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A cherry red car pulls into the half-filled parking lot at ten past twelve, twenty minutes earlier than planned. Killing the engine, Pat takes a long, slow breath. Long fingers fuss over his bangs, nudging at the gelled strands this way and that. Perfect , Pat smiles into the rearview mirror, satisfied with the way his bangs frame his forehead in elegant continuity.
Bangkok’s azure, cloudless sky is an unusual phenomenon for the month of October. Pat grimaces as he exits the vehicle. The muggy, oppressive heat slams into him in relentless waves. Pat could die for an iced tea right now. Wearing his best formal shoes and a tailored light gray suit, the niggling feeling of a fish-out-of-water, or perhaps imposter syndrome, creeps up his spine. Pat shrugs it off.
Like a gladiator bracing for battle, the young man rolls his shoulders and marches towards the chapel.
The architecture is mesmerizing; Twin towers topped with white spires piercing the troposphere. Under its triangular roof, a circular window serves as the main focal point, leading the eye to a perfectly symmetrical arch carved into stone-grey walls. Pat leans his body weight against the wooden doors and slips in as it swings open.
It takes a moment for his eyesight to adjust. The chapel’s interior fits the grandeur of its facade. Stained glass windows refract sunlight into specks of rainbow, a stipple of color across the checkered, black and white tiles. Rows upon rows of dark oak pews stretch from the doorway to the altar. White floral arrangements line the aisle; Orchids, hydrangeas and baby’s breath. Encircling each of these are a dozen electric candles, flickering on and off a muted yellow glow. It reminds Pat of the streetside lamp of their- his- childhood home.
Pat follows the scattered glow, scanning the room with benign interest. He slips down the aisle in search of an empty seat, plopping himself into a seat, seven rows from the altar. Close, yet not close enough.
Hidden from view, Pat discreetly wipes his clammy palms on his dress pants.
It’s finally here.
Pran’s Wedding Day.
It may not be a stretch to claim that Pat has waited for this day longer than anyone else.
When Dissaya accosted Pat by the frozen foods section last month, Pat didn’t know what to expect. It certainly did not cross his mind that she’d whip a cream envelope out of her designer leather purse, extending it to his direction with decidedly less malicious intent than he was accustomed to.
The civility unnerved Pat more than he’d like to admit. He expected her to chuck it at him with no regard if he lost an eye or not.
“My son is getting married,” Dissaya had stated matter-of-factly. As if the texture and weight of the elegant paper was not a dead giveaway; as if the entwined initials embossed in gold was too subtle to miss.
[ P & R ]
“I’m invited?” Pat questioned in disbelief.
A separate invite. An afterthought, perhaps.
“It would be - nice - to have you there,” the middle-aged woman had said vaguely, something unrecognizable flickering briefly across her gaze.
Pat blinked deliberately, hoping his face masked the typhoon swirling within. Now is not the time to unpack that.
“Thank you, auntie,” Pat chucked out through the dryness in his throat. “I’ll be sure to come.”
“I have to go now. Say hello to your mother for me.”
“Okay khap, ” Pat greeted politely, wishing her farewell.
And just like that, Dissaya was gone, leaving Pat in a cloud of her perfume.
It took Pat all of three seconds (that felt like three days) to fold and confirm his attendance. As if it was ever a question. As if he could ever turn away from Pran .
It felt just like yesterday when Pat was heartbroken over not receiving an invitation. Now that the chance was quite literally in his hands, he was sick to the stomach. Like watching a train-wreck in motion. Except, instead of another train, it is Pat himself standing in the way on the tracks.
Pran, even if it breaks me, I need to send you off on your next chapter, don’t I?
And so here he is, knees jittering, waiting to witness firsthand as Pran vows a lifetime to someone else.
Surprisingly, Pat feels calm about it.
He’s not as bothered as he anticipated to be. His heart is not racing violently like he just ran around the block. His hands are as stable as a surgeon’s pre-operation. And he certainly does not feel as queasy as when he stumbled upon Pran’s engagement pictures.
He’s decidedly tremorless, tranquil even. Maybe he can make it through today in one piece. Maybe Pat has made peace with it after all.
I can definitely handle this. Right?
The doors swing open, saving Pat from further spiralling into his thoughts. Pat follows along as Pran and his husband-to-be are ushered in by what could only be their wedding organizers, two photographers and a videographer hot on their heels.
An excited murmur sweeps across the crowd at their entry. Pat checks his watch, 12.50. Ten minutes to go.
Ram stands a full two heads taller than Pran, dashingly wrapped in a satin-white tux. He walks in a brisk, sweeping manner, no signs of hesitance in his steps. An unyielding smile blooming across his rosy face, the epitome of an ecstatic husband-to-be. He nods along to the rapid-fire instructions pouring out of their designated personal assistant’s mouth.
Pat could taste the sudden flare of inferiority souring his tongue. He swallows around nothing and reminds himself to breathe.
Pat watches passively as one groom exits his field of vision and the other enters.
The man, the myth, the legend. Pran Parakul Siridechawat. Pat wills himself to commit this version of Pran into memory, mentally taking notes like a detective inspecting a crime scene. A homicide of the heart.
Pran’s hair is permed and dyed a light brown, styled atop his head in fluffy curls. A brown tweed, three-piece suit, a pristine white dress shirt, and a burberry tie, brought together by a single calla lily pinned on his left lapel.
Pat always imagined Pran would wear a classic black tux for his wedding ceremony, like those famous actors on silver screens, but what does Pat know about fashion choices? Nonetheless, Pran cleaned up nicely, there’s no denying that.
The butterflies are dead still.
Pat’s breath heaves against his ribcage, eyes trailing after the couple, unable - unwilling - to look away.
Ram reaches out for Pran's hand first, tugging him into an intimate pose as directed by their photographer. It makes sense for them to take pictures before the ceremony, with the tight schedule and all. Pat just wishes it wasn’t so in his face (which really, who is to blame for that?). Pat is starting to become very irritated with his inner, whiny voice, acting all butt-hurt when he made this choice to come.
Every choice has consequences. With the current track record, Pat knows he’d rather shoulder the regret of doing than the regret of not doing.
Pat watches as Pran is tugged this way and that. Close up shots of the soon-to-be-wed couple nearly nose to nose, just a sliver of a gap. Portraits of their silhouettes against the stained windows. B-rolls of them walking up and down the chapel, hand in hand.
The Pran that Pat knew was not the type to document every single moment, that seemed to have been more of Pat’s thing, but with an occasion this important who would blame him for acting out of character.
It hits Pat once more just how ridiculous it was for him to think he knows Pran.
Pat thought it was unchangeable. Of course Pat knows Pran. Pat had always known Pran. They’d been stuck to each other for so long, pitted against each other; no companion had been by his side longer than his fated rival.
But that was years ago. Pat has not stood face to face with Pran in a long while.
Pat knew Pran.
But not this Pran.
Pat is out of practice on reading Pran's emotions, but to his rusty eyes it looks as though Pran is nervous. Absent is the glorified wedding glow, or the dimples that Pat knows lay hidden behind those caramel cheeks.
Pran should look happier. Pat thinks he’s seen Pran happier before. Pat almost wants to draw attention to himself. Maybe if he made a clown of himself, Pran would crack a smile. Pat shakes himself, exasperated. That hasn't been his role in a long damn while.
The couple are ushered out of sight once more, and a few moments later the Master of Ceremony takes center stage and formally welcomes the guests.
“Dear family, friends, and colleagues. Welcome to the marriage ceremony of Pran and Ram. Today we come together on this very special day, to celebrate the union of two souls. Today we will witness the blooming of their love. They came together, first as friends, then lovers, and now they stand on the cusp of forever, to be each other's promised spouse.
Before we begin the procession, we kindly ask you to turn off your mobile devices to maintain the solemnity of this ceremony. Without further ado, ladies and gentlemen, please rise to welcome the grooms and their families.”
Pat stands, a drop in the ocean. The crowd around him rises and swell, excited murmurs rippling in waves. People clambering to get a better view of the moment, phones out and recording.
Pat, standing still, is an anomaly. His eyes are wide open, fierce gaze unflinching. A sailor ready to brave the rough seas.
Come what may, Pat thinks silently, do your worst.
Ram’s family enters first. Two sisters and a brother. Ram is the eldest child, Pat knows that now. Pran would be elated to join this family, he always seemed a little lonely growing up without any siblings of his own. Pat would know, Pran had adored his little sister once upon a time too.
Ram’s parents enter together, arms interlocked. They must be happy, surely, Pat muses, to welcome a son-in-law as wonderful and as perfect as Pran.
Pat hates the way his heart stuttered in his chest when Ram entered, the embodiment of a flawless, swoonworthy groom. All composed smiles, waving and thanking the guests for coming. Pat tries to catch his eye, heavens know why, and fails. A younger Pat would’ve been upset by it, but Ram’s not really the one he’s here to see today.
Pat recognizes Pran’s groomsmen, familiar faces, unknown names - Pran’s architecture bros. His university friends - of course they’re here - who've probably seen him near his worst, living witnesses to the early days of Pran and Ram’s relationship. Pat wonders absentmindedly if he’d get along with them. Pat accepts it will remain a lifelong, unresolved wonder. Just one out of the hundreds of questions he’s learning to live without answers.
Aunt Dissaya and Uncle Pakorn enter next, and Pat’s world slows down to milliseconds. Pran takes it all in. Celebrating the in-laws he’ll never have.
Aunt Dissaya’s perfectly coiffed hair and perfectly made up face, the glitter of her eyeshadows stark even from this distance. Aunt Dissaya looks ten years younger than her actual age, shoulders raised up to her ears, more proud and more healthy than she was in her prime. Pat could almost see it, Dissaya on the pages of some trendy women’s magazine, under an article titled ‘Fifty is the new Thirty.’ Not to mention, the unmistakably smug smile. She’s gotten everything she wanted for this occasion and she knows it. Pat is happy for her, for obtaining a son-in-law that meets her standards.
At least Pran will never have to choose between half of his heart and half of his DNA.
Pat observes the way Uncle Pakorn has seemingly shrunk under the bling and dazzle of his wife. The man has lost a considerable amount of weight, looking older than Pat remembers. His hair, once fully jet black, is now streaked with silver. The smile lines on his face are deeper, and his once full cheeks are showing signs of hollowness.
Nostalgia strikes Pat like a heavy uppercut; it felt like just yesterday when Uncle Pakorn and his dad fought over the line dividing their properties, but in actuality it was nearly two decades ago.
Time waits for no one. Pat stumbles a little in his spot, feeling the years wash through him, And it made no exceptions for me.
At long last, Pran makes his entrance.
Pran’s strides are slow, practiced. Not of a damned man walking to the gallows. But the joy so visible on Ram’s visage is not mirrored on Pran’s.
Pat feels like an outsider looking, mind bare without a thought. It’s a surreal moment, suspended in time. Pran glides past Pat without meeting his eyes. Pat is thankful for it. He’s not sure how he would have reacted if they did.
At the end of the long walk, Pran’s parents took Pran’s hands into their grasps, holding it solemnly. A thousand words seemingly pass with one longing look. As one, they hand Pran over to Ram’s open palms.
Pat can see Pakorn’s lips open and close, chin trembling as he speaks to Ram with bowed eyes. Dissaya’s other hand is hovering protectively at the center of Pran’s trapezius. Ram nods assuringly, eyes glinting wet.
Pran’s parents step away, taking their seats, while both grooms turn as one to face the officiator.
Everything went a little fast after that.
Pat stands, claps, and sits as appropriate. The officiator drones on and on about passion and suffering, and hardship. He highlighted how the couple had separated in the middle of their journey, parting ways to grow individually during their younger days, and how now that they’ve matured they’ve come together once more, able to love each other better. How lucky they both are. First love and true.
Pat’s lip twitches, irritation flashing hot under his skin. He dismisses it with a huff, mind over matter , adamant to get through the ceremony with goodwill. Pat wishes he could speedrun through the boring parts, but this isn’t some Netflix show he could skip over. He shifts restlessly in his seat, itching, tugging futilely at the collar of his dress shirt. He yanks two buttons open, paying no heed to the scandalized glances of the guest around him. Screw propriety.
When it came time for the grooms to exchange vows, Pat sat up in his seat, all drowsiness molting like snakeskin. After all, this is what he came for. He can’t miss a single moment.
Show me, Pran. Pat wills. Show me you’re happy. Show me you’ve won. C’mon, Parakul.
Don’t keep me waiting any longer.
Pran and Ram’s eyes are locked in, the world falling away until the universe constricts to just the two of them.
The tremble in Ram’s voice is clear as day, choking down a tide of emotions as he promises to take Pran as his husband, to be true to him in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. To love and honor Pran all the days of his life. Ram’s eyes shimmer with unshed tears, enraptured.
Pat’s heart clenches. First love and true.
Ram takes Pran’s left hand with great trepidation, slipping a golden wedding band on the latter’s ring finger, a symbol of his promise, the dawn of their union.
The officiator angles his body towards Pran and asks him the same question.
“Do you, Parakul Siridechawat, take this man, Rachapong Tantivejakol, to be your lawfully wedded husband, to be true to him in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health; To love and honor him all the days of your life?”
Pran repeats the words back. His voice trembles not, but his tongue stumbles upon some words, as though despite all the times he’s rehearsed carefully (which Pat is certain happened), nervousness got the better of him.
The crowd suppresses its laughter while Pat dry swallows.
Pat’s pulse grew faint. All breath leaves his lungs as though he’s suddenly in outer space, existing in vacuum.
Pat knew not until that moment that he had held onto the faintest thread of hope for the Officiator to follow it up with “Speak now or forever hold your peace.”
As if Pat would have dared to stand up, tearing his chest open and presenting to Pran his unbeating, ice-cold heart. As if Pat had enough selfishness in him to rip this happiness from under Pran’s feet.
Today is not the day for Pat to prove those prejudices true, things don’t end well whenever you’re close to me, he remembers phantom-Pran saying.
Life’s not a fairy tale or a movie, Pat smiles thinly, fingers gripping the sides of his seat until his knuckles turn white.
This tragic love story, let it end with me.
Finally, Pran slips his wedding band onto Ram’s ring finger. Two grooms behaving as bashful brides, all nervous smiles and blushes.
And all at once, the blood rushes to Pat’s head, tinnitus besieging him as though some thug had boxed his ears in.
The officiator re-centers himself to face the crowd, grinning ear to ear, and in a booming voice announces, “By the power vested in me, I pronounce you man and husband. You may now kiss your groom!”
Ram leans forward and Pran mirrors him, closing the distance. Their lips touch chastely and the crowd breaks into elated cheers. Pat claps indolently, looking past them with unseeing eyes.
Unlike the majority of the room, Pat isn’t interested in the kiss, Rather, he scans the newlyweds’ expressions intently, searching for Buddha knows what.
Ram’s eyes roam over Pran’s face with an adoring gaze and he dips forward once more for a second sweet, gentle kiss, which Pran indulges. Ram’s visage is positively glowing, rivalling the Sun itself. Like marrying Pran is his life’s greatest dream; there is no achievement comparable, no happiness surpassing this.
Pat’s breath hitches, Ram loves him so.
It’s like an ice bucket was dumped on the crown of his head.
Ram is so in love with Pran, it is unmistakable. Ram probably loves Pran more than Pat does, he most certainly knows Pran better than Pat does. All those lost years. The in-between time through which they’ve grown estranged. In that time, Ram has learned to know Pran and loved him in ways Pat never did. Never could.
What foolish childishness had Pat clung on to for so long. I Was Here First pales in comparison to the covenant of loving and honoring all the days of one’s life. Unrealized love, what a joke.
After all, what is the worth of love when kept hidden under wraps and inaction?
Pat’s throat closes in on itself, knees collapsing. He disguises it by plucking a nonexistent handkerchief off the floor and mimes shoving it inside his pocket. Pat braces himself against the pew in front of him, arms trembling. He sits when the crowd does and exhales in relief.
The Water Blessing ceremony is next. Pat zones out as respected elders chosen from the community and both sides of the family line up to pour water blessed with supplications over the couple’s hands.
Pat is of significantly sounder mind by the time the marriage certificate is laid out for the newlyweds’ signatures. With full consciousness, Pat retrieves his phone and begins recording the moment.
This is it, there’s no going back now, Pat thinks.
Ram signs first, then waits eagerly as Pran imbues his signature. Their two witnesses sign the document next, securing the legality of their marriage.
It is done. Pran and Ram are officially married.
The officiator shakes Ram’s hand first in congratulations, then moves onto Pran’s, shaking his hand with finality. Ram doesn’t even wait until they’re finished, pumping his right hand up into the air to show off his shiny new wedding band, jaw open in silent-but-visible glee. He’s practically dancing out of his suit.
A genuine laugh startles out of Pat at the gesture, as did half of the audience.
How can I be upset when they’re so in love? Pat thinks, eyes sparking with the first signs of warmth. How can I ever dream of tearing this happiness away?
Pran watches his husband with a smile. Pat claps, fervently this time.
Pat claps and claps and claps - until his palms ache firetruck red - as the newly wedded couple make their way up the aisle towards the chapel doors, bells ringing jubilantly the entire way. Joyful congratulations rain upon the couple from every direction. Pran walks on the other side of the aisle, so it is Ram’s eyes that Pat manages to catch. It is easy to tell that he’s on cloud nine.
It was barely a millisecond. Ram smiles in his direction.
Pat feels bereft somehow. He ignores it.
Pat shakes Pakorn’s and Dissaya’s hand as he exits the chapel. They smile at him in a way he’s never had the pleasure of before. Like a weight has been lifted off their shoulders. The way climbers bask in relief upon reaching a mountain’s summit. Pat can’t help but share in their relief.
“Congratulations uncle, Congratulations auntie.”
“Thank you, Pat. You’ve grown up. We’ll see you tonight?” Pakorn asks rhetorically.
The crowd pushes him out the door before he could blink, right into the rays of the scorching sun.
Pat walks away from the chapel with a light heart and even lighter steps. He climbs into his car, starts the engine, and dutifully queues for his turn to exit the parking lot. He mulls over the feeling in his chest, trying to grasp at his current mental state.
There is happiness suffusing through his body. There is something lingering at the pit of his stomach, undefined.
It is not regret, he thinks absently, flipping his blinkers on and turning right to merge with the main road.
The thought at the forefront of his mind is less of ‘It should’ve been me,’ and more of ‘It could have been me.’
I waited a long damn time to see you get married, Pran. Pat smiles, asinine.
Maybe prayers do get granted after all.
A series of unfortunate events culminated in Pat arriving late to the reception. First he overslept through his nap alarm. Then, he had to drive back to the family house to pick up Kaew and Paa (dressed to the nines), and the traffic towards the reception hall was more terrible than he expected. Needless to say, Pat was fuming by the time they reached the hotel venue. He practically leapt out of the car, throwing his keys at the valet as he whisked his family inside.
“Hia , stop pushing!” Paa stage whispers, pulling up the fabric of her emerald green evening gown. Her hair is styled in a meticulous bun, silver earrings in the shape of tassels dangling off her earlobes. The lights of the ballroom catch on them, reflecting on Paa’s shoulders like a disco ball.
“We’re late for all the important parts!” Pat seethes.
Kaew’s left arm is looped on her son’s right arm, struggling to catch up to her son. “Lūk, slow down, please.”
Pat huffs sharply through his nose, feeling regretful. “I’m sorry, Ma. I just-” Pat breaks off, shaking his head.
I wanted to be here, he thinks. I was supposed to be here.
There is a long queue at the guestbook table. Pat haphazardly scrawls “Naphat Jindapat” in the next empty space, flashing a charming smile in the direction of the lady manning the envelope box. Pat is certain there is a crazed look in his eyes. She probably thought he had pregamed a little too hard.
They are a full thirty minutes late; Pat cannot tell if it is a blessing or a curse. Pat missed many parts of the opening rites. He missed the happy couple’s entrance as married husbands, missed their first dance, first kiss- he even missed the wedding toast, catching only the tail end of it announced over the audio system before they could enter the ballroom.
Pat grieves it a bit - missing all these conventional rites. He had wondered what song Pran would have danced to. Now that it has come to pass, it matters even less.
Pat walks behind his mother and sister, arms extending in an arc around them in an effort to secure some breathing room. The venue is packed with guests, a very small percentage of whom are familiar to Pat. There are a handful of long-time customers and business associates whom his family are acquainted with. The rest are Pran and Ram’s colleagues and friends - second-degree strangers whom Pat knows nothing about. It’s alienating, Pat feels small despite his towering stature.
Pat can’t even reach the room Pran is in. The closer they get to the door, the more people seem to have multiplied. The music is entirely too loud to the point it physically hurts Pat’s ears. It is impossible to hold a proper conversation and people jostle past them in both directions.
Pat acknowledges it’s a lost cause. He snatches two plates of salmon en croute from the nearest food stall, famished. He scarfs down the appetizer thoughtlessly, its delicious taste barely registering on his tastebuds. Pat feels a migraine building behind his temples. He’ll need all the energy he can gather to make it through the night. There’s still the afterparty- having missed all the entrance, Pat feels he should at least stay long enough for that.
Kaew is pulled away by a group of friendly moms while Paa excitedly scampers away to find her friends. Apparently, Paa and Ram’s sisters have several mutual friends. They only found out a few days ago.
Pat follows the stream of bodies making their way towards the main hall and squirrels himself into a corner, catching his breath. The first thing that struck Pat was how comparably cold it was inside the ballroom compared to the foyer area. The hotel staff must have turned the AC on at full blast. Even through the thicker material of his dark navy suit, Pat feels cold.
The indoor space has been transformed into a setting straight out of a storybook. A dozen chandeliers hang down from the ceiling, surrounded by fine draperies in shades of maroon and dark gold. True to the garden theme, swathes of fresh flowers - red roses, pink carnations, and orange hydrangeas - are arranged elaborately throughout the room; as bunches sprouting out of the carpeted floors, on tables arranged for VIP guests and close relatives, and around the buffet tables. It surely cost a fortune.
Pat’s eyes are naturally drawn towards the stage at the front of the room, just beyond the dance floor. Under a white arch, decked in the same flowers surrounding the room, Pran and Ram stand at the centre, flanked by their parents on the left and right. Pran stands on Ram’s right, and Pat thinks Pran’s left arm may be wrapped around Ram’s waist, hidden by the melding of black butterfly tuxedo they’re wearing. Pran even has a bowtie on.
It’s everything Pat has imagined this to be. It’s nothing like Pat imagined it could be.
Pat watches as row after row of wedding guests make their way across the raised stage to congratulate the couple and their parents on the happy union.
It was a joyous occasion. And yet as Pat takes in the delighted expressions on everyone’s faces, he feels a stabbing, twisting sensation inside his gut. A gunshot wound. A dull, rusted knife. Seeds of bitterness claws at him. The smile disappears from his eyes.
All these people, congratulating Pran on his marriage-,
And it hurts .
Pat frowns, unable to comprehend the tendrils of pain curling rapidly inside his chest. He’s happy to see Pran happy, and he’s happy to see his husband positively enamored and exhilarated to marry Pran (as he should, Pran is a great catch!).
It doesn’t make any sense.
Pat felt perfectly fine at the end of their marriage ceremony this afternoon. He was fine when they entered the wedding venue (for the most part).
So why am I feeling this way?
Pat wants to enjoy tonight. God forbid this be his last in-person memory of Pran and he lets himself ruin it!
Pat beelines for the open bar, orders a glass of whiskey, and chugs it down in seconds.
Nothing like alcohol to numb your feelings.
Gaslight, gatekeep, girlboss.
Pat barely feels the alcohol burning down his throat. He orders another glass a minute later, needing it. The drink warms his blood. Pat waits for his fists to stop shaking.
On a large projector screen, a live camera feed zooms in on the face of the newlyweds. Pran and Ram are smiling delightedly, shaking every single hand with unbridled enthusiasm. Pat is underwater and he can’t look away.
All these people congratulating them- I can’t- I can’t- If I- If I ruin their marriage, if I get in between them, If I tell Ram I loved- I’ll be the talk of town. I’ll make Pran the talk of town. All these people. I’d have to answer to each and every one of them. I’d have to take responsibility for the well wishes of every single person in this room that I violated.
How can I face them? How can I make Pran face such humiliation?
Pat stifles the anguished cry bubbling at the back of his throat.
Pat thought- no, he needed - he needed to tell Ram, at the very least, how he felt- how he had felt. He needed Ram to know just how precious of a person Pran is. He needed to make sure that Pran would be well taken care of. He needed to make sure that they’ll be happy. He needed to know that they’ll be happy. He needed them to promise him that. That there is not a sliver of space for Pat to get in between them.
Pat needed that chance to be destroyed before it even existed. Before his brain entertained the atrocious thought.
But if Ram knows, then Pran will know. And if Pran knows-
(It’ll change nothing. It’ll change everything. It’ll- Pat doesn’t know what it’ll do, but it’ll probably do nothing good.)
Pran can’t know, Pat blanches. Pran can never know that I was in love with him. Pran can’t know that I’m lingering.
Pat feels so sick he’s turning green.
It is achingly heavy to carry this burden alone. To keep these feelings hidden, no one to confide in, no one to acknowledge it. To be the sole keeper of their history.
In everyone’s eyes, Pran and Ram are each other's first love. Pran and Ram are each other’s first and last love.
First love and true.
Ha.
Did I not mean something? Did I not mean something too to you, Pran?
To have had their lives so entwined around each other. Pat is certain, it couldn’t have been just hatred. It couldn’t have all been animosity. And what of all the times they secretly helped each other out? And what of all the times they had each other’s backs, covered each other’s failures, nursed each other’s wounds. The shared blood and bruises. The shared burden and heartache.
How can that all be just forgotten. How can that all be- nothing.
The sharp sting of bile behind his nose makes Pat’s vision swim before him. He none too gently sets the glass of whiskey sitting precariously in his hand down on the tray of empty glasses and makes a quick exit.
Pat’s face is flushed all the way down to his neck. His eyes are hazy even to himself.
Fall down seven times, stand up eight.
It felt more like falling a hundred times and standing up twice.
Pat stands on shaky legs. He’ll crawl out of this hell if need be.
When Pat returns from the bathroom, he orders himself a glass of red. With a fierce gaze, he trains his eyes once more onto the stage. Pran and his husband are sitting down now, throngs of people coming and going to take family pictures.
Pat is trying. He promises, he is.
I’m trying, Pran. I promised I’d let you go. I promised I’d let you go if I can only see you get married.
Pat watched Pran get married today.
And he did do it, let go, he thinks.
It just- hurts.
It hurts to love alone, silently. Yet he’s told it’s better to have loved than not at all.
Pat does not know what to believe in anymore. Between the head and the heart, all of him is filled with Pran.
Pat raises his glass towards the newlyweds with a trembling hand and whispers to himself.
(Too little too late.)
“A toast to the happy couple. May you love each other forever, may your marriage prosper, and may you stay together until all your hair turns white. Parakul Siridechawat-” Pat’s smile wavers, willing hot tears to flow back into his tear ducts.
Pat swallows past the acid on his tongue.
“Pran - my Pran - please, please be happy. Ram, please make him happy.”
Happier than I could ever make him.
Pat chugs the red down, drying his already parched throat. He really should not be mixing his alcohol- he should drive his sister and mother home - but he really can’t be bothered to care at this point. Pat feels distinctly unmoored, like the room is spinning despite his steady feet. He decides now is a good time as any to stuff himself with food. Plus, he should check on Paa and his mom. They are still his responsibility for the night, the only thing standing between him and utter abandon. He’s old enough to curb his own recklessness.
Pat finds Paa by the gelato stall, juggling a plate of lamb and pork skewers in one hand and a lemon sorbet in another. She generously shoves four sticks into his hand with a pointed look.
“Hia, eat. You’re smashed.” A command, not a request.
Pat’s eyes glint coldly but bites down his retort. He tears into the meat like a starved tiger; a raging mind caged in a tremorful body.
Paa dissolves into the crowd and materializes moments later, returning with a bowl of piping hot udon and juicy, shrimp tempura. Pat wonders how his sister conjures the food in such a short amount of time, he had underestimated her resourcefulness. Pat eats without complaint because he can’t afford to pass out and make a dramatic scene.
Faculty of engineering, but majoring in performing arts, huh? Pat sneers at himself.
He shouldn’t make a scene. Pran wouldn’t want that.
“Let’s go congratulate the couple after this,” Pat says. “You go find Ma, I’ll text Ink and see if she wants to come.”
They enter the queue snaking the perimeter of the hall. Ink waves as she draws near them, all smiles like every other normal person inside and outside that room. Surely, Pat must be the only bitter person in a five-kilometer radius.
“Hiya, guys! Wah Nong Paa~~, suay mak mak ,” Ink grins. Paa’s cheek blushes red, the same shade of her lips, as she compliments the older woman back.
“I can’t believe Phi Pran is married now. They look so in love it’s adorable,” Paa swoons, moony-eyed. “I hope someone loves me that much someday.”
“Keep your eyes out Paa, maybe that person isn’t far away,” Ink smiles, eyes a glimmer of stars.
"P' Inkkkkkk, you always say that but no one appears. What a lie!"
Pat tunes out their flirting ear-splitting volume of the music. It made it impossible for him to think, putting a stop to his spiral of doom.
All too soon, they’re suddenly at the front of the line, just inches away from the wedding party.
Pat puts on his best smile. The perfect picture of a jovial, happy-go-lucky guy; The way Pran remembered him by.
Finally, finally, for the first time that day, Pran's eyes meet his.
Pat withdraws half a step back, and points at the solid red tie knotted around his neck.
“Did it myself.” Pat announces, apropos of nothing.
Pat’s heart soars at the glimmer of recognition in Pran’s eyes, a small upward quirk of the corner of his lips. In that moment, they returned to their fifteen year old selves.
He remembers, Pat thinks.
Pran shakes his head, finally, finally, smiling back at him.
“About damn time, Naphat.”
An inside joke they will forever share. At least they Pat will have that much; a threadbare consolation prize in lieu of living the rest of their lives together.
“Congratulations, Khun Parakul.” Pat says. He means every word. He wonders, still, if Pran saw through the cracks in his mask.
There was no more time for exchanging nostalgia or pleasantries. Pat is pushed forward into Ram's line of sight.
Teenage Pat dissolves like sea foam and adult Pat resurfaces from the abyss with a mouthful of saltwater.
“Congratulations, Khun Ram.”
“Naphat! Thank you! Thanks for coming!”
Pat smiles. Ram smiles. The two men shake hands, grip strong and eager.
Like a scripted show, the line moves forward.
All too soon it was over. Pat is off the stage, Ink and Paa behind him. Their smile sings warmth of a thousand suns; Pat is freezing cold.
This wasn’t what I wanted, Pat thinks. It can’t end like this. Not yet, not yet.
“I'm going out to the balcony,” Ink announces. “Our classmates are there Pat, come with?”
Pat accepts gratefully, clinging to the distraction like a lifeline.
He wanders around the rest of the night, chatting it up with old friends he hasn’t seen since the last reunion. They make no mention of his every rebuff of their prior invitations.
One friend talks about their love life, introducing their plus one and their challenges of being in a long-distance relationship.
Another talks about being married and his photography business.
Three just returned from abroad that week, coming expressly for Pran's wedding. Pat didn't even know they've been in touch with Pran all this while.
“Are you staying for the after party?” Ink reappears by Pat’s side, having stepped away from the cigarette smoke from their friends.
“Planned to. If Paa and Mae can get a ride home,” Pat shrugs.
“Ah, Nong Paa isn’t staying?” Ink pouts.
“Driving her home is an option, you know,” Pat winks.
“Are you giving me your permission?” Ink looks at him wide-eyed.
Just because his first love was unrealized, Pat sees no reason why his sister should too.
One of us should be happy at least, Pat thinks.
“She’s my sister, but I’ll leave it to her decision. If you want to hit on her, just hurry. You’re not the only one with an eye on her.”
“Then…. Give me your car keys. I’ll take her home.”
Pat fishes the keys out of his suit pocket, plopping them onto Ink’s outstretched palm.
“You’re a good driver so I’ll trust you. Just don’t make my poor Ma third wheel too hard.”
That remark earned Pat a swift punch to the arm. He humours her, moaning in pain.
“Ink!”
“Serves you right!”
One of Pran's groomsmen breaks into their conversation, calling their group on stage.
“Hey, you guys are Pran's high school mates right? We're wrapping up for the afterparty soon. It's your turn for a group picture.”
One by one, they trail back into the ballroom, the air conditioning blasting away the traces of drowsiness creeping into Pat from all the alcohol in his system. He suddenly feels more sober than he’s prepared to be.
Pat trails after the group, lingering behind. The words he's left unsaid broke through the layers and layers of concrete he buried under the moment his eyes landed on Pran and Ram’s figures.
Pran’s face breaks into laughter as their classmates surround him, talking animatedly. By contrast, Pat finds himself more drawn towards Ram. Pat settles in right behind Ram, just to his right.
Pat couldn’t help himself. Perhaps it’s liquid courage coursing in his veins. Perhaps it’s desperation turning him reckless. Perhaps, this is the only time he can catch a sliver of Ram’s attention tonight. Pat reaches out a hand, patting Ram’s shoulder solidly.
Ram turns to him, beaming. “Napat! Did you enjoy the party?”
“Yeah. Great reception! The effort shows,” Pat compliments, swallowing the acid down his tongue. “R- Ram please be happy, yeah? You have to be happy.”
Pat’s tongue was all too heavy to say the most important words.
(Please make him happy)
Ram’s looks touched, as though maybe it was something special that Pat had said that, even though Pat was sure many had said the same thing to him today. A hundred felicitations. Would his words hold any weight? Would Ram understand what Pat has left unsaid?
“I will. Thank you, Napat.”
The photographer yells for their attention, and every one puts on their best smiles and best poses.
Pat conjures the happiest memories of his life. He wants the smile captured to be genuine. So he does not regret it when he looks back on this day.
Let him go with a smile, Pat. You can do it, come on.
Pat stares at the camera and decidedly ignores Pran and Ram in front of him making the cheesiest heart pose. Pran’s boyish smile - all wide grins with gums showing - heals his heart.
His heart is safe here. In his hands, he’s happy and safe, Pat concludes. It’s enough, it’ll have to be enough.
“ Nùeng…sǎawng…sǎam! Great! One more time! Freestyle!”
Pat makes a second trip to the bathroom, his bladder giving him hell after all the drinks he’s poured into his system. He loosens the knot around his neck - the tie he so painstakingly practiced for - and splashes water around his collar.
Just a little more, just a little bit left.
Pat closes his eyes, tallying just how many drinks he’s had tonight.
Pat doesn’t want the night to pass him by like this. If he goes home, if he closes his eyes to sleep, it’ll bring an end to this most important day.
Haven’t you waited for this for so long? Pat asks himself. You waited for this. You prayed for this. And you got it.
He’s wondering once more why he’s not out there, living it out, and hiding in the bathroom instead.
Pat sighs to himself. I’m done being pathetic. C’mon Pat Naphat. One more hour and let’s go home.
Pat checks his phone, making sure his sister and mom reached home safely, and that Ink didn’t somehow crash his car.
Ink: [Photo]
Ink: Your cutie of a sister is home. I’m crashing on your couch btw, your mae wouldn’t let me go home, said it’s too late. Keys in the kitchen bowl.
Ink: Have fun at the afterparty for me!
Pat: Thanks Ink. Will do
Ink: Text us when you get home too, kay?
Ink: You’re pretty smashed
Pat: Yeah yeah. I got this, don’t worry
Pat stumbles out of the bathroom, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. Alcohol has always made him a little susceptible to drowsiness. At least he’s not a crying drunk. Or a horny drunk. Pat shivers, counting himself lucky.
Pat did not expect to run into Pran and Ram the moment he lifted his eyes away from the floor.
Gone are their black tuxedos. Pran and Ram are left in their white dress shirts and trousers. Pran is wearing brown suspenders, sleeves rolled up to show off his forearms. Pat tries not to ogle at Pran’s ass - it’s a little hard not to with the way the trousers sit taut across his cheeks.
Lord Buddha, help me , Pat groans internally. That is someone’s husband I’m thirsting over.
What was it that Pat said about not being a horny drunk?
I’m a clown. A fool. A pathetic, loser clown. Pat chides himself mentally. Thirsting over someone’s husband, the levels of lows I’ve fallen to today. Hell is a place on earth.
Pran and Ram’s fingers are interlocked, swinging their arms like children on a playground. So innocent and pure.
Pat is mortified by his own debauched thoughts and wills the ground to open up and swallow him whole.
Pat had planned to slip away quietly but it was a futile attempt. Ram catches sight of him, smiling, calling out his name. Of course, this means Pran starts turning towards him too, and Pat is simply not ready for it.
“Heyyyy,” Pat slurs. That’s weird. He should be sober enough to pretend clarity.
“I’m so glad you came,” Ram says.
Pat doesn’t understand why he said that. He doesn’t want to overthink it.
Actually, Ram seems to have switched his previous dress shirt with something satin-y and shimmery. The fabric catches light each way she turns. The sleeves are a transparent mesh, showing off the skin of his bare arms underneath. There’s a powder of sheen, glittery powder on his face. Ram is stunning and Pat feels all the more inadequate standing next to him, suddenly. Even though there is no more competition to be had. Even though Pat has tried everything to remove himself from this game.
Pat steps closer, the same words that had bubbled over on the stage returning to the tip of his tongue. The only difference this time is Pran is present enough to hear him.
“You guys, be happy together okay? You have to be happy. Please be happy.” Pat chagrins at the weepy tone of voice coming out of his lips. Who even are you right now? Get a grip, Pat!
Pran and Ram seem entirely unaware of Pat’s internal turmoil. Perhaps they’re too blinded by joy. Perhaps Pat is too good at hiding his feelings.
Ram leans in to hug him, hands still interlocked with Pran’s, and so Pat finds himself in the middle of a teletubbies hug - of all things - sandwiched in between the newlywed couple.
Pat could’ve combusted right then and there.
My life is a big, cosmic joke. Fate is toying with me, surely. How did I get to this point?
Pat pats the newlyweds' backs gingerly. This was not at all how he imagined the night to go.
“Be happy, guys. Be happy. You have to be happy together.” Pat repeats the words, hoping they could read in between the lines.
Pat lingers behind them as the couple step away from him, still beaming, still interlocked. Their wedding organizer ushers them away, preparing them for their grand entrance of the afterparty, handing each a bottle of tequila .
Oh, they’re getting hella trashed tonight, Pat thinks absently.
It doesn’t pass unnoticed to Pat how perfect of a symbol this was. Pat, always on the sidelines of Pran and Ram’s story. Always on the peripheries. Almost there but not quite. Always almost there and somehow missing the mark.
Pat laughs at himself.
The ballroom doors open once more and the couple is announced, strobe lights and smoke machines turning the dance floor from a dreamy ballroom to a disco club. The crowd has thinned down significantly, composed mostly of close relatives from both families and friends of the grooms. The live band and classy wedding singers have been switched out for a DJ, track switching to EDM and house party music.
Pat welcomes the way the heavy bass thrums in his bones. The rhythmic lines stimulate his sleeping dopamine release. For a moment, Pat feels better. Watching the way Pran, Ram, and some older relatives get down, dirty and rambunctious, tickles him to laughter.
Pat sees Pakorn dancing haphazardly with Ram’s father. Both men look drunk out of their ass, all red-faced and slurred words. Pran’s father-in-law ambles away like a deer with shaky legs to go find his wife or something and Pakorn hobbles towards Pat.
“Pat! It’s so nice to see you. Where’s Ming and Kaew?”
“Ma left earlier, uncle. Pa stayed at home, his health isn’t so good.”
“Such a shame. We would’ve loved to have him here, even if Dissaya says otherwise. Are you enjoying the party, Pat? Did you have a good time?”
I don’t know uncle, I think I might still be in love with your married son, do you think I’m having a good time?
“Yeah- Yes I am, uncle. Thanks for inviting me,” Pat swallows, smiling tightly.
“Of course we had to,” Pakorn eyes him strangely, as though he’s holding back words too.
Pat wonders what information he’s missing. He’s startled when Pakorn grabs both of his hands and starts swinging their arms around in an upbeat, awkward dance.
Pat doesn’t know if he should laugh or cry. Distantly, he wonders where Ram is, and shouldn’t he be the one dancing with his father-in-law?
Pat indulges Pakorn, dancing and shimmying with his two left feet. He probably looks ridiculous. Just as the entire situation is.
Still, Pat savours it. He’ll probably never have this chance again. Dancing with silly abandon with Pran’s father, the man Pat’s witnessed have thousands of physical and verbal disputes with his own father.
What was all that feud and hatred for, if it ended with this?
After Pakorn lets him go, Pat escapes back to the balcony, running away before one of the grooms pushes tequila down his throat, one hand precariously on his nape. Pat’s crazy but he's not that crazy.
Pat finds his former classmates hanging out at the open-air space, in the same spot as they were in earlier. There is more of a crowd now, the atmosphere decidedly more laid back now that all formalities were taken care of. There’s loud raucous laughter as people begin to unwind, most men taking off their suit jackets and some ladies their heeled shoes.
Pat smiles lazily, plopping into the nearest vacant seat. He only half tunes in to the conversation. A waiter comes around passing glasses of whiskey on the rocks. Against his better judgement, Pat takes a glass for himself. He nurses the drink, resolute in making this his last for the night.
The conversation ebbs and flows. Pat laughs along at the jokes, putting in his two cents as necessary, just enough so that no one questions what is wrong with him. A classmate asks about his love life, if he has any significant other in the picture. It’s not an unexpected question, with most of his cohorts bringing a plus one to the wedding. Pat simply shrugs, smiling secretively.
The night is getting late, so some people got up in search of more food (the noodle bar set up in one corner of the balcony is still going strong). Some have gotten up to stretch, and some are ready to bid farewell. There is movement by the door and the laissez-faire atmosphere shifts, turning lively as Pran and Ram appear, with yet another photographer on their heels. It feels almost like a college party. The bottle of tequila in Pran’s hand is half empty. Pran offers it around to the crowd and Pat politely declines, crossing his arms and shaking his head.
The photographer offers to take yet another group photo of them, just Pran and his friends. Ram has disappeared off to tend to his own guests. It is the first time Pat sees them separately that day and it feels wrong , like a safety net has been pulled from under his feet.
Walking on a tightrope, Pat huddles in for the group photo. He’s separated from Pran by one of their mutual friends. Small mercies, Pat doesn’t trust himself to be that close to Pran. Not tonight. Not right now. Perhaps, not ever again, for a long time.
The glass of whiskey in his hand is half-full. Pat doesn’t want it anymore.
Someone jostles into him just then, knocking the liquor over his shoes. How serendipitous.
“ Shia! Sorry Pat!”
“S’ alright. I’m done drinking for the night.”
Pat checks his phone, surprised that it was well past two in the morning. He has to get himself home before he does anything more that he can regret while stone-cold sober.
Pran has moved on from their group, chatting it up with his college friends who have come all the way from Singapore, the UK, and more distant places that Pat has yet to step foot in. Pat does not recognize them from any of Pran’s instagram posts. Pat doesn’t even know their names. Their high-school group has dispersed, the larger group breaking off to cliques of the past- smaller, more familiar circles.
In a room full of people, Pat wonders how it is that he still feels so lonely and cold.
Pat stands in the corner, hand and shoes still sticky with spilled-over Jack Daniel’s. Pran’s back, clad in his white, still-somewhat-crisp dress shirt, feels more unattainable than the Sun.
When Pran finally turns around, Pat’s legs move faster than his mind - crossing lightyears - grabbing Pran by the elbow with just enough strength to startle him.
“Pran, hey, thanks for inviting me. I- I gotta get home. Congrats again, really.” Pat says with a smile, releasing Pran and extending the same arm for a handshake.
The words fall flat and incomplete. There’s still so many words left unsaid. Pat wants to tell Pran more-
-but it’s not appropriate- Pran is a married man now, he has a husband and he’s someone’s husband.-
Pat bites his lips. This will have to be enough.
It has to.
“Be happy, yeah? Really.” Pat dares to gaze directly into Pran’s eyes, just for a moment. Finally looking at him and not through him.
Pran surprises him, opening his arms and dragging Pat’s limp, cold body into a side hug. Pat’s heart stutters a beat, confounded by the overtly warm gesture.
It is a surreal experience, a hug just between them two. No barriers, no holds barred. The hug is jarringly intimate and Pat is caught between his desire to melt into the touch and his rational instinct to flee.
“Pat. Thank you for coming. It means a lot to me,” Pran says, gaze fixed firmly on Pat’s.
Pat is too drunk to process if something deeper lies within Pran’s caramel eyes.
“Keep in touch kha ?” To Pat's helpless - hopeless - ears, it almost sounded like Pran was pleading.
Of course. It was you that disappeared from my life, not the other way around Pran. Pat almost wants to remind him.
Pran’s gaze on him sets Pat’s skin on fire. Fight and flight goes haywire, and freeze instinct takes over.
Pat nods mutely, savoring the weight of Pran’s warmth against his side. Our last hug.
Pat tightens his grip once more, lingering for the last time, and lets go. “Be happy, Pran.”
Pat rips his gaze off Pran and walks away without turning back. He melts into the departing crowd, slipping back into the ballroom, stopping a safe distance away as the weight of what just happened settles on him like a cloak of heavy wool.
It’s over. It’s really over.
Pran’s parting words replay in his mind like a broken record.
Thank you for coming. It means a lot to me.
Pat feels it wrecking the walls around his heart.
It means a lot to me.
A crack. A shatter.
Pat cannot help the tears that run down his cheeks. He reigns himself in, unwilling to have a full breakdown in the middle of the party crowd. Pat needs to get home right now.
Pat wicks away the tears, bids the last stragglers of his cohorts goodbye, and walks out of the ballroom in a daze. He sits by in the foyer area, green couches surrounded by panels of the wedded couple’s pre-wedding photos.
Pat sits and tries to remember how to breathe, tries to control the ringing in his ear and the building tightness in his chest.
“ Phi Pat, you okay?” Pat startles, one of Paa’s acquaintances - Ongsa or something - asks him.
“...Yeah. Yes, I am. Hey, you’re sober right? Can you wait for my ride with me?”
“Oh - oh yeah sure Phi. I can do that.”
“Yeah, thanks Nong . I’ll just- uh- drop by the bar for another glass? And how are you getting home? Do you have a ride?”
“Ah, it’s okay Phi , my cousin and f-faen are here as well. We’ll go home together.”
“Alright then.”
And if Pat chugs another glass of red wine like it’s nothing, no one says a word.
Pat locks the door behind him as he enters his flat, toeing off his still-damp party shoes. In the same careless way, he strips out of his suit and shirt, ripping the red tie off and discarding it to the floor, throwing himself onto the bed with a spinning head.
Pat tries to take in the events of the day, wondering why he felt like shit right now when he was feeling perfectly fine during the ceremony.
Pat knows he couldn’t have married Pran. For one, there’s the family feud. Secondly, his parents wouldn’t approve of non-biological kids, and they wanted grandkids - or so they’ve told him and Paa for the last five years, begging them to bring someone home already. Thirdly, Pat thinks rationally, he has more years apart with Pran than years of knowing him under his belt. Pat knows Pran as he was, not as he is. Pat loved Pran as a kid, but to claim to extend that love to the current Pran, whom he knows less and less about, would it be fair to call it love? Is it not simply an obsession that Pat refuses to acknowledge?
Pran deserves better than that. Pat should be happy that Pran is loved genuinely as his true and current self.
First love and true.
And Pat is! He’s happy about it. Grateful even.
First love and true.
But it hurts. It still hurts.
It hurts so much that his chest feels like it might implode.
Because no one knows about him and Pran. No one knows and no one will ever know.
To be the sole keeper of their history is an achingly heavy burden to carry alone. Unseen. Unacknowledged. Unaccompanied. A burden heavier than Pat could bear.
First love and true.
The fortress topples down all at once. Pat ugly cries, chest heaving with rib-wreaking sobs. The weight of years and years of yearning, the hopes his subconsciousness has held onto all along; all of it breaks and breaks into a million pieces. An earth-shaking earthquake.
Only now does Pat realize to the extent of how much it hurts to not have been publicly….something… of Pran’s.
Not as rivals. Not as enemies.
No one knows their story but them two. And who knows if Pran even remembers? Who knows if their bond had left an impact as deeply on Pran as it did on Pat? It is all a guessing game.
It hurts that someone who is a big part of his life, in more ways than one, and yet no one knows their story.
It hurts to not be acknowledged as Pran’s first love. At least, Pat thinks he might be.
Was I not? The doubt lingers, unconfirmed, unsaid.
Pran was his first love, Pat would declare it off the highest rooftops. He would now. He wouldn’t have in the past. How could he, when he didn’t know it himself?
But the world doesn’t acknowledge it. Now everyone believes that Ram is Pran’s first love. And it hurts. To be erased like all those years together was nothing.
Fifteen years. Fifteen.
Pran, what were we?
To the very end, Pat couldn’t verbalize this question. He couldn’t ask Pran then, and he can’t ask Pran now.
Pran was someone’s fiance back then, and now, Pran is someone’s husband.
Pat has values and he draws the line at being a home-wrecker.
Pat watched his first love get married today.
It was heartbreak all over again.
Thank you for coming. It means a lot to me.
It turns out all along what Pat wanted was to be acknowledged by Pran, to be remembered by him occasionally, to be seen and remembered fondly.
It would just be a shame, wouldn’t it? all of those years, all that history together, for it to disappear without a trace like seafoam.
Like a broken dam, the deluge of Pat’s tears flows incessantly.
Eight letters left unsaid, thawed out by six words.
It means a lot to me.
( _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ )
那些年错过的大雨
那些年错过的爱情
好想拥抱你
拥抱错过的勇气
曾经想征服全世界
到最后回首才发现
这世界滴滴点点全部都是你
那些年错过的大雨
那些年错过的爱情
好想告诉你
告诉你我没有忘记
那天晚上漫天星星
平行时空下的约定
再一次相遇
我会紧紧抱着你
紧紧抱着你
《那些年》Those Bygone Years by 胡夏 Hu Xia (2011)
One week later, Pat comes down with a flu so strong it knocks him off his feet for three days straight. Pat had dragged himself to work, all hoarse and haggard. He must've looked so pitiful; his boss took one look at him and forced him on sick leave.
Between the medication, the sneezing, and the coughs that wracked his lungs in his ribcage, Pat had no mental space for anything but his survival and recovery. Pat took a much needed break from his phone and caught up on a month's worth of stress-induced sleep deprivation.
The first 24 hours had been the hardest. Pat had expected it, with how documented the entire wedding was, it would be strange for Pran and Ram not to post about it. There was a barrage of posts from friends, acquaintances, even from his own sister. Instagram became a landmine of heartbreak, and each time Pat had to remind himself, this pain too shall pass. This is healing. This too shall pass. I will live, scars and all.
Pat is physically and mentally well-rested when he finally checks the missed messages and voicemails. There are close to 100 notifications spamming his phone.
The video appears first the moment he refreshes Instagram. A highlight reel of that day.
Posted only hours before.
Pat held no expectations when he pressed play. There’s the usual expected scenes, still shots of the beautiful chapel, short snippets of the grooms with their families and groomsmen, snippets of the beautiful reception, of all the moments Pat missed out on because he arrived late. First entrance, first dance, - first kiss, even - the wedding toast and the cake cutting.
Pran looks so happy, so much happier inside the video. Maybe he really was super nervous during the ceremony. In the video, only surrounded by his closest persons, he radiates joy. Contentedness beyond words calms Pat’s heart to see it.
The voiceover of the grooms’ exchanging their private vows felt a bit too intimate to hear, Pat cringed. He reminded himself that this video was not for him, not directed to harm him, but was crafted with the heartfelt intention of capturing the essence of that day for the couple’s memory.
But in that split second, Pat saw it, a shot of himself standing up together with rows and rows of other guests, rising to greet the wedding party. Pat was there, frozen in time; between the countless memories captured of that day, he was there. A digital trace.
It is then that he realizes. Pat is still part of Pran’s story.
He was there for that milestone.
Theirs is a history no one can erase., even if no one acknowledges it out loud.
There is no need for anyone to.
Be happy.
And I will too.
Finally, I’m free too.
要不是一首老歌
把那段过往再提起
我想我早已忘了
关于你的刻骨铭心
夜里数过的星星
为你哭红的眼睛
大概都成了年轻过的证据
后来每年的生日
许的愿不再关于你
时间它不声不响
终于把我还给自己
你曾给过我的梦
会有人把它叫醒
或许睁开眼睛
还有再爱一次的勇气
后来他让我明白
原来我也值得被珍惜
那最后的人真的可以不是你
不敢提起的从前
如今都能笑着再说起
就让故事里的人 留在故事里
后来我自己明白
该经历的都不会缺席
究竟什么是爱情幸福的原因
不敢提起的从前
如今好像云淡又风轻
就让故事里的人留在故事里
后来我把护着我
让我勇敢说出我愿意
那首歌可以不是可惜不是你
也相信未来某天
年轻的伤都已想不起
只记得多年前的我
对自己说过那句
都会过去
此刻面对过去的我
对自己说了那句
都会过去
“I vow to cherish this second chance we’ve been given. I promise to love you with the same heart that loved you then and even more deeply now. I will honor the journey that brought us here and I'll cherish every moment we share moving forward.”
“There’s a belief that everyone falls in love three times in their lifetime; the first is a love that looks right, the second is a love that breaks us, and the third is a love that lasts. I must say that this is my third time falling in love. Sometimes I wonder what I did in my past life to deserve a love like ours. You will always be my first and last love. To you our love is real and everlasting, and to me our love is selfless.”
Raise a glass to freedom, something they can never take away.
Flashback 16 years ago
Pat moans and groans, fiddling on the navy blue necktie around his neck.
“Whose stupid idea is it to add ties to our damn school uniforms,” Pat mutters, annoyed.
It’s his dozenth attempt and still, Pat’s efforts makes no show of it. In frustration, the youth kicks at the leg of his table, which only results in his toes stinging, making him fume further.
“Argh, this stupid tie!” Pat chucks the tie in exasperation.
Pran sits on the table to his right, scratching away at his math homework.
“It’s just a tie and it’s giving you that much trouble?” Pran asks, not looking away from the paper in front of him.
Naturally, Pran’s own tie is neatly secured around his neck. It only took him three tries.
“Don’t make fun of me, I don’t have your fingers.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Guitar-playing fingers? Origami-folding fingers? Just do it for me will ya?”
Pat thrusts the tie in Pran’s direction, giving Pran his best wheedling smile.
“You’re ridiculous.” Pran rolls his eyes, but grabs the tie out of Pat’s hands, wrapping it around his own neck instead.
With swift, practiced moves, Pran ties the perfect knot. He loosens the tie, pulling it over his head carefully without destroying the knot.
“Here.”
“Thank you Khun Pran~~” Pat singsongs.
“You owe me one.” Pran returns flatly.
“Hey! I covered your ass in Physics yesterday! You owe me!”
“No… don’t you remember I saved you in English last week? You owe me.”
Naturally, the two teenagers devolved into play-fighting, running around the empty classroom playing chase until lunch break ended.
Pran knots Pat's tie once a week until he was transferred.
Pat never learned how to knot a proper tie until adulthood.