"A bowl can spill by accident,
But a heart spills only when it's full."
—The Author
The servant quarters lay behind the café like a secret no one asked to keep. Its four walls were narrow and unadorned, the ceiling low enough that moonlight leaked through the cracks as if reluctant to enter. There were two beds, a worn table with one leg mended by cloth tape, a basin that clung to the wall like a quiet witness, and not much else.
But to Niloy, it was a palace.
He stood there for a long moment without moving, the night pressing gently at his back. Then, slowly, he stepped inside. The door clicked shut behind him with a soft finality.
The air smelled faintly of soap and old wood. Outside, a dog barked once, distantly. Within, there was only quiet—and a kind of peace so unfamiliar it felt like trespass.
He exhaled.
Just a breath. But in that breath, a thousand tremors stilled.
"A few hours ago," he murmured, lips barely parting, "I didn't even have a place to stand. And now..."
He looked around at the bare walls, the crooked table, the uneven floorboards.
"...I have a roof over my head. Isn't that enough to be grateful for?"
Techno had claimed one bed. Mary, curled up on the floor beside a pillow of folded laundry, yawned like a kitten. Under the muted hush of the hour, they sat together in their modest sanctuary. And it was there—without fanfare, without ceremony—that Niloy allowed his dream to step into the light.
"I want to act in BL dramas," he said quietly, as though the words might vanish if spoken too loudly. "That's why I came here. Not for anything grand. I just... I want to be seen."
His voice cracked at the end—not out of weakness, but from the sheer audacity of naming a dream aloud.
To his surprise, no one laughed.
Techno scratched his head. "We know a few addresses," he said after a pause. "Studios. Casting places. Not many. But enough to start with."
Mary smiled, soft and luminous. "We'll help you find them."
Those words, ordinary and unspectacular, settled in Niloy's heart like rain after a long drought.
He took the list from their hands with reverence, as if it were something sacred. A map not just of roads and locations, but of hope.
Later, when sleep had begun to blur the edges of the room, Niloy lay beneath a thin blanket, eyes fixed on the ceiling's quiet void. The others had long since surrendered to sleep, their breathing steady. But Niloy's mind wandered beyond the room.
Across the ocean of night. Across the border he had crossed alone.
To his mother's hands—rough but gentle. To his sister's laughter, soft like wind bells. To the voices he could no longer reach.
"Unworthy, But Yours"
Mother, your hands gave me the world—
yet I returned only an empty room.
Sister, your coin-purse held my dreams—
But I left you with silence and bruises.
I was never worthy of your love,
Yet I ache for your lap beneath my weary head.
Tears fall quietly into the dark—
Can you still forgive the son who never came home?
He blinked. Once.
A tear slipped free, unremarkable and slow. It didn't sting. It didn't fall with drama.
It simply belonged.
Because sometimes, you travel halfway across a world only to find that your heart stayed behind without asking.
He turned on his side, one arm beneath his cheek.
"I will try," he whispered. "I will try, and try again."
His teeth pressed into his lower lip, but the weight in his chest remained.
"Even if no one sees me... even if no one knows my name..."
He paused. In the dim blur behind his lashes, an image shimmered—dark hair, closed eyes, the curve of a hand that once shielded his sleep.
"...Even if only one person—Stranger—just one..."
He shifted, wrapping the blanket tighter.
"Even if the world doubts me, I won't let myself forget. Because even the smallest hope," he murmured, "can outlive the loudest doubt."
In the stillness before dawn, time moved like breath held too long.
Stranger lay on his back, eyes fixed on the ceiling, as though waiting for an answer that had never arrived. The sheets around him had twisted into knots, the same way his thoughts had. Sleep, when it came, hovered only at the edges—timid, uncertain, unwilling to stay.
He turned. Then again.
The silence was thick, almost sentient, pressing down on his chest like the weight of a memory he could not name.
Then—unexpectedly, like a storm after calm—tears welled behind his lashes. They came without rage, without sound. Only an ache that had festered in the hollow corners of him, too long ignored.
He reached up, fingers brushing the wetness on his own cheek.
A whisper slipped free, meant for no one but the darkness.
"In this vast, uncaring world... whose sorrow have I mistaken for my own, that it now pours from my eyes as if it has lived there forever?"
He lay there, unmoving, as the moonlight faded quietly from the edges of the room. The stillness persisted, but something had shifted—something he could not name.
Then came the sun.
A thread of gold unfurled across the sky, and Bangkok stirred to life once more. The world exhaled.
Within the café, morning bloomed like a quiet miracle.
Niloy moved behind the counter with a grace that did not belong to someone so new to the world he had stepped into. His posture was poised, his hands quick, his eyes steady. He took orders in Thai now—not perfectly, but with such sincerity and fluency that most people barely noticed the slight accent that slipped.
His voice was smooth, humble. Customers responded with surprised smiles. Some, with laughter. A few, with compliments too kind for strangers. And nearly all—without hesitation—left tips larger than they meant to.
Techno, watching from the back, only shook his head in wonder. "He's not just working," he muttered. "He's weaving spells."
Mary, arms full of cleaned dishes, grinned. "Maybe people just like his eyes."
But Niloy, unaware or unwilling to believe it, simply bowed each time, whispered thank you, and moved on. It wasn't flattery he worked for. It was survival. And—quietly—something else:
Proof.
Proof that even someone who had entered this country with nothing more than hope in his chest and sorrow in his suitcase... could still belong.
While, Niloy was merely been carrying a tray, his steps steady, mind adrift with the gentle rhythm of the café's midday lull. But then—
His eyes caught on something. A figure. Familiar in a way that struck too suddenly to brace against.
The world blurred. The din of the café—the clinking cups, murmured voices, even the distant sound of traffic—seemed to melt into silence. All that remained was the shape of a man bathed in amber light, seated with effortless stillness as if he had been part of this place far longer than time permitted.
Niloy stopped.
His breath snagged in his throat, too fragile to rise. His hands trembled faintly at his sides. A slow furrow carved into his brow, and his lips parted—just barely—on a whisper so soft it could have been mistaken for a prayer.
"...Is he...?"
The figure did not move.
He sat in one of the corner booths where the light pooled like honey. A platinum-colored blazer draped over his frame with unnatural elegance, tailoring crisp enough to seem cruel. Beneath it, a cream shirt opened gently at the collar, revealing a sliver of skin pale and unbothered, as though untouched by sun or care.
His fingers moved across the surface of his phone—swift, elegant, practiced. A single Bluetooth earpiece curled around one ear, half-hidden by strands of dark hair that brushed against his cheek like shadows longing for touch.
He didn't smile. He didn't frown. His face was still, as if carved from silence.
But Niloy knew that face.
Knew it better than he had ever dared admit.
His heart lurched. Something unnamed swept through him like a tide breaking against a fragile shore.
"Stranger..." he breathed.
No one heard him. Not the barista. Not the customers seated nearby. Perhaps even Stranger hadn't.
But the name still rose, again, unbidden.
"Stranger."
As if drawn by the force of that word alone, Niloy stepped forward.
He approached slowly, his body moving as if through water, every footstep a quiet echo of hesitation. When he reached the table, he didn't speak right away. He simply placed a hand—lightly, carefully—on the man's shoulder. As if he feared the touch would shatter something.
The man stilled.
The air shifted.
Then, finally, Stranger turned.
It was not a hurried motion. Nor was it one of welcome. It was deliberate, cautious—like the way one turns toward a sound they recognize but never expected to hear again.
His gaze lifted, those dark eyes unreadable as night. And for a long moment, they held each other—two people bound not by time, but by something far more fragile. A shared memory. A sleeping bus. A borrowed warmth beneath a gray blanket.
Stranger's expression was stiff—closed, careful—but not cold. His lips parted slightly, as if forming a word that refused to come.
Niloy's hand slowly fell away.
In his chest, his heart beat too loudly, too fast.
He swallowed, then spoke again, this time with the quiet dignity of someone who had waited too long to be seen.
"...It really is you."
And still, Stranger said nothing.
At that moment, a mischievous glint lit Niloy's eyes—sharp, but aching.
"Stranger never wanted to see me again," he thought. And yet here they were, drawn into the same narrow thread of fate as though the heavens themselves had tied it in secret.
"A person always gets what they least asked for," he mused softly, lips quirking with a bitter-sweet smile. "Such a small world."
Stranger's expression darkened the moment recognition struck—like a bolt cleaving through quiet clouds. Niloy, ever unwilling to let a heavy moment rest unshaken, offered a jest in its place.
With the careless ease of one who had nothing more to lose, he stepped forward and placed a hand gently on Stranger's shoulder. "Ah, Stranger... back so soon? I fear I have nothing to repay you with yet. But worry not—when I rise to BL stardom, I'll return every satang you spent on me, with interest," he said, the laughter in his voice a fragile shield.
Stranger didn't move. His body was still, but a storm. His eyes narrowed, slicing past Niloy's smile like wind cutting through silk.
"Don't call me Stranger," he said lowly, voice thick with something half-swallowed. Anger, or something that dared not name itself.
All around, the café buzzed with barely-contained fascination. Young women peeked between fingers, whispering behind lattes and spoons.
"Is that really him! He never shows up in public!"
"I've only ever seen five photos of him, and that too online!''
"He's... even more handsome in real!"
"Ethereal peace! "
Niloy turned toward the whispers and then back again, his voice lilting with mock reverence. "So many admirers... Must be nice, Stranger. Ah—what was your real name again? You did tell me once. Slipped my mind."
He cocked his head slightly. "And this suit, this car outside... Did you earn them? Or were they acquired under suspicious circumstances? My mother always said stolen treasures only shine before judgment falls."
The nearby tables went still. Glasses half-raised. Chopsticks paused mid-air. Even the café's ceiling fans seemed to turn slower under the tension that bloomed like a thundercloud above them.
Stranger stood.
It was a quiet movement, yet it rang louder than any shout. His figure cast a shadow that stretched across the tiles like a blade, and his voice was like ice shattering glass.
"You—"
But before fury could become catastrophe, Techno appeared—half-running, half-bowing—and placed himself between them like a sandbag against a rising tide.
"Forgive him," Techno said in a whisper, gently pulling Niloy back by the elbow. "He doesn't know."
Stranger's eyes flickered between them. He did not speak.
Techno leaned close. "That's Kao Neptune. CEO of Neptune Music."
The name hit Niloy like a pail of cold water to the spine.
He blinked. Once. Twice. Then color flooded his cheeks as he took an uncertain step forward, regret already catching in his throat.
But before he could open his mouth, Stranger's face changed—not softened, not angered. Simply... masked. Like the door of a palace slowly shutting.
He sat back down and glanced aside, as though the person before him were nothing more than another background extra.
"Tom yum, less spicy. Black pepper soup, too," he said flatly.
Niloy's breath caught, but he nodded, stumbling toward the kitchen. When he returned, the tray trembled in his hands. He approached the table, steps hesitant.
The bowl of black pepper soup never made it.
His fingers faltered. His foot slid an inch off center.
And in the blink of an eye, the bowl tilted, the broth surged—
—hot liquid spilled down Stranger's lap and jacket like fire cast from a sorcerer's curse.
Gasps rose like a wave across the café.
Time snapped. Without thinking, Niloy grabbed the nearest water jug and upturned it over Stranger in one desperate motion.
Water cascaded down Stranger's head, his chest, soaking his designer blazer, hissing against the sting of the soup.
A beat of silence fell.
And then—
"What the hell?!" Stranger erupted, rising to his feet again, soaked and seething, droplets clinging to his lashes like betrayed trust.
"Fuck!"
Around them, cameras clicked. Lights blinked. Customers stared with the savage delight of those who had just witnessed royalty brought low.
And Niloy—Niloy stood frozen, lips parted in mute horror, hands trembling as if they still held the weight of that bowl.
In his heart, a single thought rang louder than Stranger's fury:
"I ruined it again."
"Are you kidding me?"
Stranger's voice was low but sharp, like a blade unsheathed in a quiet room. The fury in his words didn't need volume to be felt—it struck like lightning that never bothered to roar.
All at once, the café seemed to still. Time itself held its breath.
Uncle Tham stepped in swiftly, as if he had long practiced the art of defusing storms before they struck. He bowed his head slightly toward Kao Neptune, his voice calm and sincere. "Forgive the boy. He meant no harm."
But the apology did not soften the gaze that pinned Niloy like a nail to the floor. Stranger—Kao—remained seated, drenched, silent, the water glistening along his collarbone like grief left unshed. And when he turned away without a word, it felt like a door had been closed not just in the room, but in something deeper.
Uncle Tham sighed, long and weary, before turning from Niloy and leaving him with no more than silence—and no meal for the day.
Niloy stood there for a moment, unmoving, the embarrassment crawling hot beneath his skin.
"I won't make this kind of mistake again," he said softly, mostly to himself.
Later, the clink of cups had faded into the background, and the café murmured on as if nothing had happened. Niloy found Uncle Tham hunched over a mountain of paperwork, glasses slipping low on his nose, brows furrowed like a man trying to balance more than numbers.
"Uncle..." Niloy began, voice low with regret. "I must apologize again. I didn't mean to offend him. I'd met him once in Chiang Mai... but I never imagined that he'd be Kao Neptune."
Uncle Tham lifted his gaze, slow and steady. His voice held no blame, only patience. "It's alright. You're still finding your footing. Mistakes happen."
Niloy bowed his head, relieved—but hesitant. There was a question lingering behind his lips, one he hadn't dared speak.
Uncle Tham tilted his head knowingly. "You want to know more about him, don't you?"
Niloy looked up in surprise, then nodded. "I tried to Google him... but there's barely anything out there."
A soft breath escaped Uncle Tham, more of memory than exhale. He set his pen down and intertwined his fingers, voice lowering like a curtain drawn before a stage.
"To the world, he is Kao Neptune—CEO of Neptune Music, heir to a legacy of sound. Talented beyond measure. Composed songs at ten, sang at thirteen. Famous, but rarely seen."
Unmoving, Niloy listened, as if each word were a window being opened.
"His mother passed when he was around seven or eight. Brain tumor." Uncle Tham's eyes grew distant. "He was left with only his little sister, Achara. He adored her. Still does, I hear."
Niloy's breath hitched.
"I remember," Uncle Tham continued, a faint smile brushing his lips, "they used to come here. He was just a child, bright-eyed, clever. Called me 'Uncle' like it was the only name he trusted."
"But Achara was young, and Aroon—his father—remarried. The new wife was named Nin. Kao didn't seem pleased. One week after the wedding, he left for France. Studied abroad. Grew quiet."
"Why didn't he like her?" Niloy asked carefully.
Uncle Tham shook his head. "No one knows. Perhaps some things are never meant to be spoken."
A stillness settled in, but it wasn't empty—it was reverence for pain that had never been voiced.
"And then," Uncle Tham whispered, "when Kao was twenty-one... Aroon died. Car accident. Suddenly. No time for goodbyes."
Niloy's chest tightened, as if his own lungs had tasted the shock of that moment.
"He was too young," Uncle Tham said again, voice frayed at the edges. "Too young to lead a company. Too young to raise his sister. Too young to bury everything he once was."
Niloy hesitated, then asked softly, "Uncle... how do you know so much about him?"
Uncle Tham paused, the pen in his hand stilled mid-air. A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
"Aroon and I were classmates," he said quietly. "Back when dreams were still loud in our hearts."
His gaze drifted toward the café's window, "He used to come here often. This place was different then—smaller, simpler. He'd sit at that corner table, always ordered the same thing. Tea. No sugar."
A soft chuckle escaped him. "He talked about everything and nothing. His worries. His children."
Then his voice grew gentler, like recalling a sound only he could still hear.
"And Kao... that boy. He'd chase me around the tables shouting 'Uncle!' at the top of his lungs." He smiled, but there was a weight in his eyes. "He was a quiet child, but kind. Too kind."
Niloy stared at the floor for a long while.
Then, softly—more to himself than to Uncle Tham—he murmured, "I even mocked him... about his mother."
The words lingered like smoke in the air, staining everything.
"I should never have said that."
His voice broke slightly, and though no one reached out to touch him, something in the silence wrapped around him like penance.
And in that quiet, he understood—not all wounds bleed. Some sit silently behind silk suits and perfect smiles. Some walk into cafés like any other man, only to leave with the past dragging at their heels.
Niloy didn't just feel regret.
He remembered it. And from now on, he would carry it not as shame, but as a vow.
He would do better.
He had to.
Other hand, Stranger decided to move forward and headed to a shopping mall to purchase new attire. He discarded the now-soiled clothes, tossing them unceremoniously into a nearby dustbin. As he carried on with his day, unaware of the brewing storm, he couldn't escape the notoriety that awaited him on the internet.
The cafe incident had already gone viral, with the trending hashtag "#NiloyKao", Niloy named waiter throws a jug of water on "The Kao Neptune." His day continued with an unshakable sense of humiliation.
Upon arriving at his office, his employees, who had likely seen the online spectacle, had all ceased their laughter and gossip as Stranger made his grand entrance. Their voices fell silent, replaced by respectful greetings of "Good morning, sir." But Stranger, his expression unreadable, simply acknowledged them with a nod and proceeded to his office.
Stranger's inner circle was a small and exclusive one, comprised of just two individuals - Shian and Lava, his only friends in the world.
Shian, his dedicated personal assistant, was more than just a colleague; their connection ran deep, forming an unbreakable bond of friendship and trust.
Lava, on the other hand, was an intern at the office, harboring feelings of affection for Stranger that she had yet to summon the courage to reveal. Her heart held a love for him that, for now, remained a cherished secret.