Archive of Our Own ^beta

Past a decade is a long time to wait for someone who never promised to come back. It stretches a memory thin until the light passes through it and makes a second image: the person then, and the person imagined now. What if those two people are strangers who happen to share a name.

On weekday mornings, Maewnam taught Marketing to undergraduates who still believed in viral hacks and destiny-by-algorithm. On weekday nights, she graded campaigns about laundry detergent and loyalty apps while ignoring push notifications about her own loyalty to an idea. On weekends, she tried her best not to daydream in front of the grocery.

Her friends called it many things—romance, if one wore pink; sentimental inertia, if one wore glasses. They were both professors like her, and both were possessed with the particular kind of stubborn hope found in people who give grades and still believe in improvement.

“Marketing is all about positioning,” Chompoo said over fish ball soup in the campus cafeteria, chopping basil into confetti that snowed over both their bowls. “Reposition the story. Try a different channel.”

“You’re really going to turn this into a campaign,” Tonnam sighed, but her mouth softened the way it always did when someone she loved was hurting. Serious on paper, soft in practice. “It’s been ten years.”

“Airport runways don’t hold planes that long,” Chompoo added, satisfied with the metaphor.

“They do,” Maewnam muttered, because in another part of the city, the grocery still existed and the father still stood behind the counter and somewhere beyond those shelves the girl in the photograph had become a woman with a life that did not include the underpaid college student who once stocked soy sauce and pretended not to add extra candy to the bag.

“Khun Thantara told you she’s single,” Chompoo said, more gently now. “But fathers aren’t data sources.”

“Fathers are anecdotes,” Tonnam said. “And Wan rarely calls, right?”

“He said that too,” Maewnam admitted. “She drops by sometimes. Quick visits. Work first.”

“Work first,” Chompoo repeated, but not unkindly. “Then let work be a ladder. Try something that doesn’t require ghosts.”

“What does that even mean.”

“It means download Tinder,” Chompoo said cheerfully, and when the look on both their faces made it clear this was serious, she softened. “Filters. Boundaries. Intentions. The second someone sends a body part photo you didn’t ask for—delete. We’ll hold a memorial service for your phone and then go get noodles.”

“Boundaries,” Maewnam said, as if the word could build a bridge over the very specific hole she had been circling for a decade.

“Also,” Chompoo added, “Mom says romance is better than retinol.”

“Of course she does,” Tonnam snorted. “Salon owners sell hope by the milliliter.”

“Mom sells confidence,” Chompoo countered. “With or without bangs.”

“Fine,” Maewnam said, mostly to get her heart to stop being loud. “Filters. Spelling. River disposal if necessary.”

----

The first buzz of the app happens under a restaurant awning while the rain pretends to be glitter. It’s the kind of Bangkok night that feels like someone steamed the entire city and served it with lime.

Inside, her parents are still discussing legacy like it’s a brand they personally invented. Outside, waiting for her ride, Maewnam opens Tinder because she promised to try for one week, because boundaries were set, because she would delete the moment a stranger behaved like a stray notification with hands.

Filters are in place (courtesy of Chompoo’s very earnest meddling): women only, no bio = no dice, 10 km radius, age range that feels like an honest thesis. She swipes left on a crypto queen who loves grindset quotes. Right on someone holding a library card like a trophy. Left on “no drama please” (which is, frankly, dramatic).

Then a profile locks her in place.

Wan, 29.

White shirt, cuffed at the forearms. Sleek ponytail. A look that says “fifth slide of the deck is where I close.” Bio: Team lead. Fluent in Japanese and terrible timing. Will flirt and then send you a calendly link.

Match.

No scream. Just a sharp inhale that fogs the edge of her phone. The taxi pulls up. She gets in, gives the address, stares at the name until it blurs.

The first message arrives while the driver merges like a poem about chaos.

Wan: Passing your vibe check? Or should I come back with better lighting.

A joke. Smooth. Then—

Wan: Hi. No unsolicited anything from me unless you count wordplay. I can be obscene with metaphors though.

Her thumbs go clumsy.

Maewnam: Hey. Good lighting already. Wordplay is safer than… other plays.

Wan: Safer? Debatable. A good double entendre has ruined more sleep schedules than caffeine.

There it is. A warmth gripping her ribcage. She reminds herself: rules. She made rules.

Maewnam: Rule 1: If anyone sends me an uninvited… body part, the app goes in the river. With a small ceremony. And confetti.

Wan: Noted. I’ll only send pictures of high-performing dashboards. And maybe my lunch if it’s indecent.

Maewnam: Indecent lunch?

Wan: A bánh mì that makes eye contact.

She laughs too loud. The driver glances back. She coughed into a fist, embarrassed and a little thrilled that she could be this kind of person tonight—someone who laughs alone and isn’t lonely.

Wan: Your turn. Give me one ridiculous hill you’ll die on.

Maewnam: Clear broth > cloudy broth. Cloudy is chaos. Clear is intimacy.

Wan: Clear is dangerous. There’s nowhere to hide. I like that. Also, you just flirted with soup.

The heat travels straight to her neck.

Maewnam: I teach Marketing. Everything is flirting if you write it right.

Wan: You teach Marketing? I lead a team that thinks campaigns are spells and budgets are curses. This is either synergy or a turf war.

Maewnam: Depends who wins.

Wan: I do well in win‑wins. And stalemates. And boardrooms with glass walls and secrets.

It’s easy, then—too easy—to let the chat become a place where logic hums and adrenaline purrs. She promises herself this will be a gentle experiment. Wan promptly ends that by being very, very good at saying almost‑things.

Wan: Tell me something brave.

Maewnam: Brave is subjective.

Wan: Then tell me something you only say after midnight.

The taxi turns. The city blinks.

She types and deletes three confessions. Then chooses one that feels silly until it doesn’t.

Maewnam: I hoard sauce packets and I label them like an archivist.

Wan: See, now I’m picturing your kitchen drawers and this is already a problem.

A problem. She swallows. Her pulse taps hello to the inside of her wrist.

Wan: My midnight truth: When I learn a new language, I practice flirting before formal email lines. Priorities.

Maewnam: You’re dangerous.

Wan: Efficient.

The phone buzzes again as she unlocks her condo door.

Wan: Can I ask something impolite?

She stands, half in her shoes, half out of her common sense.

Maewnam: You can ask. I can not answer.

Wan: Are you shy in person or only shy when someone points out you’re flirting with soup.

She covers her face with her hand like she can hide from text.

Maewnam: Next question.

Wan: Noted. You’re adorable. Next topic: what do your hands like to hold when they’re nervous?

She drops the keys in the dish, because that sentence felt like a stair missing under her foot.

Maewnam: Chopsticks.

Wan: I can work with that.

She turns her phone face down and breathes into the quiet like it’s a paper bag.

----

The next morning, the world resumes. In her 10 a.m. lecture, she talks about value propositions while silently replaying the sentence: I can work with that. Students present a campaign that includes a drone and a grandmother. She gives them a B+ for heart and a warning about logistics.

At lunchtime, a message:

Wan: Teach me one line I can steal to impress a Marketing professor.

She grins at “impress.” Dangerous word.

Maewnam: The promise precedes the product. Good brands spend their lives trying to catch up to their best promises.

Wan: Dangerous. I suddenly want to be a brand.

She goes still again, hands warming around a paper cup.

Wan: Then, what’s the promise?

She’s smart. She’s a leader. She knows how to answer hard questions with wit. She will not melt on a lunch break.

Maewnam: The promise is I’ll be honest and you’ll be brave.

Wan: Good. Because I’m very brave. And occasionally dishonest in service of non-boring first dates.

She stares at that one for a long time. First dates. She feels the word land inside her like rain hitting metal—loud, lovely, terrifying.

Her friends call after class. “How’s the field experiment,” Tonnam asks. “Any confetti yet?” Chompoo adds, “Mom says bangs can create new timelines if needed.”

“No confetti,” she says. “No timelines. There was a sandwich.”

“Good omen,” Chompoo declares. “Sandwich girls are stable.”

“Is that science?” Tonnam asks.

“Salon science,” Chompoo replies.

----

Night two is worse—in the best way. Wan uses Japanese like ribbon, ties bows around sentences, then slips a wink through them.

Wan: Today’s meeting, I wanted you to save me. With dangerous metaphors.

Her brain hitches on “you.”

Maewnam: That’s a very… intentional pronoun.

Wan: I don’t waste intimacy on spreadsheets.

She tries—truly tries—to stay academic.

Maewnam: What’s your team like?

Wan: Smart, tired, funnier than they think. They’re better when I’m better. It’s a loop. I like being good enough to make other people better.

It’s a line that would make any professor’s heart pull toward the person who wrote it. She knows leadership when she sees it. She also knows a hand dragging a line of heat across a cold table.

Wan: Now tell me something impractical that you want.

She should say new sneakers. Another stack of sticky notes. A quiet Sunday.

Instead—

Maewnam: A kiss so good I forget how to alphabetize my spice rack.

Silence. She stares at the message like it belongs to someone braver. Then—

Wan: I can destroy alphabetical order.

Wan: I can turn cumin into a religious experience.

Wan: You’re blushing, aren’t you.

Her ears are volcanic.

Maewnam: No.

Wan: Your “no” has a pulse. Cute.

She flops back on her bed, presses her phone against her sternum, and whispers, “this is absurd,” to a ceiling that has no comment.

----

Day three, Wan asks about fruit and makes it scandalous.

Wan: Favorite fruit?

Maewnam: Mango when patient. Pomelo when lucky.

Wan: Mango is about timing and hands. Pomelo is about faith and fingernails. Both are about mess on your mouth.

She has to set the phone down and walk away to laugh into her palms.

Wan: Do you prefer to be fed opinions or to feed them to other people?

She squints. Tries to deflect.

Maewnam: In a classroom, I feed. In real life, I taste.

Wan: I’ll take that as consent to bring two spoons and no shame.

She sips water like it might cool her from the inside. It does not.

----

They keep edging lines and stepping back, like kids in the ocean daring each wave. Wan pushes exactly as far as consent says yes, and then she pivots to humor fast enough to make whiplash feel like grace.

Wan: What are your tells when you’re lying?

The question is quiet. Intimate. Leadership again, disguised as flirting.

Maewnam: I look left and smile too much.

Wan: Don’t lie to me then. I like your honesty more than your left.

She wants to say me too. She says:

Maewnam: Why are you good at this.

Wan: At what.

She stares at the typing bubble. Knows she is baiting the hook. Regrets nothing.

Maewnam: Making my ears burn through a phone.

Wan: Practice. And wanting.

She presses her lips together, helpless.

----

Night four, she almost says no when Wan asks to meet. Not because she doesn’t want to—she wants so badly it feels like standing too close to a balcony—but because the version of Wan she’s collecting in her phone is already startling, addictive, bright as neon on wet tile.

Wan: Coffee one day? Or tea. I’ll stop asking if you set a boundary. I like boundaries. I’m great at coloring inside the lines and then pretending I didn’t.

She folds. Not yet.

Wan: Okay. I’m patient when the person is worth it.

Then, without changing temperature, Wan adds:

Wan: What color is your lipstick when you want trouble.

Her throat clicks.

Maewnam: I don’t want trouble.

Wan: That wasn’t the question.

Her hands answer before her brain obtains permission.

Maewnam: Dusty rose.

Wan: Noted. I’ll wear something that begs to be kissed off.

She sets the phone down. Walks to the sink. Turns on the tap. Drinks water like she’s training for a competition called “Restraint.”

----

Day five brings mercy. Wan is buried in deliverables. She sends a photo of a whiteboard that looks like a murder scene with arrows. She writes a heart to herself and laughs at the absurdity. She still finds time to drop a match in the dark.

Wan: Are you the kind of professor who curves grades or the kind who curves spines.

The sentence is diabolical. She drops her pen. It rolls off her desk and disappears under the cabinet like it’s embarrassed for her.

Maewnam: Spines are already curved from carrying capitalism.

Wan: So you’re a healer. Good. I need a massage for my brain. And possibly my ethics.

She dies. Is reborn. Decides never to show this chat to anyone who doesn’t love her enough to refuse to judge.

That afternoon, Noey walks into Wan’s office with a contract and a look that says she’s been rescuing Wan from herself since they were teenagers.

Noey: Eat. It’s 4 p.m.

Wan: We flirted about pomelo.

Noey: This means literally nothing to me.

Wan: I want to meet her.

Noey pauses. A thousand possibilities pass across her eyes like small weather systems. She picks the kind answer.

Noey: Then be kind. Be honest. Don’t be a coward.

Wan: Never am.

Noey raises a brow. Wan catches herself and smiles like a person who knows their own lies. They both let the moment pass. That is the oldest ritual they share.

----

Night six: Maewnam is grading when the phone buzzes with something that feels like an invitation to step onto a balcony. She already knows she will step. She already knows she will look down.

Wan: Tell me something I can’t un-know about you.

She chews on the inside of her cheek.

Maewnam: When I like someone, my ears go red. I don’t know why. I’m a barometer. It’s annoying.

Thirty seconds. Forty.

Wan: Baby, your ears must be on fire.

She forgets how to swallow. How to sit. How to be a person in clothing.

Wan: Do you want me to stop calling you baby.

She stares at the word. She can feel the future two doors down, turning to look.

Maewnam: No.

Wan: Good. Thank you for preference clarity.

The audacity. The charm. The way she slides consent into heat like it’s a coin into a cigarette machine.

Wan: What do you want me to call you when I’m being good.

Her brain short-circuits. She reaches for a joke and finds none. She reaches for honesty and finds herself.

Maewnam: Maewnam.

Wan: And when I’m being bad.

She drops the grading pen again. It’s a theme now.

Maewnam: Still… Maewnam.

Wan: Cute. I’ll make it sound like trouble.

There is no recovery from that. Only endurance.

----

On day seven, the rain is theatrical. The city shines like soap. Her parents want a photo for the family chat; she sends it and then almost opens the app out of muscle memory. Stops herself. Opens anyway.

Wan: Meet me.

Two words. No exclamation point. No softened edges. It hits like cold water and fire at once.

She lets herself be scared for exactly nine breaths.

Not yet.

Wan: Okay. Tell me when. I’ll be there early. Team lead disease.

She chuckles. Somehow this kindness makes it worse and better at the same time.

Wan, quickly after: And because I’m not a saint—tell me what you’re wearing. Give me imagination fuel. I have a long day tomorrow.

The audacity is perfect. The request is respectful. The heat is immediate.

She types slowly, savoring her own pulse.

Maewnam: A black t-shirt that says “Make it make sense.” High-waist jeans. Messy ponytail. No lipstick.

Wan: I like a woman who taunts me with potential.

Wan: Put the dusty rose on when you want me to misbehave.

The phone is hot. Her face is hotter. The room feels like a secret she consented to keep.

----

The next morning, she teaches segmentation and tries not to think of how neatly Wan has positioned herself inside her day. During office hours, she says “it depends” to five different students. At lunch, she scrolls to their thread, reads it from the beginning, and finds herself smiling at the places she remembers blushing.

At 3:04 p.m., a photo arrives. Not a body part. A wrist with a watch, a desk with schedules, a pen against skin. Suggestive in the way suggestion loves to be: the shading, the veins, the angle that knows what it’s doing.

Wan: I’m in a meeting about risk. Thinking about yours.

Her fingers hover.

Maewnam: My risk is high. My reward is…

Wan: Me.

She hates that she loves this. She loves that she hates this. She hates that she will show up just to keep hating loving this.

At 8:22 p.m., after a long day ends with instant noodles and a headache, she texts.

Maewnam: Tomorrow. 6 p.m. Phayathai. Uglier sign, honest broth.

There is no delay.

Wan: Yes.

Wan: I’ll be the one pretending not to look at the door. I’m very bad at pretending.

She can’t remember the last time she paced her apartment like this. It feels like the night before a presentation to a room filled with people she secretly wants to convince to bet on her heart.

Chompoo calls. “Do you want Mom to do a quick blowout,” she asks too casually.

“No,” she says, smiling with her entire self. “Tell Auntie I’m going messy.”

“She says messy is a strategy,” Chompoo replies.

“Tell Auntie I said thanks,” she says. “And tell her to stop booking blowouts for first dates that may or may not happen.”

“Too late,” Chompoo sings. “Love you.”

“Love you,” she says back, and means the whole neighborhood—past, present, future—and then, weirdly, doesn’t mean it at all because Wan isn’t the neighborhood, Wan is something else, someone she doesn’t know, someone she cannot claim, someone who just called her baby and made it feel like a correct answer.

The day of.

Wan: Leaving work.

She can hear the soft grit in the phrase. She feels it catch in the gears of her chest and make everything spin smoother.

She arrives early and circles the block like a teenager hiding a cigarette from a cousin. The sign hums. The steam coats the windows. She texts:

Maewnam: Don’t order yet. We’ll do it together.

Wan: I’ll save us the table with the plastic plant. It’s trying its best.

Five-fifty-seven. Her spine is mercury. Six p.m. Her feet move like they’ve been given a memo.

She sees the profile first: jaw, cheek, the kind of posture that makes interns sit up straighter through osmosis. Hair pinned like competence. The wrist from the photo. A cup sweating on the table. The smallest bite mark on a straw.

Her phone buzzes.

Wan: If you need three more breaths, take them. I’ll count slowly. One.

She doesn’t breathe. She laughs. She types:

Maewnam: I see you.

Wan: Do you?

She swallows.

Maewnam: Yes.

Wan: Then come let me ruin your spice rack.

The bell over the door rattles. Steam kisses her glasses. She steps inside. Wan turns, mouth curving like she’s been waiting to say a first word all day.