Obsession

The teakwood house stood quietly against the monsoon sky, its carved pillars glistening with rain. Inside, generations lived together under one roof, their lives woven tightly by tradition and memory.

Somchai — the elder grandfather, dignified and calm, his presence commanding respect.

Prasert — his partner, fiery yet protective, the strength behind the household.

Anan — their son, quiet and dutiful, carrying the weight of family expectations.

Suda — Anan’s wife, graceful and attentive, her voice soft but steady.

Kuea — the grandson, curious and bright, wandering the halls with wide eyes.

That evening, as rain tapped against the wooden shutters, Kuea slipped into the ancestral hall. The portraits of Somchai and Prasert hung side by side, their painted faces lit by flickering candlelight. He paused, staring at them, feeling the quiet power of the house pressing around him.

Morning light filtered through the carved shutters, casting soft patterns across the dining table. The family gathered for breakfast, the air filled with the aroma of jasmine rice and steaming tea.

Somchai cleared his throat, his voice steady but carrying weight. “Actually, I want to tell you something… Prasert and I have decided.”

Anan looked up from his bowl, attentive. “Yes, please tell us.”

Prasert leaned forward, his tone firm yet compassionate. “Our friend’s family has been facing a financial crisis. They are coming here from China, and we have decided to help them by letting them stay here.”

Suda glanced at Anan, then back at the two grandfathers. Her smile was polite, her words soft. “Ok… as you wish.”

At that moment, five‑year‑old Kuea’s eyes lit up. He clapped his hands together, his voice bubbling with excitement. “So they have a boy named Lian?!”

Suda smiled gently, correcting him. “Kuea, Lian is seven years older than you.”

But Kuea shook his head, determined. “I will still make him my friend!”

Anan chuckled softly, glancing at his son. “As a single child, this must be the happiest news for him.”

The teakwood house glowed with lanterns and laughter as the family gathered to celebrate Somchai and Prasert’s anniversary. The courtyard was filled with guests, the scent of jasmine tea drifting through the air.

Amid the celebration, Kuea, now ten years old, approached his grandfathers with a determined look. His voice was clear, though still carrying the innocence of youth. “Grandfather Somchai… Grandfather Prasert… I want you to do the Thai ritual of engagement between me and Lian.”

The words silenced the courtyard. Suda placed her hand gently on Anan’s arm, whispering, “Kuea… Lian is seventeen now, seven years older than you.”

But Kuea’s eyes shone with certainty. “I don’t care. I want him to be my friend forever. When I grow up, I want this bond to be real.”

Somchai looked at Prasert, and after a long pause, he nodded. “Very well. It will be a temporary engagement. When you both become adults, if either of you does not wish for marriage, it can be broken.”

At first, Lian’s parents hesitated. The idea of binding their son to a promise with a child seemed heavy. But as Somchai explained the ritual’s symbolic nature — a gesture of respect and friendship, not a binding contract — their resistance softened.

Finally, Lian’s father spoke quietly. “If it is only temporary, and they may choose freely as adults… then we agree.”

The ritual was set. Lanterns flickered brighter, and the family returned to their celebration. For Kuea, it was the happiest moment of his young life — a promise sealed in tradition, carrying the weight of hope and choice for the future.

Five years passed swiftly under the roof of the teakwood house. Kuea, once a playful child, had grown into a determined boy of ten. Lian, now seventeen, stood taller, his voice deeper, his eyes already fixed on the horizon beyond Chiang Mai.

Their engagement, sealed in ritual during Somchai and Prasert’s anniversary, had become a quiet bond between them — spoken of rarely, but remembered always.

One afternoon, Somchai gathered the family in the courtyard. “Lian has chosen to continue his studies abroad. He will leave soon to focus on his career.”

The words carried both pride and a trace of sorrow. Lian’s parents nodded, their hesitation from years ago now replaced with determination to see their son succeed.

Kuea listened silently, his small hands clenched at his sides. Later that evening, he approached his father, Anan. “Papa… if Lian is going away, then I want to study abroad too. I want to go to London.”

Anan exchanged a glance with Suda, who smiled faintly. “As a single child, this is the happiest news for him,” Anan murmured. “He wants to follow his own path, just as Lian does.”

And so it was decided. Lian would leave for another country to pursue his career, while Kuea would journey to London for his studies. Two paths diverged, yet bound by a promise made in childhood — a promise that time and distance would test.

London’s gray skies became the backdrop of Kuea’s new routine. He had begun to settle into his studies, learning to navigate the crowded classrooms and the unfamiliar accents around him.

One morning, a new student joined the class — Shen, a quiet boy with dark eyes that rarely lifted from his desk. He carried with him a small lunchbox every day, always filled with the same food: dumplings.

At first, the other children whispered. Then the whispers turned into laughter, and laughter into cruelty. “Poor boy,” they mocked. “He must have nothing else to eat.”

Shen never spoke back. He sat silently, his shoulders hunched, his gaze fixed on the dumplings he carefully unwrapped each day. The bullying grew louder, but Shen’s silence never broke.

From his seat, Kuea watched. Something stirred in him — a mix of curiosity and sympathy. He remembered the warmth of his family back in Chiang Mai, the bond he had once asked for with Lian. Now, in this foreign city, he wondered if Shen’s silence was a wall… or a cry for someone to notice.

Shen kept his head down, silent as always. But this time, Kuea pushed back his chair and stood tall. His voice rang across the room, sharp and clear:

“Hey! Don’t tease him. Bringing the same food daily isn’t a crime. You all bring the same digit marks in every exam, so maybe go study instead. Bullying is not something you’re able to do.”

The room fell silent. A few students shifted uncomfortably, their laughter dying in their throats. Shen looked up for the first time, his dark eyes meeting Kuea’s. There was no smile, no words — only a quiet flicker of gratitude.

From that day, the balance in the classroom shifted. Shen was still silent, still carrying his dumplings, but now he had someone who stood beside him. And for Kuea, defending Shen felt natural — as if he had found a new bond in this foreign city.

After Kuea’s sharp words silenced the bullies, the classroom atmosphere shifted. Shen, who had always sat alone, began to drift closer. At first, it was subtle — choosing the desk beside Kuea, lingering near him during breaks.

Soon, it became constant. Shen was always there, like a shadow. He walked beside Kuea in the corridors, sat with him at lunch, and waited quietly after class. He never spoke much, but his presence was steady, unshakable.

Kuea noticed the change. One afternoon, as they sat together under the gray London sky, he smiled faintly. “You don’t have to stay near me all the time, Shen.”

Shen looked at him, silent as ever, then lowered his gaze to his dumplings. He didn’t answer, but he didn’t move away either.

The bond between them had grown quietly, like ivy climbing a wall. Shen no longer sat alone; he was always beside Kuea, his silent presence steady as breath.

One afternoon, as the classroom emptied and the gray London light spilled across the desks, Shen finally spoke. His voice was low, hesitant, but filled with urgency. “Why can’t I be with you? I want to be near you.”

Kuea blinked, surprised by the sudden words. Then he smiled, gentle and reassuring. “Okay… if you want, then let’s be friends.”

Shen shook his head, his dark eyes unwavering. “No.”

Kuea tilted his head, curious. “Why not?”

Shen’s voice trembled, but his words were firm. “I want to be your best friend.”

For a moment, silence hung between them. Then Kuea laughed softly, reaching out to pat Shen’s shoulder. “Okay then… bestie.”

Shen’s lips curved into the faintest smile — the first Kuea had ever seen.

Time in London moved swiftly, marked by the rhythm of school bells and the endless drizzle against the windows. For Kuea, the city had become familiar, its gray skies no longer foreign. And always, beside him, was Shen.

What began as quiet companionship had grown into something unshakable. Shen was no longer just the boy with dumplings — he had become Kuea’s shadow, his confidant, his best friend.

Three years had passed since that first promise. Shen knew Kuea’s every small detail: the way he tapped his pencil when deep in thought, the foods he secretly disliked but never admitted, the dreams he whispered at night about returning home, and the letters he wrote to Lian but sometimes left unsent.

Kuea often teased him. “You know me better than I know myself.”

Shen would only smile faintly, his silence carrying more meaning than words ever could.

In the crowded streets of London, among voices that often felt distant, Kuea had found one truth: Shen was not just his best friend in name. He was his best friend in reality — the one who saw him completely, and stayed.