Evenings in Bangkok were never quiet.
They were loud in a way that made my silence louder.
By the time classes ended, the streets outside the university glowed with neon signs and lanterns. Vendors grilled skewers, children tugged at their mothers' hands, and motorbikes zigzagged through traffic like they were racing against the night itself.
I walked through it all with a book pressed to my chest, the crowd brushing past as if I were invisible.
Sorren greeted me at the door the same way every day — tail wagging so hard it blurred. His bark filled the apartment like laughter, but once the excitement faded, the air settled into truth.
Nights were heavy.
I tossed my bag onto the sofa and sank into the cushions. Sorren climbed up beside me, curling into the crook of my arm.
"You know," I said, scratching behind his ears, "I think people in this city carry too many secrets. Everyone walks fast, talks fast, eats fast… as if they're afraid their heart might catch up if they slow down."
Sorren tilted his head, his brown eyes gleaming beneath the lamp's glow.
"Don't look at me like that," I huffed. "I'm not being dramatic."
He barked once — sharp, accusing.
"Fine. A lot."
Despite myself, I laughed.
"But really, Sorren… do you ever feel like you belong somewhere else? Like this place is just a waiting room?"
He whined, then licked my hand — as if answering yes.
I leaned back and let the ceiling fan stir the air above us.
My phone buzzed — family group chat.
Photos of my younger sister at her school competition. My brother complaining about homework. My mother reminding me to eat.
I smiled at the screen, but didn't reply.
The distance between us was more than miles — it was the ache of no longer being part of their chaos.
Later, when I called home, the screen filled with familiar faces.
My mother's tired but radiant smile.
My father's mock-serious questions about grades.
My siblings shoving each other out of view.
"You're too quiet these days," my mother said.
"I'm just tired, Ma," I lied.
"Eat properly, okay? And don't let Sorren climb on your bed again," she scolded half-heartedly.
Right on cue, Sorren barked into the camera, tail wagging. Everyone laughed.
After the call ended, the apartment felt emptier than before.
I wrapped my arms around Sorren, pressing my cheek into his fur.
"Maybe this is what growing up feels like," I whispered.
"Learning how to carry loneliness without letting it break you."
For a moment, I could have sworn I heard temple bells — not from here, but from somewhere else. Somewhere older. Quieter. A place where the air moved slower and roots ran deeper.
Sorren lifted his head, ears twitching, gaze fixed on something unseen.
"Don't tell me you heard it too," I murmured.
He didn't answer, of course.
But the way he pressed himself against me made me wonder if he knew more than he let on.