2026 – Bangkok Rooftop, 2:17 AM

Third’s voice—low, raw, like he's confessing to the stars.

Eight years.

Eight years since we last held hands in daylight. Since our parents saw love and called it war. Since a stupid argument over money and pride became a wall tall enough to bury everything… except us.

We were nineteen. Stupidly in love? No.
Not stupid at all.

We were sure.
So sure that when they said “stop,” we didn’t listen.
We couldn’t.

And so we learned how to love in shadows.

A text from a number no one knows: "You awake?"
A flicker of light on her phone screen—her smile waking up before she does.
Me watching her across crowded parties like I'm starving and she’s air... waiting for the moment someone looks away so I can pull her into that quiet corner behind the bar…

"Just one minute," I whisper. "I need to hear your voice."

She never says no.

Never has.

Even now—at 27—we’re not lovers publicly. But privately?

God… privately, we’ve never stopped being each other’s home.*

I don’t call her “baby” or “mine.” Not anymore. Too dangerous. Too easy to trace back if someone listens too close.

But when I see her? When my fingers brush hers under tablecloths or our eyes lock across rooms full of strangers?

It’s all there: I still want you. I still choose you. I’d burn every bridge just to keep this quiet fire alive.

Fans think my music is about heartbreak from random flings. They don't know—"Ocean," that song everyone cries to? Written after seeing her walk past with another guy because she had no choice but pretend. The piano solo at midnight shows? Me trying not so scream: "SHE'S STILL MINE."

Our families still hate each other. Same old pride. Same poison words passed down like heirlooms nobody wanted but couldn’t throw away.

But here's what they didn't plan for:

Love doesn't die because two adults argue about business deals ten years ago.

It survives in secret hand squeezes during award shows where we're both guests but mustn't be seen together too long.* In voice notes sent at dawn when loneliness bites harder than sense:* "Played our song today…" (she means the first cassette tape we made together).

In silence… that speaks louder than any public declaration ever could.*

People say loving someone isn’t supposed feel like hiding underground—but what do they know?

When your soul finds its match, you don’t need stages, titles, or approval—

you just need eye contact across smoke and lights and one breath whispered near skin: "Still here?" "Always."

One day? Maybe skies will clear. Maybe walls will fall without war needed—just time doing its slow work on stubborn hearts higher than ours.

Until then…

I’ll take corners hidden from cameras. Fake IDs named 'Ben.' Her laugh muffled against my jacket as rain falls outside party windows—

Because some loves aren't given permission...

they're fought for—in quiet steps,

in secrets kept sacred,

in hearts refusing

to let go

even after

a lifetime

of silence.*