Granny was waiting for me that morning. In her palms lay a silver bowl filled with jasmine garlands, turmeric, and a folded red silk. She pressed it into my hands, her eyes steady.
"Carry this to the temple, Kael," she said. "And remember — devotion is not only what you give to the gods, but also what you carry in your heart."
I bowed slightly, though my heart throbbed elsewhere — beating toward the one I longed to see.
When I reached the temple courtyard, he was already there.
Anurak.
His robe was cream, a maroon sash embroidered with golden naga draped across his shoulder. The morning sun made him seem less like a man and more like a hymn.
"Good morning, Khun Kael," he greeted, voice calm.
"Good morning," I returned — but the words tasted shallow against the tide inside me.
We walked together toward the altar. I clutched the bowl tightly, wishing my other hand could close around his. My voice broke the silence, fragile as glass.
"Do chants always sound this… eternal?"
He glanced at me, a faint smile tugging his lips.
"Every chant is eternal if the heart remembers it. The sound fades, but the meaning lingers."
"I think… some meanings never fade," I whispered, almost too softly.
He looked at me for a moment longer, then turned back to the altar. The bells rang. The chants began.
Children's voices rose like morning birds, and his deeper tone wove through them. It wrapped around me until my own throat trembled with the urge to sing.
After prayers, the children bowed and scattered. Silence settled. Anurak gathered his books, stacking them with patient hands. I stood nearby, my heart pounding louder than the drums had.
"Your voice," he said suddenly, without looking up, "carried well. You've sung before, haven't you?"
"Perhaps… maybe somewhere in a life before?" I whispered — wishing the words meant more than they dared.
His eyes lifted then. For a heartbeat, the world hushed.
His gaze was kind — endlessly kind — the sort of kindness that soothes but never claims. Like the sun: warming the stone, but never lifting it into the sky.
My hand trembled.
It rose on its own, desperate and miserable, until my fingertips brushed his wrist. A touch so slight it could have been an accident.
But to me — it was an earthquake.
For a moment, I thought he might let it stay. The silence wrapped us, heavy and holy.
But then his gaze dropped, and his voice came soft — like rain extinguishing a flame.
"Hands carry many meanings, Kael. Be careful what you give away too easily."
Not harsh. Not cruel. But final — like a door that closes without a sound, leaving no wound except the echo of what could never be.
I withdrew my hand as though it had sinned.
My throat tightened. "Why?"
He looked at me slowly. Long. Quiet.
"It is not forbidden," he said at last. "But it is not always meant. What feels like a gift to you may be a burden to another."
I swallowed, desperate. "Then tell me, Anurak — was it a burden? This?" I lifted my hand slightly — though it hung in the air, lost between us.
His lips curved faintly — not in joy. More like sorrow disguised as calm.
"It is not a burden, Kael. But sometimes… even kindness can wound. And I cannot allow you to wound yourself on me."
His words settled like incense smoke — gentle. Suffocating.
I wanted to argue. To beg.
But the steadiness in his voice disarmed me. I lowered my hand, clutching my robe instead.
Still, my heart whispered rebelliously:
I will not stop trying. Not yet.
We walked back together — yet apart. The distance was no longer air, but ocean. Every step was a reminder of what my fingers had felt for only a breath.
That night, I sat with the offering bowl by my window. The jasmine inside had withered, its petals thin and fragile — like the part of me that had reached for his hand. Still, I held it close and whispered to myself:
"If the gods allow me one prayer, it will be this — that someday he will not only call my name, but mean it the way I dream he could."
I lingered there until the sky bruised into evening. The sound of frogs and crickets rose, filling the hollow places inside me.
Finally, I went downstairs, the faint light of the oil lamps spilling across the wooden floor.
Granny was waiting, peeling betel leaves with her careful hands. She glanced at me once, then twice — reading my silence the way only she could.
"You went early today," she said with a smile. "Did you sing?"
I nodded, forcing a smile. "A little."
Her eyes softened, and she patted the space beside her. I sat, placing the bowl between us. She touched the wilted jasmine gently.
"Flowers fade quickly," she murmured. "But their fragrance lingers on our hands long after. Do you know why?"
"Why?" My voice cracked.
"Because what is true never really leaves us. It only changes form." She leaned back, as if speaking to the night. "Music. Memory. Even people. They may feel far, but their meaning remains."
I pressed my lips together, wanting to tell her everything — the way his name had undone me, the way his hand slipped from mine, the ache still burning inside me. But the words stayed trapped, like birds in a cage.
So instead, I whispered, "I think… I understand."
She smiled — the kind that both comforts and unsettles — then returned to her betel leaves, humming a tune I half recognized.
Leaving me alone with silence.
That night, as I lay down to sleep, I clutched the bowl of faded jasmine to my chest. Its fragrance was faint, but enough to remind me of the warmth I had touched for only a breath.
Enough to keep the longing alive.