The sky outside Room 403 sank into bruised violet, Ratchaburi's streets pulsing below with scooters weaving in erratic lines, the sound rising and fading like a restless tide. Vendors closed their stalls one by one, the last clang of ladles against steel carrying through the night. Inside, Tawan sat at his desk, laptop screen glowing against the plain walls, its white light casting his reflection faintly across the tiled floor.
His foot tapped without rhythm beneath the chair, a quiet beat that refused to stop. The cursor blinked in an old email draft, unsent, a message addressed to Ton and dated two years back. There was no subject line, only his brother's name. Phi Ton.The words inside were painfully ordinary—
"My LINE isn't working, just checking in"—but they hollowed him out.
His hand found the lighter in his pocket, Ton's lighter, its weight unchanged since the night it had been pressed into his palm. He remembered Ton's grin when he teased him about taking too long to finish skewers at a market, the playful nudge, the warmth of it all. The weight steadied him, then suffocated him. The cursor blinked again, patient, as if waiting for an answer Ton could never give. His breath hitched, and he deleted the draft in one movement, the screen clearing into silence.
He shoved the chair back, legs scraping softly against the floor, and crossed to the window. The pane resisted at first then gave, letting in night air tinged with broth, charcoal, and rain threatening somewhere beyond. The Mae Klong river reflected neon in jagged strokes, lights bending where water shifted. He leaned against the frame, lighter still in hand, thumb flicking it open, the flame brief and sharp before he closed it again.
"You'd hate this place, Phi Ton," he murmured under his breath, the words dropping into air that did not answer.
The streets below moved indifferent to him: scooters cutting corners, a temple bell chiming once in the distance, laughter trailing from an alley. He tried to follow the sound but it dissolved. He pressed his forehead lightly against the glass, coolness anchoring him, yet the silence inside was louder than any noise outside. He let vapour from the vape drift past his lips, the mist curling, disappearing too quickly. A memory pressed back—Ton's shoulder brushing his as they pinned tickets to a wall, a promise of a beach trip that never came. His chest tightened, and he turned away before the reflection swallowed him whole.
Through the thin wall came a sound—footsteps pacing, stopping, pacing again. It was steady at first, then quickened, circling like something trapped. Tawan's gaze shifted to the door, as if he could see through it. Silence, then the faint buzz of a phone vibrating, muted, insistent. If he had leaned closer he might have caught fragments:
Danuphob, don't twist things into drama. It's not that serious. Another pause, then another vibration: You represent more than yourself. Stop forgetting that.
A third followed quickly: Every time you make things about feelings, it reflects badly. On you. On us.
The rhythm of pacing grew harsher, shoes dragging against floor tile, then stopping as if cut short by weight. Tawan stayed where he was, hand tightening around the lighter, recognising pressure without knowing its shape. The silence stretched, heavy, until the vibration stopped altogether. Minutes later, a faint click echoed from a phone being set down hard, followed by stillness. Tawan exhaled, long and unsteady, the sound of someone else's turmoil brushing against his own. He reached for the desk again, but a knock interrupted before he could sit.
Saint stood in the doorway when he opened it, hair a mess, phone gripped in one hand like a lifeline. His grin was forced, tilted, his eyes darting though he tried to keep them still.
"Sunshine," he said, voice pitched high, "don't tell me you're ignoring me too, or I'll collapse dramatically right here in the hall."
His laugh came too quick, filling silence that did not need filling. He moved before being invited in, talking faster than the beat of his own foot tapping against the floor.
"I texted the group chat—moo ping, pad kra pao, whatever—no one replied. Not Dan, not Imel. Nothing. Just silence. I mean, come on, how hard is it to say yes or no? And then—" he turned the phone around briefly, screen glowing with the chat window, one line stark:
Danuphob Saetang has left the chat.
Saint's grin faltered, returning sharper.
"See? Left. Just like that. No word. Like I don't exist. Like we all don't exist."
His hands gestured wildly, phone almost slipping.
"Do you think he's pissed? Is he pissed? Be honest, Sunshine, you've seen him, right?"
Tawan leaned against the frame, watching but not interrupting. Saint kept going, his words colliding.
"Because, like, yesterday he was already stiff as a board, yeah? And maybe I pushed too much. Maybe I joked wrong. Or maybe he's just always like that? You'd tell me, right? Because it's weird, I can't stop thinking about it. I mean, last year this friend—gone, poof, didn't answer my call, never came back. Do you know how that feels? Do you? One missed call, and that was it. And now I can't—"
He broke off, running a hand through his hair. The silence pressed heavy until Tawan extended the vape wordlessly. Saint blinked, took it, inhaled sharply, then coughed out a laugh.
"You're not as cold as you look." The grin returned, shaky but softer.
"Thanks. Seriously." He took another drag, slower, holding it longer before exhaling.
"Okay, okay. Maybe I'm spiralling. But can you blame me? When people vanish, it sticks, you know? You start thinking everyone's about to disappear. Even people you just met."
Tawan's gaze lowered.
"You're not as annoying as you think," he said simply.
The words fell blunt, not meant to soothe, but Saint's smile shifted like it had landed harder than expected. He laughed again, lighter this time, handing the vape back.
"Guess I'll take that as a compliment."
He glanced away, restless still, then shoved his phone into his pocket.
"Alright, I'm gonna crash before I combust completely. Night, Sunshine."
With a quick wave, he left, his footsteps echoing down the corridor, too fast for calm, too loud for ease. Tawan closed the door slowly, staring at the empty hall before sinking back into the room.
Later, he climbed to the rooftop. The door opened to a spread of chairs left from the meeting days before, their arrangement still neat though faintly scuffed. The river stretched below, stars thin against haze. At the far side stood Imel, phone at his ear, posture still even as his voice carried in clipped tones.
"Yes. I unpacked. It's fine." A pause. "No. Nothing missing. I checked."
Another pause, softer.
"The café? It's steady. Staff handle the mornings. I cover evenings sometimes. Customers are fine." His voice dropped, quiet enough that the next words barely carried.
"Don't worry. I'm alright."
A laugh came faintly through the phone, a woman's voice too muffled to hear clearly, but Imel's mouth lifted slightly at the edge.
"Alright, Fahsai. Yes. Laew jer gan na. Sleep. Don't overwork."
He ended the call, slid the phone back into his pocket, and rested both arms on the railing again. The silence he left behind was not heavy, but even.
Tawan stepped forward, the scrape of his shoe against tile breaking the quiet. Imel glanced once, brief acknowledgment, then returned his gaze to the river. Tawan joined him at the railing, lighter in one hand, cigarette in the other. He offered it wordlessly. Imel shook his head, no expression shifting, only the faintest tilt of his shoulders.
Tawan lit it himself, the flame small, the smoke harsher than vapour, grounding. They stood side by side, the city moving below without pause. A beat passed. Imel spoke first, voice flat but not unkind.
"Long day?" Tawan exhaled smoke, eyes following the curve of boats across the water.
"Feels like it never ended."
Another pause, filled only by cicadas rasping in the distance.
"Something keeping you up?" Imel asked.
Tawan's grip on the lighter tightened, words clipped.
"Just… things."
Imel nodded once, nothing more. The silence returned, but it settled instead of pressed, an odd kind of steadiness. Tawan's shoulders loosened without his notice.
Minutes stretched. Imel shifted slightly, sleeve brushing the railing. He glanced sideways, almost uncertain, then murmured under his breath, unheard by the other.
"Am I… direct?"
The words were barely sound, swallowed by night air. His gaze returned to the river, steady again. Tawan dropped ash into the wind, smoke curling, carrying upward. The rooftop felt less empty, though neither spoke again.
When Imel finally moved, it was with quiet precision, chair pushed back into place before he left. Tawan lingered alone, finishing the cigarette, lighter cooling against his palm.
Back in his room, the laptop screen glowed again. The deleted draft appeared in the recovery window, cursor waiting, words fragile but not gone. Tawan hesitated, then pressed restore.
The message returned:
Phi, my LINE isn't working, just checking in.
He stared, thumb brushing Ton's lighter, the click echoing once more. Across the hall came a sound—knuckles against a door, hesitant, then firmer. Saint's voice followed, muffled but clear enough.
"Dan? You there?"
The corridor held the silence that followed, stretching until the night itself seemed to listen.