The humid air in the forest around Angkor Wat was heavy that late afternoon. I had wandered off the beaten path, notebook in hand, hoping for quiet, reflection, maybe a few photographs of temple spires emerging from jungle vines. But instead I found something much rawer—something that reminded me how denial and hidden closeness can erupt into pain.
I first noticed them when the golden light slipped through the towers and into the grove: two young women, their voices low but urgent. I recognized one of them—her dress stained with sweat; her eyes bright. Let’s call them Jonna and Jane, though I don’t know their real names. Jonna, taller, bold-faced; Jane, quieter, shifting her weight from one foot to another. I didn’t plan to eavesdrop, but the way their voices carried… I was near enough, slightly hidden behind a moss-covered stone.
“You know we’ve been only friends,” Jane was saying, her voice trembling. “Don’t twist it.”
Jonna’s face tightened. Her hand drifted to Jane’s elbow. “You keep saying that,” she said. “But your eyes—they say something else.”
Jane shook her head, pulling her hair back. “I’m telling you—have told you. We were never… not like you say.”
I watched as the light dimmed; the temple spires cast long shadows onto the forest floor. The crickets began their evening chorus.
Then came a pause. Jane exhaled sharply.
And in that moment, Jonna’s expression changed—hurt, anger, betrayal. She leaned in, grabbed Jane’s ear firmly, and bit down.
It happened fast, but I saw the look in Jane’s eyes—shock, pain, betrayal. I started up, wanting to intervene, but I froze. The forest around us fell strangely quiet—as though the ancient stones had paused their whispering.
Jane cried out. She swung free, clutching her ear. Jonna stepped back, chest heaving, eyes filled with tears of hurt and confusion. For a long moment, neither spoke. The vines rustled overhead; the temple bells seemed distant.
“Why did you deny us?” Jonna asked, voice small now. “Why pretend? We know what we are—what we were.”
Jane looked away. “I can’t—Not yet. People will talk.”
“People already do,” Jonna replied. “But you deny me—deny us. And that denial—it hurts me.”
I realized then: this wasn’t about the ear, exactly. It was about closeness, about identity, about being seen—or refusing to be seen. And the forest, ancient as it is, felt like a witness.
I stepped forward, clearing my throat. Both looked up startled.
“Are you okay?” I asked softly. Jane’s ear glistened where the bite mark had left its imprint. Jonna stood stiff-shouldered.
Jane nodded. “I’m fine.” She didn’t look at Jonna.
I offered water. They accepted, the moment broken but the tension still thick.
As the sun set fully, painting the sky blood-orange behind the temple towers, I left them there. I walked away wondering: what will happen after this? Will the denial continue? Will the closeness persist, suppressed? Or will the pain of the moment lead to truth, healing?
For U.S. readers especially: sometimes we think we see someone’s denial, or someone’s hidden bond, and we judge. We ask: why won’t they speak? Why won’t they admit? We forget we aren’t in their shoes. And I realized sitting in that forest—amid temples older than any record of our lives—that guilt, sorrow, love, denial—they all belong in the same room.
For the website at getmonki.info, this story resonates: deep human emotions, unexpected moment, a place far from home yet intimately familiar in feeling. Readers want authenticity. They want to feel the forest, the dusk, the silence when nothing moves—except hearts.
If you embed the video below, you’ll see the shift as it happened—the bite, the reaction, the moment when closeness and denial collided.
And then add an image capturing the temple grove at dusk, sisters framed in that jungle hush.
You may ask: Why Angkor Wat forest? Because in that sacred, humid, ancient place—even strangers like me can feel the gravity of emotion. And when you witness someone deny a truth, yet act on it in fierce silence—well, you remember.
We all deny parts of ourselves, or refuse to see what’s plainly there. And when someone else refuses to recognize us, the closeness we shared becomes a wound.
Walking away, I glanced back at the temple towers shimmering in the last light. Two silhouettes in the grove. One hand reached out, the other held back.
And I whispered a promise: may they find their way—through denial, through pain, into the honest light of the jungle.
