2024 - A Kamikaze Reunion Party

The air smelled like nostalgia and too much cologne.

Porsche Sivakorn leaned against the bar, swirling whiskey in his glass—neat, just how she used to order it for him—as laughter echoed around the room.

And there she was.

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His past. His present. His almost future.

Their breakup had been a quiet earthquake—no screaming, no scandals, just two people who loved each other too much to watch it rot slowly.

But the fans?

They begged.
"Please, we need you two."
"You’re meant to be."

So here they were—

Together.
But not.

She smiled at him from across the room, holding up her drink in a silent cheers. Friendly.

Porsche’s jaw tightened.

Because nothing was simple anymore:

• Her hand brushing his when passing a lighter—accidental, but his skin burned for hours.
• The way she still laughed at his jokes first, like muscle memory.
• How her perfume lingered in his car after she left, haunting him.

Once, drunk and reckless, he almost kissed her in the parking lot—
"We’re just friends, remember?" she’d whispered, pulling away.

He remembered.

(He also remembered the way she used to sigh his name against his lips, like it was a prayer.)

Now?

He watched her talk to Third, head thrown back in laughter, and wondered—

Does she still taste the same?
Does she still wake up at 3 AM reaching for him?
Does she ever regret this?

But Porsche was a man of pride.

So he smiled back.
Drank his whiskey.
And lied through his teeth when Jackie asked:

"You good?"

Porsche’s chest burned.

He tried to move on.
He swore he had.

But then—

• His fingers would twitch when someone hugged her too long.
• He’d mute her Instagram stories so he wouldn’t see if she danced with someone new.
• Once, drunk and reckless, he showed up at her apartment at 3 AM just to say "I miss your shampoo smell" before Third dragged him away.

And one night?

She caught his stare across the room—and for a second, it was 19 again: sticky summer nights, tangled bedsheets, whispers of "Marry me someday."

But then she blinked.

And the moment shattered.

She raised her glass—a cheers between friends—before turning away.

Porsche exhaled sharply, nails digging into his palm.

He wanted to scream.
To pull her into some dark corner and remind her—
Of how she used to shiver when he kissed her collarbone.
Of the way she’d cry during thunderstorms until he held her.
Of every "I love you" she ever sighed into his skin.

But instead?

He drank his beer.
Smiled at jokes he didn’t hear.
Pretended his heart wasn’t still beating—bruised and furious—inside her abandoned ribcage.

Some endings don’t get clean closures.
Just endless aftershocks of almost.