FINN
There’s always a strange comfort in being back home in Ratchaburi. The quietness, how the world seems asleep at eight in the evening. The chorus of cicadas instead of speeding cars or building construction.
I pluck the strings of my guitar, playing a song that no one could hear. Last week, I buried the person I wrote this song for. The pain hasn’t ebbed.
I lay the guitar on my lap, letting my tears fall.
Someone clears their throat, and when I look up, Zander is there.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, smiling as I quickly wipe my tears. “You were supposed to head back to Bangkok earlier.”
He sits next to me on the grass, looking up at the clear skies. “I wanted to stay a little longer. Shae and I agreed to cancel our gigs for another week.”
“Be honest. No one would show up if
