Morning light came slow and heavy through the tinted glass of Korn Nantasri's office, warming the rim of his coffee mug before he even touched it. The air outside had that damp-after-storm clarity, heat layered on humidity until it felt like the city was sweating. He'd come in early, as usual, with a pressed shirt and that calm, deliberate energy that made people lower their voices when he passed. He liked order, lists, sequence; chaos made his pulse itch.
By half past nine, he'd already signed six repair requests from the residence, confirmed delivery schedules, and rescheduled a contractor who thought a "minor delay" meant a week. The desk looked like an advertisement for self-control—everything at perfect right angles. When the junior assistant knocked to ask about an invoice discrepancy, Korn simply nodded toward the printer and said, "Check the footer. It's always in the footer."
The man thanked him and disappeared, leaving Korn to his silence. For a minute he let himself lean back, the chair groaning slightly. A notification flashed on his screen—old calendar reminder, one he'd forgotten to delete. Saint—lease renewal date. He exhaled through his nose and pressed delete. The cursor blinked where the name used to be.
"Better," he murmured, more to the machine than to himself.
By noon the temperature had risen enough to make the air conditioning lose its courage. He loosened his tie and drove out, windows cracked just to feel movement. PamPeem Grill sat at the corner of an older street where the tar still glistened from the storm. Inside, the restaurant smelled of charred lemongrass and frying oil, of midweek conversations and air thick with laughter. He picked a seat by the window and unbuttoned his cuffs.
The waitress brought him water before he asked; she knew his rhythm.
"Hot day," she said, polite, and he answered with a small smile.
"Ratchaburi's trying to boil us alive."
She laughed and left him to the menu. He stared at it without seeing it. What he saw instead was three years ago—a crowded room, a bassline shaking the walls, and a younger man leaning on a table under a low light.
That night at Dumond[1]'s listening party had been louder than he liked. He'd gone because Mond was an old friend, a best friend and because refusing him meant a week of calls. The invitation had said: At Your Convenience – An Album Celebration.
Korn had smiled at the irony, thinking of how nothing about public events was ever convenient. The venue was a renovated warehouse strung with amber bulbs, the crowd a mix of label people, friends, and too many cameras. He'd stood near the back nursing a drink, counting how many minutes of networking he had to survive before leaving. Then Mond appeared with a grin and a man in tow.
"You two should meet," he'd said.
"Saint, this is Korn. He fixes buildings. Korn, this is Saint—he fixes songs."
The joke had been lazy, but Saint laughed anyway, bright and disarming. He had one of those smiles that dared you not to smile back. Korn shook his hand and said,
"Do you always sound like you're advertising yourself?" Saint tilted his head, eyes glinting.
"Only when it works."
Later, Mond took the small stage, mic in hand, and the noise softened.
"Ten tracks, one heart," he said, his grin wide.
"But there's one I owe entirely to a friend—'Glass Tongue.' Written, composed, and produced by Saynt."
He gestured toward the crowd, and a cheer rose from one corner. Korn turned just in time to see Saint raise his glass, half hiding behind someone taller, pretending the applause wasn't for him.
"He's the reason this album breathes," Mond continued.
"So if it makes you cry, blame him."
Laughter rippled through the room. The track played next—slow, haunting, the kind of song that moved like smoke. Korn had felt something tighten in his chest; not from the music itself, but from watching the man who'd made it. Saint stood still, eyes half-closed, mouthing each word as if it had once belonged to him.
After the speeches, they'd ended up at the same bar counter. Saint teased him about his serious face; Korn told him some people smiled with their eyes instead.
"Show me," Saint had said.
"Maybe later," he'd answered, but later came quickly.
Music, whiskey, and impulse blurred into heat against a hotel door, Saint's laughter breaking mid-kiss, Korn's restraint cracking just enough to let him be human. When the night faded to morning light through curtains, neither promised anything.
Three weeks passed. Korn filed the memory away with everything else he didn't dwell on. Then Saint appeared at the residence—hair tied, papers in hand, smile a little too knowing.
"Manager," he'd said, "didn't think we'd share an address."
Korn's reply came steady:
"Neither did I, but life has a sense of humour."
That was how it began again—accident by proximity. Coffee meetings turned to dinners, dinners turned to mornings that smelled of Saint's shampoo and burnt toast. Their connection was not dramatic; it was measured, careful, threaded through with routine. When Saint worked on compositions, Korn sat nearby reading reports.
When Korn had late inspections, Saint stayed awake drawing chord progressions on napkins. They existed in tandem, like two steady heartbeats out of sync but close enough to keep each other alive.
He would come up behind Saint while he worked, pressing his lips to the back of his neck, murmuring, "You're humming again."
Saint would smirk, not looking up.
"You like it."
"I like you quiet,"
Korn would counter, earning a soft elbow to the ribs. Their affection was understated—a brush of fingers when passing a mug, a kiss on the jaw that meant I see you. It was adult, clean, real. And yet even real things can shift. After a year, cracks began where quiet used to feel safe. Saint started saying he felt like a guest in his own home.
Korn responded with reason, not emotion.
"Guests are welcome," he'd said, and Saint had laughed in disbelief.
The conversations became circular.
"You measure everything," Saint told him once.
"Even love." Korn replied, "That's how I know it's real."
"No," Saint said, voice raw.
"That's how you know it's controlled."
They never screamed. They just started talking less. He remembered one night vividly: Saint sitting on the counter, legs swinging, whispering, "You keep trying to fix me, Korn."
He'd stepped closer, resting a hand on his thigh.
"No," he said quietly, "I'm trying to keep you."
Saint shook his head. "You can't keep people like properties."
They both knew it was ending. When it did, it happened with the same precision Korn brought to everything. Saint packed calmly, folded his shirts, placed his toothbrush on the sink for him to find later.
"I don't regret us," he said, standing at the door. Korn's throat tightened.
"Then don't." Saint kissed his cheek and left.
The echo of that door closing was quieter than Korn expected, but the silence after was worse.
Back in the present, Korn's food arrived—grilled chicken over rice, a small bowl of soup. He ate mechanically, eyes drifting to the street. Two students passed sharing earphones, laughing over something he couldn't hear. He envied their noise. When the waitress returned to refill his water, she asked if he wanted anything else.
"No," he said, then added, "Thanks for asking."
She smiled and moved on. He sat there until his plate was cleared, until his reflection in the window started to look like a stranger.
The afternoon dragged in paperwork and small decisions. He checked repair schedules, confirmed supply orders, and fielded two calls about broken air conditioners that weren't broken at all. By five, he finally shut down the computer and left for home. His apartment was a deliberate mirror of himself—minimal, functional, clean lines. The scent of cedar lingered from the diffuser. He hung his jacket, removed his watch, poured a drink.
For a while he scrolled through messages: updates from contractors, an invite from Mond to another event he wouldn't attend, spam from furniture stores. Then he saw Saint's name under a new release notification. Curiosity won. He opened the streaming app and found a track titled Glass Tongue by Dumond. In the credits: written, composed, and produced by Saynt. He pressed play.
The melody unfolded slowly, layered with harmonies he recognised. Saint's style had evolved—looser, braver. There were still hints of the old meticulousness, but now it breathed. Korn leaned back, eyes half-closed. He remembered late nights when Saint would call him from the studio, saying, "Tell me if this chord feels honest."
He'd answer, "Music doesn't lie, people do."
Saint had laughed then, saying, "That's why you're not a lyricist."
The song ended. Korn replayed it once, then once more.
He opened messages and typed without overthinking:
Heard your new track. It's good. You sound free.
The reply came almost instantly.
Freedom's messy. I'm learning to like it.
Korn stared at the words, thumb hovering.
You always liked chaos, he wrote back.
You always liked fixing it, Saint answered.
Balance, Korn typed.
Maybe we were practice for that.
Saint's next message paused longer before appearing.
Practice or proof?
Korn smiled faintly.
Both.
There was no response after that, and he didn't expect one.
He set the phone down, walked to the balcony, and stepped into the night. Ratchaburi glowed under the heat haze, the river catching light from street lamps. He leaned on the railing, glass in hand, feeling the city breathe beneath him. A motorbike passed below, a child laughed somewhere down the block.
The quiet wasn't heavy anymore—it was something he'd earned. He thought of how Saint used to fill spaces with sound, how he'd complain about Korn's need for stillness.
"One day," Saint had said, "you'll miss the noise."
Korn had replied, "No. I'll remember it."
He still did. But remembering wasn't missing.
Inside, the clock hummed softly. He finished his drink, placed the glass in the sink, and let water run over it. He caught his reflection in the steel—tie undone, sleeves rolled, faint smile that looked less like armour and more like peace.
"We were good," he whispered, not as confession but acknowledgment.
"And that's enough."
He went to his desk, opened the drawer, and pulled out a small stack of old photographs—staff events, property blueprints, a candid shot Mond had taken at that listening party years ago. Saint was in the background, caught mid-laugh, head thrown back. Korn traced the edge of the photo with his thumb, then set it aside. He didn't frame it; he didn't need to. Some memories worked best without borders.
The night deepened. Crickets sang outside the window, the sound filling corners that used to feel empty. Korn sat on the couch, opened his laptop again—not to work, but to sketch plans for the expansion he'd been considering. The residence had grown since he'd first joined. Soon he'd own it outright. He thought of calling it something new, maybe adding a rooftop café. Saint would have liked that—the idea of people making art above the river. He chuckled under his breath.
"See, you rubbed off on me." The laptop fan whirred in answer.
Around midnight, a message buzzed. Saint again.
For what it's worth, you managed better than most.
Korn read it twice.
For what it's worth,he typed,you lived louder than anyone I know.
Then, without thinking, he added, You ever miss the quiet, come by. No history attached.
Saint's reply came slower this time.
Thanks, manager.
Korn shook his head, amused.
You still calling me that?
Always, Saint wrote. Titles stick.
Not this one, Korn answered, then switched off notifications before another word could arrive.
He turned off the lights, walked through the apartment once, checking locks like second nature. At the doorway mirror he paused. His reflection stared back—same face, but the eyes softer. He thought about how everyone had once said he and Saint were opposites: the organised and the chaotic, the fixer and the unfixable. They were wrong. They had simply been learning different ways to stay alive in the same weather.
"Smoke and mirrors," he said quietly, recalling a phrase Saint once used when describing their dynamic.
"Except now there's no smoke, no mirrors. Just me."
He looked out toward the city one last time before closing the curtains. The glow from the river seeped through the fabric, tracing faint lines across his hands. He let the warmth sit there, a small reminder that even after endings, light could still find its way in.
He climbed into bed, sheets cool, fan turning lazily overhead. The room smelled faintly of rain returning from far off. He didn't replay the song again. He didn't need to. The rhythm had already lodged itself somewhere under his ribs, steady and quiet.
When his phone buzzed one final time, he didn't reach for it. He knew who it was. He just smiled, shut his eyes, and let sleep find him the same way Saint's laughter once had—unexpected, unforced, and gone too soon.
[1] Dumond (real name Mondittachai Sathirasilapin) is a musician, Korn’s childhood best friend, and someone who has also worked closely with Saint before.