His dorm room was quiet, dim except for the blinking green light on his table clock. Sheets clung to his sweat-soaked skin, his chest heaving in shallow, uneven breaths.

With a trembling hand, he turned on the bedside lamp. The soft golden glow chased away the shadows but not the unease coiling tight in his chest.

"It’s just a dream," he whispered, voice unsteady. "Just a dream..."

But he knew better.

It wasn't the first time.

He could never remember the whole thing, just fragments — flickers of light and scent and sound. A river shimmering beneath moonlight. The sweet, heavy scent of frangipani. A slow descent into water. And always, just before waking, the solemn toll of a temple bell echoing through his bones.

He glanced down and found his fingers clenched tight around his sheets, white-knuckled. As if refusing to let go of something — or someone.

A flash of lightning lit up the room, casting stark reflections on his cluttered desk: unfinished assignments, a tangled set of earphones, the gleam of a forgotten pick beside his guitar. His pale face stared back at him in the mirror — drawn, shaken, unfamiliar.

Tan sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The clock read 3:12 a.m. Too early for anything but too late for peace.

He stumbled into the bathroom. Cold water splashed against his face, a shock that brought him fully into the present. In the mirror, a pair of tired coal-black eyes met his. Messy brown hair fell over his forehead in damp clumps, his skin ghost-pale under the flickering light.

Tan Phongthawat, second-year student at Chulalongkorn University's Faculty of Music. The eldest son of a prestigious Bangkok family. Groomed for medicine or law, but stubborn enough to choose music. The compromise: he'd study music, but join the family business after graduation.

He lingered in the mirror's gaze, searching for answers he couldn't name, before returning to his room.

There, he buried himself in sheet music and assignments, fingers absently tapping rhythms as he stared at the blank music software on his laptop. A melody hovered at the edge of memory — haunting and familiar. Like a song he once knew but forgot the words to.

---

Morning crept in slowly. Gray light filtered through the curtains, dust motes dancing in the golden haze. Tan had fallen asleep again — this time slumped over his desk.

His phone buzzed loudly, vibrating against a pile of papers.

["Where the hell are you?"] came an exasperated voice. Phayu Rattanachai, or Yu — his best friend since high school. The sounds of a bustling hallway filled the background.

Tan blinked blearily at the clock. 8:47 a.m.

"Shit," he croaked, scrambling to his feet. "I'll be there in fifteen!" 

["You're gonna get chewed out. Don't expect me to cover for you again,"] Yu barked through the speaker.

Tan shoved his phone into his pocket and dashed into the bathroom. Five minutes later, he was tugging on a crisp white button-up, a little wrinkled, paired with fitted black trousers. His slightly crooked tie and disheveled hair gave him the typical "late but trying" look he wore most mornings.

The music faculty pin glinted on his chest as he stuffed loose papers into his backpack, grabbed a carton of milk from the mini-fridge, and rushed out the door.

He passed the mirror on the way to the elevator — tall, lean (about 185 cm), with fair skin and soft, messy bangs that constantly fell into his eyes. His uniform, like most things in his life, was just a little off-kilter.

The badge on his chest reminded him of what he was fighting for. Not perfection. Not approval. Just... music.

He climbed into his black sedan — his first big purchase, paid for with tutoring gigs and small performance fees — and sped off into traffic, which was, as always, its own special kind of hell.

---

By the time he slid into his seat in the lecture hall next to Yu, he was panting and slightly damp from rain.

"You seriously called me five times," he muttered, brushing damp bangs from his face.

"The professor's late. You're welcome." Yu grinned smugly. "I just saved you from a world of pain."

"Fine. Lunch is on me."

Yu immediately perked up, slinging an arm across Tan's shoulders. "Now you’re speaking my language."

Phayu "Yu" Rattanachai was shorter than Tan, with a wiry frame and a flair for the dramatic. His hair was always perfectly styled — slicked back today — and his uniform tailored to the point of vanity. Flamboyant, expressive, loyal to a fault. His family, liberal and supportive, had always encouraged him to pursue his dreams, however loud or glittery they may be.

Sometimes, Tan envied that. The freedom to just be.

"Oh, and guess what?" Yu said, eyes glued to his phone. "We're getting a transfer student. Mid-sem, too."

Tan raised an eyebrow. "Weird time to transfer."

"Right? Apparently, they're from somewhere outside Bangkok or something. Maybe family stuff? Anyway, Professor said he's introducing them today. If it's a girl, let's hope she's hot."

Tan laughed. "You say that, but I've never seen you date."

"I'm selective," Yu sniffed. "And complicated."

Before Tan could fire back, the door opened. The lecturer entered, followed by a boy — and the world seemed to pause.

He was a little shorter, maybe 178 cm, with unkempt jet-black hair that fell into his eyes, obscuring half his face. His skin was a light bronze, his expression distant. His uniform hung loose on his slight frame, sleeves a little too long, collar too wide — like he didn't quite belong in it.

But then he looked up — and his eyes met Tan's.

A jolt shot through Tan's chest.

He didn't know this boy.

And yet... he did.

There was a flicker of something — recognition? Grief? Memory? — in the boy’s gaze. Deep, aching sadness pooled in his eyes. A silent question, reaching across something bigger than time.

Tan's breath caught.

The boy looked away, turning toward the class.

"Hello everyone," he said softly. His voice was low, velvety. Like the opening note of a song long forgotten. "I'm Kla Rattanapisut. Nice to meet you."

Tan's world tilted.

Somewhere, buried deep in his bones — something stirred.