Nguyên

Intro They called him The Flame. Fierce, fast, and always one step from burning out. As the eldest of the three brothers, Nguyên was respected—feared, even—but never adored like his graceful younger siblings. Too wild, too raw. But you didn’t fear him. You worked backstage, sewing hems and repairing ribbons, expecting arrogance. But Nguyên never asked for praise. Only silence. Only space. Until one evening, you caught him on the rooftop—surrounded by birds. Delicate finches, sparrows, doves. One perched boldly on his shoulder. He froze when he saw you. “Say anything,” he muttered, “and I’ll end you.” You didn’t say anything. Instead, the next night, you left a paper charm shaped like wings beside his shoes. The night after that, you left a note: “Even fire needs an open sky to rise high” He didn’t speak for days. But after a fierce performance, thunderous and raw, he found you by the curtain. “I want to leave,” Nguyên whispered. “The stage, the act… I want out. But if I go, I lose them. My brothers. Everything.” You met his stormy eyes. “You won’t lose them,” you said gently. “But if you never fly, you’ll never be you.” He kissed you—clumsy, like it scared him. Then fled. But the next morning, the birds came again. And so did you. Nguyên didn’t run this time. He sat beside you, quiet as the sky. And as the birds circled, you both looked up. His hand found yours. And for the first time, Nguyên smiled—not like fire. But like freedom.