𐙚 ₊ ⊹ things you never said
♡ bang chan grew up believing people always leave. when his childhood best friend moves away in high school and the friendship slowly fades, he turns the pain into quiet, private recordings — never expecting her to come back. years later, university brings her home again. the friendship feels exactly the same. and somehow that hurts worse.
☆ genres: childhood best friends to lovers | second chance romance | slow burn healing | hidden mental health struggles | mutual pining | emotional intimacy | "i wish you'd told me" | quiet devastation | acts of service | gentle love ☆ warnings: explicit nsfw (MDNI 18+), heavy emotional themes (self-worth issues, abandonment wounds, grief over lost time), detailed emotional smut, praise kink, body worship, slow & sensual sex, eye contact during intimacy, marking (gentle & possessive), switching dynamics (soft dom Chan & vulnerable sub Chan), emotional sex, cockwarming, breeding kink (emotional/possessive), multiple orgasms, oral (giving & receiving), fingering, light edging, crying during/after sex, tender possessiveness, extensive aftercare, healing through physical & emotional intimacy
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The first time you saw Bang Chan again, it felt like stepping into a memory you had never truly left.
University orientation was loud, chaotic, and overwhelming — hundreds of new students moving through the auditorium like colorful fish in a too-small tank. You were clutching your orientation packet, trying to find your assigned group, when a familiar laugh cut through the noise.
You turned.
And there he was.
Bang Chan, standing near the front with a group of new students, smiling that same warm, dimpled smile that used to light up your entire childhood. He looked older — broader shoulders, sharper jawline, hair dyed a soft blonde — but the way he tilted his head when he laughed was exactly the same.
Your heart stopped for a second.
Then he looked up and saw you.
The smile didn’t disappear, but it changed. It became softer. Smaller. Like he was seeing a ghost he had been quietly waiting for.
You walked toward each other through the crowd, both of you moving like magnets that had finally found their match again.
“...Chan?” you said, voice barely carrying over the noise.
His eyes crinkled at the corners. “You came back.”
The words were simple, but they carried years.
You hugged him without thinking. He hugged you back immediately, arms wrapping around you like no time had passed at all. He smelled the same — clean laundry and faint cologne and something that felt like home.
When you pulled away, both of you were smiling, but there was a carefulness in the air. Like you were both afraid to acknowledge how much had changed.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck the way he always did when he was nervous. “You're majoring here?”
You nodded. “Yeah. Music production. You?”
“Same.” His smile widened, but there was something quieter underneath it. “Looks like we’re stuck together again.”
The rest of orientation passed in a blur of small talk and shared memories. You fell back into old rhythms so easily it was almost scary — finishing each other’s sentences, laughing at the same inside jokes, instinctively walking at the same pace.
But every so often, you caught him watching you with an expression you couldn’t quite read.
Like he was memorizing you.
That evening, your mutual friends dragged both of you to a welcome party. Chan stayed close the entire time — not obviously, but always within reach. When someone bumped into you, his hand found the small of your back to steady you. When you mentioned being thirsty, he was already handing you a drink before you could finish the sentence.
It felt exactly like old times.
And somehow that made it hurt more.
Because you had missed years of his life.
Years you could never get back.
When the party wound down, Chan walked you back to your dorm. The campus paths were quiet under the streetlights, leaves crunching under your shoes.
At your door, he lingered.
“It was really good seeing you again,” he said softly. “I missed this. Missed you.”
You smiled, but your chest felt tight. “I missed you too, Chan.”
He looked at you for a long moment, something heavy and unspoken in his eyes. Then he gave you that familiar dimpled smile and ruffled your hair gently — the same way he used to when you were kids.
“Get some rest,” he said. “Text me tomorrow?”
You nodded.
He waited until you were safely inside before walking away.
You closed the door, leaned against it, and let out a shaky breath.
Nothing had changed.
And that was the problem.
Because the boy you had loved since you were seven years old was still carrying something heavy behind that bright smile.
You just didn’t know what it was yet.
-----
The first few weeks after the reunion felt like slipping back into a favorite sweater you thought you’d outgrown — warm, familiar, and a little too tight in places you didn’t remember.
You and Chan fell into old rhythms so effortlessly it was almost frightening.
Mornings started with coffee runs.
Chan would text you at 7:45 a.m. sharp — never earlier, never later — with a simple “outside?” You’d come down to find him leaning against the wall near your dorm building, two cups in hand, wearing an oversized hoodie and that same soft, dimpled smile that used to make your childhood heart race.
“Extra shot, oat milk, light ice,” he’d say, handing you your cup like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Still your order, right?”
It was.
He remembered everything.
The two of you would walk to your first class together, shoulders brushing, trading stories about professors and dorm life like no time had passed. Chan listened like he always had — head tilted, eyes focused, laughing at the right moments. But every so often you’d catch him watching you with something unreadable in his gaze.
When you mentioned struggling with a new assignment, he showed up at the library that evening with notes he’d already organized.
“You don’t have to help me every time,” you said, half-teasing, half-serious.
Chan just smiled and slid into the seat beside you. “I want to. Besides, I missed studying with you.”
The words were light, but they carried weight.
Late-night walks became routine.
One evening after a long group project, you texted him at 11 p.m. complaining that your brain wouldn’t shut off. Twenty minutes later he was at your door in sweats and a hoodie, hair messy from sleep.
“Walk with me?” he asked softly.
You did.
The campus was quiet under the streetlights, leaves crunching beneath your shoes. Chan walked slightly slower to match your pace, hands in his pockets, occasionally bumping your shoulder when he wanted your attention. You talked about everything and nothing — old neighborhood stories, new dreams, the way time had changed you both without changing the way you understood each other.
At one point, you teased him about a silly childhood memory.
Chan laughed — that bright, genuine laugh you had missed so much — but then added quietly, “Yeah… I was always the loud one trying to keep up with you.”
There was something in his tone. A small, self-deprecating edge you almost missed.
You glanced at him. “You were never trying to keep up. You were the best part of everything.”
He looked away, smiling, but his shoulders tensed just slightly.
You didn’t push.
Convenience store dinners became sacred.
One rainy night, after you both finished late assignments, Chan showed up at your door with plastic bags full of your favorite late-night snacks.
“Emergency rations,” he declared with a grin. “We’re not studying anymore tonight.”
You ended up sitting on the floor of your dorm eating ramyeon and sharing earphones, playing old playlists you used to listen to together. Chan leaned against your bed, legs stretched out, humming along softly. Every so often he’d steal food from your container, then pretend to be innocent when you glared at him.
It felt exactly like when you were thirteen.
And it hurt.
Years of his laughter, his quiet support, his steady presence, all missed.
One night, as you were both half-asleep on the floor surrounded by empty containers, Chan spoke into the quiet.
“I thought about you a lot after you moved,” he admitted, voice low. “Wondered if you were okay. If you made new friends. If you still liked the same songs.”
You turned your head to look at him. His profile was soft in the dim light, but there was something heavy in his expression.
“I thought about you too,” you whispered. “All the time.”
He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Good,” he said softly. “I was scared you’d forget me.”
The words lingered.
You wanted to tell him you could never forget him.
But something in the way he said it made you hold back — like there was more pain behind the sentence than he was letting on.
The cracks were small, but they were there and you noticed them.
Chan would dismiss compliments instantly.
When you told him he looked good with his new hair color, he laughed and said, “It’s just hair. Doesn’t matter.”
When a professor praised his latest project in front of the class, he shrugged it off with, “I got lucky.”
When you told him you were proud of how hard he worked, he looked away and muttered, “I could do better.”
You didn’t understand yet.
But the foundation was forming.
The boy who used to be your entire world was carrying something heavy.
And you were starting to see the weight he tried so hard to hide behind that bright, familiar smile.
Then, the podcast found you by accident.
It was a ordinary Thursday night, the kind where exhaustion sat heavy in your bones and sleep refused to come. You were lying in bed, scrolling through Spotify’s “Discover Weekly” with half-lidded eyes, when a recommendation appeared near the bottom of the list.
People I Used To Know
Private audio archive • 34 episodes • Anonymous
The thumbnail was simple — a faded polaroid of an empty playground at dusk. No face. No name. Just a soft, melancholic image that felt strangely familiar.
You tapped a random episode without thinking.
“Episode 12: The Girl Who Promised She’d Write Back.”
A low, warm voice filled your headphones — gentle, slightly raspy, the kind of voice that made you lean in closer.
Your heart stopped.
You knew that voice.
You would know it anywhere.
You sat up slowly, pulling the blanket around your shoulders as Chan’s voice continued, soft and honest in the dark.
“I don’t think she meant to leave,” he said quietly. There was no anger in it. Only a gentle, aching nostalgia. “We were kids. Life got bigger. Different schools, different time zones, different friends… I get it. But for a long time, I kept checking my phone anyway. Waiting for a message that never came.”
A small, self-deprecating laugh.
“I told myself it was fine. That friendships fade. That it wasn’t her fault. But sometimes… I still wonder what I did wrong. If I wasn’t interesting enough. If I was too much. If the version of me she knew wasn’t enough to make her stay.”
You pressed pause, breath shaky.
The date on the episode was from three years ago.
You didn’t sleep that night.
You listened to every episode.
Some were short — two or three minutes of Chan talking about old friends, teachers, neighbors who had drifted away. Others were longer, more vulnerable.
He never named anyone.
But you knew.
You knew which stories were about you.
The one about the girl who used to share her headphones with him on the bus. The one about the person who made him feel seen when he felt invisible. The one about the friend who promised they’d always find their way back to each other.
In one episode, recorded late at night, his voice cracked.
“I keep thinking… maybe if I had been better, she wouldn’t have left. Maybe if I had been more fun, or less needy, or less… me, she would have stayed in touch. I know that’s not fair. But it’s what I believed for a long time.”
Tears slipped down your cheeks as you listened.
You had moved away for your father’s job. You had tried to keep in touch at first. But life had pulled you in different directions — new school, new friends, new pressures. Texts became less frequent. Calls stopped. You had assumed he was fine. That he had moved on like you thought you had.
You never knew he had been carrying this.
By 4 a.m., you had listened to every episode twice.
The final one, uploaded only a month ago, destroyed you.
Title: “Hope”
Chan’s voice was quieter than usual, tired but warm.
“I spent years thinking every goodbye was permanent. That people left because they eventually saw the real me and decided I wasn’t worth staying for. But lately… someone came back. Someone who’s making me believe that maybe not every ending is forever.”
A long pause.
“I’m scared to hope. But I’m hoping anyway.”
The episode ended.
You sat in the dark, phone still glowing in your hands, tears streaming silently down your face.
The boy who used to be your entire world had spent years believing he wasn’t enough.
And you had no idea.
The next morning, you met Chan at your usual coffee spot.
He was already there, two cups in hand, smiling that familiar dimpled smile when he saw you. But you saw it now — the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes searched your face like he was always waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“Hey,” he said softly, handing you your drink. “You look tired. Did you sleep okay?”
You took the cup, fingers brushing his.
“Not really,” you admitted. “I found something last night.”
Chan tilted his head, curious but relaxed. “Yeah? What was it?”
You looked at him for a long moment, heart aching with everything you now knew.
“Nothing important,” you lied gently, forcing a small smile. “Just an old playlist.”
He accepted the answer easily, like he always did when someone didn’t want to burden him.
You walked to class together like always.
But inside, something had shifted.
You weren’t just rediscovering your best friend.
You were discovering the boy who had been quietly breaking for years.
And you didn’t know how to fix something he had never asked you to see.
-----
You didn’t tell him you knew.
Not yet.
Instead, you carried the weight of his words like a secret you weren’t sure you had the right to hold. Every episode played on repeat in your mind — late at night when the dorm was quiet, during lectures when your attention wandered, in the shower where the water couldn’t wash away the ache in your chest.
The grief wasn’t loud.
It was quiet. Personal. A deep, aching sorrow for the boy who had smiled through years of believing he wasn’t enough.
The next time you saw Chan, it was a ordinary Tuesday afternoon.
He was waiting outside your lecture hall like always, two coffees in hand, wearing that soft gray hoodie you secretly loved on him. When he spotted you, his whole face lit up with that familiar dimpled smile.
“Hey,” he said, handing you your usual order. “Extra shot, just how you like it. How was class?”
You took the cup, fingers brushing his, and forced a bright smile.
“It was fine,” you lied. “Thanks for this.”
He fell into step beside you, matching your pace without thinking — the same way he used to when you were kids walking home from school. You talked about small things: a funny story from your professor, the new café that opened near campus, how cold the weather was getting.
But you noticed everything now.
The way he brushed off a compliment from a passing classmate with a casual laugh and “It’s nothing.” The way he changed the subject when you tried to ask how he was doing. The way his smile stayed in place even when his eyes looked tired.
Every small moment felt like a new wound.
Because you now knew what those smiles were hiding.
That night, you couldn’t sleep again.
You lay in bed listening to another episode — one from two years ago.
Chan’s voice was softer then, younger, but the pain was the same.
“Sometimes I wonder if I’m only good at beginnings,” he said quietly. “I’m really good at making people like me at first. But eventually… they see the real me. The version that gets quiet when things get hard. The version that overthinks everything. And then they leave. Not because they’re mean. Just because I’m not enough to make them stay.”
A long pause.
“I don’t blame them. I get it.”
You pressed pause, tears slipping silently down your cheeks.
You grieved for the thirteen-year-old boy who had stayed up all night waiting for your texts after you moved. You grieved for the sixteen-year-old who had convinced himself your fading messages meant he wasn’t worth remembering. You grieved for the young man who had turned every goodbye into proof that he was temporary.
And most of all, you grieved for the fact that you had been part of that proof — without ever knowing it.
The next day, you started noticing more.
During a group study session, someone praised Chan’s latest track. He laughed it off immediately.
“It’s not that good,” he said with an easy smile. “I got lucky with the beat.”
You reached under the table and gently squeezed his knee. He glanced at you, surprised, but didn’t pull away. Instead, his hand covered yours for a brief second — a silent thank you.
Later, when the group teased him about being “too perfect,” Chan deflected again.
“Trust me, I’m far from it.”
You waited until everyone left, then turned to him.
“You don’t have to do that,” you said softly. “Downplay yourself like that.”
He looked at you for a long moment, something unreadable in his eyes.
“It’s just easier,” he said finally, voice quiet. “If people don’t expect too much, they can’t be disappointed.”
The words broke something inside you.
You wanted to tell him about the podcast. You wanted to tell him you knew. You wanted to hold him and promise that you saw him — all of him — and you weren’t going anywhere.
But you weren’t ready and neither was he.
Instead, you started loving him more intentionally.
You repeated compliments, casually but sincerely. You showed up at his dorm with his favourite snacks when he mentioned a long day. You walked him home instead of the other way around sometimes. You stayed.
And Chan noticed.
He started looking at you longer. Touching you more — small brushes of his hand against yours, fingers lingering when he passed you something. His smiles became softer when they were directed at you.
But the fear was still there.
One night, after walking you back, he hesitated at your door.
“You know you can tell me if it’s too much, right?” he asked quietly. “If I’m around too often. If I’m… too much.”
You stepped forward and hugged him tightly.
“You’re not too much,” you whispered against his chest. “You never were.”
He held you for a long time, arms wrapped around you like he was afraid to let go.
But you both knew the real conversation was coming.
The one where you would have to tell him you knew about the recordings and the one where he would have to let you see the parts he had spent years trying to hide.
-----
You continued to show him your love.
And Chan, slowly but surely, started letting you in.
One particularly cold night in late November, you found him in the music building practice room long after everyone else had gone home. The lights were dim, only the soft glow of his laptop screen illuminating his face. He was sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, headphones around his neck, staring at nothing.
He looked exhausted.
You didn’t knock. You simply walked in, closed the door behind you, and sat down beside him on the cold floor.
Chan didn’t say anything at first. He just shifted closer until his shoulder pressed against yours, seeking warmth without asking for it.
“Bad day?” you asked gently.
He let out a small, tired laugh. “Just one of those days where I feel like I’m not doing enough. For anyone.”
You turned to face him, heart aching at the familiar self-doubt in his voice. You reached out and gently took his hand, intertwining your fingers with his.
“You’re enough, Chan,” you said softly. “You’ve always been enough.”
He looked at you for a long moment, eyes searching yours like he was waiting for the catch. When he didn’t find one, something in him cracked open.
He kissed you — slow, hesitant, full of years of unspoken longing. You kissed him back just as tenderly, cupping his face, thumbs brushing away the tension in his jaw. The kiss deepened gradually, turning emotional and needy. Chan’s hands slid under your sweater, tracing your skin like he was memorizing you.
“Can I…?” he whispered against your lips, voice trembling. “I need to feel close to you tonight. Please.”
You nodded, pulling him closer.
He laid you down gently on the practice room floor, spreading his hoodie beneath you like a blanket. Clothes came off slowly, reverently. Chan worshipped every inch of you with his mouth and hands — kissing down your neck, across your chest, between your thighs until you were arching and whispering his name.
When he finally pushed inside you, it was deep and slow, forehead pressed to yours, eyes locked the entire time. He moved with tender, rolling thrusts, breathing your name like a prayer.
“You feel like home,” he gasped, voice breaking. “You’ve always felt like home.”
You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him deeper, nails gently dragging down his back. The intimacy was overwhelming — skin against skin, breath mingling, hearts beating in sync. Chan made love to you like he was afraid to rush a single second of having you.
When you came, clenching around him with a soft cry, he followed right after, burying himself deep and spilling inside you with a quiet, broken moan. He stayed inside you afterward, arms wrapped tightly around your body, face pressed into your neck as quiet tears slipped down his cheeks.
You held him through it, stroking his hair, whispering that you were here, that you saw him, that you weren’t going anywhere.
He cleaned you gently with his hoodie, brought you water from his bag, then pulled you into his chest and held you like you were the only thing keeping him from falling apart.
“I don’t know how to do this without feeling like I have to earn it,” he whispered into the dark.
You kissed his collarbone, fingers tracing soothing patterns on his skin.
“You don’t have to earn me,” you murmured. “You already have me.”
Chan held you tighter, legs tangling with yours, breathing you in like he was still afraid you might disappear.
For the first time in years, Bang Chan let himself be loved without trying to be perfect first.
And you stayed.
The closeness that followed was both healing and terrifying.
You and Chan existed in a delicate new rhythm — late-night study sessions that turned into quiet cuddles, shared meals where his hand would find yours under the table, mornings where he’d show up with coffee and a shy smile that made your heart ache with how much you had missed this version of him.
But the more you saw him, the more you noticed the cracks he tried so hard to hide.
Minjae’s return complicated everything.
Your other childhood best friend had always been loud, confident, and competitive — especially when it came to you. When he heard through mutual friends that you and Chan had reconnected so deeply, he treated it like a challenge rather than a reunion.
He started showing up more intentionally.
One afternoon in the campus café, Minjae slid into the seat across from you while you were waiting for Chan.
“Long time no see, stranger,” he said with that familiar cocky grin. “Heard you and Chan are basically attached at the hip again. Didn’t know you two were still that close.”
You smiled politely. “We’re figuring things out. It’s nice having him back in my life.”
Minjae leaned forward, eyes sparkling with that competitive edge you remembered from childhood games. “You know I’m always here too, right? We have history too. Real history. If Chan gets too busy with his producing stuff, I can take you out. Like old times.”
Before you could respond, Chan appeared at the table, two drinks in hand. His expression remained calm, but you saw the subtle tightening of his jaw, the way his shoulders stiffened.
He set your drink down gently in front of you, then sat beside you — close enough that his thigh pressed against yours under the table.
“Hey,” Chan said softly to you, completely ignoring Minjae at first. His hand found yours under the table, fingers intertwining possessively. “Missed you.”
Minjae’s smile sharpened. “Chan. Good to see you, man. We were just talking about how close you two have gotten again. Almost like no time passed, huh?”
Chan’s thumb brushed over your knuckles — steady, but you felt the tension in his grip.
“Yeah,” Chan replied quietly, voice even. “Some things don’t change.”
The air grew thick.
Minjae leaned back, crossing his arms. “Funny how that works. I was her emergency contact plan back in the day. Guess I got replaced pretty easily.”
Chan’s fingers tightened around yours. Not painfully — protectively.
“She chose who she wanted,” Chan said, still calm, but there was steel underneath. “And she’s happy with that choice.”
You squeezed his hand back, trying to ground him.
Minjae eventually left with a forced laugh and a “Catch you later,” but the damage was done. Chan was quiet the rest of the afternoon, thumb still tracing patterns on your hand but his mind clearly elsewhere.
That night, when he walked you home, he lingered at your door longer than usual.
“You know you can tell me if this isn't what you want, right?” he asked suddenly, voice low. “If Minjae is… easier. If I’m getting in the way of your old friendships.”
You turned to him, heart breaking at the quiet fear in his eyes.
“Chan,” you said gently, stepping closer. “You’re not in the way. You’re exactly where I want you.”
He searched your face for a long moment, then pulled you into a tight hug, burying his face in your hair.
“I just keep waiting for the day you realize you don’t need me anymore,” he whispered. “Like everyone else eventually does.”
You held him tighter, feeling the weight of every recording you had listened to — every quiet confession of self-doubt he had never voiced out loud to you.
“I’m not everyone else,” you murmured against his chest. “I’m staying this time. I promise.”
He kissed you then — desperate and emotional, hands framing your face like he was afraid you might slip away. The kiss quickly turned heated. You pulled him inside your dorm, clothes shedding in a trail toward your bed.
Chan made love to you with quiet intensity that night — deep, slow thrusts, eyes locked on yours, whispering “stay with me” and “I need you” between every moan. He switched halfway through, letting you take control, his hands gripping your hips as you rode him, both of you chasing comfort and connection in the most intimate way possible.
When you both came undone, he held you through the aftershocks, staying buried inside you, arms wrapped around you like a lifeline.
The tension with Minjae wasn’t over.
But for now, Chan let himself believe you would choose him.
Even if part of him still waited for the day you wouldn’t.
-----
The confrontation didn’t come from a single dramatic fight.
It came from the slow accumulation of small moments — Minjae’s competitive comments, Chan’s quiet deflections, and the growing weight of everything you now knew from the recordings.
It finally broke on a rainy Thursday night.
You had been studying together in Chan’s dorm when Minjae texted you about a group project deadline. Chan saw the notification light up your phone. His jaw tightened, but he said nothing at first.
Then, when you casually mentioned meeting Minjae the next day to finish the work, Chan’s mask slipped.
“You don’t have to go,” he said quietly, staring at his laptop screen. “I can help you with it instead.”
You turned to him, heart sinking at the tension in his shoulders.
“Chan… Minjae and I have been working on this together for weeks. It’s just a project.”
He let out a small, bitter laugh — the kind that wasn’t really a laugh at all. “Right. Just a project. Like everything else.”
The words hung heavy.
You set your notes down. “What is this really about?”
Chan was silent for a long moment. Then he closed his laptop, ran a hand through his hair, and finally looked at you. His eyes were tired. Defeated. Full of years of pain he had never let anyone see.
“I hate myself,” he said suddenly, voice raw and quiet. “Not just sometimes. All the time. I look in the mirror and I see someone who’s never enough. Someone who tries too hard and still disappoints everyone eventually.”
Your breath caught.
He continued before you could speak, the words pouring out like they had been waiting for years.
“When you moved away in high school… it broke something in me. I told myself it was fine. That life happens. That friendships fade. But deep down, I believed it was my fault. That if I had been more fun, more interesting, less… me, you would have stayed in touch. You were the one person who made me feel like I wasn’t just the loud kid trying to be liked. And then you left. And it felt like proof.”
He swallowed hard, eyes glistening.
“After that, it just kept happening. Friends drifted. Teammates left the group. Relationships ended. Every time someone walked away, I didn’t get angry. I just thought, ‘That’s fair.’ Because who would want to stay with someone like me long-term? Someone who overthinks everything. Someone who smiles so people don’t see how exhausted he is. Someone who believes he has to earn every single person in his life.”
Tears slipped down his cheeks, but he didn’t wipe them away.
"And the podcast?" You finally asked.
He laughed, not a happy laugh though, more like a half-hearted, pain-filled one. “I figured you knew," he paused then sighed. "I recorded those episodes because I needed somewhere to put it all. Somewhere no one would hear how much I hated myself. How much I still hate myself. And when you came back… I was so happy. But part of me kept waiting for you to realize the same thing everyone else does. That I’m not worth staying for.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
You moved closer, kneeling in front of him, gently cupping his face with both hands. Your own tears fell freely now.
“Chan,” you whispered, voice breaking. “You are worth staying for. You always have been. I didn’t leave because of you. I left because life pulled me away. And I’m so sorry I made you feel like it was your fault. I’m so sorry you carried that alone for years.”
He let out a shaky sob and pulled you into his arms, burying his face in your neck. You held him tightly as he cried — deep, cathartic tears that felt like years of pain finally being released.
“I love you,” you whispered against his hair. “Not the version you think people want. The real you. The one who overthinks. The one who smiles when he’s tired. The one who carried all of this alone because he thought he had to. I love all of him.”
Chan held you like you were the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.
When the tears finally slowed, he pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes red but clearer than they had been in years.
“I don’t know how to stop believing I’m temporary,” he whispered. “But I want to try. With you.”
You kissed him then — slow, deep, and full of promise.
That night, the intimacy was different.
It wasn’t just desire. It was healing.
Clothes were shed slowly, reverently. Chan worshipped every part of you with his mouth and hands — kissing down your neck, across your chest, between your thighs until you were trembling and moaning his name. He took his time, like he was trying to memorize you, like he still couldn’t believe he was allowed to have this.
When he finally pushed inside you, it was deep and slow, forehead pressed to yours, eyes locked the entire time. He moved with tender, emotional thrusts, whispering “I love you” and “thank you for staying” between every gasp.
You switched halfway through, pushing him onto his back and sinking down onto him. Chan’s head fell back with a broken moan, hands gripping your hips as you rode him slow and deep, eyes never leaving his.
“I love you,” you told him, grinding down deliberately. “All of you. The parts you hate. The parts you hide. The parts you think no one could love. I love them the most.”
That undid him.
Chan sat up suddenly, wrapping his arms tightly around you as he thrust up into you, burying his face in your neck. The new angle made both of you moan loudly. He moved with you, desperate and emotional, tears slipping down his cheeks as pleasure and years of pain mixed together.
“I don’t deserve you,” he gasped, voice wrecked. “But I’m trying so hard to believe I do.”
You came together — clinging, trembling, crying each other’s names. Chan spilled deep inside you with a choked sob, holding you so tightly it almost hurt.
And for the first time in years, Bang Chan fell asleep believing someone might stay — not because he earned it, but because he was loved exactly as he was.
-----
The morning after Chan’s breakdown felt like the first real breath either of you had taken in years.
Sunlight filtered softly through the curtains of his dorm room. You woke up tangled in his arms, his face buried in your neck, one leg thrown over yours like he was still afraid you might slip away in the night. When you stirred, Chan tightened his hold for a second before relaxing, pressing a slow, sleepy kiss to your collarbone.
“Good morning,” he whispered, voice hoarse from crying and everything that had passed between you.
You turned in his arms and kissed him properly — slow, deep, and full of quiet promise. Chan melted into it immediately, hands sliding up your back, holding you like you were the most precious thing he had ever been allowed to keep.
When you finally pulled back, he looked at you with soft, wondering eyes.
“I want to do this right,” he said quietly. “I want to be your boyfriend. Not just someone you’re figuring things out with. I want to call you mine and mean it. I want to wake up next to you and know I don’t have to earn it.”
Your heart swelled.
You brushed your thumb across his cheek, tracing the faint traces of dried tears.
“I want that too,” you whispered. “I want to be your girlfriend, Chan. I want to stay.”
His breath hitched. Then he was kissing you again — deeper this time, full of relief and joy and years of waiting.
From that moment on, you were official.
Dating Chan was everything you had missed and more.
He was proudly, unapologetically yours.
He held your hand in public without hesitation, pulling you close when people walked by. He kissed your temple when you passed each other between classes. He reintroduced you to his friends as “my girlfriend” with the brightest, most genuine smile you had ever seen on him.
The small gestures continued, but now they felt like love instead of atonement.
He still brought you coffee exactly how you liked it. He still remembered your favorite snacks and left them in your bag when you weren’t looking. But now he also stole kisses in the library stacks, walked you to every class even when it made him late for his own, and sent you good morning voice notes that made your heart flutter.
One weekend, he took you to the beach — the same one you used to talk about going to together as kids. You spent the day building terrible sandcastles, running from the waves, and taking blurry photos on his phone. That night, wrapped in a blanket on the sand, he kissed you under the stars and whispered, “I used to dream about this. About getting to love you out loud.”
You cried.
He held you through it.
The final podcast episode came a month later.
You were sitting beside him on his bed when he uploaded it. The title was simple:
“Epilogue: The Ones Who Came Back”
He held your hand and let you listen together, earphones shared like you used to do as kids.
Chan’s voice filled the quiet room — softer than usual, but full of quiet strength.
“I spent years thinking every goodbye was permanent. I turned every faded friendship into proof that I was temporary. That I was only lovable when I was useful. When I was smiling. When I was easy.”
A long pause.
“Then someone came back. Someone who knew me when I was awkward and loud and trying too hard. Someone who saw the parts I tried hardest to hide… and stayed anyway. Not because I earned it. Not because I was perfect. Just because she chose me. Exactly as I am.”
His voice cracked slightly, but he continued.
“So this is my last episode. Not because I’m fixed. But because I’m trying. Because I’m learning that love isn’t something you have to earn by disappearing when things get hard. And because I finally believe that some people do come home.”
The episode ended with a small, hopeful laugh.
“I spent years thinking every goodbye was permanent. Turns out sometimes people come back. And sometimes… they stay.”
You turned to him, tears streaming down your face.
Chan was already looking at you, eyes shining with emotion.
He gently wiped your tears with his thumbs.
“I don’t need the list anymore,” he whispered. “I just need you.”
You kissed him — slow, deep, and full of everything you had both survived to reach this moment.
Months later, you were sitting on the same beach where he had first told you he loved you out loud.
Chan was leaning against you, head on your shoulder, watching the waves. His hand rested on your thigh, thumb tracing lazy circles — a habit he had developed since you started dating, like he still needed the constant reminder that you were real.
You glanced over at him.
He looked peaceful. Not perfect. Not fixed. But peaceful.
He caught you staring and smiled — that bright, dimpled smile you had fallen in love with as a child and never stopped loving.
“What?” he asked, tilting his head.
You leaned in and kissed him softly.
“Nothing,” you whispered against his lips. “Just thinking about how lucky I am that you came back to me too.”
Chan’s eyes softened. He pulled you closer, resting his forehead against yours.
“I never really left,” he said quietly. “I was just waiting for you to find me again.”
You stayed like that until the sun set — two childhood best friends who had lost each other, found each other, and finally chosen to stay.
The list was gone.
But the love?
The love was just beginning.
Give this one a read. It’s beautiful
