Beneath the Surface
707 Words
Saturday – Chatuchak Market, Bangkok
Win didn’t expect to run into anyone from work here.
He just needed air. Color. Something real. After a week of overthinking, overworking, and playing mind games with a man who wouldn’t say what he felt, the distraction was welcome.
He wandered between rows of hand-painted ceramics and silver jewelry, sipping iced butterfly pea tea. The smell of grilled squid lingered in the warm air. Street musicians played softly by a tree.
And then he saw him.
Phu.
But not the Phu from the office.
This Phu was wearing a loose white t-shirt tucked casually into tan linen pants. No glasses. No perfectly pressed collars. His sleeves were pushed up, revealing lean forearms and a faint scar at his wrist. His hair was mussed slightly from the humidity.
He looked younger.
Softer.
More human.
Win froze, ducking instinctively behind a plant vendor’s table.
What the hell is he doing here?
He peeked again.
Phu was standing at a wooden stall, talking quietly with the elderly woman selling handmade soap. His voice was kind, gentle. He smiled when she handed him a small box tied with twine.
Win stepped out before he could stop himself.
“Fancy seeing you here,” he called out.
Phu turned, surprised.
For the first time, he looked… caught off guard.
“I could say the same,” Phu said.
“You buy soap on Saturdays?” Win teased, walking closer.
Phu glanced at the box. “It’s for my mother. She likes handmade things.”
Win blinked. “That’s… unexpectedly sweet.”
Phu shrugged. “I’m not a machine, Win.”
Win smiled. “Could’ve fooled me.”
A beat passed. Then:
“You following me?” Phu asked.
Win raised an eyebrow. “Should I be?”
“You’re the one who keeps showing up.”
Win looked around, then back at him. “Maybe fate’s trying to make a point.”
Phu held his gaze. “Or maybe you’re just stubborn.”
They stood in silence, surrounded by the buzz of the market, the smell of incense and street food all around them.
Then Win asked, “Do you come here often?”
Phu hesitated. “Sometimes. When I want to feel like a person again.”
That line sat heavy between them.
---
A Walk Through the Stalls
To Win’s surprise, Phu didn’t leave.
They walked together, weaving through vendors, side by side. It wasn’t planned, but it felt natural.
“People think you’re cold,” Win said after a while.
Phu kept his gaze forward. “It’s easier to keep distance. Feelings complicate things.”
“But they also make things real.”
Phu looked at him, unreadable again.
“Do you always challenge the people above you?”
Win grinned. “Only the ones I want to understand.”
“Dangerous habit.”
“Or honest.”
Phu didn’t answer right away.
Then, as they passed a stall selling handbound notebooks, he picked one up and turned it over in his hand.
He looked at Win. “You said the other night: ‘Don’t pretend you don’t care.’”
Win nodded.
Phu held his gaze. “You’re right. I care.”
The words made Win’s breath catch. His heart stuttered in his chest.
Phu handed him the notebook — deep blue leather, soft to the touch.
“Use it,” Phu said. “Sketch something just for you. Not for clients. Not for work.”
Win took it slowly, like it might disappear.
“Why?”
“Because I want to see who you are when no one’s watching.”
---
Later That Night
Win sat on his bed, staring at the notebook.
He hadn’t drawn anything in months — not since his university capstone. But now… the weight of it in his hands, the memory of Phu’s voice, the way his eyes had softened in the light of the market...
It made Win want to pour himself out.
He flipped open the first page and began to draw.
Not wireframes.
Not logos.
Just lines.
And somehow, without meaning to, those lines became a sketch of a man — tall, quiet, with eyes that always held back more than they showed.
Phu.
- Writer
