The first rays of dawn slipped through the bamboo blinds, painting golden stripes across the wooden floorboards of Ekan Lertsombat's apartment. The humid air carried the scent of frangipani blossoms drifting in through the cracked window, mingling with the faint aroma of jasmine tea left cooling on the balcony table. A lone cicada perched on the windowsill, its song rising in a steady trill that felt like the heartbeat of Bangkok itself.
Ekan lay still for a moment, tracing the delicate pattern of rice-paper walls above his head, listening to the city awaken. In the next room, he could hear the soft rumble of Niran's morning alarm—an old vinyl recording of classical Thai ballads. His lover's curly black hair caught a stray golden beam as he shifted beneath the covers. Ekan smiled, remembering the first time he saw Niran's hair tumble across his forehead in a soft wave. It was like watching moonlight dance on river water.
He stretched, feeling the familiar warmth of the person curled against his side. Years ago, when he first realized that his heart raced at the sight of Niran's crooked grin, he had worried how his Sino-Thai family would react. But by the time he brought Niran home for the first time—introducing him beneath the ornate gilt pillars of the Lertsombat ancestral shrine—his parents had already known. His mother's tears of joy, his father's quiet nod: acceptance came as naturally as the river's flow.
He leaned over and brushed a loose curl from Niran's forehead. Niran blinked awake, eyelashes fluttering like butterflies. "Good morning," Ekan whispered in Teochew, the dialect his grandmother had taught him. Niran murmured his response in Thai, voice thick with sleep, and rolled closer until their foreheads met. A small breeze rustled the frangipani petals outside, scattering white confetti across the balcony floorboards.
Ekan rose to dress, feeling the soft hum of anticipation. Today was the last day of midterms at the Faculty of Fine Arts, and he planned to spend the afternoon sketching the façade of Wat Ratchanatdaram for his architectural rendering class. Niran, a history teacher at a nearby secondary school, would be free by four. They'd meet in Chinatown—Yaowarat Road—for dinner of grilled river prawns and hand-pulled noodles.
In the kitchen, Ekan filled the kettle with water sourced from an old clay vessel. The tea leaves scratched softly as he spooned them into the porcelain pot—long, wiry strands of jasmine-scented green tea his mother had brought back from Hangzhou. While the kettle boiled, he opened the refrigerator and set out two bowls: one of plain congee topped with preserved egg and minced pork, the other with lashings of chili oil and green onions just for him. Niran never warmed to spicy food, and Ekan loved the way his lover's cheeks puffed out in protest whenever a hint of heat reached his tongue.
The kettle hissed, steam curling upward like a diaphanous veil. Ekan poured the water over the tea leaves, then set the pot on a folding stool by the open window. He inhaled deeply, letting the floral warmth settle in his chest. Even after two years, the ritual felt sacred: a link to his ancestors who'd built the family import business exporting silk and porcelain between Thailand and Southern China. Though the family name sat on a brass plaque above the little pagoda by the riverbank, it was these stolen mornings that Ekan held dearest.
"How long do I have before you eat my entire bowl of congee?" Niran asked, padding into the kitchen barefoot, one hand ruffling his hair.
"Twenty seconds." Ekan grinned, settling the teapot onto its woven mat. "Ready?" He raised a spoonful of steaming porridge.
Niran blew on a morsel before tasting, then flashed a triumphant smile. "Mild success."
They ate in companionable silence, broken only by the distant rumble of tuk-tuks firing up for the day. Through the window, vendors began to arrange durians, jackfruit, and heaps of dragon fruit on plastic tables, their colors dazzling under the neon signs. A group of monks clad in saffron robes passed, collecting alms in battered stainless steel bowls; Ekan tipped his head in reverence to the father of his childhood friend, who had become a monk after retiring from the Royal Thai Navy.
By the time they finished breakfast, the city had stirred fully awake. Ekan rinsed the dishes and tucked them under the sink. He found the sketchbook on the corner of the counter—leather-bound, its edges frayed from months of use—and slid it into his satchel. He lifted Niran's hand and kissed the inside of his wrist, feeling the slight pulse beneath the skin. "I'll see you this afternoon, love."
Niran smiled, reaching up to brush the back of his neck. "Be careful on campus. And get a jacket—the wind picks up after lunch."
With a final squeeze of the fingers, Ekan turned to leave. He paused at the door, scanning the living room: a row of potted orchids blooming in tiny clay pots, a framed photograph of him and Niran sharing custard-filled buns at the old market in Chiang Mai, and the small Buddha statue he'd inherited from his grandmother. On the shelf beside it, he'd tucked a new journal, still blank. He planned to inscribe memories of this morning—every flutter of Niran's eyelashes, every taste of congee—before the day rendered them ordinary.
Outside, the alley hummed with activity: mothers herding their children to school, bicycle taxis weaving through traffic, and the aroma of lemongrass soup drifting on the breeze. Ekan hoisted his satchel higher and set off toward the skytrain station, lost in thought about perspective lines and rooftop silhouettes.
At the university, Ekan's classmates greeted him with laughter and backslaps. They clustered under a canopy of mango trees, where shafts of sunlight slipped through leaves mottled with age spots. He exchanged sketches with Supitcha, a classmate from Nan Province who drew intricate Lanna carvings; with Arun, whose charcoal renderings of canal boats looked like they might float off the page. They argued over shading techniques and the way the city's sprawl collided with the ancient temples buried between skyscrapers.
In Professor Jirasak's studio, Ekan set up his easel before the print he'd made of Wat Ratchanatdaram—gold-gilded rooftops fanning out like lotus petals, shining against a sky the color of faded indigo. He shaded the base of the temple's iron ceiling, trying to capture the interplay of light and shadow on metal sprayed with rust. The professor moved between easels, offering quiet praise or gentle guidance: "Remember, Ekan, every line must reflect the breath of the building, not just its form."
As he worked, Ekan's mind drifted back to Niran's smile, sealing a paper umbrella over a bowl of mango sticky rice last week at Chatuchak Market. He recalled the first time he realized love could feel like sunlight warming every corner of your soul. A faint tremor ran through him—a whisper of premonition he chalked up to too many sleepless nights.
At noon, the class broke for lunch. Ekan walked with Arun down to the canteen, passing vendors selling stir-fried morning glory and bowls of boat noodles topped with pig's blood jelly. He bought a fragrant bowl of tom yum seafood—hot, sour, salty, sweet in perfect harmony—and found a seat beneath a ceiling fan that threatened to sputter to a halt. He lifted the lid of his container, inhaled the steam, and closed his eyes. With every spoonful, he felt gratitude swell in his chest. Moments like this—hot soup on a sweaty day, friends chatting about the minutiae of design, the certainty of going home to Niran—were the reasons he'd chosen art.
Supitcha waved from across the table, holding up a sheet of rice paper covered in brush-painted calligraphy. "Look, I'm getting the strokes right at last."
Ekan leaned in, admiring the graceful curves of each character. He felt a buzz of joy for his friend, then reached into his pocket to check his phone. Three texts from Niran: one with a playful heart emoji, another reminding him to buy pineapple on his way home, and a third—a photo of the blank journal, captioned, "Waiting for your thoughts."
He typed a quick reply—"Missing you already. Pineapple secured."—and slipped his phone back into his pocket. Across the courtyard, a group of freshmen chased a soccer ball, their laughter echoing off concrete walls. Overhead, a lone hawk scanned the campus quad.
Ekan's heart stuttered for no discernible reason. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, willing the sudden dizziness to pass. When he opened them, the sky seemed sharper—the blue more electric, the edges of clouds more defined. The world felt hyperreal, as though he'd stepped into one of his own drawings come to life.
He shook out his shoulders and took another spoonful of soup. At that moment, he couldn't have imagined what waited beyond the horizon. He had no inkling of the dark currents swirling beneath the surface of his peaceful routine—of the mystery that would rend his life asunder, leaving his body missing, his family grieving, and love hanging in limbo.
But for now, he sat with friends under a sputtering fan, savoring hot tom yum, and looking forward to an afternoon sketching gold-leaf spires, and to returning home where another morning's light would wait to greet him. And in that simple, perfect moment, nothing seemed uncertain except the breath in his lungs—and even that felt utterly assured.