Bunch of Mess (One-Shot)

I

It has been a while since the once bright and spark-filled relationship between First and Khaotung has started to dim.

There are  no loud fights, no bitter words exchanged that could pinpoint the moment their relationship began to fray. Rather, it is the slow erosion of connection—like a thread unraveling too subtly to notice until it is almost gone.

First feels it in his bones, the distance between them growing larger every day, but he couldn't say anything. He couldn’t leave, and he couldn’t bear the thought of being the one to break them apart. It isn’t just because he loves Khaotung—he did, more than anyone else in the world—but because he feel like he had woven his life around him, and pulling at the seams of their relationship will unravel everything else.

On the other hand, Khaotung isn’t oblivious to the shift either. He sees the way First's smiles doesn't quite reach his eyes anymore, how their conversations are shorter, and how the comfortable silences they used to share are now filled with tension.

But Khaotung can't leave either. Despite the growing discomfort between them, something deep inside keeps pulling him back toward First, like a magnet with no off switch.

They both know what is happening, but neither wants to admit it.

It is Friday evening, and First had prepared Khaotung’s favorite—spaghetti carbonara. The effort is there, but the excitement has waned. They sit at the small table in their apartment, the clink of forks on plates is the only sound for the first ten minutes. First can’t bring himself to speak, and Khaotung seems more focused on twirling the spaghetti than eating it.

Finally, Khaotung breaks the silence.

“This is good,” he says, offering a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Thanks for cooking.”

First nods, still chewing, eyes lowered to his plate. He have heard those words so many times before, and usually, they are filled with warmth and appreciation.

Now they feel mechanical, like an obligation rather than genuine affection.

“I wanted to make something you liked,” First finally says, his voice softer than usual, as if he is afraid that speaking too loudly will break the thin glass they are walking on.

Khaotung gives another half-smile, his eyes flickering to First and back to his plate. “You always do.”

That's the problem, isn’t it?

They are both still trying in their own way, but neither of them know if it is for each other anymore. It feels more like a routine they can’t escape from.

They finished the meal in silence. First cleans up while Khaotung retreats to the couch, flipping through channels on the TV without much interest.

The following week is no different.

First would wake up early, his side of the bed empty, and heads to the kitchen.

Khaotung, meanwhile, comes home late after work or hang out with friends, not necessarily avoiding First, but certainly not seeking him out either

It isn’t until Thursday night that First can’t ignore it anymore.

Khaotung comes home late again, and this time, First is waiting by the door, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, pretending to scroll through his phone.

“Hey,” Khaotung says, slightly surprised to see First standing there. “Why are you still up?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” First replies, keeping his tone neutral, though the tension is clear.