After that night,
Kan never came again.
No sound from the balcony.
No familiar shadow.
No short, casual words like before.
It was as if everything
had been cut off.
Phat told herself
it was better this way.
This… was how it should be.
During the day,
everything remained the same.
Work.
Meetings.
Living as usual.
Nothing changed.
Except something—
inside her.
She started spacing out more often.
Sometimes, she would find herself
looking toward the window,
even though she knew
no one was there anymore.
Sometimes, she would pick up her phone
and then put it back down.
As if waiting for something
that would never come.
"Phat, are you okay?"
A coworker asked.
"I'm fine."
The same answer
she had always used.
But this time—
it wasn't just an answer.
It was a lie.
At night,
she returned home.
A house that was quiet—
just like before.
But this silence
was not the same.
It wasn't emptiness.
It was
something missing.
Phat stood by the balcony.
Her hand resting on the window frame.
Her eyes looking outside—
the same place
he used to stand.
She closed her eyes.
Kan's image
was still clear.
His voice.
His gaze.
His words.
"Then don't hold me back."
That sentence
still echoed in her mind.
Phat pressed her lips together tightly.
"I didn't hold you back…"
Her voice was soft.
As if arguing with someone—
or with herself.
She didn't hold him back.
But she never let him go either.
And now—
he was the one
who chose to leave.
That feeling—
it wasn't just pain.
It was like something
was being pulled out of her,
slowly.
And she had no right
to ask for it back.
The next day,
she saw him.
In the same place,
at a time when they were supposed to be
just acquaintances.
Kan stood with others,
talking about work,
his expression calm.
The same as always.
As if nothing
had ever happened.
His eyes passed right over her—
as if she didn't exist.
Phat's heart jolted.
Harder than she expected.
She stopped walking
for just a fraction of a second.
Before forcing herself forward.
"Ms. Phoraphat, about the documents—"
She turned to respond,
as if nothing had happened.
But inside,
it was no longer the same.
That night,
she couldn't sleep.
Not because of the silence—
but because of her thoughts.
"Should I have said something that day…"
The question
kept repeating.
She turned over,
picked up her phone.
The same name
was still there.
Kan.
Her finger hovered—
then tapped.
The chat was empty.
No new messages.
As if everything
was frozen in place.
She typed—
"Kan…"
Then stopped.
Deleted it.
Typed again—
"Today…"
Deleted it again.
In the end,
she locked the screen,
placed the phone down,
and closed her eyes.
The weight in her chest
didn't fade.
"What's wrong with me…"
Her voice was soft.
The answer—
was clear.
But she didn't want to admit it.
She hadn't just lost
"the person who was there at night."
She was losing
"the person she had truly started to feel for."
And this time,
it wasn't the same kind of emptiness.
It was pain—
slowly becoming clearer.
Clear enough
that she could no longer
run from it.