"No dream is real until you have—
Someone is waiting at home to hear the good news."
—Nil
The car pulled up near the café, its engine softening into silence. The city around them buzzed with its usual late-night rhythm—dim streetlights, the distant bark of dogs, a motorcycle skimming past.
Than shifted into park and glanced over. "Nil."
Nil turned to him with quiet curiosity.
"I think," Than said, measured and matter-of-fact, "it's time you found a proper place to stay."
Nil blinked, caught off guard. "But I'm comfortable here."
"You are," Than nodded. "But once production starts, that'll change."
He didn't bother dressing the truth. "Your face is going to be everywhere. Posters, interviews, trailers. Then come the paparazzi. Curious fans. People online who think they know everything about you just because they saw your expression in a scene."
Nil sat up straighter, listening.
"I've seen it happen. At first it's fine—flattering, even. But after a while, it just becomes noise. And you'll want silence, but won't know where to find it."
Nil's expression tightened in thought. "You're right. I didn't think that far ahead..."
Than leaned back in his seat. "There's a vacant flat in my building. Nothing fancy, but decent. If you want, I'll talk to the landlord. Rent's manageable."
Nil hesitated. "Ohh..."
Than shrugged. "Nil, I just don't want to see your photo online with the café's address in the background and a hundred comments asking where you sleep."
That made Nil huff a small, tired laugh. He reached out, took the offered keys. "Alright. Thanks."
Than gave a short nod. "Let me know when you want to move."
As Nil walked toward the café, the night air soft and fragrant with city dust and distant frying oil, a sudden thought crossed his mind: he should bring something sweet.
Just five minutes away, there was a dessert restaurant that gleamed like a jewelry box beneath the streetlamps. Known for its luxurious sweets, it was the kind of place that most people passed by without entering. But tonight, Nil walked in.
Inside, the air was cool and quiet, with light bouncing off polished glass. Rows of exquisite confections sat displayed under crystal-clear cases—each one more delicate, more elaborate than the last. Some shimmered with gold foil. Others were sculpted like fine porcelain. All of them were expensive.
Nil's gaze moved past them until it landed on something small, colorful, and strangely familiar—Look Choop, miniature mung bean sweets molded into perfect little fruits. Glossy-skinned, jewel-bright, they looked like something plucked from a fairytale orchard.
One box—just a kilogram—cost 800 THB.
Nil slipped a hand into his pocket and counted what he had. 1,100 THB. If he bought it, he would be left with only 300.
He stared at the sweets for a long moment.
Then he smiled.
It wasn't a reckless smile, or a foolish one. It was quiet—decided.
He knew everyone at the café loved Look Choop. Uncle Tham would share it with tea. Techno would say it was too pretty to eat, then sneak three at once. Mary would insist on cutting them in halves so they lasted longer.
It was expensive. But it wasn't more expensive than his happiness.
And tonight, Nil wanted to give them something beautiful.
So he pointed to the box behind the glass.
"I'll take that one, please."
It was already past eleven.
The shutters were half-closed, and the café had long since slipped into its quiet rhythm of closing. There were no customers, only the clatter of dishes and the faint hum of sweeping brushes. Techno was rearranging the chairs with a focused frown, Mary was folding linens with habitual precision, and Uncle Tham sat behind the counter, counting the day's earnings with slow, practiced fingers.
The door creaked open.
Nil stepped inside.
No one noticed him at first. He lingered by the entrance, posture slumped, his expression carefully twisted into one of pitiful despair. Both hands were tucked behind his back, clutching a box wrapped in soft paper. He bit the inside of his cheek, fighting a grin.
Mary looked up mid-motion. Her eyes widened. "Nil! You came back!" she called, half-smiling, half-worried.
She glanced at his face—creased in a sorrowful grimace—and let out a small sigh as she continued smoothing the tablecloth. "Another rejection, huh? Never mind. It happens..."
But before anyone could say another word, Nil suddenly straightened, eyes bright, lips lifting into a wide, irrepressible smile.
"I got the role!" he burst out, voice ringing like bells through the empty café.
Everything stopped.
Techno's head snapped up. "You what?"
"You're not joking?" Mary blinked, as if afraid to believe it.
Nil could only nod. Once. Twice. His throat caught. No sound came out. Only a choked hum of confirmation: "Mn..."
And then—without warning—Mary rushed across the room and threw her arms around him.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't elegant. It was tight and fierce and full of everything she hadn't said while waiting. "I knew you could do it!" she whispered, almost scolding.
Nil laughed softly into her shoulder. His voice trembled.
"Thank you... for always being by my side."
They gathered around the small wooden table, the surface nearly buckling under the weight of hot, lovingly prepared dishes.
A large bowl of steamed jasmine rice stood at the center, its soft white grains releasing fragrant wisps into the air. Surrounding it, spicy-sour shrimp soup shimmered with red oil, its steam rising like incense. Stir-fried minced chicken with holy basil and chilies sizzled in its plate, edges slightly crisp, while a golden omelet—torn into quarters—rested beside a small dish of pungent fish sauce. The entire room bloomed with warmth, spice, and comfort.
Uncle Tham placed his palms together at his chest, fingers pointing skyward, and bowed lightly with reverence.
"ขอให้ข้าวนี้มีประโยชน์."
("May this rice bring us health.")
Then he gave a single nod—the silent signal that the meal could begin.
As if waiting only for that, the three of them picked up their spoons almost at once. The clinking of utensils, the bubbling of soup, and the rustling of rice mingled with low laughter and the gentle rhythm of night settling in.
Between bites, Uncle Tham glanced up and asked plainly, "How's everything on set?"
Then, a little more quiet, "No one's giving you trouble, right?"
The question landed with more weight than expected.
Nil froze for half a second—his spoon halfway to his mouth. The memory flared before his eyes with stunning clarity: the sudden press of lips, the flash of cameras, the sharp silence that followed.
He didn't answer.
Mary noticed. She reached over and gently touched his arm—not prodding, just anchoring.
Nil blinked and exhaled. "No," he said, softly. "Everyone's been good."
A pause.
"Especially Director Kim."
Plates clinked, voices mingled, and the night air filled with the scent of home-cooked comfort. Around the table, Mary and Techno exchanged light-hearted banter, their smiles effortless and genuine.
Nil sat quietly, watching them—watching this moment, this fragile peace—with a heart full of gratitude he could hardly voice.
He let his gaze linger on their faces, the warmth in their eyes, the simple happiness surrounding him. His voice was low, almost a whisper, as if afraid to shatter the moment.
"I don't know what tomorrow holds," he said, "but right now... this is enough."
A breath, fragile yet resolute, "A sweet bought with my last coin tastes richer than gold."
"No one could be happier than I am."
He closed his eyes briefly, the weight of years and hopes pressing on his chest.
"I'm finally chasing my dream."
Uncle Tham's eyes softened as he reached across the table. "Nil, eat," he said gently.
Nil opened his eyes, meeting that kindness with a bright, sincere smile.
"Mnn..." he murmured, nodding.