The last days before break felt endless. Bangkok buzzed with exams and headlines, everyone counting down the hours until they could scatter across the country like freed birds. I was no different. Every morning, I circled another date on the calendar; every night, I found myself daydreaming about wooden verandas, the scent of lemongrass, and the warm, wrinkled hands of my granny.
Sorren seemed to catch the mood. He spent his afternoons perched at the window, watching the streets below as though waiting for something. When I pulled out the old canvas bag from under my bed, his tail thumped wildly.
"You're going to love it there," I told him, kneeling. "Bigger skies. A real yard… and Granny."
At the mention of her name, I couldn't help smiling. My grandmother wasn't the usual kind who wore silence like armor and told children to sit straight.
No, she was the kind who would sneak extra sweets into your hands, laugh at her own jokes before you even understood them, and drop comments so sharp they left everyone blushing. She lived in a traditional wooden Thai house with open eaves and a front yard full of frangipani trees, yet she carried the air of someone far ahead of her time.
I couldn't wait to see her again.
The weekend, when I went home to my parents before the trip, the mood was light. My mother fussed over my packing, my siblings stole Sorren every chance they got, and my father—as usual—kept his words short.
"You'll manage the trip alone?" he asked.
"Yes," I said.
"Don't lose yourself in daydreams," he added, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth.
Later that night, when everyone had gone to bed, I caught him standing at the balcony, looking at the sky. For a moment, I thought about going to him, about saying the words I always swallowed—about how much his quiet presence meant, how badly I sometimes wanted him to simply reach out and hold me. But I didn't. Not yet.
Back in my dorm, I stretched out on the thin mattress, the whirring ceiling fan pushing warm air across my face. My bag sat half-packed for the trip to Granny's house, but my mind wouldn't settle. Sleep dragged me under, slow and heavy. And then he was there again.
That man.
Not faceless this time. His face emerged sharp and whole, as if the dream had finally decided to stop hiding him. Eyes as deep as an ocean, steady and endless. Lips curved with the faintest smile, carrying a weight of familiarity I couldn't name. His hair caught the light; his presence was firm yet fragile, like something too sacred to touch.
He stood at the edge of a street I didn't recognize, hand lifting towards me as if he had always known I would come. My chest tightened, a dull ache blooming into something fierce.
I stepped forward. His fingers brushed mine. Warm. Solid. Real. My breath faltered because for the first time he wasn't a blur—he was him. It felt like he had been waiting only for me. His palm curled against mine, and a pulse thrummed beneath his skin—alive, insistent, undeniable.
The world seemed to hold its breath. I thought if I spoke, he might vanish, so I just stood there, tethered to him, afraid to move.
And then the light shifted. The ground blurred. His eyes—those rivers—locked onto mine, and I felt something crash through me. A promise? A warning? I couldn't tell.
My eyes snapped open.
The ceiling of my room. The faint grey of dawn seeping in. My chest heaved as though I had been running; my hand was still stretched, trembling slightly. It had only been a dream.
But my skin still carried the echo of his touch.