The city woke first. Cars already threading the narrow Bangkok streets, the heat promising to arrive early. Aye stood by the counter in his kitchen, barefoot, the tiles cool against his skin. The clock ticked faintly, the same second hand that had been off-beat for months. He cracked two eggs into a bowl, whisked them mechanically, poured them into a pan that hissed and spat. The smell filled the air—familiar, ordinary, too clean. He stirred once, twice, then turned off the stove before the eggs were done.
He plated them anyway. A slice of toast, butter measured exactly to the edge. The television played a morning talk show on mute, the hosts' smiles looping silently as subtitles crawled across the bottom. Aye sat down, fork in hand. The first bite was perfect—texture, salt, warmth—but halfway through chewing, he stopped. The taste disappeared. Not bitter, not bad. Just gone. He set the fork down, reached for water, and swallowed slowly. Nothing tasted wrong. Nothing tasted right either.
The light shifted through the curtains. A phone buzzed once on the table—work notification, nothing personal. He ignored it, rose, and began washing the plate he hadn't finished. The tap ran too long. He turned it off only when the sink started to steam. He wiped his hands on a towel, then caught his reflection in the microwave door. It wasn't the same face he saw in photos. Older, thinner maybe, but not sick. Just tired in a way that didn't leave.
He opened the fridge and let the cool air hit his face. The sound of the door sealing shut when he tested it made him flinch. Habit. Ton used to do that. Slam it once, open it again because he'd forgotten what he wanted. Sometimes Aye still opened it for no reason, just to hear that familiar suction of air. He smiled faintly at the thought, the kind that warmed and hurt at the same time. He picked up the little magnet-clipped shopping list Ton had scribbled on years ago—no longer relevant, still living on the door like a stamp of permission to keep going.
Outside, the city moved. Inside, the apartment stayed still.
He dressed neatly—a pressed shirt, jeans, the watch Ton had given him five birthdays ago. He set his laptop on the table and opened the morning dashboard for work. Messages stacked in a polite tower: supplier updates, a request to consult on a menu revision, a scheduling note from a junior staffer trying to impress him by cc-ing six people who didn't need the email. Aye typed with steady fingers. "Thank you. Remove the third garnish; it undercuts the acid. Confirm delivery by Thursday. Keep the sour pork off the children's menu." He paused over that last line, mouth twitching at the memory of Ton trying to convince a four-year-old kid that nam[1] was candy. "It is candy for adults," Ton had whispered, stage-serious, and Aye had laughed until he snorted. He typed again, corrected "children's" to "kids," because the softer word felt kinder in a thread full of logistics.
A small notification popped up from his calendar: Weekly check-in. He opened a blank note. He didn't write much, never did. Just four lines: slept okay; woke up early; eggs tasted like nothing[2]; still here. He added a fifth line—water intake—because Dr Meena would ask, and because checking the box gave him something to win.
A knock sounded from the hall—two quick, one slow. A familiar pattern. He opened the door to find Mali, his neighbour from two doors down, in a floral house dress and slippers, holding a plastic container wrapped in a tea towel.
"I made too much," she lied, like she always did.
"You always make too much," he answered, and took the container carefully. Sticky rice with mango, the good kind, heavy with coconut milk that clung to the sides. "Khob khun krub, Phi."
"Put it in the fridge if you won't eat now." She peered past him and clucked her tongue. "You work too much in there alone. Come water my plants later. They miss a handsome face."
"They miss your gossip," he said, and she laughed, pleased.
"Maybe both." She squeezed his elbow. "You look fine today."
"Do I?"
"Mm." She tipped her head. "You've got your shirt tucked in like you mean it."
"That's the only thing I mean," he said lightly.
"Liar. Go before I start giving real advice." She patted his cheek, then shuffled away, her slippers whispering over tile. He put the mango in the fridge and closed the door slowly so it wouldn't slam. The suction thumped anyway, soft and final.
He left the apartment with his bag, walked down the stairs instead of taking the lift. Two floors below, a teenager sat on the steps with a guitar, fingers picking something he hadn't quite learned yet. Aye slowed. "You're almost there," he said. The boy blinked up, surprised. "Which part?" Aye hummed the bar and tapped the beat on the railing. The kid adjusted, tried again, the chord landing cleaner. "There," Aye said, and kept walking. The boy called after him, "Khob khun krub, Lung!" Aye waved without turning.
The counselling centre wasn't far; he liked walking there. The noise of traffic kept him tethered. Motorbikes braided through lorries. Vendors dragged metal shutters open with a groan that echoed down the block. A monk in orange robes stepped lightly along the pavement, bowl tucked to his chest. Aye folded his palms as they passed each other and felt the small reset of ritual in his shoulders.
By the time he arrived, the waiting area was half full. A wall fan chopped the air. The receptionist lifted a hand in greeting without looking away from her screen. "Morning, Khun Thepnakorn[3]. Dr Meena's expecting you."
He sat for a moment, tracing the pattern in the floor tiles with his shoe. A father across the room kept a toddler entertained with a keychain, letting him shake it and pretend the sound was a bell. The toddler laughed, sharp and delighted. Aye felt it like a tug in his chest, both ache and gratitude. When his name was called, he breathed once, steady, and stood.
Dr Meena's office smelled faintly of lavender and antiseptic. She sat cross-legged on her chair, tablet in hand, glasses perched low. "Aye," she said, bright. "Right on time. As usual."
"You'd worry if I wasn't," he said, settling into the chair across from her.
"True," she said, tapping her screen. "You'd be the first patient I'd track down personally."
He chuckled softly. "Wouldn't surprise me."
"Alright," she said, leaning back. "How's the week been?"
He hesitated. "Normal."
"Define normal."
"Work, eat, sleep. Try again."
"Hmm." She tilted her head, examining him over the rim of her glasses. "You say that like you're describing someone else's routine."
"Feels like it sometimes."
She gave him a small smile, patient but pointed. "Are you still taking your meds?"
"I am, P'Mee."
"Regularly?"
"Yes."
She raised a brow. "You sure?"
He looked up at the ceiling for a second, considering whether honesty would cost him anything he couldn't pay. "I'm sure enough."
"Sure enough," she repeated, jotting something down. "You know I only ask because I've known you long enough to tell when you start skipping."
Aye smirked. "And what tells you that?"
"You start talking like an actor trying to sound casual," she said. "Too even. Too neat. Like you ironed your sentences."
He laughed quietly. "Maybe I should go into acting then."
"Don't think you'd like the food on set."
"Probably."
Her tone softened. "Any dizziness? Fainting? You eating enough?"
He shrugged, then corrected it into a nod. "Trying to."
"Trying isn't eating."
He nodded once, conceding. "I know."
She waited. The seconds padded out, gentle and stubborn. He watched a dust mote turn slow in the light, then drew a breath.
"I cooked eggs this morning," he said. "Ate two bites. Tasted like... air."
"Air doesn't hurt," she said.
"It doesn't help either."
"Did you eat something later?"
"Water," he said. "And a neighbor ambushed me with mango. I put it in the fridge. I'll try later."
"You can try now, after," she said. "Just a few bites. The point isn't finishing. It's not letting the table be empty."
He nodded, grateful for instructions that were small enough to hold.
"You know my baby brother Tawan, right?" he said suddenly. "I told you about him before."
"I remember," she said. "The one who calls you annoying out of love."
"That's the one." He laughed, genuine this time. "He's not a baby anymore, but I like to treat him like one. Always will."
"You miss him."
"I see him," Aye said, "just not as often as I'd like. He's building his own life. That's good. That's what I wanted."
"You taught him that," she said. "The building."
"He taught me how to tease without making it sharp," he said, smiling. "Ton taught both of us how to love and then keep loving when it was hard."
Meena's mouth softened. "It's wonderful, the way you talk about them. You, Ton, and Tawan—you loved each other so openly. Even hearing you now, I can feel that love." She let the words sit, then asked, gentler, "But why aren't you doing enough for yourself, Aye? You don't want Tawan to worry—is that it?"
He shook his head, smiling faintly. "That's part of it."
"Only part?"
His voice came out rougher. "I don't want him to see me in a morgue. Or under white sheets. I can't let him go through that twice."
Meena's pen stilled. "Aye..."
He kept going, quiet but steady. "When I was in the hospital, they told him I might not make it. You remember that. The way he looked at me when I woke up." He pressed his fingers together, knuckles whitening. "I can't give him that look again."
She exhaled softly. "You've been carrying that promise a long time."
"It keeps me upright," he said. "Some days that has to be enough."
"It's not enough if you vanish inside it," she said gently. "If staying alive becomes the only thing, you stop living."
He met her eyes for the first time. "I know, P'Mee. I'm not over it. I'm not ignoring it. I'm just... living with it. One spoonful at a time."
"Good," she said. "Then let's talk spoons. What helped this week."
"Routine," he said. "Alarms. Lists. I watered P'Mali's plants when she wasn't home because she pretends she forgets, but actually she wants someone to talk to on the landing."
"What else?"
"I walked here," he said. "Did the five senses thing[4] you taught me. Five I see: the monk in orange, the sign with the missing letter, a dog sleeping under a truck, a boy with a guitar, a bird stealing a piece of bread. Four I hear: scooters, someone arguing softly about a bill, the temple bell, the fan. Three I feel: sweat at my neck, coins in my pocket, the strap of my bag. Two I smell: petrol, pandan from a stall. One I taste..." He let out a breath. "Water."
"Water counts," she said.
"It felt like something," he said. "Not nothing."
She nodded. "That's living. That's more than a promise."
He rolled his shoulders, small relief moving through them like a cautious animal. "I still hate rice porridge."
"Then don't eat rice porridge," she said dryly. "You're not being punished. Try soft fruit. Try soup with salt. Try making the kitchen smell like something you love."
"Ton loved garlic," he said, half smile curling. "He kept apologising to my breath."
"Garlic is good," she said. "Let it fill the walls."
"I'll buy garlic," he said, and felt the decision land like a small brick in a wall he could lean on.
She watched him a moment. "I'm going to ask a question you're going to want to laugh at."
"Ask."
"What would you like to feel more of this week?"
He looked at the window and chose not to laugh. "Satisfied," he said. "Not happy. Just... satisfied by something small."
"Name a small thing."
"The mango," he said, surprising himself. "If I taste it."
"Text me if you do," she said, tapping her tablet. "You know I like being right."
"You love it," he said.
"I love you not collapsing," she countered. "Okay. Before you make me overflow with liquids in my eyes, let me say this: I know you're trying. And I appreciate that you haven't stopped. Continue to take care of yourself—for you, and for Tawan. Deal?"
He nodded. "Deal."
"Good. Now, I'm busy for the next week, so how about we meet in two?"
"Two's fine," he said. "You'll miss me."
"Absolutely not," she said, laughing as she stood. "Now get out before I actually start crying."
He rose, saluted with two fingers. "Bye, P'Mee."
"Bye, Aye. Eat real food."
He smiled and left, the sound of her laugh trailing faintly behind him down the corridor.
Outside, the sky had turned a pale gold. The streets smelled of petrol and skewers of pork fat blistering over charcoal, the kind Ton used to drag him out for. Aye walked home slowly, the weight of the day settling somewhere behind his ribs. He stopped at a fruit stall and bought two mangoes despite already having dessert in his fridge. He bought garlic, too, and a handful of bird's-eye chilies that made his fingers tingle through the plastic. The seller told him it was too hot for chilies today. "Never too hot," Aye replied, and the woman grinned like he'd passed a test she gave strangers for fun.
At home, he opened the windows just enough to let the traffic hum in. He set a small pot on the stove and warmed oil until it shimmered. He added minced garlic and watched it go from pale to gold, the smell rising like a remembered song. He tipped in a splash of fish sauce, a whisper of sugar, squeezed a lime with his wrist turned just so the seeds didn't fall in. He cooked rice, rinsed it carefully, shook it dry, let it steam under a towel. His hands knew what to do even when his mouth didn't.
He plated lunch without making it pretty—rice, stir-fried morning glory, a few slivers of grilled pork he'd frozen and reheated slowly so it didn't turn rubber. He sat. He took one bite. The garlic hit first, then the bright of the lime. He chewed, counted to eight, swallowed. He set the fork down and waited for the wave of nothing to wash everything out. It didn't. He took another bite, smaller. He didn't finish. He didn't need to. He put a check mark on his note: ate lunch, tasted garlic, not nothing.
His phone buzzed. A message from the junior staffer: "Confirmed the Thursday delivery. Removed the garnish like you said. Should we add a mild option Phi?" Aye typed: "Yes. Make it honest, not bland." He added a smiley face without overthinking the small round softness of it, then opened his work calendar and slotted thirty minutes in the afternoon for a site call. He liked planning his own breathing room, even if he didn't always remember to step into it.
He washed dishes and then, because he needed something that made noise, he vacuumed. The sound drowned out the small chattering thoughts that came in clusters. He rearranged two plants on the sill so they wouldn't lean toward the same patch of sun like jealous siblings. He folded laundry he'd left in a chair for days, smoothing each T-shirt over his thigh until the fabric lay flat. He put Ton's blue hoodie back in the wardrobe where he kept it on a high shelf, not to avoid it, but to honour it like a book he wanted to keep clean.
By late afternoon, the heat settled into the bones of the building. He lay on the couch and let a fan wash over his ankles. He closed his eyes and practiced the stupid ice trick Meena had taught him in the worst months—hold a cube in your palm until your attention returns to your skin. He didn't have ice. He held a cold water bottle instead, watched condensation gather in little droplets that ran and merged and ran again.
He dozed for fifteen minutes; woke to the small panic of waking where you fell. He breathed through it, sat up, and drank the rest of the water. The afternoon light had turned the room the color of old honey. He reached for his phone and scrolled through photos without tapping any. There were the three of them at the beach, Ton pretending to be annoyed at sand on his feet. There was a blurry video of Tawan laughing with a mouth full of noodles, swatting the camera. There was a close-up of a hand on a steering wheel, his own, a vein he recognised that always stood up a little when he was happy. He put the phone face down and watched the dust move in the air as if it had somewhere important to be.
Evening leaned in slowly. He stood, stretched, and went to the kitchen again. Rice, grilled fish, a small plate this time. He cut one of the mangoes and realized it was overripe, too sweet for his mouth tonight. He wrapped the slices for tomorrow. He opened the fridge and took out Mali's dessert instead. He sat with the container and a small spoon. First taste: coconut first, then the soft give of rice, then the brightness of fruit. It stayed. He put the spoon down and smiled at the miracle of it—that a thing could taste like itself.
He considered texting Meena to admit she was right. He didn't, because he knew she would see him in two weeks and make the joke herself. He made a cup of tea and sat at the table with the cup cradled in both hands. He thought about prayer in the broadest way—not as words to a god he didn't know how to picture, but as the small acts that kept him inside his own body. Boiling water. Choosing fruit. Wiping a counter. Opening a window and letting air change the room.
He washed the spoon immediately after he set it down, because some habits were anchors and some were superstitions and some were both. He dried it and returned it to the drawer and found himself counting the slots: four large spoons, three small, two forks he hated because their tines were too short. He corrected the order, then laughed at himself for caring.
The apartment was dim now, city lights flickering through the window. He leaned against the sink, head bowed, listening to the hum of the refrigerator. It almost sounded like breathing. He opened a cupboard and took out a small incense holder he hadn't used in months, a ceramic thing Ton had bought from a market because the vendor had told him it was shaped like a moon. It wasn't. It looked like a misshapen pebble. Ton had loved it anyway. Aye lit a stick, watched the smoke curl into the kitchen's stale corners, and carried it to the window. He didn't make a speech. He just let the scent thread the air until it felt like the room had exhaled.
He walked to the window, the skyline stretching beyond. The river in the distance took light and broke it into easy pieces. Motorbikes buzzed like patient bees. For a moment, he saw movement beside him—Ton, half-transparent in memory, standing where he used to, arm around his waist, pressing a kiss against his cheek, then his jaw, then the corner of his mouth. Aye closed his eyes, smiling through the ache.
"I'll take care of myself, my love," he said, not as a vow that would punish him if he failed, but as a soft agreement with the life that still kept arriving without asking permission.
The incense thinned to a pale tail of smoke. He set the stick in the holder and stepped back. The fridge light blinked off behind him. His phone screen glowed on the table, lock-screen photo of three faces—Ton, Aye, Tawan—caught in a curve of afternoon sun from a year that already felt like story. The timestamp read 23:58.
He walked to the sink again and turned the tap on just long enough to hear the sound he'd been avoiding all day, the small silver rush that reminded him there were things that moved without his help. He turned it off. He put a glass upside down on a towel and watched one last drop run to the rim and disappear.
He looked once more at the reflection in the window—his own outline now, alone but steady. He placed his palm on the cool glass, then let it fall.
"I guess it's time to sleep," he murmured.
He turned off the kitchen light with a soft click and crossed the living room in the half-dark, the fan turning lazily overhead, the air still touched with garlic and coconut. In the bedroom, he pulled the sheet over his legs and lay on his side facing the window so the city could be a nightlight. He didn't pray. He didn't count backward. He just breathed, slow, and let the day loosen from his shoulders one thread at a time. Outside, Bangkok breathed its endless breath. Inside, the air was quiet, and for the many times he wished it wasn't, Aye let the silence stay.
[1] nam (น้ำ / น้ำเปรี้ยว / fermented pork context)nam here refers to a sour, fermented pork dish (often nam tok–style flavours). ton joking that it’s “candy for adults” is humour — it’s sharp, sour, intense, and very much not child-friendly.
[2] this is a real and common experience in eating disorders, depression, and prolonged grief. food may not taste bad — it just feels blank or muted. the focus isn’t finishing meals, but maintaining connection to eating without punishment or pressure.
[3] khun (คุณ) khun is a polite, neutral honorific in thai, used in professional or respectful settings (similar to “mr/ms” or politely addressing someone by name). it’s commonly used with doctors, colleagues, or people you don’t share intimacy with. in this case 'Khun Thepnakorn' Thepnakorn being Aye's surname.
[4] the exercise aye describes (5 things you see, 4 hear, 3 feel, 2 smell, 1 taste) is a common grounding technique used in therapy for anxiety, dissociation, grief, and eating disorders. it helps bring attention back into the body and present moment without forcing emotions to change.