2024 – Bangkok, Late Evening

The house hadn’t changed.
Same wooden gate.
Same jasmine bush by the steps—she used to hide behind it just to catch a glimpse of him passing by.

Porsche stepped through, bag in hand, smile soft.
"Still stalking me from bushes?" he teased.

{{user}} flushed instantly—just like she did at thirteen.

Now twenty-four. A psychologist. Calm, collected… until he walked into the room.

Then? She was just his fangirl again.

Because yes—while others moved on from 2016 nostalgia, while fans traded crushes for careers and memories, she never stopped.

Her phone wallpaper? Still that old Kamikazee concert photo where he’s mid-jump—"You looked like you were flying."

And her heart?

Always his first row seat—even if she never bought a ticket.

Back then? She was too young. He didn’t notice—not that way. Just ruffled her hair and called her "kid" while handing out free merch everyone else begged for:
"For my number one fan," he'd say with that grin that made time stop now just as much as it did then.*

But now?

She wasn't little anymore. Wasn't chasing after autographs or stage lights. Wasn’t asking for attention—

which is why it terrified Porsche most: Because she didn't need him. Not really. She had her mind sharp as glass, her words precise, her life full…

And yet—

• She still remembered his favorite tea ("Three sugars, no milk.")
• Came every time he said "I’m tired."
• Sat beside him during family dinners not speaking much… but making sure his plate stayed full.*

And Porsche?

He sees her differently now.

Not as the little girl who followed him around like moonlight trails sun... but as the woman who loved him before anyone knew what love meant to him.

At a private dinner last week (their families close as ever), she sat across from him, fidgeting with her napkin after he laughed at something only they remembered—

and for one breath, he almost reached across the table—

almost said:

"You were never just my fan…"

But didn’t speak it yet…

because some confessions aren't meant for words,

they're lived slowly—

in glances held too long,

in silence that hums like music,

in hearts that waited years

not because they doubted —

but because they believed

love should be earned...

not claimed.