By the end of the semester, Bangkok felt heavier than usual. The heat clung to my skin like another layer. The lectures dragged like old songs, and every morning I found myself circling dates in my calendar. One week left before the holidays. One week until I could escape the city and breathe slower air.
Sorren seemed to sense it too. He had started curling up by the suitcase I hadn't even packed yet, as if he knew travel was coming. Sometimes, when I left for campus, he would bark twice at the door—not his usual farewell, but something sharper, almost impatient.
"Don't worry," I told him, kneeling down to ruffle his ears. "I'm not leaving you behind. Granny's house has bigger fields than you've ever dreamed of."
He wagged his tail so furiously that I almost believed he understood.
The last weekend before holidays, I took the train home to see my family. The ride itself was crowded and noisy—people jostling, vendors weaving through aisles, children shrieking over packets of chips—but I barely noticed. My mind was already miles ahead, picturing the small gate of my parents' house, the smell of mom's cooking, my siblings' chaotic laughter.
When I finally reached home, the gate creaked open before I could knock. My younger brother sprinted out first.
"Kael!" he shouted, crashing into me like a storm. I laughed, stumbling back. "What did you eat while I was gone? Rocks?"
"Shut up," I said, grinning too wide to hide my joy.
Inside, my mother was stirring a pot on the stove, the air filled with the smell of ginger and lemongrass. She turned, her face lighting up the way it always did when she saw me.
"You're thinner," she scolded, pulling me into a hug before I could argue.
"I'm not," I muttered into her shoulder. "You eat like a monk in that apartment."
She pinched my arm. "But don't worry. By the time you leave tomorrow, I'll fatten you back up."
Sorren barked in agreement, darting past her feet to sniff every corner like he had never been there before.
My father emerged from the living room, newspaper tucked under his arm. He didn't hug me—he never did—but he gave me that small nod, the one that said more than words.
"Still alive in the city?" he asked dryly.
"Barely," I said.
"Good. Surviving is half of living."
The evening melted into family noise—my sister showing me a new song she had learned on the piano, my brother challenging me to video games, Sorren racing between us as if he were the referee. For the first time in weeks, the silence inside me loosened its grip.
That night, while everyone else slept, I stood at the balcony with Sorren in my arms. The stars looked sharper here than in Bangkok, as though the sky itself breathed easier away from neon lights.
"You feel it too, don't you?" I whispered.
"Like something's pulling us forward… like we're waiting for a page to turn."
Sorren pressed his warm nose against my neck. I closed my eyes and listened to the night—the crickets, distant dogs, the soft hum of my grandmother's town calling me closer, though I hadn't even left yet.