"It is not love or hate that drives us across oceans—
But the ache of becoming what we cannot name."
— The Author
At exactly 4:00 p.m., the bus began its journey.
It was a black coach—sleek and silent, like a beetle swallowed in dusk. Its interior shimmered faintly under golden ceiling lights, casting long reflections on deep purple seats, velvet-rich and almost too pristine to touch.
Niloy sat beside Stranger.
The two were quiet at first. Not by choice—Niloy had tried—but by gravity. Stranger, as always, had his head bent low, long fingers scrolling through his phone, face pale in its glow. His expression remained unreadable, carved from still water.
The bus itself was a sleeping coach. For now, the seats looked ordinary—upright and narrow. But Niloy had already noticed the lever by his side, the thin metal framework beneath. It could be extended, flattened into a bed if needed.
He glanced around. The windows were tinted almost black. Outside, the world was entirely obscured.
A breath caught in his throat. Suffocation began where the glass ended.
He tried to swallow it down. Fingers tightened around the seat's edge as he leaned slightly toward Stranger, forcing his voice into casualness.
"Stranger," he said, lips curving faintly, "Why don't you take a regular coach? This one looks expensive."
Stranger gave no reply. Not even a flicker.
Niloy looked again at the window. "And the glass... It's too dark. Can't see anything outside."
Still silence. Still that impassive mask.
Niloy wasn't easily discouraged. He tilted his head, speaking more to the glass than to the man beside him.
"I like sitting by the window. I love watching people—how they're always rushing, always busy with something. Kids playing on the roadside, old uncles smoking under tea stalls... even if I don't know them, it feels like I belong to their world."
Two conductors moved down the aisle, their quiet footsteps blending with the hum of the engine.
"In Bangladesh," Niloy continued, "we have sleeping coaches too, mostly for long distances—like Cox's Bazar to Dhaka. I've never taken one before. I usually choose the regular chair coach. I like to stay awake and look outside."
The bus rolled forward. The road stretched ahead, but Niloy's voice drifted backward, carried by memory.
"If I were home now, I'd see so many things. Green fields, rice paddies, small roadside bazaars filled with color and noise. Women haggling, children chasing dogs. It's messy, but it's mine."
His voice held a smile, but his eyes betrayed him—soft, quietly breaking.
Stranger finally looked up from his phone.
His gaze, dark as inkstone water, lingered on Niloy's face.
The boy was still turned toward the window, lashes catching the faint light. His words carried warmth, but the corners of his lips tightened, betraying more than he admitted. His eyes shimmered with memory.
...
Stranger's expression did not change. "Just chasing some worthless dream..."
"He abandoned his family without hesitation."
"Selfish. Illegal immigrant."
His fingers clenched the phone.
"But if he's that selfish... why am I helping him?"
"It doesn't matter. Once we reach Bangkok, we'll go our separate ways."
And yet—
His gaze returned, to the curve of Niloy's mouth, to the flicker of longing when he said home.
To that ridiculous, fragile smile.
"I don't want to see him."
"...Do I really mean that?"
Niloy turned to face him. Stranger immediately dropped his eyes back to the screen. Yet the silence between them had shifted—subtle, but real.
A conductor approached. "Sir, is it comfortable?"
Stranger nodded, still not looking.
The man smiled, brushing rain off his sleeves. "If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask."
Stranger replied with a soft, "Mn."
Rain tapped gently against the windows, too steady to comfort, too soft to ignore.
Stranger sat unmoving, face half-lit by the screen. Cold, indifferent. Beside him, Niloy shifted—half-restless, half-bored, too full of thought and too empty of silence.
He turned slightly. "Stranger..."
No reaction.
Niloy blinked.
"Stranger," he tried again, tilting his head, stretching the word deliberately.
Still nothing.
A small smirk tugged at his lips, mischief flickering like a match in wind.
"...Husband."
The phone stilled in Stranger's hand.
Five seconds passed. Exactly five. Long enough for a chill to creep down Niloy's spine.
Then Stranger turned his head.
His gaze was sharp. Not angry—furious. Quiet, precise fury that didn't shout, didn't burn, but froze.
Niloy's smirk faltered. He bit his lower lip, suddenly aware of the line he'd crossed. "I was kidding," he muttered quickly. "Go on with your phone..."
Stranger stared for another second, then finally spoke.
"Never again."
Two words. Nothing more.
They sliced through Niloy's mood like a blade.
He gave a crooked little smile, awkward and faint. "Right," he said, trying to laugh it off, but the sound died in his throat.
Stranger looked away. His attention returned to the phone. Expression blank. As if Niloy had never spoken.
The silence resumed, but it was no longer empty. Heavy. Sharp-edged.
Niloy turned to the dark window. He leaned back, body superficially relaxed. The glass reflected nothing—only his faint outline, eyes wide.
After a while, he closed them.
The past returned quietly, vividly, like breath made thunder.
"Wake up..."
"Niloy..."
A sliver of orange silk floated into the kitchen, sunlight slipping through a crack. Lata moved like memory itself—tall, composed, wrapped in the soft rustle of a well-worn saree. "This boy!" Her footsteps were quiet. Her voice, however, carried both the sharp edge of a mother and the lingering gentleness of one who once loved poetry.
"Wake upppp..."
"Still, No answer!"
Arms folded, patience thinning, she ascended the narrow stairs, their creak greeting her like old friends.
The door stood ajar. She stepped in.
The room was still, bathed in gold. Niloy lay wrapped in cotton, limbs slack, the world outside forgotten. Long lashes fanned cheeks of warmed honey. His hair spilled across the pillow like undone calligraphy.
Lata's lips twitched.
Still sleeping.
She pulled the curtains aside. Sunlight leapt in—bold, unforgiving, pouring over Niloy like a blessing too heavy to bear.
He groaned, burrowing deeper, lips twitching in resistance.
Her irritation broke. She stood a moment longer, watching the boy who was no longer quite a boy. Fingers combed through his hair.
"Wake up," she whispered. "Your English exam's waiting."
The fog lifted. Panic bloomed.
"What—?! Why didn't you wake me sooner?!"
Lata froze, lips parted. Niloy was already gone—downstairs, out the gate.
...
Magura's streets bustled. Niloy's bicycle wove through rickshaws, shouts, the scent of frying lentils, and incense. His smile, when it appeared, was weak—performative. Kindness, offered to every passerby, was a currency; inside, his heart was leaden.
A slow herd of cows halted him. He gazed toward the distant silhouette of Government Huseyn Shaheed Suhrawardy College, unmoved.
His stomach growled. Fifteen taka exchanged for bread and bananas. He ate quickly.
...
In the exam hall, time thickened.
The paper stared back. His pen twitched, paused, then fell still. He wasn't dull—not at all—but something inside refused to move. Not fear. Not resistance. Just emptiness.
Around him, pens scratched, soft coughs echoed, desperation whispered. Some cheated. Some prayed. Niloy simply sat, unmoving.
Professor Ahmed approached, an omen in motion. Words wasted none. He snatched the paper.
"Leave."
Niloy rose. No argument. The word had already echoed within him.
"I'm sorry," he murmured, hollow.
...
Outside, the garden bloomed—roses blushing, hibiscus swaying like dancers in silk. To Niloy, they were ghosts. He walked through them, untouched.
He had everything: home, mother, warmth, education.
So why did he feel incomplete?
By 4:30 p.m., he sat beside Nabaganga River. Children played. Women fetched water, bare feet whispering against stone. The river murmured in an older language than grief.
He sighed.
"I should be fine. So why am I not?"
A football slammed into his side. "Ouch!"
"Sorry, brother!" called a child.
Niloy waved, a brief, real smile.
...
That night, in his room, phone cast blue light across his face. He scrolled without aim. Digital tide pulling him under.
Then—something new.
Two men.
Kissing.
He blinked, sitting up. "Why are they kissing?"
No judgment. Only wonder.
"...They're beautiful," he whispered. "And magnetic."
Fingers trembled. He searched.
"TharnType. Thai BL."
He whispered the words like sacred text. Then smiled.
...
Night wore on. The world slept. Niloy did not.
Blanket drawn, eyes devoured episode after episode. TharnType's stolen glances, hesitation, fire—it ignited something in him.
Final frame faded. Silence crashed. Within him, a spark caught.
"I want that."
From that moment, Niloy changed.
Others idled. He studied Thai. Learned to listen between syllables. Within a month, subtitles were unnecessary. The language no longer felt foreign. It felt like home.
—
After exams ended, he lay on the rooftop under an open sky.
A voice began to sing.
"Letter of Dream."
Each verse floated through his heart like silk soaked in rainwater. Not heard, felt.
...
[Song 1] Letter of Dream
In the stillness of the night, my dreams take flight,
But they never let me rest, they burn so bright.
I take a sneak peek, searching for my path,
Through the shadows of doubt, I feel the aftermath.
Yet I'll work hard, despite the pain I feel,
Listening to my heart's silent appeal. Let's join hands, let our dreams intertwine, together we'll reach that pinnacle divine.
In the depths of struggle, where tears may flow,
Love and motivation, in our hearts, they'll grow.
We'll climb the mountain, each step with care,
Until we meet at the summit, our dreams to share.
...
He scrambled for the name. Found none.
Downloaded it. Memorized it.
The melody clung like fate.
"Babu..."
Sonali approached with a glass of milk. Moonlight caught the yellow of her salwar, turning her soft and golden.
"Ma said to drink it all," she teased.
Niloy took it absently.
"...Didi," he asked, hesitating. "What do you think of homosexuality?"
She stilled.
"Why?"
"No reason. Just curious."
Her gaze lingered. "Be careful. The world isn't always soft to questions like that."
He glanced up. "And you? Ever wondered?"
Pause. Smile faded. "I don't know."
Then she was gone.
...
Niloy applied to the Thai embassy. Again. And again.
Answers came like falling stones.
Too young. Too soon.
He painted to keep from breaking. His brush became his voice. Fields, skies, markets—Bangladesh on canvas, carried not to stay, but to hold home close.
"Babu," his mother called. "Fetch a kilo of carrots. I'll make halwa."
He sighed. "I'm painting."
"I'm cooking. We're both creating."
"...You win."
"You get that from me."
...
Twilight bled as Niloy returned from the market.
Then—noise.
A helicopter whirred like a heart too fast. Crates were loaded urgently.
"Where's it going?" he asked.
"Chiang Mai."
The world stilled.
Thailand.
The name trembled in his chest.
He looked at the carrots. Then the sky.
A voice came—neither cruel nor kind.
"Go."
"Your path waits."
He swallowed.
"How...?"
"You can."
The carrots slipped from his grasp.
Without thinking, he folded into the shadows between crates. The world narrowed. Then vanished.
...
When he woke, the air felt different. The hum of blades gone. Silence louder.
He stepped out.
The city ahead glimmered, veiled in night mist.
Chiang Mai? He didn't know.
Rain began to fall. 'Ugh' Thunder cracked the sky wide open.