The Stranger with No Smile

While we were sitting on the mat, snacking on dried mango and laughing over Mayuree's latest reel idea, I had this sudden urge — a hunch, really — to snap a few portraits of Mâe.

She shook her head, already trying to shield her face with her hand. "No, Ian. Not now, I look messy," she said in Thai, half-laughing.

But I smiled and lifted the camera anyway. "Just one, Mâe. For me."

She rolled her eyes but let me take the shot. It was one of those moments where the light hit just right — her smile soft, the sea behind her glowing in golden light, and her hand gently resting on the edge of the picnic mat. I knew, instantly, it would be one of my favorite photos of her.

Then Mayuree nudged me. "Hey, we should get a photo of all three of us."

"Yeah," I said, standing up and dusting sand from my jeans. "But we need someone to take it."

I scanned the beach — couples, kids, tourists… and then I saw him.

A tall guy, maybe in his late twenties, walking alone. He was dressed neatly — beige linen shirt, dark slacks rolled just above the ankles, sunglasses hanging from his shirt pocket. He looked like he stepped out of a minimalist fashion ad. Calm, composed… and totally expressionless.

Still, I waved and called out, "Phi! Phi! Can you help us snap a few photos?"

He stopped, turned slowly.

And yes — he is handsome. Sharp jawline, slightly sunburnt nose, hair tousled by the breeze. But not a single smile. Just a quiet, curious look.

He nodded once.

"Thank you! Just a few, yeah?" I said as I handed him the camera.

He took it carefully, adjusted his stance like he'd done this a hundred times. No chit-chat, no small talk. Just click-click-click. Quick, clean shots.

When he handed the camera back, I smiled and fished into the snack basket.

"Here," I said, holding out a Kit Kat bar. "For you."

He took it, glanced down at it, then looked at me — then at Mayuree and Mâe.

And then, strangely, he thanked them.

"Khob khun krub, mae... nong," he said softly.

And without another word, he turned and walked away.

I blinked. "Mate… what's your problem?"

Mayuree burst out laughing. "He's probably shy."

"Or dramatic," I muttered. "Like he's walking off to his own indie film soundtrack."

But as I looked down at the camera screen, flipping through the photos he took, I couldn't help but admit… he had an eye. The angles, the light, the way we looked — it was perfect.

Maybe he wasn't so weird after all.

Or maybe… he'd be back.

The Tide Turns
I glanced at my phone — 4:56 PM.

The sun was lowering, orange spilling across the sky like melted sherbet. I nudged Mayuree gently.

"Let's go home," I said.

But Mâe, who had been quietly watching the waves for a while now, spoke up, her voice soft but steady:"Just a few more minutes."

Mayuree and I looked at each other, then at her.

"Okay, Mâe," I said, smiling.

Then I turned to Mayuree. "Stay here. I just want to walk for a bit — enjoy the sunset."

She nodded. "Don't go too far. Be back soon."

I gave her a quick two-finger salute and started walking down the shoreline, camera slung over my shoulder. The air was warm, the light just golden enough to make everything feel cinematic.

About ten minutes in, I reached a stone viewpoint that jutted into the sea. It was crowded — unusually so. People were standing like they'd just spotted a K-drama finale being filmed. Phones up. Eyes wide. Excitement thick in the air.

I smiled, curious. As I got closer, I noticed him — him — the tall, rude guy from earlier. Right in the center.

Except this time, he wasn't quiet. He was surrounded by girls — and guys — shouting, "Phi! Phi kaa! Over here!"

Snap. Snap. Snap. Everyone was taking photos like he was some rare bird on a runway.

And then it clicked.

That wasn't just a good-looking guy who passed by our picnic.

He was a celebrity.

I didn't know what kind — actor? model? influencer? But the way people treated him… it was clear. He was someone.

I was still processing it when my phone buzzed — and everything inside me shattered.

Mayuree.Crying. "Phi! Come now! Mâe passed out! She's not waking up!"

I froze. My vision blurred. My breath shortened.

Panic surged up like a tide inside me. My legs moved before my mind could keep up. I ran. Fast. Barefoot, breathless, the camera bouncing against my chest.

By the time I got back, I saw them.

Mayuree on her knees, shaking Mâe, tears down her face. Mâe lying motionless on the sand. Her favorite pink scarf was slipping off her shoulder.

I dropped to the ground, screaming her name."Mâe! Mâe! Wake up! Please!"

My voice cracked. My chest tightened. The world spun. The familiar pull of a panic attack — stronger than ever.
I didn't notice who was around. Didn't hear anything but my own heartbeat crashing in my ears.

But someone stepped in. Cut through the crowd.Pushed gently between me and Mayuree. Took control. It was him. The same guy. The one who hadn't even smiled at me earlier.

He knelt beside Mâe, checked her pulse, called someone — or maybe spoke to someone nearby. I can't remember.
I blacked out.

Hospital Room
White walls. Cold chair. IV beeping somewhere behind me.

I opened my eyes, still in shock. The doctor stood near the door, voice low and expression unreadable.

"Please call your father now," he said. "This is important."

I looked over at Mayuree, whose hands were trembling as she dialed.

30 minutes later, Dad arrived — face drawn, shirt still creased from the drive.

"What happened?" he asked, voice breaking.

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

I looked at Mayuree instead.

Because honestly?

I didn't remember a thing.

The Waiting Room

The fluorescent lights above us flickered softly, humming against the silence that had settled in the hospital hallway. My leg wouldn't stop bouncing. My hands were cold and clammy.

Then the doctor reappeared.

"You're the husband?" he asked.

My dad stood, nodded slowly. "Yes. Yes, I am."

"Please come with me." And just like that, they disappeared behind the double doors.

Mayuree and I sat in silence, hands tightly clasped, her fingers trembling in mine. My heart was pounding again — too fast, too loud — like it was trying to break free from my chest.

We waited, and waited.

Minutes felt like hours. Then, finally, the door opened.

Dad walked out.

His face — it didn't look like him. It was pale, sunken, as if the life had drained out with each step he took. His shoulders sagged like they couldn't carry the weight of what he had just heard.

"Pà?" I said, standing slowly. "What did they say?"

Mayuree rushed forward first, grabbing his arm. "Pà, tell us. What happened? What did they say?"

He looked at her, then at me.

And then he said the words I never thought I'd hear.

"I'm… I'm sorry. She's leaving us."

Everything inside me shattered.

"No…" I whispered.

My breath caught in my throat. My chest tightened like iron hands were squeezing it shut.

"No, Mâe… no…"

My knees buckled. I dropped to the cold hospital floor.

"You can't do this now! Not now! Please, Pà, do something! Call someone! She can't—she can't go yet!"

Tears blurred everything. I was screaming now — or maybe I wasn't. I couldn't hear anything except my own voice begging, crying, breaking.

"No, Mâe! No! Don't leave me—!" Then everything went black.

The Last Light

When I came back to my senses, I found myself sitting beside her hospital bed. Machines beeped softly in the background. Tubes and wires snaked from her frail body to blinking monitors. My hands trembled as I reached for hers — still warm, still here.

But seeing her like that — pale, weak, depending on machines to stay alive — broke me. I started sobbing again, quietly this time, but uncontrollably. I felt helpless. Miserable.

My father stood across the room. The strongest man I've ever known… was crying. Silent tears ran down his face as he stared at the woman he built his life with.

Mayuree sat in the corner, head down, arms wrapped around herself, crying in that breathless way like she was afraid if she made a sound, it would become real.

The doctor came in, quiet, respectful.

"If she wakes up," he said softly, "please… have a good conversation with her. We don't know what will happen next."

Hours passed. None of us moved much. Just sat with her, watching every breath she took. Praying.

Then… her eyes fluttered open.

"Mâe…" I leaned in, eyes blurring with tears again. "Mâe, I miss you."

She turned to me slowly, a faint smile touching her lips.

"Me too… my baby," she whispered.

Then, with effort, she added, "Can we… get a family picture? Snap it… with your camera…"

I choked on a sob, holding her hand tighter.

"Yes, Mâe. We can. We will," I said, smiling through tears. "We'll take so many after you get better."

She nodded gently, her eyes already beginning to close again. Preparing herself. Maybe for more sleep. Maybe for more than that.

We didn't want to think about it.

The next day, Dad and Mayuree both took leave from work. We weren't sure how many days we had, but we wanted to make each one count. I brought all my camera gear to the hospital — every lens, every battery. I wanted to capture every smile, every breath, every blink.

We took photos in the hallway, on the hospital balcony, even at the small garden outside when the doctor allowed her fresh air.

She smiled in all of them.

Days one to six.

Hope felt stronger.

That morning of day seven, I went home quickly to grab more clothes for all of us. We were planning to stay longer that day, maybe play her favorite Thai songs, maybe talk about future trips.

Around 10:13 AM, I rushed back into the hospital, camera bag still on my shoulder.

But as I turned the corner near her room, I saw them — the doctor, the nurses — standing outside.
Something felt wrong.

I ran.

"Wait, please," a nurse said, gently pushing me back. "We're doing our best."

I froze.

The walls blurred again. My throat clenched. I called Dad.

"Pà… come now. Fast. Something's happening."

He and Mayuree arrived twenty minutes later. None of us spoke. We just stood there. Waiting.

Praying.

The door opened.

And we knew. Even before he spoke.

The doctor looked at us with a face I'll never forget — tired, gentle, full of sorrow.

"I'm sorry," he said. "She's no more."

After She Left

The hospital walls that had once held our fear now held only silence.

I remember my father dropping to his knees — not dramatically, not loudly — just… collapsing. Like something inside him finally let go. He wept into his hands, the same hands that had always been too steady to shake.

Mayuree didn't say a word. She stood frozen, like she hadn't heard it properly. Her mouth slightly open, her eyes wide. But no tears came for a long moment. She just stared at the floor.

Me? I couldn't breathe.

It was like my lungs had shut down. My heart beat out of rhythm, my hands trembled. I backed against the cold wall, then slid down, curling in on myself.

"Mâe…" Just her name. That's all I could say.

They let us see her one last time before they took her away.

She looked… peaceful.

Like she'd fallen asleep to the sound of waves. That same softness was on her face — the kind she wore whenever she watched me photograph sunsets, or when she listened to Mayuree talk about makeup, or when Pà told one of his silly, too-long stories.

I placed her favorite pink scarf beside her hands. Tucked it in. I didn't want her to feel cold.

I whispered, "We'll take that picture someday… in another life."

The Funeral
Thai and Western traditions met in the way we laid her to rest. We dressed in white, as is custom — not black — because white meant purity, peace, a final freedom from suffering. Monks chanted prayers that floated into the air like smoke, carrying our grief to wherever souls go when they leave us behind.

We offered food. We burned incense. We bowed our heads and prayed.

Family friends came. Even neighbors who hadn't visited in years showed up. They brought flowers, warm hugs, and sometimes just silence — the kind that said, I don't know what to say, but I'm here.

But me… I sat beside her until the very end.

Even after the chants stopped and the last person left, I remained next to her. My knees ached. My heart was hollow. But something in me said — don't move. Maybe it was her voice. Or just the echo of it.

I think… I think she would've wanted me there.

After
The night passed. And we returned to the house we had always called home.

But it wasn't the same.

We tried to be normal, whatever that meant. But everything was off balance, like the gravity in the house had changed.

There was an empty chair at the dinner table.

The jasmine tea sat untouched in the pantry. Nobody brewed it anymore.

Her favorite shawl still hung on the back of the living room chair — untouched, undisturbed.

I spent hours sitting by the window, just staring.

What did I use to do when Mâe was here?

What did I do for myself?

I couldn't remember.

I think that's what grief is — not just pain. It's confusing. It's the rewiring of your life after someone takes a piece of it with them.

Quiet Changes
Mayuree moved back home for a while. She said it was temporary — but we both knew she just couldn't stand being in her condo alone. Not yet. Every night, I'd hear her crying softly in the room across the hall. Some nights I'd knock. Some nights I wouldn't.

Dad… he changed, too. He started taking long walks every evening. Always at the same time — just after dinner, right when the sky turned gold. He'd come home with red eyes and quiet sighs.

We all grieved differently.

Me? I stopped photographing for a bit.

The camera sat on my desk, untouched. Covered in dust, like it too was mourning.

A New Light
One night, during dinner, the silence between us felt heavier than usual. The sound of cutlery tapping against plates filled the room, but no one really tasted the food.

I put down my spoon and took a deep breath.

"I want to pick up the camera again," I said, my voice soft, almost hesitant. "And… try something. I know Mâe would love it."

The moment I said her name out loud, my throat tightened. My eyes welled up, and the tears came before I could stop them. It wasn't just sadness. It was something else — like a fragile kind of happiness trying to break through the grief.

Both Dad and Mayuree paused.

Then, slowly, they nodded.

Mayuree reached out and placed her hand on mine. "She'd be proud of you, Ian," she said, her voice trembling.

Dad didn't say much — he never really did. But he gave me a firm, steady look and just said, "Go for it, son."
That was enough.