A day in June.

Bangkok was humid and hot, the air rising off the stone-paved streets in shimmering layers. Yet strangely, it felt lighter than in previous years. Two months since the trailer of Moonlight Whispers first dropped, the buzz hadn’t cooled down at all. With half the series already aired, reactions, symbolic breakdowns, conspiracy theories about Film and Namtan flooded every platform—almost as if the show had become part of Thailand’s daily heartbeat.

Perhaps that was why Film felt this was the perfect—eerily perfect—time to do something tender.

“P’Milk, Love… I have an idea,” Film said the moment she stepped into the Muv Muv studio, the scent of jasmine still clinging to the air. “What if… we do a birthday photoshoot for P’Namtan here?”

Milk didn’t even need a beat.
“Great idea!”

Love’s eyes lingered on Film—a calm gaze, but anyone looking close enough would know she was secretly glad for something—and nodded.
“Alright. I’ll set the backdrop. No charge.”

It should have unfolded as gently as that.

If not for that hazy video.

It appeared around four in the afternoon, shot on some phone that had somehow slipped into the studio. Its caption blazed so red it made people stop scrolling:
“Namtan and Love dating in the studio? Film & Milk getting cheated on?”

In the video, Love bent down to adjust Namtan’s mic. Every move was tender, the space between them almost non-existent. Then another cut—just the two of them standing close in the hallway—long enough to spark imagination.

Of course, View had carefully cut out the part where… Film was standing only a few steps away.

Within the hour, the internet split into three camps:

Camp 1: “See? I told you, Namtan’s always been a red flag!”

Camp 2: “No way, Love and Namtan are just close colleagues. Stop jumping to conclusions!”

Camp 3: “Keep fighting, ladies. I’m just here with my popcorn enjoying this drama.”

---

Film stared at her phone screen.
The first three seconds, she just stared.
The next three, her heart plummeted like someone had pulled a pin loose.
Silence. Not a single word surfaced in her mind. Not hurt—fear. Fear that public opinion, the very storm that had once dragged Love into the abyss, would do it again.

Her lips pressed tight, fingers unconsciously digging into the table’s edge.
No… I have to find out who spread this vicious lie.

Across the city, Love was nearly panicking.

She sat in the photo room, phone vibrating endlessly. By the 37th notification, she didn’t dare open them anymore. Her hands clenched so tight her knuckles whitened.
“P’Milk… what should I do…?”

Milk didn’t answer right away. She looked straight at Love, steady and unflinching, then laid a hand on her shoulder.
“First—don’t apologize. You did nothing wrong. Let me find out who’s behind this.”

It wasn’t comfort.
It was a declaration. The kind of stance from someone ready to push against the current.

---

Namtan had never cared for public gossip. Even in the years she was branded “a washed-up muse,” she’d simply turn off her phone and cook dinner in silence.

But this time was different.

This time her heart dangled in midair. Just like when she was first called a red flag—only now, the only fear gnawing her was that Film might misunderstand.

She opened Film’s chat window, typed “Film, that clip was edited—”
Deleted it.
Typed again.
Deleted again.

She was terrified that if she reached out first, Film would think she was desperately making excuses—and she had never wanted Film to see her in that frantic state.

For the second time in her life, Namtan feared being misunderstood by someone.

---

In the dorm, Bonnie sat cross-legged on the floor, hands trembling as she typed on X:
“Don’t drag Love into this. It’s not true!”

Her finger hovered over the post button. Never had she been this angry—angry enough to shake.

“Don’t post yet. Calm down, Bonnie.”

The voice was low, deep, steady, and warm. Emi. She didn’t say much. She just lightly touched Bonnie’s hand.

“Social media doesn’t need another emotional outburst right now. Just believing in them is enough.”

Bonnie looked at her for a long time. The silence between them suddenly felt oddly dependable. In the end, she lowered her hand. She didn’t post. But her heart didn’t feel so cold anymore.

---

Evening fell. The studio lights were still on. Film walked into the hallway, nearly empty cup in hand. She told herself: As long as Love and Namtan are alright…

“Film!” Love’s voice burst out as she ran up, breathless like she’d sprinted blocks.
“I—I don’t have anything with P’Namtan! That day she just asked me to adjust her mic! I swear…”

Film froze. Not because of doubt—but because in the panic in Love’s eyes, her own heart softened, too tender to even form a steady reply.

A second later, she smiled. Softly. Very softly.
“I know. You don’t have to worry. I just… I’m scared the public will wear you out.”

At that, Love’s clenched fists slowly loosened. As though all she’d needed was that one sentence to finally breathe again.

Almost at the same time, Namtan found Film behind the studio. This time, she didn’t walk with her usual calm—her steps were quick, almost frantic.

The moment she saw Film, words rushed out unplanned:
“Film… that clip was edited. You were there too…”

Film blinked. Then smiled, lips curving like the thinnest stroke of ink.
“I know. I never doubted you.”

And somehow, those words alone lifted the weight from Namtan’s shoulders. As if she had crossed a storm without realizing it—only to find the sky had cleared.

---

Night.

Bangkok roared as always, but to them the night felt eerily still.
And in that silence, an anonymous account dropped another video on X:
“Breaking: Namtan & Love spotted spending the night at the same hotel!”

It was a clip from behind-the-scenes logs—the cast walking into a hotel while filming in the suburbs. But someone had deliberately frozen the frame where Namtan and Love entered side by side. No Film in sight. Not cut behind them—completely erased.

At first, the comments were light, mocking.
But the further down they scrolled, the darker they grew:
“So Film really got betrayed.”
“Why’s Milk staying quiet? Don’t tell me she knows and accepts it?”
“A couple on-screen, another couple off-screen… disgusting.”

The afternoon’s ripple had turned into a flood.

Film set her phone down, her eyes lingering too long on the final comment.
The room was dark, save for the thin strip of light glowing against her gaze.
…This time, she couldn’t even whisper “it’s fine.”

Somewhere across the city, Namtan stood by her window, watching the river of headlights below flare like torches.

One… two… three breaths caught.
Her chest tightened as if something unnamed was tugging her back.

No words were spoken.

The city still roared. Public opinion still raged. Yet in the eye of the storm, the four of them—Film, Namtan, Love, Milk—fell into a silence so deep it felt sealed beneath glass.

And on the far edge of that storm…
…something was about to break.