Chapter 1: The Empty Side of the Bed
The black marble floor was cold under his bare feet. Dunk stood at the window, watching the city bleed light into the night, a hypnotic, endless glow that did nothing to warm the apartment. Behind him, the bed was a vast, empty landscape. He’d already smoothed the duvet on Joong’s side, a pointless habit.
His thumb moved on its own, tapping the Instagram icon. The screen flooded with a cascade of gleam. JASPER_Official. A studio, the deep hour between midnight and dawn. Four faces smudged with tired grins, huddled around a microphone. Joong, his Joong, looked radiant. Exhausted, but alive in a way Dunk hadn’t seen in weeks. Pond, the lead vocalist, had his arm slung around Joong’s waist, his chin resting on Joong’s shoulder. The caption read, “When the magic happens at 3 AM. Brothers. #JASPER #StudioLife #NoSleep.”
Brothers.
The word tasted like ash.
On the nightstand, the bottle of Dom Pérignon sweated a faint, cold dampness into the wood. He’d opened it at seven, when hope was still a tangible thing. Two flutes beside it, untouched. The bubbles had risen, frantic and celebratory, and then died a slow death, going as flat as the silence in the room. Four years today. Joong had texted at noon: “Baby, so sorry. Studio booked last minute. Will make it up to you, promise. Love you.” Dunk had sent back a heart. He’d believed it then.
He put the phone down, screen against the marble, so the light was gone.
The silence was a physical thing. It hummed, low and constant, under the distant wail of traffic twenty-five floors down. He walked to the kitchen, the chill of the floor seeping up through his soles. The fridge door opened with a suck of air, illuminating six more bottles of beer, a limp bundle of coriander, and Joong’s favorite Japanese yoghurt drinks. He took a beer, twisted the cap off, and drank. It was too cold, the bitterness sharp on his tongue. He drank it like water.
Another photo, earlier in the week, flashed behind his eyes. A fan-cam video. Joong and Pond on a music show stage, sharing a single microphone, foreheads almost touching as they harmonized. The comments had been a wildfire. #JoongPond real? OMG the eye contact!!
Dunk had shown it to him, trying for playful. “Your new wife is cute.”
Joong had just ruffled his hair, his attention already on his phone. “It’s work, Dunky. You know how it is. It’s just fanservice.”
Just fanservice. Just work. Just brothers.
The words had become a wall, transparent and unbreakable, and Dunk was on the wrong side of it, watching Joong’s life happen without him.
He finished the beer, grabbed another, and carried it to the sprawling, too-empty sofa. He clicked the TV on. A rerun of a comedy he and Joong used to quote to each other. The laugh track felt like mockery. He muted it, letting the blue light flicker over his face. The alcohol was a soft, fuzzy blanket now, smothering the sharper edges of the ache in his chest. He welcomed it.
His phone vibrated on the marble. A spear of hope, instant and painful. He lurched for it.
It was a group chat. His university friends. A blurred photo of a packed club, a tower of glittering bottles on a table. “Where are you, man? Get your ass to RCA! We’re at Demo.”
He typed, fingers clumsy. “Not tonight. Tired.”
The response was immediate. “Bro, you’re always tired lately. It’s Friday! Joong’s working, right? Don’t sit there molding. Live a little.”
Live a little. The phrase buzzed in his fuzzy head. He looked at the silent, gleaming apartment. At the dead champagne. At his own reflection, ghostlike, in the dark window. He was disappearing here. Slowly, night by silent night.
“Okay,” he typed. The word felt like a surrender. “Send the address.”
The bass hit him first, a physical vibration in the sternum as he pushed through the door. Demo was a sweat-slicked cave of moving bodies and strobing lasers. The air was thick with perfume, cologne, and the salty tang of human heat. He found his friends in a raised booth, already half-gone, shouting over the music.
“Dunk! The hermit emerges!”
They shoved a drink into his hand—something sweet and potent. He drank it fast, letting the noise and the crowd swallow him. This was better. This was a different kind of numb, a loud one, one that didn’t leave room for thinking. He danced, a little awkwardly at first, then with more abandon as the drinks kept coming. He laughed at jokes he didn’t hear. He was a version of himself, the social one, the fun one. The one that didn’t wait by the phone.
He was at the bar, ordering a water he knew he needed, when a voice cut through the haze.
“That look doesn’t suit you.”
Dunk turned. The man leaning beside him was handsome in a clean, deliberate way. Sharp jaw, perfectly styled hair, a smile that knew its own worth. He wore a simple black shirt that probably cost more than Dunk’s entire night out.
“What look?” Dunk shouted back.
“The ‘I’m pretending to have fun’ look.” The man’s eyes were assessing, but not unkind. “I’m Jimmy.”
“Dunk.”
“Actor, right? I saw you in that series last year. You were good. Better than the material.”
The recognition, from a stranger here of all places, was a bolt of warmth. “Thanks.”
“Whoever left you looking so lonely tonight is an idiot,” Jimmy said, his voice dropping, intimate even in the roar.
Dunk’s face flushed. He took a swig of water. “It’s not… it’s not like that.”
“Isn’t it?” Jimmy’s smile was a challenge. He gestured with his glass to the dance floor. “Dance with me. Actually have fun for an hour. No strings. You look like you could use a win.”
Every loyal, aching fiber of Dunk screamed no. But the loneliness of the last hour, the last week, the last month, was a heavier weight. It drowned out the scream. Here was attention, focused and flattering. Here was someone seeing him, not just the ghost waiting for Joong. It was a lifeline thrown into his private, quiet ocean of neglect.
He nodded.
On the dance floor, Jimmy was a good lead, confident without being aggressive. The world narrowed to the pulse of the music, the heat between them, the grateful, syrupy blur of the alcohol. For a while, he didn’t think. He just was.
Later, in the muffled quiet of a taxi, the world began to reassert itself in jagged pieces. Jimmy’s arm was around him, his thumb rubbing circles on Dunk’s shoulder. Bangkok streamed by, a smear of color.
“Your place or mine?” Jimmy murmured, his lips close to Dunk’s ear.
Dunk’s stomach rolled. This was the line. The clear, bright line. Crossing it meant something. He opened his mouth to say mine is a mess or I should get home, any weak deflection.
Instead, what came out was a quiet, “Yours.” The word was a stone dropped into a well. He listened for the echo of his own regret, but all he heard was the static of exhaustion, and beneath it, a furious, buried spark of something like vengeance.
Jimmy’s apartment was minimalist, cool, and smelled of expensive cedar. It was nothing like the warm, cluttered home he shared with Joong. As Jimmy kissed him, pushing him back against the cool leather of a sofa, Dunk’s mind split.
One part was here, feeling the sensations, a body responding to practiced touch. The other part was hovering near the ceiling, watching it all happen with a dreadful, dissociated clarity. He saw the actor in himself, playing a role: the desired, the chosen, the one who didn’t wait. The role was hollow.
After, in the foreign bathroom, he splashed water on his face. The reflection in the mirror was a stranger—smudged eyeliner, lips swollen, eyes full of a hollow triumph that curdled instantly into shame. He fumbled for his phone. No notifications. Nothing from Joong.
He leaned on the sink, the full, crushing weight of what he’d done finally landing. It wasn’t liberation. It was just a deeper, darker kind of loneliness. The noise was gone, and the silence it left behind was deafening.
He dressed quickly, mumbling an excuse about an early call time that Jimmy saw right through but didn’t challenge. The taxi ride home was a penance. He rolled down the window, letting the humid night air slap his face, trying to wash the scent of Jimmy’s cologne from his skin.
He let himself into the dark apartment. It was exactly as he’d left it. The dead champagne, the silent TV, the perfect bed.
He walked to the window, back to where the night had begun. The city’s endless glow was a taunt. He had wanted to feel something, anything, other than the slow ache of being forgotten.
Now he felt everything, and it was worse.
He slid down the cold glass to the floor, drew his knees up, and buried his face in his arms. The first chapter of their story had ended four years ago with a kiss. This new one, he realized as a dry, desperate sob finally tore its way out of his chest, had just begun with a betrayal. And he had no idea how to turn the page.
The shuddering quiet lasted until the first pale hint of dawn bleached the sky behind the skyscrapers. His tears had dried into tight, salty tracks on his skin. He felt hollowed out, scraped raw. A statue of shame.
He moved on autopilot. A scalding shower, scrubbing his skin until it was pink. He brushed his teeth three times. He bundled the clothes he’d worn last night—the shirt that smelled of club smoke and unfamiliar cologne—into the bottom of the laundry basket, then shoved them into a plastic bag for the incinerator chute. The evidence, erased.
He made coffee. The normalcy of the ritual was a lie, but his hands needed something to do. The apartment began to warm with the rising sun, the marble losing its nocturnal chill.
The key turned in the lock just after seven.
Dunk’s heart slammed against his ribs. He gripped the countertop.
Joong shuffled in, looking shattered in the most beautiful way. His hair was a mess, his eyes shadowed, but he was smiling. He dropped his backpack by the door with a thud. “Baby,” he croaked, his voice rough from singing. “You’re up early.”
“You’re home late,” Dunk said. His own voice sounded strange in his ears. Calm. Flat.
“I know, I know.” Joong came to him, wrapping his arms around Dunk’s waist from behind, burying his face in Dunk’s neck. He smelled of studio coffee and tiredness. “It was insane. The track just finally clicked at like, four AM. You should hear it. It’s so good.”
Dunk stood perfectly still. The embrace felt like an accusation. “Must’ve been fun.”
“Fun? It was work.” Joong sighed, his breath warm on Dunk’s skin. He swayed slightly, leaning his full weight on him. “Missed you. Happy anniversary, sorry it’s late.”
He kissed Dunk’s shoulder. The gesture, so familiar, so loving, was a knife twist. Dunk’s eyes burned. He focused on the espresso machine’s hiss.
“You drink?” Joong asked, his nose wrinkling as he pulled back. “Smells like a bar in here.”
Panic, cold and immediate, shot through Dunk’s veins. “I had a beer. Couldn’t sleep. Went for a walk, ended up at a 7-Eleven.” The lies fell out, smooth and practiced. An actor’s delivery.
“Ah.” Joong accepted this, too exhausted to probe. He released Dunk and slumped onto a stool. “We celebrating with flat champagne?” He nodded toward the bedroom, a playful glint in his weary eyes.
“I wasn’t in the mood,” Dunk said. He placed a coffee in front of Joong. “Here. You look dead.”
“Thanks.” Joong took a grateful sip, then reached out, catching Dunk’s hand. His fingers were calloused from guitar strings. “Hey. You okay? You seem… off.”
The direct hit. Dunk made himself meet his eyes. Joong’s gaze was soft, concerned. It was unbearable.
“Just tired too,” Dunk said, forcing a small smile. “Worried about you. You’re pushing too hard.”
“It’s the job, Dunky.” Joong squeezed his hand. “This is our shot. You know that. Once things settle—”
“When will they settle?” The question came out sharper than he intended.
Joong’s smile faded a fraction. He looked down into his coffee. “I don’t know. Soon. We have the debut showcase next month, then maybe…”
The sentence hung, unfinished. There was no ‘then maybe’. There was only the next milestone, and the one after that.
Joong’s phone, on the counter, buzzed. A flurry of notifications. Dunk saw the name on the screen: Pond (Group).
Joong unlocked it, his thumbs flying. A real smile, bright and effortless, touched his lips as he read. He chuckled, typing back.
“What?” Dunk asked, his voice tight.
“Pond. Idiot fell asleep in the vocal booth. Sent a selfie. He looks like a drowned panda.” He showed Dunk the screen.
There was Pond, mouth agape, head lolled back, with Joong’s own jacket draped over him. The photo was intimate. A shared, exhausted joke. Brothers.
Dunk’s vision blurred. The image fused with the memory of a different face in a different dark room. He turned away, busying himself with wiping down the already-clean counter.
“You should get some sleep,” Dunk said.
“Yeah.” Joong stood, finishing his coffee. He came around the counter and kissed Dunk, properly this time, on the mouth. It was gentle, and full of a familiar affection that now felt like a searing brand. “Love you. Let’s do something tonight, okay? Just us. I promise.”
“Okay,” Dunk whispered against his lips.
He watched Joong trudge toward the bedroom, already pulling his shirt off. The perfect, unconscious lines of his back, the dip of his spine. A sight Dunk had loved for four years. It now felt like a museum piece of a life he had just shattered.
He was alone again with the buzzing silence and the creeping sun.
His own phone, charging on the other side of the kitchen, lit up.
A new Instagram notification.
Jimmy.j smiled at your story.
A bolt of pure, undiluted terror. He hadn’t posted a story. He must have done it in his drunken haze. He scrambled for the phone, fingers slippery.
He opened Instagram. His story from last night. A three-second clip of the club’s strobe-lit ceiling, the music a distorted thump. Harmless. But tagged underneath, a location: Demo Bangkok. And visible in the corner, the edge of a hand on a glass. Jimmy’s hand, with his distinctive silver ring.
It had been up for eight hours.
Joong never checked his stories. He always said they were a time-suck. He barely scrolled through his feed.
But what if he had? What if someone had mentioned it to him? “Saw Dunk out last night, looked like he was having a wild one!”
The panic was no longer cold. It was electric, nauseating. He deleted the story instantly. The action felt futile, like closing the barn door after the horse was not only gone, but had sent a postcard.
From the bedroom, he heard Joong’s phone ding once more. Then silence.
Dunk stood in the middle of their sleek, beautiful apartment, the morning light now glaring off every surface. The champagne bottle winked at him. The empty flutes stood sentinel.
He had wanted to feel seen. Now, he felt exposed. The fragile world he’d built over four years had a hairline fracture running straight through its center, and he was the only one who could hear it creaking. He waited, breath held, for the sound of it splitting open.
The creak came, but not from the apartment. It came from his own ribs, a tight, suffocating pressure. He forced a breath in, then out. The silence from the bedroom was absolute. Joong was probably already asleep, his phone facedown on the nightstand. That was his habit.
Dunk’s thumbs hovered over his own phone. He opened Jimmy’s profile. A private account. A single follow-back request from last night, still pending. He rejected it, then blocked the account entirely. The actions felt childish, like closing your eyes to make a monster disappear. The evidence was digital; it existed in servers, in screenshots he couldn’t control. Jimmy’s friends might have seen. Someone might have recognized Dunk.
He walked to the bedroom doorway. Joong was on his stomach, one arm flung over Dunk’s side of the bed, already in the deep, motionless sleep of the utterly spent. His breathing was a soft, regular pull. In sleep, he looked younger. Innocent. The knot in Dunk’s throat tightened.
He retreated to the living room, sinking into the sofa. The sun was fully up now, painting harsh geometric shapes across the marble. His head throbbed—a mix of hangover and corrosive shame. He needed air that didn’t smell like his own failure.
He grabbed his keys and wallet, scribbled a note—“Gone for coffee and groceries. Sleep well.”—and left it on the counter. The elevator descent felt like escaping a crime scene.
Outside, the morning heat was a damp slap. The city was awake, noisy, indifferent. He walked without direction, past street vendors setting up, early-rising office workers with focused strides. Their normalcy was a mirror reflecting how far his own life had skewed from its axis.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. A new message. Not Joong. His manager, Mai.
“Call me when you’re up. Casting director for ‘The Edge of the River’ liked your tape. They want a chemistry read with Ploy next Thursday. This is big, Dunk. Don’t screw it up.”
A week ago, this news would have sent him buzzing, running home to celebrate with Joong. Now, it landed like a stone in his gut. Another performance. Another role to play. He typed back a simple “Thanks, Mai. Will prepare.” and shoved the phone away.
He bought a bitter iced coffee from a cart and sat on a low wall near the river, watching the muddy water churn. The chemistry read. It required a specific kind of energy, a lightness he wasn’t sure he could conjure. It required him to be present. He felt scraped hollow, all his emotional reserves spent on a single, stupid night.
His phone buzzed again. This time, his heart did a nauseating flip. It was a LINE notification from the university group chat.
A new photo. This one from last night. It was a slightly blurred shot of the booth, taken from across the table. Dunk was in it, his head thrown back in a laugh that looked genuine. And next to him, clearly visible, was Jimmy, his body angled toward Dunk, that knowing smile on his face. Jimmy’s arm was along the back of the sofa behind Dunk, not touching, but possessive in its implication.
The caption read: “Look who finally let loose! Missed you, brother!”
A cold sweat broke out on the back of his neck. The chat was active. His friends were tagging him. “@Dunk where’d you and your friend disappear to? 🤔”
He couldn’t breathe. This was worse than the story. This was a clear, group-shared image. Joong wasn’t in this chat, but. But. Bangkok’s entertainment circles were small. Incestuously small. Someone could see it. Someone could mention it.
His fingers trembled as he typed. “Ha ha, crazy night. He’s just a friend of a friend. Left early with a headache.”
The replies came fast. “Sure, sure 😉”
He put the phone in his pocket, screen down. The coffee tasted like acid. He had to go home. He had to be there when Joong woke up. He had to manufacture a normal day so perfect that no suspicion could possibly take root.
When he let himself back into the apartment, the note was untouched. The bedroom door was still closed. He busied himself putting away groceries he didn’t remember buying—oranges, eggs, the too-sweet yogurt drinks Joong liked.
The bedroom door opened. Joong shuffled out, hair wild, wearing only a pair of low-sleep shorts. He squinted against the living room light. “Hey,” he mumbled, his voice gravel.
“Hey.” Dunk kept his back to him, meticulously arranging yogurt containers in the fridge. “You’re up early.”
“Thirsty.” Joong padded to the sink, filled a glass of water, and drank it all in one long go. He leaned against the counter, watching Dunk. “You went out?”
“Just for food. You need to eat.” Dunk’s voice was too bright, too helpful. “Eggs?”
“In a bit.” Joong rubbed his face. He looked at Dunk, really looked at him. “You okay? You seem… jumpy.”
“I’m fine.” Dunk finally turned, offering a smile. It felt like cracking plaster. “Just thinking about this audition. Chemistry read with Ploy.”
“Ploy?” Joong’s eyebrows lifted. “She’s hot.” It was a standard, offhand comment, the kind they’d always made about co-stars. Today, it hit differently. It felt like a door cracking open, a justification whispering in his ear.
“It’s work,” Dunk said, echoing Joong’s own words from a thousand conversations. The hypocrisy tasted foul.
Joong nodded, missing the edge. “Yeah. It’s big. You’ll kill it.” He came over and wrapped his arms around Dunk’s waist from behind, resting his chin on Dunk’s shoulder. The physical contact was a brand. “Sorry about last night. About missing it.”
“It’s okay.” Dunk stared straight ahead at the sleek, black refrigerator door. “You said you’d make it up.”
“I will. Tonight. I’m all yours.” Joong kissed his neck. “Let’s just stay in. Order that terrible Japanese barbecue you love. Watch a movie. I won’t even look at my phone.”
The promise was everything Dunk had wanted for weeks. Now, it felt like a trap. A whole evening of Joong’s undivided attention, where every glance, every touch, would be under the microscope of his own guilt. He’d have to perform the role of a happy boyfriend without a script, and he was terrified he’d forgotten his lines.
“Sounds perfect,” Dunk said.
Joong’s own phone, charging on the kitchen island, lit up with a call. Pond. Joong sighed, his breath warm on Dunk’s skin. “Ignore it,” he murmured.
“You should get it,” Dunk said, extracting himself gently from the hug. “Might be important.”
Joong gave him a grateful, tired smile and picked up. “Pond? What’s up, man?” He walked toward the balcony, sliding the glass door open.
Dunk watched him go. Joong’s back was to him, his free hand gesturing as he talked. Laughing at something Pond said. The ease of it. The natural flow. This was Joong’s world now—a world of inside jokes and shared exhaustion, of late-night studios and early-morning calls. Dunk was the set piece back at home, waiting for the star to return from location.
The balcony door slid shut, muffling Joong’s voice. Dunk was alone with the humming fridge and the screaming in his head.
He took out his phone again. The group chat was still active. He opened the photo. Zoomed in. His own laughing face. Jimmy’s predatory smile. He didn’t look like a man celebrating an anniversary alone. He looked like a man on the prowl.
A new message popped up, not in the group chat. A private LINE from an unknown number.
Unknown: “Hey. You left in a hurry. Everything okay?”
It had to be Jimmy. Dunk must have given his number last night in his drunken fog. A fresh wave of panic, hot and sharp. He deleted the message immediately and blocked the number. But the damage was done. The tendrils of his mistake were reaching into his daylight life, threatening to curl around the edges of the world he’d built with Joong.
On the balcony, Joong ended the call. He stood for a moment, looking out at the city, his shoulders slumped. Then he turned and came back inside. The look on his face had shifted. The soft sleepiness was gone, replaced by a focused intensity.
“That was Pond,” Joong said, his voice carefully neutral. “The producer wants to tweak the bridge on the single. We need to go back in tonight. Just for a few hours.”
The words hung in the air between them. The promise, shattered before it was even made.
Dunk felt something snap inside him. A thin, final thread. The guilt and fear mutated, twisting into something darker and more defiant. “Of course you do,” he said, his voice eerily calm.
Joong flinched, hearing the ice in it. “Dunky—”
“It’s fine, Joong. Really. Go. Work on your bridge with your brother.” The word came out coated in venom.
Joong’s eyes widened, startled by the tone. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means what it sounds like.” Dunk turned back to the fridge, pretending to rearrange things that didn’t need rearranging. “Your world is the studio. Your family is JASPER. I get it. I’m just the guy who stocks the yogurt.”
“That’s not fair.” Joong’s voice rose, edged with fatigue and frustration. “You know how important this debut is. For all of us. This is my career.”
“And what about us?” Dunk spun around, the anger finally breaking through, hot and welcome. “What about this?” He gestured wildly at the apartment, at the space between them. “I had a whole night planned. Four years, Joong. You forgot. You just… forgot.”
“I didn’t forget! I had to work! I’m trying to build a future for us!”
“Are you?” The question dropped like a guillotine. Dunk’s heart hammered. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re building a future with Pond and the rest of them. And I’m just part of the scenery you left behind.”
Joong stared at him, hurt and confusion warring in his eyes. “Where is this coming from? Is this about the fan-cams? The photos? I told you, it’s nothing!”
“It’s about everything!” Dunk shouted, the truth and the lies blending into a single, unsustainable scream. “It’s about you never being here! It’s about me eating dinner alone six nights a week! It’s about celebrating our anniversary with a flat bottle of champagne because my boyfriend would rather be with anyone else!”
The moment the words left his mouth, he saw the blow land. Joong physically recoiled, as if slapped. The anger drained from his face, leaving behind raw pain. “That’s not true,” he whispered.
But it was true. And Dunk, in his own poisoned state, needed it to be true. He needed Joong to be the villain so his own sin could feel like a justified rebellion, not a catastrophic weakness.
The