Work Text:
You know you fucked up.
Screwed it all up in the worst possible way.
The plane hums beneath you, a steady vibration that does nothing to calm the storm inside. You press your forehead against the cool window, staring out as Bangkok shrinks below, the chaos of its traffic reduced to scattered ribbons of golden light. They’re so far away now, those lights. Everything is.
You’ve left it all—your comfort zone, your rhythm, your heart.
Your reflection stares back at you in the glass, pale and blurry, eyes rimmed with the evidence of regret. The tears that started the moment the plane lifted off the ground are no longer silent, no longer controlled. They fall freely now, dripping off your chin and staining your sleeves as you try in vain to wipe them away.
The sobs come in waves—deep, wrenching things that start low in your chest and claw their way upward. You swallow hard, trying to stifle the noise, but your throat feels raw, and the ache in your ribs makes it impossible to hold them back.
The cabin lights dim for the night, but there’s no comfort in the dark. Just you and this deep regret, this anger at yourself that won’t let go.
You remember the way her face looked when you lost it—when you said the things you can’t take back. The heat of your temper, the sharp edge of your words, the exact moment you watched her expression crumble. It all replays in your mind like a cruel highlight reel, over and over again.
Now, up here, above the clouds, vast and empty, stretching on in every direction– a mirror to your own hollowed-out chest.
You clench your hands in your lap, nails digging into your palms as if pain might somehow ground you, bring you back to something real. But nothing helps. Nothing fixes it.
You’ve lost Bua.
The tears keep coming, blurring your vision until the distant lights below disappear entirely.
Just like everything else.
—-
You hit the ground running, the excavation site in Portugal demanding every ounce of your focus, every shred of your energy. They’re short on manpower and funding—typical—but you’re grateful.
The bones are a welcome distraction. You eat with them, breathe with them, let them become your world. When you’re not crouched over a fragile vertebra or tracing the shape of an ancient skull, you’re crawling through the underground tunnels where they were excavated.
It’s in the solitude of these moments that she slips through the cracks of your mind.
You’re piecing together the carpal bones now, each one delicate and precise beneath your hands. But your thoughts drift, unbidden, to her. To Bua.
*
“Bualoy, the way you say phalanx is so adorable.”
Bua looked up from the anatomy model, her gaze challenging. Her hands moved with such care, arranging the pieces.
“Proximal phalanx, middle phalanx, distal phalanx,” she had recited
.
“You know my favorite is the middle phalanges.” you continued your quest to attempt to distract her.
“Why?”
“Not only is it the longest of the phalanges, it also has a very modern day meaning.”
Her brow had furrowed, confusion flickering across her face before it smoothed out, replaced by something sly. Without missing a beat, she took a distal phalanx and a proximal phalanx, fitting them together upright.
“Then I pick these phalanges because I approve of your choice,”
“Did you just give me a thumbs up?!” you exclaimed, caught somewhere between disbelief and laughter.
*
The memory is so vivid, it’s like she’s right there. You can almost hear her voice, feel the warmth of her presence. But it fades as quickly as it came, leaving the quiet weight of the present pressing down on you.
The carpus in front of you is perfectly assembled, but it feels hollow somehow. It’s been months since you left, yet she lingers in everything. Every thought, every breath.
You glance at your wrist, at the watch that rests there—your constant, cruel companion.
You thought getting rid of the tattoo would help, thought erasing that mark on your skin would erase her from your soul. But you couldn’t part with the watch, could you? The one you picked out together. The one that ticked away seconds and minutes of a life that was once shared.
The tent is quiet, save for the faint shuffle of someone outside. You lean back, stare at the ceiling, and let out a shaky breath. The bones are silent. They won’t judge you.
But they also won’t answer the question you don’t even know how to ask.
—-
“You know, Bua is finally starting to come out of her shell.”
Dr. Fang’s words cut through you, sharper than you’d expected. You weren’t prepared for this—an unsolicited update, dropped into your lap like a grenade. You’ve done everything to avoid anything about her. Stretched your research in Portugal beyond its requested time, even decided to finish your degree here, clinging to the hope that distance and time would do their job and untangle her from the fibers of your being.
Apparently not.
You wonder how she managed it. How she’s moving on while you’re still carrying the weight of her everywhere you go.
The thought gnaws at you all evening, until you decide to try another moving-on tactic tonight. Alcohol. It’s supposed to help you forget, right? Drown the memories in something bitter and sharp, let the burn in your throat outweigh the ache in your chest.
So you do just that.
A few drinks in, the room begins to blur at the edges, and you feel the tension in your shoulders start to ease.. It’s almost working. Almost. Then, a tap on your shoulder breaks you from your fragile reprieve.
You tense instinctively, your body bracing against the interruption. Turning slowly, you find a woman smiling at you—confident, cheeky, the kind of smile that suggests she knows exactly what she’s doing.
You give her a quick once-over, your own confidence rising to meet hers. You’ve always known you were irresistible, even on a bad day. But as your gaze settles on her face, something about her feels… wrong.
Her smile isn’t sweet enough. Her eyes aren’t hidden behind the thin rims of older-style glasses. Her posture lacks that subtle shyness that always drew you in. Everything about her—her presence, her energy—feels like an echo that doesn’t belong.
And then she speaks.
“Ola—”
Even her voice grates against you, annoying in its crispness compared to Bua’s honey-laden tones.
“Desculpa, quero estar sozinha.” Your Portuguese is clipped but clear. You tell her you want to be alone.
Without waiting for her response, you turn back to the bartender, signaling for your tab.
You pay and leave, the alcohol settling heavy in your veins but failing to erase what you’d hoped it would. Forgetting Bua isn’t going to come in a bottle. And it won’t atone for what you did to her either.
Stepping into the night, the cool air hits your face like a rebuke. You walk, aimless and unsteady, her name whispering in the shadows of your mind, a reminder that no drink can silence.
—
You end up picking martial arts instead.
It starts as a whim—a passing thought when you see the flyer at the café. Something about discipline, physicality, and the promise of distraction lured you in.
Months have passed and now, you step onto the mat, barefoot and clad in black gi.
The instructor calls for drills, and you oblige without hesitation. The motions demand your full attention. Your muscles burn with the effort, sweat pooling at the nape of your neck and dripping down your spine. Each strike reverberates up your arms and legs, grounding you in the now, pulling you out of the suffocating maze of your thoughts.
Left foot forward. Shift your weight. Pivot. Kick.
The rhythm becomes a chant, a mantra that drowns out her name. For the first time in months, you don’t hear it echoing in the corners of your mind. No Bua. Just the dull slap of your feet against the mat and the instructor’s voice cutting through the humid air.
Your partner steps forward for sparring practice. A thin man with a sharp grin and quicker reflexes than you’d expect. The two of you bow, and then the world narrows to the dance of attack and defense.
A jab to your side—blocked. A kick toward his torso—dodged. His counterstrike—a near miss. The exchange demands everything from you: focus, speed, strategy. There’s no space for wandering thoughts here. No room for memories of late-night whispers or the sound of her laugh.
Yes, this was the perfect way to not miss someone named Busaya Methin.
But then, the instructor claps his hands, calling for a break, and the spell breaks with it. You step off the mat, panting, your body buzzing with adrenaline. As you grab your water bottle, the silence rushes back in, and with it comes the memory of how Bua used to hand you a towel after your workout.
I miss you, Bua.
You shake your head, taking a long gulp of water as if it might wash the thought away. It doesn’t.
—-
Few years later
Dr. Nissara’s invitation had caught you off guard. "We’d like you on this case," she had said, her tone measured yet firm, “and Bua will be your investigative partner.”
Bua.
Her name ignited something inside you that had lain dormant these past years. It was as though the quiet hum of existence you’d grown used to suddenly roared to life, vibrant and all-consuming. Every fiber of your being stirred awake, alert, aching with anticipation.
You still love her.
You love her so much that the sheer force of it nearly chokes you. It’s overwhelming, the way it surges through you, flooding every corner of your soul.
The car nears the crash site, the blaring lights of police cars painting streaks of red and blue across the night. The rhythmic pulse of sirens drags you back to a different night, a different pain—the night you left Bangkok. The night you told her to stop caring, to let you go, to break up.
“I really fucked up,” you mutter under your breath, the weight of regret crashing over you anew.
“Dr. Thananon, we’re here,” the driver announces, pulling you from the pit of your thoughts.
Stepping out, the chaotic scene unfolds before you.
“Officers are now investigating the area where the jetliner has crashed down in Pho Chai subdistrict, Bang Pho district. There are still no reports of surviving passengers. The officers are now working on the investigation to find the cause of this tragic accident,” a reporter’s voice drones in the distance, but you barely hear it.
Your focus sharpens to a singular point—a figure hunched over a blanket. She’s methodical, her hands gloved, carefully arranging phalanges with the precision you’d always admired.
Bua.
Your heart lurches, hammering wildly beneath your sternum. She’s here. Real. Tangible. For the first time in years, the ache of you missing her quiets because she’s finally in front of you.
“And on each finger are three pieces of bones,” she says, her voice steady and instructive.. “Starting from the base knuckle to the tip of each finger, but excluding the thumb, which only has two pieces of bones: proximal phalanx and distal phalanx.”
It’s ridiculous, really—how the way she says “phalanx” still makes your chest tighten. You let yourself linger in the sound for a moment, gathering courage from the smallest familiarity.
Finally, you muster the strength to approach. Hands shoved into your pockets, you close the distance, your pulse thrumming in your ears. “How are you doing, Bua?” you ask, voice steady despite the chaos inside you.
She turns toward you, and the frown etched on her face deepens. Her eyes flash with a sharp, unrelenting anger that slices through the air between you.
“Are you still alive?” she spits, her tone venomous, a far cry from the honey-laden warmth you once remember.
You barely have time to register her words before her hand is flying toward you. Reflexively, your training kicks in, and you catch her wrist mid-swing.
“Can you see I’m standing over here?” you tease, forcing a grin that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. The bite in her tone stings, but it’s a sting you welcome. If she’s angry, it means you still occupy some small corner of her thoughts.
She tries to pull her hand back, but you don’t let go, not yet.
“You miss me, don’t you?” The words slip out, arrogant and teasing, a defense against the vulnerability threatening to crack through.
Her glare could cut steel. “You can go to hell,” she snaps, yanking her hand free and shoving past you with enough force.
You stand there, as she passes you, your confidence unraveling as she has her back towards you. The mask of arrogance slips for a moment, leaving you exposed.
Can you really do this? Can you repair what you shattered so carelessly?
You don’t know.
But the fine line between love and hate is one you’re willing to tread, even if it means risking everything.
Because you’ve lived in a world without Bua once, and you’ll do anything to ensure you never have to again.