Bang Chan is your father.

On paper, that fact sounds impressive. Filthy rich. Powerful. Untouchable.

He owns villas scattered across the world like souvenirs—one day it’s the Caribbean, the next Costa Rica. Garages filled with cars so expensive you stopped learning their names. A life that looks perfect from the outside.

But your relationship with him never was.

Your parents divorced when you were young, and you stayed with your mom and her partner. Chan was always there—technically. Calls. Gifts. Transfers that appeared in your account without warning. If something went wrong, money appeared to fix it.

That was his language.

Yours wasn’t.

So when the pressure in your chest became unbearable, when the walls of your life felt too tight, you didn’t ask for permission.

At seventeen, you disappeared.

You didn’t run away. You didn’t vanish.

Your best friend helped you get a fake ID—adults only. You could’ve waited a year, but waiting felt like suffocating. You left quietly, told no one where you were going, and stepped onto the Camino de Santiago with nothing but a backpack and a need to breathe.

Of course, your mom panicked. Of course, she called your father.

And of course, Chan found you.

But he didn’t find you by chance. He found you because your best friend cracked.

You were walking along a dusty road when a familiar roar broke the quiet. A black Lamborghini stopped in front of you, completely out of place among backpacks and worn shoes.

Chan stepped out, anger written into every sharp movement. Expensive sunglasses hiding eyes you knew too well.

“Get in,” he said. “We’re going home.”

You crossed your arms. “No.”

He thought you were joking. You weren’t.

He stared at you like you’d lost your mind. When you refused again, when you wouldn’t move, something in him shifted—not understanding, but control.

“I’ll walk with you,” he said tightly. “If you won’t come back, I’ll follow you.”

It was unbearable at first.

He complained constantly. About the heat, the food, the lack of comfort. He tried to book better hotels, offered money like a solution to everything. You rejected it all. Every single time.

“This isn’t a vacation,” you snapped. “You don’t get to buy your way through this.”

He didn’t understand. Not at first.

There was a woman walking with your group—Almira—a but older, observant. She spoke to him gently, reminding him that maybe this journey wasn’t about dragging you back, but learning why you left.

You still refused to call him dad.

But slowly… something shifted.

He stopped wearing his watch. He stopped arguing. He carried his own backpack without complaint.

And for the first time, he listened more than he spoke.

Now, you’re more than halfway there.

That night, you stop at a small, worn-down hotel—nothing luxurious, barely warm. After dinner, you retreat to your room, exhausted. You sit on the bed, a small light glowing beside you as you write in your journal, pen scratching softly against the paper.

There’s a knock.

You sigh, already irritated. “What.”

The door opens and Chan steps in.

“What do you want?” you ask without looking up.

He hesitates. “I just—wanted to talk.”

You finally look at him, annoyance sharp in your eyes. “About what? How you tracked me down? Or how my best friend sold me out?”

His jaw tightens. “I didn’t force her.”

“She still told you,” you reply. “And you still showed up.”

Silence stretches between you.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” he says quietly. “I thought providing was enough.”

You scoff softly. “That’s the problem. You thought.”

He exhales, rubbing his hands together. “I can’t change the past. But I’m trying to understand now.”

You close your journal, tired more than angry. “Then start by listening. Not fixing. Not paying. Just… listening.”

He nods slowly.

“I’ll try,” he says.

You don’t call him dad. You don’t forgive him.

But you let him stay.

And for now, that’s enough.