By late afternoon, the Bangkok sun, usually merciless, had mellowed, its heat now diffused into a warm golden hush that filtered through the thick canopy above Chulalongkorn University's main plaza. The banyan tree stood like a sentinel there, gnarled and towering, its roots draped over the ground like ancient limbs refusing to let go.
Michael Thanaporn sat on a half-hidden bench behind a wall of overgrown jasmine bushes, nearly invisible to the passing crowd. He'd discovered this secluded corner a few weeks ago and had since claimed it as his own. Amid the city's nonstop clamor, buzzing scooters, campus chatter, and the rhythmic clank of food carts, this was where he could breathe.
Charcoal pencil in hand, Michael worked quietly, the texture of the sketchpad familiar beneath his fingers. A strand of dark hair kept falling into his face, and he brushed it back absently without breaking focus. Today's subject was the banyan tree itself: the way its thick roots coiled and twisted into the earth, how the late light made the dust swirl like tiny fireflies. He loved the texture of it all, the bark, the shadows, the lives hiding in plain sight.
But his drawings were never just trees and stones. They carried traces of something else. With a barely-there touch, he added a shimmer to the moss, a whisper of magic. A tiny beetle appeared under his pencil, almost glowing, as if caught in a secret conversation with the roots. Behind a curtain of leaves, a ghost of a winged creature took shape, its presence so faint it could be dismissed as a trick of the light. These were Michael's private touches, hidden meanings only he truly understood.
The world beyond the paper blurred out: voices, footsteps, even the shrill loudspeaker from the faculty building faded into a low murmur. His eyes, usually lowered or distant, were now sharp, drawn into the quiet intensity of creation.
And then, it shattered.
A loud, booming laugh rang out: too close, too sudden. Michael flinched, his pencil slipping, smudging the beetle's wing. He winced and instinctively moved to close his sketchbook, suddenly conscious of how exposed he felt.
"Whoa! Don't close it yet!"
The voice was bright, insistent, and impossible to ignore. Michael froze, hand still hovering over the page. A shadow fell across the bench. He caught a waft of fruity cologne: sweet, tangy, and full of life, and reluctantly looked up.
A tall figure stood in front of him, all sunlight and color. Stylish sneakers, slim-fit jeans, and a yellow t-shirt that practically radiated. His grin was wide and utterly unselfconscious, his eyes, hazel and gleaming, alive with curiosity. His whole presence seemed to hum with energy, like he'd burst out of a commercial or a dream.
"That's amazing," the stranger said, gesturing toward the half-shut sketchbook. "The way you draw, it's like the tree is breathing. And is that a Lumi-beetle? No way!"
Michael blinked. "A… what?"
"Oh, sorry!" The guy laughed again, extending a hand. "William. William Srisuwan. Communication Arts. And you are ridiculously talented."
Michael hesitated, eyeing the hand like it might bite. "Michael," he mumbled. "Thanaporn. I'm… just doodling."
William tilted his head. "Doodling? That's what you call this?" He leaned slightly, eyes scanning the visible part of the sketch. "This is art. And something else, too. There's… feeling in it. A kind of wonder."
He didn't move away, and Michael didn't quite know how to handle that. Most people glanced and moved on. William lingered, his interest unwavering. It made Michael's palms sweat.
Then, to his surprise, Michael gently nudged the sketchbook open a little more.
William dropped into a crouch, scanning each page like it was a treasure map. A street vendor's face, etched with soft shadows. A market scene alive with motion and subtle magic, sprites in the corners, temple bells with halos.
William exhaled slowly. "Wow… You don't just draw what's there. You see what's beneath it."
Michael's throat tightened. He wasn't used to being seen like this, like someone worth listening to. It was disarming.
"So," William said, looking up with a smaller smile now, more thoughtful, "what brings a Fine Arts prodigy to this hidden corner of campus?"
Michael cleared his throat. "It's quiet here. Easier to focus."
William chuckled, sitting back on his heels. "Yeah, I get that. Even I need to turn the volume down sometimes."
Then his eyes lit up again, as if some new thought had burst in uninvited. "I'm a writer, actually. Always chasing stories. Maybe we could hang out sometime? You sketch, I write. We talk. Or just… sit."
Michael stared at him. No one had ever said anything like that to him, not without expectation or pity. He nodded slowly, barely.
William's grin returned, brighter than before. "Awesome! Want to grab iced coffee later? My treat. There's this tiny café with ridiculous matcha cold brew."
He didn't wait for an answer, just gave a playful salute and turned to leave.
"See you around, Michael!"
And just like that, William Srisuwan, storm of color and confidence, was gone, leaving Michael alone again beneath the banyan tree.
But the silence felt different now, as if the place had been stirred.
As if something, someone, had stepped into the quiet and changed its rhythm, forever.