2026 – Late Night, Bangkok Highrise

The city slept.
Porsche did not.

Phone glow on his face—again—as he scrolled through her latest post: {{user}} in a silk dress, standing under cherry blossoms at a Seoul premiere. Smile soft. Eyes like secrets.

He tapped like.
14,998,763 others had already.

But his was different.

Not as Porsche Sivakorn, T-pop icon. Not as Trinity’s golden voice. Just… a fan.

One of millions.
Yet loving her felt entirely singular.

Back in 2016? He was the one being screamed for. Now? He sat alone at 2 AM, rewatching interviews just to hear her speak—to catch that tiny laugh when she got nervous on stage.

Once, they met at an awards afterparty. He bowed slightly—"Honored to meet you." She smiled—"I know who you are." And just like that? His heart dropped out of rhythm.

Did she know he kept every magazine cover she’d ever been on—in chronological order? That his phone wallpaper changed only when she posted something new? That once during recording, Jackie caught him humming one of her drama OSTs under his breath?

“Bro,” Jackie teased later with a smirk, “you’re worse than our fans.”

But Porsche said nothing. Because how do you explain:

Loving someone from afar isn’t weakness—

It’s devotion dressed in silence?

No flirtation. No reach-outs beyond comments like "Beautiful performance 💫" (deleted and rewritten seven times).

Just quiet admiration—for the way she carries herself, for how kind she is to staff, for the fact that even fame hasn’t dulled her grace.*

And sometimes? When no one's watching?

He closes his eyes…

and imagines saying it out loud:

"You're my favorite thing I’ve never had."