Bad Romance

The air backstage at the Star Emerald Awards was a physical weight, thick with the scent of expensive hairspray, ozone from the lighting rigs, and the frantic, electric hum of ego. It was a labyrinth of black curtains and scurrying assistants, a place where the curated masks of the industry were supposed to be firmly in place.

Net Siraphop, a man whose reputation for icy composure was as well-known as his award-winning filmography, stood near a rack of designer suits. He was waiting for his cue, his face a perfect sculpture of indifference. He didn’t like these events. He didn’t like the way people looked at him—either with naked ambition or a desperate desire to be the one to break his solitude. He lived his life behind a high wall, a fortress of his own making.

Then, the wall cracked.

A sudden, sharp movement behind a stack of equipment cases caught his eye. A figure stumbled into the dim alcove, nearly tripping over a tangle of XLR cables.

It was JJ Radchapon.

Net knew him, of course. Everyone knew the rising star with the infectious smile and the eyes that seemed to hold a permanent spark of mischief. But the man stumbling into the shadows wasn't the "Nation’s Darling." He was pale, his breathing coming in jagged, terrifying hitches. His hands were clawing at his own chest, his tuxedo jacket suddenly looking like a straitjacket.

JJ was having a panic attack, and he was doing it in a place where a single camera phone could ruin a career.

Net moved before he could think. It wasn't his usual calculated grace; it was a sudden, predatory instinct to claim a space. He stepped into the alcove just as JJ’s knees buckled.

Net caught him.

The impact was jarring. JJ was smaller than he looked on screen, vibrating with a frantic, rhythmic trembling. Net didn't let go. He pulled JJ flush against his chest, his arms locking around the younger man’s waist with a strength that bordered on painful.

"Don't," Net whispered, his voice a low vibration against JJ’s ear. "Don't try to run. Stay right here."

JJ’s head thrashed, his eyes wide and unfocused, darting toward the light of the hallway. "I... I have to... the stage... I can't..."

"You aren't going anywhere," Net commanded. It wasn't a suggestion. He felt the way JJ’s heart hammered against his ribs—a bird trapped in a cage of bone and silk. Net’s hand moved up, his palm pressing firmly against the back of JJ’s neck, forcing him to tuck his face into the crook of Net’s shoulder. "Breathe with me. Just me. Forget the rest of them."

JJ let out a broken sob, his fingers clutching at Net’s expensive velvet lapels, wrinkling them beyond repair. He was shaking so hard his teeth clicked together.

For five minutes, the world outside ceased to exist. Net didn't care about his cue. He didn't care about the producers looking for him. He felt a strange, intoxicating rush. He was the only thing standing between JJ and an abyss of public humiliation. He was JJ’s only anchor.

As JJ’s breathing finally began to level out, the younger man tried to pull away, his face flushing a deep, embarrassed red. "I'm... I'm so sorry, P'Net. I don't know what happened. The lights, the noise... please, let me go, I need to find my manager."

Net’s grip didn't loosen immediately. He lingered for a second too long, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin behind JJ’s ear. "You’re still shaking, JJ."

"I'll be fine," JJ insisted, his voice trembling as he finally managed to step back. He wouldn't meet Net’s eyes. "Thank you. Truly. Please don't tell anyone."

"I don't talk to people, JJ. You should know that by now," Net said softly.

JJ nodded frantically, smoothed his hair with shaking hands, and vanished back into the chaos.

Net stood in the dark for a long time after he left. He looked down at his hands. They were still buzzing with the phantom sensation of JJ’s heat. He felt a shift in his chest, a tectonic movement of his soul. It wasn't just compassion. It wasn't just a good deed.

It was the birth of a hunger.

---

[Social Media Snippet: @StarGossipTH - 2 years later] Images: A grainy photo of Net Siraphop entering a luxury sedan. A separate photo of JJ Radchapon on a film set. Caption: "Fans are wondering why Net and JJ, who are set to star in the upcoming thriller 'The Silent Partner,' haven't been seen together once. No workshops? No shared dinners? Sources say the tension on set is 'palpable.' Is it a feud, or just Net's usual cold shoulder?" Comments: @NetJJReal: "Maybe they just hate each other? Net is so private anyway." @JJ_Sunshine: "Leave JJ alone! He looks tired in his latest lives. I hope he's okay."

---

The obsession didn't start with a bang. It started with a spreadsheet.

Net sat in his darkened home office, the blue light of the monitor reflecting in his dark eyes. He had spent the last two years cultivating a network that most intelligence agencies would envy. He knew JJ’s schedule before JJ’s own manager did. He knew that a certain producer was planning to cut JJ’s screen time in favor of a nephew.

Net had made one phone call. The producer was now working in regional radio. The nephew’s contract was quietly terminated.

He knew that JJ was allergic to pollen—a detail buried in an old, obscure interview from his rookie days. So, when the "Anonymous Fan" started sending gifts to JJ’s dressing room, there were never lilies or roses.

Instead, there were silk scarves dyed in natural minerals. There were rare, leather-bound books JJ had mentioned wanting on a private Instagram story meant only for "Close Friends"—a list Net had hacked his way onto months ago. There were meals delivered from a private chef at 2:00 AM when JJ was pulling all-nighters, exactly the kind of comfort food JJ’s mother used to make.

Back at his luxury apartment, JJ stared at the latest delivery sitting on his mahogany coffee table. It was a humidifying air purifier, the top-of-the-line model he’d been researching just yesterday because the smog in Bangkok was triggering his asthma.

There was no name. Just a card.

The air is heavy today. Breathe easy, JJ. I’m watching over you.

JJ felt a shiver crawl down his spine, but it wasn't one of fear. Or, at least, not entirely. It was a terrifying, addictive warmth.

At first, he had tried to return the gifts. He’d told his staff to throw them away. But the gifts were too perfect. They arrived when he was at his lowest, when the industry felt like a shark tank and he felt like he was drowning. The anonymous presence felt like a guardian. A ghost who loved him.

He reached for a decorative wooden box under his bed. Inside were dozens of letters, all written on the same heavy, cream-colored stationery. He traced the elegant, slanted handwriting.

"They know," JJ whispered to the empty room. "How do they always know?"

He should have been calling the police. He should have been terrified that someone was clearly monitoring his private browsing history and his health. But JJ Radchapon had a secret of his own: he was lonely. He was surrounded by thousands of screaming fans, yet no one actually saw him.

Except for this ghost.

He climbed into bed, clutching the latest letter to his chest. He felt a sick, sweet thrill at the thought of being hunted so carefully.

---

Net stood on the balcony of his penthouse, which overlooked the city. In his hand, he held his phone, the screen glowing with a live feed from a hidden camera he’d had installed in the hallway outside JJ’s apartment.

He watched as JJ brought the delivery inside. He watched the way JJ’s shoulders relaxed when he saw the card.

Net’s thumb traced the image of JJ’s face on the screen.

"You're getting used to me, aren't you?" Net murmured, his voice a dark caress.

He had spent five years curating JJ’s life. He had removed the thorns so JJ would only feel the petals. He had made himself an invisible necessity.

The upcoming series they were supposed to film together was his masterpiece. It was the trap he had spent years building. Soon, they would be in the same room. Soon, the "anonymous" would have a face.

Inside the apartment, JJ opened the humidifier. A small, dried sprig of lavender—the only scent he wasn't sensitive to—fell out.

JJ picked it up, his heart racing with a frantic, rhythmic beat that mirrored that night backstage five years ago. He felt the invisible weight of someone’s gaze, a ghostly hand resting on his shoulder.

"If they know me that well…" JJ whispered, his voice cracking in the silence, "what do they want from me?"

Miles away, Net smiled, a slow, terrifying expression of total possession.

"Everything," he replied to the empty air. "I want everything."