As the plane began its descent, the overhead announcement crackled to life, informing passengers they would be on the ground in forty-five minutes. Asnee immediately reached for his phone to call Santichai, eager to hear the familiar, quiet voice. It went straight to voicemail.
His phone is off again, Asnee thought, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. He dialed Decha instead.
"Hey, what's up?" Decha answered.
"I'm landing in forty-five minutes," Asnee said, skipping the greeting.
"I know, I know... I'm already on my way," Decha complained.
"I have to hang up," Asnee said as a flight attendant moved down the aisle. "They're making us turn off electronics for the landing."
"Okay," Decha said. "Don't forget to call Chai."
Asnee frowned, staring at the blank screen. "I tried. He didn't pick up—his phone is dead. That man never remembers to charge the thing unless I remind him." He let out a short, dismissive laugh.
"Sir, please power down," the flight attendant requested. Asnee gave a quick nod and tucked the phone away.
After the plane landed, Asnee walked off the plane, the recycled air of the cabin replaced by the sprawling, sterile scent of the airport. The moment he stepped onto the jet bridge, he pulled his phone out again.
He didn't even wait to reach the gate. He pressed the speed dial for "Chai."
One ring. Two. Then, the mechanical click of the automated voice: "The subscriber you are trying to reach is currently unavailable. Please—"
Asnee cut the call with an aggressive thumb. "Stupid phone," he muttered under his breath. He tried again. And again. Each time, the same cold, digital wall met him. He felt a prickle of heat behind his neck—a mix of annoyance and the faint, nagging anxiety of someone who was used to being answered immediately.
He's probably just sulking, Asnee told himself, shoving the phone into his pocket. He wants me to worry.
He straightened his posture, donned his usual mask of high-class confidence, and began to roll his suitcase through the terminal. He spotted Decha standing beside his red sport car in the distance, standing brightly with a smile waiting for him.
As he approached, Asnee immediately shifted the blame for his own unease.
"Sorry for making you come all the way out here," Asnee said as they headed toward the parking garage. "It's all Chai's fault. I told him to take the day off to pick me up, but he insisted he couldn't. And now he's not even answering his phone."
Decha shrugged, tossing the bags into the trunk of his sports car. "He's a hard worker, Nee. He's the kind of guy who just can't say no to people." He looked at Asnee over the roof of the car. "That's how you swept him off his feet in the first place, isn't it? Because he couldn't say no?"
Asnee scowled. "Tsk... shut up and drive."
"So," Decha asked as they pulled out into traffic, "did you bring him a proper present?"
Asnee's heart sank slightly. He realized with a jolt that he had nothing in his hands.
"Ah... shit, I forgot." He looked out the window and saw a generic gift shop near the airport exit. "Wait, pull over!"
He dashed into the shop and scanned the shelves of overpriced snacks and dusty souvenirs. His eyes landed on a bucket of artificial roses. He grabbed a single red one—thirty baht—and hurried back to the car, laughing. "There. Let's go."
Decha stared at the plastic flower and sighed. "Ai Nee, as a friend, I'm telling you: be better to him. My mother used to say that you have to treat the person who stays by your side well. Because one day, you'll look at their empty chair and realize they were the most important thing you had."
Asnee leaned back in the leather seat, checking his reflection in the visor mirror. "I've always been fair to Chai."
"Really?" Decha asked, his voice skeptical. "You truly believe that?"
"Of course," Asnee said confidently. "I ask him before I do anything. I only go through with things if he agrees."
Decha went silent. He knew Asnee's "asking" was usually just a demand disguised as a question, and that Santichai was too timid to ever say no. But he knew pushing Asnee would only make him angry. "He's your man," Decha said quietly. "You know him best."
The drive from the airport was swift, the tires of Decha's sports car humming against the asphalt as they carved through the city's neon-lit arteries. Inside the leather-scented cabin, the air felt thick with Decha's unspoken judgment.
Asnee stared out the window at the passing skyscrapers, the artificial rose sitting limply on the dashboard. He kept checking his phone, the screen lighting up his face every few minutes, but there were no missed calls. No "Welcome home" texts.
"You're awfully quiet," Decha noted, glancing at Asnee as he shifted gears. "Still haven't heard from him?"
"He's probably asleep," Asnee lied, though his thumb nervously traced the edge of his phone. "He's been working extra hours since the argument. He's exhausted."
"Or maybe he's just done with the noise, Nee," Decha said softly, pulling the car onto the main road that led to the luxury high-rise.
Asnee didn't answer. He watched the familiar landmarks pass—the expensive boutiques and the five-star restaurants where he often took Santichai to show him off. He had always felt like he was lifting Santichai up into a better world. He couldn't fathom why anyone would want to leave it.
The car slowed as it approached the gated entrance of the apartment complex. The security guard recognized the car and waved them through, the iron gates swinging open like the jaws of a trap.
Decha pulled into the parking lot and let the engine idle, the low rumble vibrating through the seats. "We're here," he said, looking at the towering building.
Asnee grabbed the artificial rose and his bag. "Thanks for the ride. I'll call you once I've smoothed things over with Chai."
"Good luck," Decha replied, but his voice sounded doubtful. He watched as Asnee stepped out and disappeared into the lobby.
Asnee took the elevator to the tenth floor, his mind already on the dinner he'd demand Chai make for him.
He slid the key into the lock and pushed the door open.
"Chai, honey, I'm home!" Asnee called out.
He dropped his heavy suitcases right in the middle of the entryway, letting them thud against the floor. He kicked off his shoes and threw himself onto the sofa, his tired muscles sinking into the cushions.
"I bought you a present," he shouted toward the back of the apartment.
Silence.
He checked his watch. 7:05 PM. "Oh... right. He won't be back from the office until eight-thirty."
The apartment felt strangely cool, but Asnee was too exhausted to notice the missing boxes or the lack of Santichai's sewing supplies in the corner. He closed his eyes, the artificial rose still clutched in his hand, and fell into a deep sleep.
When he finally woke, the room was bathed in the orange glow of the city's midnight lights. He groaned, rubbing his eyes, expecting to find Santichai sitting nearby or draped over him.
"Chai?" he murmured.
He looked at his watch: 12:15 AM. A small seed of doubt finally began to take root. Why hadn't Santichai woken him up? Why hadn't he moved him to the bed?
"He must still be mad about the argument," Asnee muttered to the empty room, his voice sounding smaller than usual. He stood up, finally noticing how loud his own footsteps were in a room that felt far too empty.
"Chai, I bought you a present!" Asnee called out again, his voice echoing too loudly.
He shoved the bedroom door open and flicked the light switch. The sudden glare revealed a bed that was perfectly made—and perfectly empty. A surge of irritation rose in his chest. He threw the 30-baht artificial rose onto the mattress; it bounced once and slid to the floor.
He snatched his phone from his pocket and redialed Santichai. Power off. He dialed the sewing factory's late-night line. It rang until the mechanical timeout cut him off. With a heavy, jagged sigh, he called Decha.
"What is it now?" Decha asked, his voice thick with sleep.
"Decha... is Chai with you?"
Decha sat up, his tone immediately sharpening. "No. Why? What's wrong?"
"He's not here. He hasn't come home."
"Did you call him?"
"His phone is dead. It's been dead since I landed," Asnee snapped. "I don't know where else he'd go besides your place."
"He might have other friends, Nee. Or he's staying at a hotel," Decha suggested. "If I were Chai, I'd be hiding from you, too. You were pretty hard on him before you left."
"Shut up!" Asnee barked, hanging up before Decha could say another word.
Restless, Asnee took the elevator down to the parking garage. His luxury car sat in its usual stall; the rear tucked perfectly against the concrete wall. He knew instantly that Santichai hadn't touched it. Santichai had never learned how to reverse park; he was too timid, too afraid of scratching the expensive paint. The car's presence felt like a taunt.
Asnee didn't sleep. He spent the night pacing the apartment, watching the shadows shift across the walls until the sun finally rose. At exactly 9:00 AM, he called the sewing factory.
"I need to speak with Santichai Kittibun," he demanded.
"He's not here," a woman replied.
"What do you mean 'not here'? Is he late?"
"No," the woman said, her voice cautious. "He quit three months ago. The boss asked him to stay an extra month to train his replacement, but his last day was three days ago. He told us his mother was gravely ill, and he had to go back home to care for her."
Asnee felt as though the floor had vanished beneath his feet. "He... he said what?"
"He said he was going home. We even threw him a farewell party," she paused. "Who is this?"
"A friend," Asnee whispered, and ended the call.
A bitter, disbelieving laugh escaped his throat. Mother? Sick? Santichai had no family to go back to. His parents were gone, their old house sold years ago. The realization hit him like a physical blow: Santichai hadn't just left; he had planned an escape. He had lied to everyone for months.
Asnee turned toward the kitchen table, his eyes finally catching on something he had missed in his midnight haze. There, sitting in the center of the table, was a small tin box and a single, silver key.
He walked over, his legs feeling heavy. He picked up the key—it was Santichai's. Beside it sat the old memory box. Asnee flipped the lid open.
Inside were the fifteen photos of their ten years together. But as he pulled them out, his breath hitched. In every single one, there was a jagged, man-shaped hole. Santichai had meticulously cut his own image out of every memory, leaving Asnee alone in a series of empty rooms and lonely landscapes.
The silence of the apartment finally felt real—suffocating and permanent.
Asnee's hand trembled as he crushed the hollowed-out photos into a ball, his knuckles turning white. His grief was instantly swallowed by a hot, vengeful fury.
"Santichai Kittibun..." he hissed into the empty kitchen. "How dare you. How dare you leave me like this." He slammed his fist onto the table, the tin box rattling. "I'll find you. And I'll make you regret every second of this."