Now he stood frozen, eyes still locked on the place Tan had just vacated. The word — P'Chan — still hung in the air, whispering through the silence like a ghost from another life.

It didn't belong here. Not in this time. Not unless...

"Get a grip on yourself, Ai Kla," he reprimanded himself, "You're imagining things again."

He heard Yu saying something nearby, but the words came distorted, like a distant echo submerged underwater. His surroundings faded into a blur, dulled by confusion and shame.

Without a word, he left the room and wandered toward the dormitory. The walk was a haze, each step automatic. His body moved, but his mind drifted elsewhere — adrift like a leaf in a current, carried by memories he couldn't name.

As he reached his room and unlocked the door, his phone buzzed.

TheYuShow: Did you reach your room yet??

TheYuShow: Where are you 👀

TheYuShow: Are you free 🤨??

A string of messages spammed his chat followed by an incoming call. Kla stared at the screen for a second, then answered.

["Arrived at your dorm yet?"] Yu's voice blared through the speaker.

Kla pulled the phone away slightly and blinked. "Umm."

There was a beat of silence on Kla's end.

"Why did you call me?" he asked finally, voice flat.

Yu hesitated. ["Earlier, in the practice room... That was weird, right?"]

Kla didn't answer.

["I mean, the way Tan just left —"] Yu's voice lowered. ["Did something happen between you two?"]

"I don't know," Kla muttered, though guilt pulsed at his temples. "I didn't talk to him."

["He's not answering my messages or picking up my calls,"] Yu said. ["That's not like him."]

Kla frowned. "I'll try reaching out."

Yu went quiet, but the static in the silence felt... charged.

["You two seem close lately,"] Yu said after a moment, his tone more casual than his words. ["You and Tan."]

Kla blinked, surprised by the shift. "We're just... working on the song."

["Right. Just the song."]

It sounded simple, but the undercurrent in Yu's voice was unmistakable. Kla recognized it now — not quite anger, but something edged in it. Frustration. Maybe even jealousy.

Yu let out a small laugh, barely audible. ["Guess I'm just being overprotective. He's like a brother to me after all."]

"I'll let you know if I hear anything," Kla said softly, then ended the call before the weight of the conversation settled too thickly.

He stared at his phone screen, hesitant. Then, with a breath, he opened Tan's chat window and began typing.

kla: Yu said he's worried because he couldn't reach you.

The message was marked as read, but no reply came.

Kla set the phone down and exhaled. He didn't blame Tan for ignoring him. After what he'd said — after what he called him — he wouldn't know how to respond either.

Still, the silence hurt more than he'd expected.

To distract himself, he picked up his guitar and settled onto the floor. His fingers moved without thought, plucking a familiar sequence of notes that clung to his fingers like dew to petals. The room filled with the haunting progression — soft, searching, unfinished.

The melody wasn't just music. It was memory.

---

1820, House of Phra Wichianchai

Kla Wichianchai adjusted the sueng in his hands, his nerves as tight as the instrument's strings. His tutor was expected any moment, and his thoughts remained scattered from an earlier meeting with Khunying Chanthira.

She had been delighted upon hearing of their betrothal. Kla, on the other hand, had silently wished she'd object. But seeing her genuine joy, he'd resolved to do his duty. He'd fulfill every expectation. Perfectly.

A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts.

"Khun Chai Kla," Ruean, his loyal servant, said from the doorway. "Khun Ajarn is here, sir. He's speaking with Khun Than in the foyer."

Kla stood, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve. "I'll be right there. And Lung Ruean, prepare a tray of snacks for Ajarn."

He carried the sueng with him as he descended the wide, carved staircase. As he neared the foyer, he stopped short.

There, standing with his father, was the young man from the riverbank.

The young man whose name he didn't know. 

Composing himself, Kla stepped forward to stand beside his father.

"Kla," Phra Wichianchai said, "this is Chan Sermsak, eldest son of the royal musician. He'll be your sueng instructor from today."

Chan bowed gracefully. "I'm honored to be of service."

"I'll leave him in your hands, Ajarn Chan," Kla's father added. "Please take good care of him."

"Of course, Khun Phra," Chan replied. "You can count on me."

Chan's voice had a lilting warmth to it. It wrapped around Kla like silk — unassuming but impossible to ignore.

"I told you we'd meet again," Chan said, smile playing on his lips.

"You knew?" Kla asked, caught off guard.

Chan only smiled.

"Shall we begin our lesson, Khun Kla?"

Kla hesitated. "Would you mind... if we studied by the river instead?"

Chan blinked, then nodded slowly. "As you wish."

So their lessons began — twice a week by the banks of the Chao Phraya River. There, under the watchful eye of a blooming frangipani tree, melodies took shape. The sound of water blended with the soft thrum of strings. Under Chan's guidance, Kla learned faster than anyone expected.

But it wasn't just music he was learning.

Even as their hands danced over strings and staves, their eyes lingered. Their voices dropped the stiff formality of public life. It wasn't long before they referred to one another by the intimate terms of Phi and Nong — brother, beloved, equal.

One golden dusk, Chan sat beside Kla, playing a newly written melody. Halfway through, he stumbled — just a slight misstep in the rhythm.

"The tune is off, P'Chan," Kla said instinctively.

Chan stilled. Then, slowly, a proud smile spread across his face.

"N'Kla is right. Phi did make a mistake."

The words hung in the air like something sacred.

The wind shifted, and frangipani petals rained gently around them. The scent was sweet, calming. Kla wasn't sure who moved first — only that their foreheads met, then their lips.

It was soft. A beginning.

---

Present Day, Bangkok - XX Dorm

Kla blinked back into the present, breath shallow. The memory had hit him like a wave — warm, aching, undeniably real.

He touched his lips instinctively. His heart beat out a hollow rhythm in his chest.

How could it feel so real?

He shook his head, trying to dispel the lingering sensation. But the ache remained.

He reached for his notebook, eyes scanning the half-finished lyrics they'd been working on.

The lines seemed to mock him cruelly.

He had so much he wanted to tell Tan. About the dreams. The memories. The emotions that didn't make sense but refused to be ignored. He wanted to explain what he'd called him. Why the name P'Chan had slipped from his lips like it belonged there.

But he couldn't.

He didn't know if Tan could handle it. He didn't know if he could.

And more than that — he was afraid.

What if Tan laughed? What if he got scared? What if it pushed him further away?

Kla looked down at the strings of his guitar. He plucked at them once more, repeating the melody over and over, letting the notes carry his longing where words could not.

He would wait.

Until Tan was ready.

Until he was ready.