Epilogue

Sky Wongravee

The café May chose is small, tucked into a quiet street corner with warm lighting and the kind of mellow background music that makes everything feel softer, easier. It's familiar—we've been here before more times than I can count. Lazy Sunday afternoons, late-night study breaks, early morning coffee runs. But today, it feels different.

She asked me to meet her here, said she had something important to talk about. And now, sitting across from her, I can feel it. The shift in the air. The weight behind her words before she even says them.

I don't know why, but I have a feeling this isn't just another casual date.

May is quiet. Too quiet. She sits with her iced coffee in front of her, idly stirring it with her straw, but she hasn't taken a sip. Her fingers tap lightly against the glass, a nervous habit I don't see from her often. Usually, May is composed—confident. She doesn't hesitate, doesn't fidget.

But right now, she looks uncertain. And that alone makes my stomach twist.

"Okay," I say, breaking the silence, trying to ease the tension with a small smile. "You're making me nervous. What's up?"

She lets out a quiet laugh—one that doesn't quite reach her eyes. It's soft, almost hesitant. Her gaze flickers down to her drink, then back up at me. She opens her mouth, then closes it again, like she's trying to figure out where to start.

I wait.

Then, finally, she inhales deeply, like she's gathering all the courage she can, and when she speaks, her voice is careful, measured.

"I've been thinking about this for a while," she starts. "And I need to be honest with you. With myself."

Her words settle between us, and for the first time in a long time, I don't know what to say.

She bites her lip, exhales a shaky breath, then looks me directly in the eyes. "I like girls, Sky."

For a second, everything just... stops.

Not because I don't understand her words, but because I didn't expect them.

I blink, processing, but my brain feels slow, like it's trying to catch up. When I finally meet her eyes, she's already watching me, holding her breath like she's bracing herself for something to break.

"You like girls," I repeat, my voice quieter now.

May nods, her shoulders tense, like she's waiting for me to react. "Yeah. I mean—I didn't realize it at first. Not fully. But then, a few months ago, I met someone, and—" She stops, shaking her head slightly. "It wasn't just about her. It was about me. About finally understanding why certain things in our relationship never felt... quite right. And I don't want to keep pretending, Sky. Not to you, and not to myself."

She looks down, her hands gripping her cup a little tighter, and there's something vulnerable in the way she says it. Like she's afraid of what comes next.

There's a pause, a beat of silence where her words sink in.

And then—to my own surprise—I laugh.

Not because it's funny. Not because I don't take her seriously.

But because—God—I don't know what else to do with the sudden rush of emotions.

Relief. Sadness. Understanding.

"Shit," I exhale, running a hand through my hair. "Well... that makes a lot of sense."

May's eyes widen slightly. "You're not mad?"

"Mad?" I shake my head immediately. "May, why the hell would I be mad?"

She blinks at me, almost caught off guard. "I don't know. Because we've been together for two years? Because I just told you I was never really in love with you the way you deserved?"

I lean back in my chair, thinking.

She's right—we've been together for two years now. We've shared memories, laughter, late-night conversations that stretched until morning. But as I sit here, looking at her, really looking at her, I realize something.

I'm not heartbroken.

Because deep down, I always knew something was missing.

I don't think I was ever in love with May either. Not in the way people write about in stories, not in the way I always thought love was supposed to feel.

I cared about her—still do—but what we had... it wasn't meant to last forever.

I let out a breath, then smile. Soft and real.

"May, you deserve to love the way you want to. And you deserve to be loved that way too."

She parts her lips slightly, like she wasn't expecting that answer. Like she's spent so much time worrying about this conversation, she never considered the possibility that it wouldn't end in disaster.

"Sky..." she says, voice barely above a whisper.

"And for what it's worth," I continue, leaning forward, resting my elbows on the table, "I'll always be your friend. I'll always be in your corner."

Something shifts in her expression. The tension in her shoulders eases, her fingers stop fidgeting, and for the first time since this conversation started, she looks relieved. A slow, genuine smile spreads across her face, and after a moment, she reaches across the table, her fingers curling around mine in a gentle, grateful squeeze.

"Thank you," she whispers.

And just like that, something changes.

Not an ending.

Not a heartbreak.

Just a new beginning—for both of us.

-----------------

Nani Hirunkit

The sky is gray, the kind of muted, endless stretch of clouds that blankets the city most days. The air is crisp, the familiar bite of a London evening settling deep into my bones. It's colder than I'm used to, even after two years of living here, but I've learned to adjust. I pull my coat tighter around me, tucking my scarf closer to my neck, the warmth of my coffee cup pressed firmly between my hands. The heat seeps into my fingers, offering a small comfort against the chill.

The café behind me hums with soft chatter, the scent of roasted beans and freshly baked pastries drifting into the air. It's a place I frequent, tucked into a quiet street corner, far from the more crowded areas of the city. I like it here—the familiarity, the way the barista remembers my order, the cozy interior where I can disappear into my work or my thoughts.

Tonight, though, I step outside, drawn to the steady movement of the city. I watch as people rush past me, bundled in coats, hands shoved deep into their pockets, some walking alone, others laughing with friends. London never really stops—not even in the quiet moments. There's always something happening, always someone on their way to somewhere.

I used to feel lost in it, overwhelmed by the vastness of it all. But now? Now, I've found my own rhythm. My own place.

I walk toward the railing near the Thames, the river stretching out before me, reflecting the dull sky above. I lean against the cold metal, taking a slow sip of my coffee, letting the heat spread through me. The water moves steadily, dark and endless, carrying with it the echoes of the city—the distant hum of traffic, the occasional laughter from a passing group, the sound of footsteps against pavement.

This city has become my home.

But some days, it still feels surreal.

Two years.

It's been two years since I left. Since I packed my bags, said my goodbyes, and stepped onto that plane.

Two years since I last saw Sky.

I exhale slowly, watching as my breath fogs up in the cold air.

I won't lie and say I don't think about him. Some days, it's just a passing thought—a memory that flickers through my mind before I can push it away. A joke he once made, the sound of his laughter, the way he used to nudge my shoulder when I was lost in thought. Other days, it lingers longer than I want it to, settling deep in my chest, heavy and unshakable.

I wonder if he's changed. If he still drinks his coffee the same way, if he still stays up too late, if he's still the same Sky I knew back then.

If he ever thinks about me the way I think about him.

I pull my phone from my pocket, the screen lighting up against the dim evening. My fingers hover over his contact. I've done this before—typed out messages only to delete them before they could reach him.

But tonight, with the city lights flickering around me and the cold biting at my skin, I wonder if maybe... just maybe... it's time.

Before I can overthink it, I start typing.

Nani: Hey, Sky. How have you been?

I stare at the message, my heart picking up speed. It's simple, casual—nothing too much, nothing too deep. But it feels heavier than it should.

I take a breath, my thumb hovering over the screen.

And then, before I can talk myself out of it—

I press send.