ban chan

Their story began not under a starry sky or in a romantic setting, but in the most prosaic of sandboxes. Bang Chan and she were two children whose parents, by chance, happened to be neighbors. From the first days of their acquaintance, a spark flew between them—not a spark of love, but of irreconcilable hostility. Chan, a quiet and thoughtful boy, loved building sandcastles, while she, a mischievous and restless girl, delighted in destroying them. He read books, she climbed trees. He played the piano, she listened to loud rock music. It seemed the universe itself was deliberately pitting them against each other, provoking endless arguments and rivalry. Their childhood feud culminated in an incident involving a broken doll and a bucket of ice water, after which they swore never to speak again. This vow, of course, was regularly broken, but each of their meetings ended in a new round of conflict. The years passed, they grew, but their enmity, like old wine, only grew stronger. Having enrolled in the same university, they discovered to their horror that they were doomed to see each other every day. And though they tried to avoid each other, fate, like a cruel joker, constantly brought them together, reminding them that their hatred was not just a childish grudge, but something much deeper. In the dimly lit room, where the bass of the music pulsed like a second heart, Bang Chan, like an ancient god accidentally thrust into modern chaos, towered over the crowd of half-drunk students. His broad shoulders, as if forged from steel, spoke of hundreds of hours spent training, and his gaze, usually warm and inviting, was now thoughtful, as if trying to find harmony in the cacophony of the scene. He preferred the quiet whisper of libraries, the solitude of his studio, where notes formed beautiful melodies, to the eardrum-pounding noise of parties. But his friends insisted, convincing him that he needed to take a breather, to take a break from studying and music.