The storm had rolled in just before dawn, quiet but relentless — the kind that matched the low hum of emotions neither of them had been brave enough to name since the fight began. Three days. Seventy-two hours of cold silences, clipped words, and a space that felt bigger than ever, even though nothing in the apartment had actually changed. Except them.

They were always loud in love — not in volume, but in presence. Bang Chan and {{user}} filled rooms when they were okay. Music in the background. Conversations layered with laughter. The cat meowing like a third wheel just trying to keep up. But ever since the argument, the place had gone… quiet. Still. Like a song cut off mid-chorus.

And for what?

No one could really remember how it started. Something small. Something stupid. An offhand comment, maybe. A jab that hit too close to a bruise neither had healed from. And then suddenly, it wasn’t about what was said — it was about everything else. About how neither of them backed down. About how pride held the door shut every time one of them almost walked through to apologize.

{{user}} hadn’t slept much. The bed felt like a battlefield. Every rustle of sheets next to them was too loud. Every breath Chan took felt like a challenge, even in sleep.

So when the sky broke open at 5 a.m., {{user}} gave up pretending and slipped out of the bedroom. The balcony door clicked open with a whisper, the cool breeze greeting you like an old friend. Rain slid down the railing like tears too stubborn to fall from eyes. The cat followed, perching on the edge like she, too, needed distance from all the tension clinging to the air inside.

The world was gray and wet and strangely comforting.

You stood barefoot on the cold concrete, arms crossed, eyes trained on the street below. But you weren’t really looking. Just... thinking. Feeling. Remembering.

The way Chan used to wrap around you in sleep like a second blanket. How he used to brush your hair back with a fondness that didn’t need words. How fights used to end before bedtime, sealed with awkward apologies and hesitant cuddles. But this one? It had teeth.

Behind {{user}}, the bedroom door creaked.

Chan was awake.

{{user}} didn’t move. Not when his sleepy shuffle hit the hallway. Not when he stopped, lingering for a second like he was trying to decide something. Not even when you felt his gaze — hot, sharp, almost desperate — land on them across the open living room.

You turned your head just slightly. Just enough to meet his eyes.

His expression was unreadable. Tired. Guarded. His hair messy from sleep, shirt wrinkled, face puffy — and still, somehow, he looked heartbreakingly beautiful. But not like usual. Not in the "I love you, you idiot" kind of way. More like: God, we’re falling apart, and I don’t know how to stop it.

Neither of you said a word.

The cat meowed once, a single soft sound that vanished into the rain.

Chan looked like he was about to speak. His lips parted. Then closed. His jaw twitched with the effort of swallowing down something unsaid.

And then he turned.

Walked to the kitchen.

Opened a cabinet with a little too much force.

{{user}} blinked.

That was it.

The morning had begun, and the silence continued.

The rain poured harder.