Under the Moonlight.

Chapter 4: Have you eaten?, Prem.

Prem walked through the front door, bracing himself. He could already hear the heavy thud of his father's footsteps pacing inside. The smell of alcohol hit him before he even saw his father's figure looming in the dimly lit room.

"Where've you been?" his father slurred, his eyes bloodshot and unfocused. He was gripping an empty bottle as if it were a weapon. "Working all day, huh?... You bring me money, right?"

Prem's stomach clenched. "I don't have extra money," he said quietly, averting his eyes and clenching his fists to keep them from trembling. "I... I need it for food."

His father's eyes darkened. "What did you say?" His voice rose, a storm in the small room. "You think you're better than me?... I raised you, you ungrateful—" Before Prem could take a step back, his father's hand shot out, striking him across the face. The impact sent him stumbling, his cheek blazing with pain.

Tears welled up in Prem's eyes as he steadied himself. He pressed his hand to his cheek, feeling the hot sting. "I don't have any more, please," he whispered, his voice trembling. "I just—"

"Liar!" his father roared, grabbing him by the arm. Prem could smell the stale stench of alcohol on his breath. "You've got something. You're always hiding money!"

"I don't!" Prem cried out, but his father's grip tightened, squeezing the life out of him. Finally, with trembling hands, Prem reached into his pocket and pulled out the last few bills he had. "Here... take it."

His father snatched the money and sneered. "Good for nothing," he muttered, shoving Prem away as if he were trash. "Get out of my sight."

Prem stumbled back, tears streaming down his face. He clutched his aching cheek, the fresh bruise already throbbing. Without another word, he turned and walked down the hall to his room. The walls closed in around him, but the thought of Boun waiting outside kept him moving.

Quietly, he grabbed the cloth bundle of buns he'd hidden earlier and made his way to the yard. He pushed open the back door and stepped out into the cool night air. The moonlight bathed the yard in a soft glow, and Boun was there, sitting up against a tree. His eyes....sharp and piercing, but clouded with pain....found Prem immediately.

Prem forced a small smile, though his cheeks were still damp. "You're awake," he said softly, moving toward Boun. "I brought food."

But Boun's eyes narrowed as he look at Prem's face. The bruise was impossible to miss. "Who did this?..." Boun's voice was low, a growl that sent a shiver down Prem's spine.

"It's nothing...," Prem replied, trying to shrug it off. He knelt down and began unwrapping the buns, focusing on the task. "You need to eat...."

Boun's hand moved slowly, as if every muscle protested, and he reached out. Prem flinched, instinctively pulling back. "Don't," he whispered. The fear was plain in his eyes.

Boun paused, his hand hovering in the air before dropping back to his side. "I won't hurt you," he said quietly. His voice was rough but gentle. "Never you."

Prem's heart twisted. He nodded but kept his gaze down, focusing on placing the buns beside Boun. "Here.... They're warm."

Boun picked up one of the buns with slow, deliberate movements, his injuries evident in the careful way he brought it to his mouth. He took a small bite, his jaw tightening as he chewed, clearly in pain. But his eyes....piercing and intense....never left Prem's face. After a moment of silence, Boun's low voice broke through the quiet of the yard.

"Have you eaten?" he asked, his words startlingly soft.

Prem's hands, which had been fidgeting with the edge of his shirt, FROZE. The question hung in the air between them, fragile and unexpected. 

No one had ever asked him that. 

Not once. 

Not his father, not the villagers, not even the kind bakery owner who sometimes slipped him an extra roll. The idea that someone would care enough to ask made his chest tighten painfully.

Prem blinked, trying to hide the emotions welling up. "Me????....." He forced a smile, one that trembled at the edges. "Yes, of course. I ate....." Prem lied.

Boun's gaze lingered on him, as if weighing the truth of those words. "You're lying," he said quietly, taking another small bite. "You're too thin... Too tired...."

Prem's breath caught. "It doesn't matter," he replied, dropping his eyes to the ground. "I have work to do. Food isn't always... it's not always there." He tried to shrug as if it were nothing, but the bitterness seeped into his words, betraying him. "I'm used to it."

Boun didn't speak for a moment. When he did, his voice was softer, edged with something that sounded like regret. "No one should be used to that."

The simple statement hit Prem like a blow. It wasn't pity; it was understanding. And that made it harder to bear. He didn't know what to say, so he hugged his knees to his chest, trying to make himself smaller. "Why do you care?" he whispered, not expecting an answer.

"Because you cared enough to help me," Boun replied. "You didn't have to. But you did."

Prem lifted his gaze, meeting Boun's eyes. In the moonlight, he saw something he had craved his entire life—a hint of genuine concern. It made him feel exposed, vulnerable in a way that scared him. "I... I just did what anyone would do."

"No," Boun said firmly. "Not everyone would." He took another small bite, then added, "I'd like you to eat with me. Next time."

Prem's heart twisted again, this time not from pain, but from the unfamiliar warmth that crept into his chest. He looked away quickly, not wanting Boun to see the tears that threatened to spill. "I'll... think about it," he said, his voice cracking despite his efforts to stay composed.

He stood up, needing to put distance between them before the emotions overwhelmed him completely. "You should rest," he said, his tone suddenly brisk. "You need to heal."

"Prem," Boun called softly, and Prem paused. "Thank you."

Prem nodded without turning back. His feet felt heavy as he walked toward the house. The memory of Boun's words followed him, haunting and hopeful all at once: No one should be used to that. And for the first time in a long time, Prem allowed himself to wonder if maybe...just maybe....there was more to life than surviving.

To be continued...

{I wonder that, a love like this only exists in stories. It's the kind of love that blooms from the ink of an author's pen, a figment born from the heart and shaped by imagination.... In reality, such love feels almost impossible, a delicate dream we chase but can never quite grasp. We weave tales where love conquers all, creating bonds so pure they make our hearts ache...because, deep down, we know that sometimes only fiction dares to hold the beauty of a love that never gives up....That's the UGLY TRUTH.}