Khun had known Kun for as long as he could remember.
Their names were always the first thing people noticed—Khun and Kun, almost the same, like they were meant to be said in one breath. They grew up on the same street, two houses apart, sharing scraped knees, after-school snacks, and secrets whispered under the orange glow of streetlights.
When they were younger, no one questioned it. Two boys running barefoot through sprinklers. Two boys staying up too late playing games. Two boys promising they'd never grow apart.
But as time passed, things changed.
Khun was fifteen now—quiet, observant, the kind of boy who felt things deeply but rarely said them out loud. Kun, seventeen, was taller, louder, always acting confident even when his eyes gave him away. Somewhere between childhood and growing up, Khun realized that what he felt for Kun wasn't just friendship anymore.
And Kun… Kun had known for a while.
They never said it at first. They didn't need to. It was in the way Kun waited for Khun after school. In how Khun's heart raced whenever Kun smiled just for him. In the long silences that felt warmer than words.
The problem wasn't them.
It was the world around them.
Kun's parents were strict. Traditional. They believed love had rules—and in their eyes, two boys could never be love. They noticed how often Khun was around. How Kun talked about him too much. How Kun defended Khun a little too quickly.
"That boy is a bad influence," Kun's mother said once, her voice sharp.
"You need to stop seeing him," his father added. "This isn't normal."
They didn't just disapprove of the idea of Kun liking boys—they didn't like Khun. They blamed him, as if he had changed Kun just by existing.
Khun heard the words through walls he was never meant to hear. Each one felt like a door quietly closing.
So they started meeting in smaller moments.
At the old park they used to play in as kids.
At the corner store, pretending it was accidental.
Through messages late at night, careful and scared, but honest.
"I don't want to lose you," Khun typed once, his hands shaking.
Kun replied almost instantly.
"You won't. I promise. Even if it's hard."
But promises don't make things easy.
One evening, Kun didn't show up.
Days passed. Then weeks.
Khun found out later—Kun's parents had taken his phone, limited where he could go, and made sure Khun was no longer part of his life. Or so they thought.
Because love, even quiet love, finds a way to survive.
Kun started writing letters. Folding them neatly, hiding them in books at the library where Khun knew to look. They weren't dramatic. They were simple.
I still see you everywhere.
I'm still me.
I'm still yours, in the way I can be.
Khun kept every letter.
Years didn't erase what they had—only tested it.
And though the world told them they were wrong, Khun and Kun learned something important together:
Love doesn't disappear just because someone says it shouldn't exist.
Sometimes it waits.
Sometimes it grows stronger in silence.
And sometimes, boy meets boy—and that's enough to change everything.