Chapter Text
Bawat Buklat ng Aklat Binabalikan
'Di na makausad 'di malinawan
'Di na mabura ang iyong mga larawan
'Di alam kung sa'n tutungo ang mga hakbang patalikod naghihingalo
Ang lapis na ginamit sa kuwento nating naudlot
Bawat buklat ng aklat binabalikan
Mga liham na ang laman ligayang dala
Ikaw lang ang may akda
I
The late afternoon sun in Milan did not offer warmth; it only provided a pale, deceptive glow that bounced off the cobblestones of Via MontenapoleoneA high-end shopping street in Milan's fashion district.. It was a cold, sharp light that seemed to expose every crack in the pavement and every hidden tremor in Namping Napatsakorn Pingmuang’s hands. To the world of literature, he was Na’Pat, the reclusive author whose prose bled with a quiet, devastating melancholy. But years ago, in a life that felt like a fever dream he had forced himself to wake up from, he had been the Nation’s PrincessA title of endearment given to Namping during his time as a top actor in Thailand..
He pulled his cashmere coat tighter against the biting LombardyThe region in northern Italy where Milan is located. wind. The air here tasted of expensive espresso, the oily tang of diesel fumes from passing trams, and the faint, lingering scent of roasted chestnuts—caldarrosteRoasted chestnuts, a popular street food in Italy during autumn and winter.—drifting from a street vendor nearby. It was a European winter, sterile and distant, far removed from the humid, clinging heat of Bangkok that still lived in his nightmares.
He carried three small bags from a boutique that specialized in handmade silk dresses for children. The weight of them was negligible, yet they felt like leaden anchors in his hands. His fingers were beginning to numb inside his leather gloves, but he didn't stop to adjust them. He was late. Milanese traffic was a beast of its own, a snarling mess of Vespas and luxury sedans, and the walk to the restaurant was taking much longer than he had anticipated.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He didn’t need to look at the screen to know who it was. The vibration pattern was a steady, rhythmic pulse he had assigned to one person only. Balancing the bags on one arm, he fished the device out with stiff fingers.
Where are you? Your assistant had been texting me. Don't tell me you got distracted by going around town.
Ping sighed, the mist of his breath vanishing instantly into the gray air. He didn't want to type. The cold made his joints ache, and his mind was already frayed. He pressed the call button instead.
“I’m coming, Aleks. I’m just a few blocks away,” Ping said as soon as the line connected. His voice was softer now than it had been seven years ago. The sharp, bright edges of his youth had been buffed away by time, by the quiet isolation of his new life, and by the weight of a language that wasn't his mother tongue.
“You’re rushing again,” Aleks Rossi’s voice came through the speaker. It was a sound like aged oak—warm, grounded, and unmistakably Italian. Aleks was a man who knew exactly how to soothe Ping’s jagged nerves, even when Ping didn't want them soothed. “Slow down, baby. You’ll trip on those uneven stones and then you won’t be able to attend Abby’s rehearsals. You know how she gets when you’re not there.”
“I was just picking up some clothes for our little princess,” Ping explained, dodging a group of tourists taking selfies in front of a stone archway. He felt the familiar prickle of irritation at being called "baby," but he suppressed it. Aleks had been his anchor in this city for years. “The pink one she wanted. They finally got her size in. I couldn't just leave it there.”
“That’s so sweet of you, my love, but if you don’t hurry you will be late for her rehearsals this afternoon. She’s already asking for her Papa PingFather Ping; the affectionate title Namping’s daughter uses for him. every five minutes. You know she has no patience when it comes to her favorite person.”
Ping felt a familiar pang of guilt mixed with a fierce, protective affection. “I know, I know. I’ll be there in five minutes. Tell her I have the dress. Tell her Papa is coming.”
As he hung up, the phone vibrated again. This time, it wasn't a call. It wasn't Aleks or his assistant. It was a text from an unsaved number, a sequence of digits that started with a +66The international dialing code for Thailand. country code. Thailand.
Ping’s heart did a slow, painful roll in his chest, like a heavy stone shifting in deep water. He stopped walking for a split second, the crowd of Milanese shoppers flowing around him like a river around an obstacle. His eyes narrowed as he read the single line of text.
We’re here in Milan and he’s here as well. I hope you would make it Ping.
He felt a sudden chill that had nothing to do with the Italian winter. It was a cold that started in the marrow of his bones and radiated outward. He didn't reply. He couldn't. His thumb hovered over the screen, trembling just enough to be noticeable. He shoved the phone back into his pocket, his pulse thrumming in his ears like a frantic, desperate drum.
“What’s wrong?” Aleks’ voice was still there. The call hadn't fully disconnected on the car's Bluetooth, or perhaps Aleks had simply sensed the sudden, violent shift in Ping's energy through the silence.
“It’s nothing,” Ping lied, his voice tight and brittle. “Just a spam message. I'm almost there. I can see the logo now. I have to go, Aleks.”
Up ahead, the gilded sign of the restaurant caught the dying light. It was a discreet, high-end establishment tucked away from the main tourist drag, the kind of place where the waiters spoke in hushed, reverent tones and the wine list was longer than most novellas. It was a place for people who wanted to be seen by the right people, and ignored by everyone else.
“I found it! I’ll talk to you later. Say hi for me to Abby,” Ping said, his pace quickening into a near-run.
“We’ll be waiting. Love you,” Aleks said.
The line went dead before Ping had to formulate a response. He didn't have time to process the "love you" that Aleks threw out so easily. He didn't have time to process the ghost of Thailand reaching out to him through a text message. He was focused on the heavy glass door of the restaurant, his eyes fixed on the target, his mind a whirlwind of static. Because of his tunnel vision, he didn't notice the group of men stepping out of a luxury hotel just three doors down. He didn't notice the flash of a designer scarf or the familiar, confident gait of someone he used to know better than himself.
He collided with a solid shoulder. The impact was jarring, knocking the breath from his lungs and sending one of his boutique bags fluttering to the wet pavement.
“Scusa! Scusatemi!Italian for "Sorry! Excuse me!"” Ping blurted out, his Italian coming out in a panicked rush. He reached down instinctively to grab the bag, his heart racing.
“Wait, let me help you,” a voice replied.
It wasn't Italian. It was Thai. A very specific, very familiar Thai accent that made the blood in Ping’s veins turn to ice.
Ping froze. The hand reaching for the bag stopped mid-air, inches from the silk-wrapped package. He looked up, his breath hitching in a way that felt like a sob. The man standing before him was dressed in a long black overcoat that looked like it cost more than a small car. A designer face mask covered half his features, and a beanie was pulled low over his forehead, but Ping would know those eyes anywhere. They were eyes that had once shared a thousand secrets with him. Eyes that had watched him sleep. Eyes that had seen him at his highest highs and his most devastating lows.
“Oh my god,” the man whispered, his own eyes widening behind his glasses. “Is that you... Namping?”
Ping’s first instinct was to run. His second was to deny everything, to speak Italian and pretend he was someone else entirely. But the shock was too great, anchoring his feet to the Milanese soil. He squinted, searching for confirmation in the sliver of face that was visible above the mask.
“FirstOne?” Ping whispered, the name feeling like a relic from a buried civilization.
Before the other man could reply, Ping’s survival instincts finally kicked in. This was Milan. This was the week of the fashion shows. The text message flooded back into his mind. He’s here as well. If FirstOne was here, others would be too. The industry was a pack, and they traveled together. Ping grabbed FirstOne by the arm, his grip almost bruising, and hauled him into the shadows of a narrow alleyway between two boutiques.
The moment they were out of the direct line of sight of the street, FirstOne pulled his mask down. He revealed a face that had aged with a graceful, expensive maturity. He looked like a seasoned veteran now, a man who knew his angles and his worth, far removed from the rookie Ping remembered.
“It is you!” FirstOne exclaimed, throwing his arms around Ping in a fierce, bone-crushing hug. “I miss you! Where have you been? You just vanished, Ping! No one heard a word for seven years. We thought you were... I don't know what we thought. We thought you were gone for good.”
Ping let out a shaky, jagged breath. He allowed himself to return the hug for a brief second, his face buried in the expensive wool of FirstOne’s coat. The scent of the other man’s cologne—something woodsy, spiced, and undeniably high-end—reminded him instantly of the chaotic, neon-lit energy of Bangkok. It smelled like home, and that was the most terrifying thing of all.
“I’ve been here and there,” Ping said, pulling away and forcing a small, tight smile that didn't reach his eyes. “I’m now working here in Milan. I live here now, First. For good.”
“Omg really? We should really catch up. This is insane. Of all the streets in all the cities, I walk into you,” FirstOne laughed, shaking his head in disbelief.
“How long are you staying for?” Ping asked, his eyes darting back to the street, checking the reflections in the shop windows for cameras, for paparazzi, for anyone else.
“Well, we’re here again as brand ambassadors for some big brands for the Milan Fashion Week. We arrived yesterday. We will be staying for like five days. It's a total whirlwind, you know how it is,” FirstOne said, leaning against the cold brick wall of the alley.
At the mention of "we," Ping’s stomach dropped. The word felt like a physical blow to the solar plexus.
“So there’s me, Tle, our glam team and oh... of course Ke—”
“You know what,” Ping interrupted, his voice hitting a frantic, higher pitch that he couldn't control. “I really love to catch up with you, First, I really do. But I have this appointment that I really need to get to. It's for work. I'm already late, and my assistant will kill me.”
He started backing away, his movements jerky and anxious. He could feel the sweat beginning to bead at his hairline despite the freezing wind.
FirstOne looked startled by the sudden shift, his smile faltering into a look of concern. “Wait, Namping, at least give me your number? Or your Line? Anything? Don't just disappear again.”
“I'll... I'll find you on Instagram. I'll message you there,” Ping stuttered, his eyes wide and unfocused. “I really have to go, First. I’m sorry.”
FirstOne reached out, grabbing Ping for one last quick, grounding hug before letting go. “You look good, Ping. Different, but good. Don't be a stranger this time, okay? I’m looking forward to your call. Don't make me hunt you down.”
Ping managed an awkward, pained smile and gave a frantic wave. He turned on his heel and didn't just walk; he sprinted the last half-block to the restaurant, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped, dying bird.
II
The interior of the restaurant was a sanctuary of muted gold, velvet, and dark, polished wood. Ping didn't have time to stop and admire the decor. He approached the hostess, shedding his long coat with trembling hands, his face flushed from the sprint and the sheer, unadulterated terror of the encounter.
“Reservation for Napatsakorn,” he said, his Italian polished but breathless. He used the name that had become his shield—the name the literary world knew him by.
The hostess smiled gracefully, her eyes professional and unjudging, and led him through the main dining room to a private area in the back. The room was bathed in soft, artificial light, perfect for high-definition filming. A cameraman was busy adjusting a lens on a tripod, and a woman in her late thirties, dressed in a sharp, intimidating power suit, was looking over some digital notes on a tablet.
“I am so sorry I’m late,” Ping said, stepping into the room. He smoothed his hair, trying to erase the frantic energy of the street. He took a deep breath, trying to bury "Ping" and bring "Na’Pat" to the surface.
The woman looked up, her expression warming instantly. This was Alessandra, one of the top cultural journalists in Italy, a woman whose interviews could make or break a career. “It is quite alright, Mr. Napatsakorn. I know how busy you have been. I saw the photos from your book signing in Paris last week. The crowds were immense. It seems the whole world wants a piece of you.”
Ping sat down, accepting a glass of sparkling water from a waiter who appeared out of nowhere. He took a long, slow sip, trying to force his heart rate to slow down. He needed to be "Na’Pat the Author" now. He needed to be the intellectual, the enigma, the man who wrote about pain so others didn't have to feel it. But seeing FirstOne had cracked the foundation of his carefully constructed new life.
“It’s been a bit overwhelming,” Ping admitted, his voice regaining its professional, low-timbred poise. “But in a good way, I think.”
“Shall we get started?” Alessandra asked, gesturing to the cameraman.
Ping nodded, forcing a serene smile for the lens. “Yes, please. I'm ready.”
The red light on the camera flickered on, a tiny, glowing eye that felt like it was peering directly into his soul. Alessandra turned to face him, her professional persona sliding into place like a visor.
“I am here today with the elusive Napatsakorn, the author behind the global phenomenon 'The Last Script, The Last Chance.' Congratulations on the success of your book, Na’Pat. For the third time this year, it has been hailed as the best-selling translated work in Europe. How does it feel to have your words resonate with so many people across so many cultures?”
Ping smiled, his posture elegant and poised. He tilted his chin just enough to catch the soft key light—a trick he had learned a lifetime ago in front of different cameras. “Thank you, Alessandra. It is a privilege to be able to put out another work and have people connect with it so deeply. When I started writing, I didn't expect this level of attention. I was just trying to survive my own thoughts. It is one of my biggest achievements, truly.”
“I read it over the weekend,” Alessandra said, leaning in, her voice dropping to a more intimate register. “And I was so amazed by the emotional depth. You put so much soul into the prose. It feels... lived in. It feels real.”
Ping’s smile remained fixed, but his eyes stayed guarded, like a fortress under siege. “Writing is a form of catharsis, I suppose. We all have stories we need to tell to keep them from consuming us.”
“The main character in this story is an actor,” Alessandra continued, her voice light but her eyes sharp as a hawk’s. “Now, we did a little research, and we found some information that you were actually an actor yourself in Thailand, many years ago? Is that correct?”
The air in the room seemed to thin out, leaving Ping lightheaded. He had rehearsed this answer a thousand times in his head, in the shower, in the mirror, while walking Abby to school. He knew the rumors were out there, buried deep in old Thai forums and gossip blogs, but this was the first time a mainstream European journalist had brought it up so directly.
“That’s right,” Ping said, his voice steady despite the roar of blood in his ears. “I used to be an actor. It was a long time ago, in a completely different life. Although that is my background, the character in the book isn't necessarily an actual reflection of my own experiences. Just a few bits and pieces of the industry’s atmosphere.” He added a small, self-deprecating joke about how his life in Thailand was much more boring than anything in a novel, and Alessandra laughed along, the tension breaking just enough for him to breathe.
“Well, that’s a relief,” she teased, waving a hand. “Because the main character goes through a truly heartbreaking love story. A love that seems to transcend time but ends in such a devastating way. I was thinking, who would ever dare break Napatsakorn’s heart, right?”
Ping chuckled, but the sound was hollow. It didn't reach his eyes, which remained cold and distant. “Life is full of surprises, I suppose. And even the most beautiful stories have their endings.”
“The story follows two actors who fall in love on set,” Alessandra said, her tone turning more serious, more analytical. “They have conflicting goals, they part ways, and the protagonist goes on this incredible journey of self-discovery. Our readers are dying to know—what was your inspiration for this? It feels so specific, so raw. The way you describe the longing... it’s almost painful to read.”
Ping looked down at his glass, watching the bubbles rise and pop against the crystal rim. He looked back up, his expression one of deep, performative reflection. “That’s a good question. Truth is... my time as an actor was the primary inspiration. Not the events themselves, but the feelings. There were things I experienced—the crushing pressure of expectations, the loneliness of fame, the way your life isn't your own anymore. Sometimes I think about what I could have done differently if I had been... braver and stronger. The book is my way of exploring those 'what ifs'.”
“Does that mean you were once in love with a co-actor?” Alessandra asked again, pouncing on the opening and refusing to let the topic go. She was like a dog with a bone, sensing the meat beneath the surface.
Ping was taken aback, his breath hitching for a fraction of a second—a micro-expression he hoped the camera didn't catch. He immediately composed himself, his face becoming a mask of professional amusement. “You’re kidding, Alessandra. Like I said, I draw inspiration from my own experience, but I’m a writer now. My job is to take a small seed of truth and grow a forest of fiction around it. Not everything in those pages happened in real life. If I told you everything was true, I wouldn't be a very good storyteller, would I?”
Alessandra laughed and held up her hands in a gesture of mock defeat. “Alright, alright, I give up. You’re very good at keeping your secrets, Mr. Napatsakorn.”
The rest of the interview shifted toward his future projects, his life in Milan, and his love for Italian culture. Ping answered them all with the practiced grace of a man who had spent his entire life being watched. But inside, he was still in that alleyway with FirstOne. He was still hearing the name that had been cut off.
Ke—
He knew who it was. He had known the moment he saw FirstOne’s face. The past wasn't just knocking on his door; it was trying to kick it down.
III
The sun had completely disappeared by the time Ping finally left the restaurant. The street lamps were glowing now, casting long, distorted shadows on the wet pavement that looked like ink spills. He walked back toward his apartment, his shopping bags feeling heavier with every step. His mind was a chaotic, buzzing mess of the past and the present, a double exposure of two different lives.
His phone buzzed. A notification from Instagram.
Ping rarely checked his DMs. His official account was managed by a team in London, mostly used for promotional posts and polished aesthetics. But he had a private account—a finsta—with only a few posts and a handful of followed accounts. It was his only link to the person he used to be. He opened it, his heart skipping a beat.
I figured this is the only account where I can reach you. I remembered you had this finsta. Here’s my number, text me once you’re available.
And no. Don’t think about ghosting me or I swear to god. I’m going to haunt you all over Milan. I'll find out where you live. I'm serious! 😂
Ping felt a genuine, small laugh bubble up in his throat despite the circumstances. Typical FirstOne. He was still the same person who would light up a room with his sheer, stubborn persistence. He was the only one who had never treated Ping like a princess, only like a friend.
He tapped on the message to reply, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. But as he went to type, his finger slipped. It hit the circular icon of FirstOne’s profile picture at the top of the screen.
The app immediately transitioned into FirstOne’s Instagram Stories.
The first slide was a high-speed video of the Duomo at sunset, the white marble spires looking like delicate lace against a bruised purple sky.
The second slide was a chaotic group photo of the glam team in a van, everyone making peace signs and laughing, half-eaten pastries in their laps.
The third slide was a photo taken inside a dimly lit bar, the atmosphere thick with amber light and the promise of a long night.
Ping’s heart stopped. The world around him seemed to lose its sound, its color, its gravity.
The photo showed three men. FirstOne and Tle were in the foreground, grinning at the camera with glasses of amber liquid in their hands. But it was the man in the center that caused the world to tilt on its axis.
He was wearing a simple white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms that were lean and corded with muscle. He wasn't looking at the camera. He was looking off to the side, caught in a moment of genuine, unstudied laughter, his head tilted back. The sharp, lethal line of his jaw, the specific way a lock of dark hair fell over his forehead, the way his hand was wrapped around a glass of whiskey like it was a weapon—it was a silhouette etched into the very core of Ping’s memory.
It was the face he had spent seven years trying to erase.
It was the face that haunted the most successful pages he had ever written.
The one that got away.
Or Rather the man that he let go.>/p>
Ping felt an overwhelming wave of sadness, so thick and heavy he could almost taste the salt of it in the back of his throat. It was like a physical weight pressing down on his lungs, making it impossible to take a full, clean breath. The shopping bags slipped from his numb fingers, hitting the cold Milanese pavement with a dull, final thud.
The "Nation’s Princess" was gone. The world-famous author was gone. In that moment, he was just Ping again—the boy who had run away because staying had been a slow, agonizing death.
And now, the man he ran from was only a few streets away, breathing the same air, laughing the same laugh.
IV
Ping was rushing once again. The encounter with FirstOne and the man had thrown his timing into a tailspin. He was in a hurry, his boots clicking rhythmically against the floor of the school auditorium. He saw a few of the parents of Abby’s school friends—wealthy Milanese couples in tailored wool—and he waved at them with a practiced, absent-minded politeness.
He was texting Aleks, but the man wasn't picking up. He was probably busy taking care of Abby, or perhaps his phone was on silent during the rehearsal. Ping pushed through the heavy double doors and saw that the school play rehearsal had already started. The stage was filled with children in colorful, slightly oversized costumes, dancing to a bright, chirpy tune.
But he didn't see Abby on stage. He didn't see his baby.
Panic, sharp and cold, began to claw at his throat. He scanned the rows of children, his heart hammering. A young teacher, one of the assistants who helped with the kids' rehearsals, saw him and approached quickly.
“Mr. Napatsakorn! I’m glad you made it,” she said, her voice low and soothing.
“Yes, thank you. Sorry I was late,” Ping said, his eyes still searching the stage. “I had an appointment and it went longer than I expected. Where is Abby? Is she not in this scene?”
“That’s totally ok, we get it, but Abby...” The teacher trailed off, her expression turning sympathetic.
“What happened? Is she hurt?”
“She refuses to come out from the backstage,” the teacher explained. “She had been crying for the last twenty minutes, and Mr. Rossi was already with her. She said she wouldn't go on until her Papa arrived.”
Ping felt a crushing weight of guilt. He followed the teacher to the wings, his footsteps heavy. In the dim light of the backstage area, he saw a small girl wearing a glittering princess outfit—the very one she had insisted on for her role. She was sitting on a low wooden stool, her face buried in her small, dimpled hands. In front of her, squatting down to match her height, was Aleks.
The girl looked like a delicate, heartbreaking mixture of Namping and her biological father. She had Ping’s soft, expressive eyes and her dad’s stubborn, perfectly sharp features. At seven years old, she was already a haunting reminder of a love that shouldn't have existed.
Aleks was being soft and caring, his large hand resting gently on her shoulder. He was telling her that her Papa was coming, promising to buy her favorite chocolate pastry from the bakery near their house. But Abby just shook her head, her small shoulders hitching with silent sobs.
“Abby? Aleks?” Ping called out, his voice cracking.
Abby lifted her head instantly. Her eyes, red and puffy from crying, lit up with a desperate, blinding joy. She jumped from the stool, nearly tripping on her long skirt, and rushed toward him.
“Papa!” she wailed, throwing herself into his arms and burying her face in his coat.
Ping knelt down on the dusty floor, ignoring the cost of his trousers, and hugged her close. He felt the dampness of her tears against his neck. “I’m here, baby. I’m so sorry. Papa is here. Don't cry, my love.” He whispered apologies into her hair, wiping her tears away with the pad of his thumb.
Aleks stood up, his tall frame casting a long shadow over them. He looked tired, but his eyes were full of a soft, yearning affection as he watched Ping comfort the child.
After she had calmed down into a series of small, hitching breaths, Ping looked over to the teacher. “I think we should go home for now. She looks exhausted from all the crying. I don't think she's up for the rest of the rehearsal.”
The teacher nodded understandingly. “Of course. We’ll see her on Monday.”
Aleks led them out to his car, a sleek, dark SUV that smelled of expensive leather and Aleks’s clean, citrusy cologne. He drove them through the winding streets of Milan, the city now a blur of neon lights and moving shadows. Ping spent the entire ride in the back seat with Abby, holding her hand while she babbled about what had happened at school before the tears had started.
When they passed by the street near one of the major fashion houses, the traffic slowed to a crawl. Aleks let out a frustrated huff, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.
“The traffic is really bad today,” Aleks muttered, glancing at the GPS. “I should have chosen a shortcut. This whole area is a mess because of the shows.”
Ping offered a small, distracted smile. He was watching the photographers milling about on the sidewalks, their long lenses pointed at influencers and famous personalities who were posing in the distance under the bright street lamps. His heart was pounding, a nervous, sick feeling settling in his gut. He secretly wished to see a familiar silhouette in the crowd, and yet he was terrified that he actually would.
“Ping? Are you listening?” Aleks asked, his voice breaking through the fog of Ping’s thoughts.
“I... I’m sorry,” Ping said, blinking. “I didn't realize I had zoned out. What were you saying?”
Aleks sighed, a sound of gentle exasperation. “I was saying that we got an invite to watch a runway show for Moschino on Tuesday night. I’ve already secured two tickets, right in the front row. It’s going to be a huge event.”
Ping’s brow furrowed. He hated it whenever Aleks would suddenly decide things for him, pushing him into the spotlight he had worked so hard to escape.
“Aleks, we talked about this,” Ping said, his voice dropping to a firm, quiet level. “You know I hate coming to shows like this. I prefer to stay behind my desk.”
“What’s wrong with a little night out?” Aleks asked, catching Ping’s eye in the rearview mirror. “You need to have some public exposure, Namping. It would be good for the book’s promotion in Italy. And besides...” Aleks hesitated, his voice softening. “That was the same brand that you used to work with before, wasn't it? When you were... back home?”
Ping exhaled sharply, trying to bottle the volatile emotions rising inside him. He glanced down at Abby and saw that she had finally fallen asleep, her head lolling against his arm.
“Aleks, we’ve talked about this,” Ping hissed. “You promised not to look into my past. You promised that here, I could just be me.”
Aleks paused, the silence in the car becoming heavy and suffocating. “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just that you have been refusing my help for so long, and this is just a little thing I can do to help boost your career. Abby is growing, Ping, and I—I just want the best for you both.”
Ping cut him off, not wanting to hear the rest of the sentence. He knew where it was going—Aleks’s desire for a family, for a permanent place in their lives. “Ok, fine. I know. You are just trying your best. I get it.”
He looked out the window again, watching the fashion-forward crowds. “If it does make you feel better, I will go with you. Just this once.”
“Ping... I’m sorry,” Aleks said, his voice full of genuine regret. “You know I really just want the best for you, right?”
Ping exhaled, forcing the stress out of his body. He managed to offer a small, forgiving smile to Aleks’s reflection. “I know, Aleks. I know.”
Ping had agreed out of a sense of guilt, out of the sheer exhaustion of trying to fight the world on his own. He had agreed because he wanted to make Aleks happy. But as the car moved further away from the city center, he had completely forgotten a crucial piece of information about the Moschino show—a detail that, in a few days, would make him regret ever stepping foot back into the light.