It was raining the night he died.
Than still remembers the sound.Not thunder. Not wind.But the sound of his laugh echoing in the kitchen.
"I burnt it again," the man smiled, holding up a ruined pot of instant noodles."You're hopeless," Than grinned. "Come here."
They were ordinary. Stupid. In love.And that's what made it dangerous.
His name was Phu.
Not perfect. Not loud. But real.
They met at a community center.Shared songs through earbuds.Fell in love quietly, like mist settling on glass.
Than never needed much. Just that voice. Just that warmth beside him in the dark.
The fire was ruled an accident.
Faulty wiring.A single forgotten candle.A door that wouldn't open in time.
But Than knew the truth.Phu had been pulling away for months. Smiling less. Sleeping more.Talking like he'd already left.
Than never said the words he should've.Never asked the question:
"Are you okay?"Not really. Not when it mattered.
He came home that night with roses.Found smoke instead.
And in the aftermath?
There was nothing.No funeral. No body. Just ash. And silence.
The guilt rotted him.He stopped eating.Stopped speaking.
He stared at empty apartments. Wondered what it would be like to start again. To slip into someone else's skin.To steal a new name and try again.
Then—he saw Nawin.
On a balcony.
Not smiling. Not crying.
Just breathing. Barely.
He looked like Phu.But not quite.He looked like a second chance.But not really.
And Than fell.
Not in love.
But in desperation.
Than stands outside his old burned apartment.He lights a candle.It flickers—Then fades.
And in the reflection of the broken window behind him—
He sees Nawin.
Just standing. Watching.