag and took off his shoes slowly, trying to steady his breathing.
Two hours later, Qin finally returned—five hours late.
Duang’s relief was immediate but mixed with worry. As soon as the door opened, he rushed forward.
“Are you okay? What kept you so late? Did you eat? I can make you something,” he blurted, his voice catching slightly.
“I’m fine,” Qin said quietly, heading straight to their room, not looking back.
Duang stood there, feeling his heart squeeze. He missed the easy conversations, the warmth they shared. But he didn’t push—he could see the exhaustion in Qin’s steps.
Day after day, the same routine played out. Duang’s questions met with silence or short answers, and the distance between them felt heavier.
Finally, unable to hold it in, Duang spoke.
He sat at the kitchen counter, phone in hand, scrolling aimlessly, trying to distract himself.
When Qin came home an hour late, Duang stayed seated, the usual rush of questions held back by weariness.
“Qin, can we talk for a moment?” Duang asked softly, placing his phone down.
“I’m tired,” Qin replied, moving toward their room.
Before Qin could walk away, Duang gently grabbed his arm.
“Qin, we can’t keep living like this. Every day I wait for you—to talk, to see you, to feel close—but you can’t spare even three seconds for me? What is this?”
“I’m sorry, but can we talk later? I’m tired and want to shower,” Qin said, trying to pull free, making Duang’s grip tighten.
“No, Qin. It’s always like this. You’re always tired or busy—it’s been almost a month! Every single day,” Duang’s voice cracked as tears spilled down. “It feels like you’re pushing me away. We used to be inseparable.”
He wiped his tears hastily but couldn’t stop them from falling.
“It feels like you don’t love me anymore.”
Qin froze, the weight of Duang’s words settling heavily on him. He hadn’t seen it from Duang’s eyes before—he’d been so caught up in work that he’d neglected how much Duang was hurting.
“Duang, I’m sorry. Can we please talk tomorrow? I’m just really tired,” Qin said, retreating.
Duang didn’t stop him this time.
Later, sat alone on the couch, the silence between them thick and cold.
His fingers hovered over his phone, ready to reach out to friends, but he stopped. He didn’t want to taint their view of Qin. He wanted his husband to be surrounded by love and support.
He decided to wait—to try again tomorrow.
The next morning, Duang woke early, restless and unsure. He took a walk to clear his mind, thinking of the words he wanted to say after he came home.
After twenty minutes, he headed back with a small laugh. I should’ve taken the car, he thought.
After nine minutes into the walk his phone buzzed. It was Qin.
“Where are you? I know you’re mad, but leaving home like this is crazy.”
Duang read it over and over, the ache tightening in his chest.
He really doesn’t understand how I feel.
Qin had changed so much in recent weeks. He used to be Duang’s anchor—always there to comfort him when he overthought things, felt overwhelmed. Qin always reminded him everything would be okay. But now, that comfort felt like a distant memory.
After reading the message, Duang finally felt ready to speak—to bridge the gap between them.