Work Text:
05:45
Once, long before anything began to fall apart, Net had read something that left him quietly reflective. It was a simple passage, and it said:
‘Some people have no idea how precious a minute is.
I struggle to understand the essence of my time [...], to fight for every minute is to fight for what’s possible within you, so that your life and your death aren’t the same as certain people’s.
Don’t be like them and you’ll survive.
Minute by minute’.
At the time, he’d run his eyes over each line like someone observing something from afar, aware that it ought to mean something, yet unable to truly reach what was written there. But he’d kept the passage simply because it looked beautiful, not because it made sense.
And, since then, he’d repeated to himself that certain sentences only belong to people who’ve lived pains far too specific, distant from his own.
But now, sitting before the bluish light of the monitor, Net was beginning to realise that perhaps he’d never truly understand it, even if he tried. Not when the space between one minute and the next seemed to have turned into a place where he no longer knew how to breathe. Not when every small pause, every second of silence, carried the weight of something he hadn’t managed to stop.
He was tired, extremely tired.
Even so, he couldn’t sleep.
His mind simply couldn’t stay still, and he’d given up pretending he could ignore the urgency of keeping up with everything, of knowing exactly what they were saying about him while he couldn’t do anything other than say that everything would be fine. That he’d be fine.
He blinked slowly, as if each blink were an attempt to push away the feeling that it still might not be real. The cursor blinked in the corner of the document, lighting up passages he’d already read so many times they’d begun to lose their meaning, even if they hurt.
‘Mandee Work Co., Ltd. informs that one of the main actors, James Supamongkol Wongwisut…’ He stopped reading again.
Net felt his stomach tighten in an annoying but almost imperceptible way, as if his body wanted to warn him of something before his mind did.
‘… has decided to withdraw from the series…’
The word withdraw seemed larger than it ought to be.
He swallowed hard, shifting his eyes only to confirm that the glass was still there between his fingers. The glass was cold, damp, and sliding a little against his skin. The bottle, left far too close to the keyboard, was nearly at its end in an amber line that looked smaller every time he glanced at it.
He felt his shoulders give a little when he returned his gaze to the screen: ‘… Net Siraphop Manithikhun will continue portraying “Phop”’.
The people closest to him had questioned his decision to continue with the role, to continue in that series as if the answer were the simplest of all, as if he were obliged to know what it was.
He didn’t know.
Perhaps he’d stayed because he’d given his best, devoted himself from the very first moment to making it work, or perhaps he’d stayed because he simply believed in the potential of that story even though now everything was far too uncertain.
He let out a deep sigh. He was feeling even more tired.
His office was far too dark, far too quiet, and that small blue reflection on his pupils left everything even more motionless. Some people had asked whether he was angry or sad, and even after reading the statement repeatedly, even knowing all of that for almost a year, he still didn’t know how to answer.
He wasn’t angry.
He wasn’t sad.
It was something more contained yet deeper than anger or sadness. It was a certain kind of realisation that certain things simply happen, even when you do everything to stop them from coming so close.
He moved his eyes to the phone on his thigh when he felt the device vibrate and the screen light up. He was still ignoring the messages, tags, questions, and suppositions. And right now, the comments section seemed to multiply faster than his ability to breathe.
P’Aof had suggested that he take a break from social media, that he focus on anything other than that. He was trying, but even so, he couldn’t stop reading the statement or stay far enough from the phone to avoid feeling anxious.
Net tightened his grip on the glass, feeling the slight tremble of his own hand, and only then realised that it wasn’t because of alcohol or tiredness, it was because of the simple fact that he was trying to balance himself on no ground at all.
It was the kind of reaction that happened when the mind was trying to chase after something that had already happened, as if there were still time to stop the outcome. It was all far too visible, in the way there was tension building in his shoulders, in his jaw, in the way he held the glass with more force than he should. His body was warning him that it had broken through all his defences without asking for permission.
He inhaled slowly, trying to anchor himself in anything other than what he was reading or imagining. But the more he tried to centre himself, the clearer the feeling became that he was dealing with everything alone — the news, the repercussions, the expectations, the noise of the world outside and the silence within him, which was worse.
It wasn’t just the end of a partnership.
It was the beginning of something he hadn’t chosen, but that was now his, inevitably. And that recognition, so simple and so raw, was what made his hand tremble. Not out of fear, but because certain truths, when they finally reach you, demand an honesty that hurts.
He lowered the glass slowly, dragging his fingers across the cold surface of the glass before reaching for the phone that was still vibrating on his thigh. For a moment, he thought about opening the notifications — just to know what they were saying — but he hesitated halfway. Instead, he opened the conversation he’d been avoiding since the previous afternoon.
He typed slowly, word by word, as if stepping on ground far too sensitive. And even so, it was something simple:
me:
Are you alright?
He stared at the sentence for far too long, debating whether to delete it, add something, or leave it as it was. In the end, he sent it. It was the most he could manage. The silence after that felt bigger than the entire room.
Net bit his thumbnail, unaware of how hard he was doing it, while tapping an anxious rhythm with his hand against his thigh as he bounced his leg up and down, almost automatically.
After some time, he realised he wouldn’t get a reply.
He switched off the screen with a quick, short tap, like someone ending a conversation that never began. He tossed the phone onto the table and let his head fall back, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. He stayed like that for a time that felt endless, as if the darkness behind his eyelids was the only place where nothing demanded anything of him.
The alarm went off suddenly — loud, sharp, piercing — and the sound tore through the silence in a way that made his whole body jolt. Net opened his eyes, groaned softly when his spine protested, and took a few seconds to understand where he was. It took a few more to realise that the light outside wasn’t the same as before.
He moved his eyes to the computer, still on with the page open on the statement, and the time shone in the top corner of the screen.
10 in the morning.
He’d slept there. Sitting in the chair, his fingers intertwined in his own lap, his back locked and his neck stiff in a way that made every movement hurt in a surreal way.
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to ease the tension that had built up during the night. He inhaled deeply before stretching to grab his phone again. The screen lit up far too quickly, and the first thing he saw was the message sent hours earlier.
The second thing he saw was even worse.
Read.
Nothing beyond that.
No reply.
Net bit his lip, pressing it between his teeth, feeling the frustration begin to appear in a way he didn’t want to admit. He filled his lungs with air, held it for a moment, and then finally stood up, his joints complaining at once.
He needed a shower.
Anything to pull him out of that state.
He turned towards the corridor without looking back, leaving the statement open on the computer screen, the almost empty bottle, and the entire night that still felt far from over.
- ii -
There was a kind of grief that made no sound.
Net learnt this bit by bit. First in the silence that filled the places where someone else’s presence used to be, then in the feeling that something was out of place, as if it had been taken from where it ought to be without him being able to do anything.
He’d spoken to his mother about it, about how he suddenly missed sharing small things — comments, inside jokes, vents born in the break between one shoot and the next or on the way from one commitment to another. And she’d told him that some pains were like that.
The truth was that he missed it.
Life with James had given Net a sense of support he hadn’t realised existed until he had to carry on alone. Now every event, every photoshoot, every waiting room felt far too big to occupy without someone beside him who understood his breathing before he even said anything. And there was a discreet, almost polite loneliness that had followed each of his steps since then.
That was what hurt the most. Not the physical absence, but the emotional space that had formed in the place of habit. Realising that certain routines had come undone as if they’d never been his was painful, and he found himself looking to the side in moments that once required companionship, waiting for a comment that wouldn’t come, a look that wouldn’t be repeated.
It was strange, almost cruel, to feel that memory still worked in pairs when reality now demanded only one. He was trying to adjust, trying to repeat to himself that it was part of the process, that changes happened, that he needed to be professional. But none of that filled the silence between what he felt and what he had to show the world.
All the small things of daily life had changed colour.
And he didn’t want to seem weak, didn’t want to seem lost, but it was impossible not to notice that his own body was tired of holding everything up alone. There were days when he woke up with the feeling of being late for something that no longer existed.
Days when he remembered how everything had begun, and now it felt as if he were the only one keeping it alive. No one saw it, but that quiet grief followed him like a shadow: present, discreet, constant.
The weight of all that followed him for weeks, and the hardest part was knowing there was nothing to fix, as some people were assuming. There hadn’t been a fight, there was no misunderstanding between him and James. It was nothing more than a choice, a different path being taken, a dream that was no longer theirs.
Even so, he was doing what he did best: he was giving everything he could of himself. To the commitments he’d honoured, to the fans, even to a part of himself that didn’t want to let go, that refused to pretend it wasn’t his dream and that he could bear anything.
He was trying to face the comments, the criticism and the pressure in the best way he could, and he refused to set his responsibilities aside because that was his life, his work was everything to him. And, honestly, Net knew the world would carry on demanding his best version.
It was like that when he arrived in Chongqing for the N’ICE DAY Fan Meeting. He smiled, chatted, teased around, took photos, did everything he could so no one would notice how worried and sad he was. And at some point, he managed to forget for a moment what he was feeling.
He caught himself laughing with the fans who were very kind and warm, who’d welcomed him with screams and so much excitement. Net returned their affection with genuine attention. He even agreed to film a vlog, and smiled at the camera.
And for a few hours, he almost managed to believe that everything really was alright. He believed he could deal with the questions about why James had given up on them, as if it were someone’s fault. Net believed that, if he kept forcing a smile, at some point it would get easier.
Maybe that was why he didn’t even realise how tired he was when he got home, because he’d spent far too much time trying to believe he was fine, so that he could do it alone.
He pushed the door open with his shoulder and set the suitcase in the corner before taking off his shoes with a slow sigh, switching the lights on one by one.
“Chuchu?” he called, tossing the keys on the hall dresser. “Dollar?”
The house felt bigger after travelling, and even bigger after days pretending to be steady. The phone vibrated again in his back pocket, insistent. Net ran a hand through his hair as he crouched to greet Chuchu, who came rubbing against his legs with a dragging meow.
He picked up the phone.
He blinked, confused. Then anxious.
James’s name seemed to shine on the screen, as if it were some kind of miracle, some kind of hallucination, and then he realised he was exhausted, physically and emotionally. He was completely drained, with no energy to pretend he hadn’t been, in some strange way, waiting for that message. Any message.
For a moment, Net didn’t know how to breathe.
It was James’s first message in a very, very long time, and he stared at the screen as if trying to make sure it was real. Chuchu rested his head on his knee, and Net picked him up, lying down on the sofa with the cat settled on his chest.
He began typing a simple reply, something gentle.
me:
I’m glad you saw it. It was tiring, but good
I hope you’re well too…
The message had barely been sent when James was already replying.
They ended up talking for hours about trivial things, comments about the weather in Chongqing, about the exhaustion of travelling so much, about nothing that really mattered and, at the same time, everything that mattered to Net in that moment because it was familiar.
It was far too familiar.
Jamesssssssu:
It’s strange, isn’t it?
Net stared at the sentence and reread it twice, feeling his stomach tighten as old memories opened all at once. He remembered how they’d talked for weeks before the final decision, the nights when he’d tried to argue, the moment he realised that part of him wanted something he couldn’t ask for — that James give up his dream just so they could carry on as they were, because it was good, because it hurt far too much to imagine a future that was no longer theirs.
He remembered the last conversation, how it had been tense in a quiet way, filled with too much emotion to fit into words. Net remembered how he hadn’t been able to hold back his tears, or how he hadn’t been able to bear seeing James sitting in front of him, eyes full, yet silent, unable to say anything while he tried to breathe.
Net remembered the exact moment when he’d asked, devastated, whether they couldn’t try a bit longer, whether there wasn’t some sort of middle ground possible. And he remembered the way James had shaken his head, murmuring that he could no longer pretend his heart was where it once was, that he needed to move on, that the decision had been considered for a long time and wasn’t easy, but it was the right one for him.
He remembered how selfish he’d felt for not agreeing.
And that, that bitter memory of the selfishness that made him ask James one last time whether they couldn’t try just a little longer, cut through him in a way he still didn’t know how to handle when the phone vibrated again with a message. Something that seemed to be the final word:
Jamesssssssu:
I really hope you’ll be alright with time
Net sighed, closing his eyes as he locked the screen without knowing what to reply because a part of him — the part that still hurt and didn’t want to move on — wasn’t at all certain he’d be alright.
At least not for now.
✤✤✤
There was something intriguing, for Net, in the way the pressure to move on didn’t come in the form of clear orders, nor defined deadlines. It came in questions, in smiles, in silent expectations that gathered in the corners of every event, in looks that measured him as if the world were curious to know how far he’d manage to push on.
That night, the Domundi TV charity event seemed, at first glance, like any other. The lights were warm, the stage well set, banners with the company logo, an organised queue of fans waiting to take photos, receive autographs, donate, and take part in the activities. The atmosphere was loud in a comfortable way: laughter, microphones, soft music in the background. Net had already given a few interviews, taken photos beside colleagues, and greeted people who’d come from far away just to see them.
His body was on autopilot, used to the script.
His heart, not so much.
When the fan at the front of the queue stepped forward, holding the paper he was meant to sign, his smile was already there, ready. It was real enough to seem natural, but it carried a discreet tiredness in his eyes, almost invisible. She smiled too, nervously, and held the microphone the team had left available for quick questions.
“May I ask something?” she asked, looking from Net to the staff, waiting for approval. “It’s a really important question for me”.
He nodded, still smiling.
“Of course”.
“Do you…” she hesitated for a moment, and that made Net anticipate it in a bitter way, as if it were inevitable. “Do you regret letting James go like that? Did you argue?”
A flicker of surprise passed across Net’s face like a flash.
It wasn’t an obvious shock, not something anyone would notice at first glance, but it was there: a small lift of his eyebrows, the way his gaze faltered for half a second, the breath that caught before leaving. But as quickly as it came, he smoothed it over.
He smiled, teasing, as if trying to break the tension of the question.
“No one argued”, Net replied, voice steady. “I know it’s hard to believe, I know that… even more so in the industry we’re in. But I want all the fans to know that we support each other’s decisions”.
The fan’s eyes shimmered, as if that were both relief and a confirmation of what she wanted to hear. As if, suddenly, she could nurture a hope Net didn’t recognise.
“Truly…” he continued, tilting his head a little with the same smile as before, only wider. “I hope you can see that we’re happy. I’ll always root for Nong James, and I know Nong James will always root for me”.
She nodded far too quickly, emotional, thanked him, and the staff were already guiding the next person. Net greeted her with a smile, took a photo, and thanked her for her presence. He liked that kind of contact, liked knowing he could comfort them even when there was no one to do that for him, not in a way that gave him any hope.
Still, as the event went on, Net could feel the echo of curious questions in his chest, but he managed to push it into a safe place within himself, the same place where he’d been keeping everything he still didn’t quite know how to process.
The next fan was a bit older, wearing a T-shirt with their faces printed on the front, and seemed to be torn between excitement and a certain care in choosing his words.
“Nong Net…” he began, adjusting the microphone between his trembling hands. “How are you and Nong James? Do you still talk?”
It wasn’t as direct as the previous questions, but it hit the same place. It always hit. Always. Net nodded, smiling at him.
“We’re supporting each other, as much as possible!” he answered, choosing each word as if walking across fragile ground. “We’re each in a different phase now, but the affection hasn’t changed. And it certainly won’t. The respect is the same”.
“So you’re still close?” the fan pressed.
No. They weren’t.
It wasn’t only because their schedules were different, it wasn’t only because James was preparing to start another chapter of his life, it was because it had been better that way. Distancing themselves for a while, at first, seemed ideal. Now, he wasn’t so sure, but he’d agreed to it and had to live with the decision.
He took a deep breath, without showing it.
“I think close changes meaning depending on each person’s moment, don’t you think?” he said calmly. “Nong James is quite busy right now, and so am I. But I want you to know there’s nothing wrong between us”.
The fan smiled but didn’t seem satisfied.
Net wasn’t either.
The staff thanked him, then someone called Net for a quick appearance in another area of the event, and he went on smiling, greeting, repeating variations of the same answers before reporters who asked about future projects, about the series, about how he felt carrying the responsibility of moving on alone.
It was a bit stifling.
When the event ended, the team suggested a company dinner. A moment to relax, to celebrate the fundraiser, to breathe a bit away from the lights. And Net went along because he didn’t want to be alone, not yet.
The restaurant they chose had low lighting, tables wide enough to seat many of them, comfortable chairs, and a cosy atmosphere after a long evening. He spent some time talking to NuNew, laughing at some backstage stories, exchanging comments about music, about future commitments. Talking to him was easy, light, and it helped to keep his mind occupied.
After a while, he decided to join the others at the larger table.
He sat down, ordered something simple to eat, leaned back slowly against the sofa that lined part of the room. And only then did he realise that almost everyone was in pairs. Some were colleagues who’d worked together for ages, others didn’t even have an official partner yet, but were sitting with someone — laughing, leaning on shoulders, sharing videos on their phones, showing each other things, sharing food, exchanging comments.
There was an energy of closeness in the air, a sense that no one there was truly alone at that moment. No one but him.
Net took a long breath, feeling a discreet weight settle in the pit of his stomach. Not because he envied what they had, but because he so easily recognised what he’d lost, all the time, everywhere. That kind of sharing, the comfort of knowing someone there carried the same tiredness, the same routine, the same fears.
What made him saddest was thinking about how hard they’d worked to become comfortable with each other. Net was a person of touch, he liked attention, he liked intimacy, and he’d given his best so that James would feel alright with him, and they’d come a long way.
They’d found a gentle space to share.
He took his phone from his pocket almost by reflex, opening social media like someone looking for anything good enough to distract himself. He began scrolling through comments, looking at photos from the event, fanarts, messages of support, others full of questions that circled, inevitably, around the same subject: what would become of NetJames, whether he was alright, whether he missed his partner. He read some, ignored others. The distraction was interrupted when a familiar voice called him.
“Net?” P’Zee called, from the other side of the table, leaning slightly towards him. He blinked, a bit confused. “Let’s get some air”.
He lifted his face, surprised by the interruption, but nodded.
He put the phone back in his pocket, adjusted his shirt and followed the other to the outside area of the restaurant, an open balcony with a few plants, a metal railing and a partial view of the lit-up city. The contrast between the noise inside and the quieter air outside was immediate.
For a few moments, they stayed in silence.
The night air was slightly cool, just enough to ease the heat accumulated from the indoor lighting and the agitation of the event. Net leaned lightly against the balcony, resting his elbows, while P’Zee crossed his arms and looked ahead.
“How are you?” P’Zee asked. “And I want to know how you really are, not the answers you give in front of the cameras”.
Net turned to face him, and the smile that appeared this time was different. It didn’t have the same shine he offered the fans, there was only the quiet sadness behind his eyes, as if he were so used to hiding it that the simple act of being seen was already unsettling.
“I think it’s hard to put into words right now, Phi...” he admitted, looking back to the city. “I… I’m trying. There are days when it feels easier, others when everything weighs a bit more on me. And I know I need to move on, that it’s part of it, but…”
Net let the sentence die in the air, because he didn’t know how to finish it without saying things he hadn’t yet sorted out within himself.
Zee stayed quiet for a few seconds before replying.
“You know what? I understand”, he said, sincerely. “Everyone saw the path you walked, how much you dedicated yourself, how much you invested in that partnership. And we also know changes like that aren’t simple”.
Net swallowed hard, listening closely to every word.
“My path wasn’t easy either,” P’Zee continued, without trying to dramatise, simply stating. “It took me a long time to heal from some pretty hard stuff. From feelings that didn’t work out, from expectations that weren’t met, from images I’d created of what my life should’ve been. None of that is quick, Net, but today…”
He took a deep breath, looking up at the sky, where almost no stars could be seen because of the city lights: “Today, I know it’s possible. I know even the deepest wounds can be healed. It doesn’t mean they fade, of course. But it means that, at some point, they stop ruling everything in our lives. And sometimes, the only thing we can do is let time work on its own”.
Net stayed quiet for a moment, absorbing it.
The word time entered him with a different weight. And he remembered the book passage he’d read, the one about the essence of a minute, about fighting for every fragment of time within yourself so that life and death wouldn’t resemble those of certain people. The memory came like a faint, distant light, but it was present.
He lowered his eyes, moistened his lips, and only then spoke:
“I just don’t know how long it’ll take”.
Zee looked at him from the side, with a half-understanding smile.
“I think it’ll take as long as it needs to stop hurting, Net…” he replied, unhurried. "There’s no clock for that, no real kind of deadline. Just your time”.
They stayed there, saying nothing else, leaning against the balcony, listening to the muffled sound of laughter coming from inside the restaurant. Inside, the others chatted, toasted, enjoyed themselves, shared stories, photos, near futures.
Out there, the silence was another kind of company.
It wasn’t emptiness, but a space where Net could breathe without needing to seem strong all the time. For a few moments, he simply let his body relax, listening to the distant murmur as if it were proof that life carried on — for the others, for him, for everyone, even when it still hurt, even when he still didn’t know how long it would take for it to hurt less.
- iii -
Net couldn’t say when, but he’d stopped worrying.
He’d stopped worrying about the nasty comments, about the exhausting questions and about the amount of time he spent analysing everything James posted on social media as if any of it would somehow indicate what he could do to bring him back.
At some point, he decided to give time its time.
Net nodded patiently, listening to the question with attention.
He hesitated for a moment, but not because he didn’t know what to answer or because he was afraid. Rather, it was because he wanted to explain in the best way possible, wanted to make it clear that he was, now more than ever, taking charge of what was supposedly meant to be his own life:
“... maybe it was the long, honest conversations with my mum, or with P’Zee that made me stop for a bit and look at everything from another angle, but of course a part of me is still afraid and sad...” Net laughed, opening the can of Coca-Cola. “But I think everything will be alright”.
When they called Net into the office to talk about how things would be, he wasn’t sure what he’d say. He didn’t know whether they could wait for him to be completely whole again, but he also wasn’t expecting them to push him towards anyone just because his main project had been interrupted.
But when he began speaking with P’Aof, he felt he could be honest and that he could follow that path, with those words:
“It still hurts, it still makes me anxious, and it still upsets me every time, but I think that has more to do with me than with James’s own choices”, Net admitted without hesitation. “But I don’t want to stop now”.
“We talked before… about you needing to find a new partner, but I want to repeat what I said back then, you’re free to go slowly, Nong. I know it’s not easy, when we started this company we had a pretty specific goal, which was to make our actors comfortable with one another...” P’Aof gestured, calm. “I don’t want you to think that’s changed, not at all, Net”.
Net nodded, because he believed it.
When he’d joined the company, he’d been incredibly surprised by the way they did things. It was a difficult and competitive field, and many actors were forced to stay with partners they didn’t get along with simply because they worked well on screen.
But what P’Aof and the others were doing was breaking that, creating a space where they could be honest and sincere with one another, where they could build a kind of bond that went beyond work, a friendship that wouldn’t end over anything trivial — and when James brought up that he wanted to stop acting to focus on his singing career, they supported him from start to finish.
They supported him and were present throughout all the mediation so it would be good for both, for James and for Net, because they didn’t want either of them to end that partnership with insurmountable hurt. And when Net expressed that he was wounded, they were there with him.
“Do you still want to do this?” Aof asked. “Do you still want to move forward with Love Upon a Time, with a new partner, or do you want to take a real break with this, Nong?”
Net blinked, staring at the can of Coca-Cola.
He’d spoken about that with P’Zee as well, about how much of himself he’d put into that project and how much he still loved what he did, how proud he’d been of how much he’d grown. And he’d discovered that even though it hurt to think about filming again with someone at his side who wasn’t James, it was the only right decision left.
“I still like acting...” he smiled, finally looking at the others, especially at P’Aof. Net nodded. “For me, finding a partner is pretty difficult, it means leaving everything James and I built behind, but it’s the right thing. And if I didn’t have a partner or if I couldn’t find one now, that’d be alright, I can wait”.
- iv -
It was the fourth time they’d sat in that same meeting room to talk about the same thing. The table was far too big for so few people, the air conditioning kept the room in a constant chill, and the screen switched on along the wall showed the folder of files with photos and test videos that already felt like they were repeating in Net’s peripheral vision.
P’Aof was at the head of the table, with the laptop open in front of him. P’Lin, the talent manager, was assessing something on the tablet resting on a black case. Ice, the chemistry coach, was slowly spinning a pen between his fingers, watching Net’s expression more than anything else.
“So...” P’Lin began, sliding her finger across the screen. “This is a candidate who isn’t with the company yet. We found him on social media, and I saw some tests he did for another agency. His name is Thawin Rattanapong, and he’s quite famous on TikTok and on social media”.
She tapped a file, and his photo appeared on the room’s screen.
He was young, with an easy smile, eyes wide and open. He looked friendly, confident, and attractive in the right way. And he seemed to be very talented.
“He’s good”, P’Lin* continued, leaning her body forward with an excited smile on her face. “He has presence, he has diction, he does properly well in scenes and improvisation. I reckon you two might work well together”.
Net rested his elbows on the table and intertwined his fingers, watching the image for a few seconds in silence. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen someone there in that place, projected on the screen as a possibility. But, for some reason, they all seemed to belong to the same almost-group.
“Did you only see recorded tests or did you see him on set as well, P’Lin?” P’Ice* asked, without taking his eyes off Net, as if part of her answer would reflect on him to the point of being important to assess.
“I saw recorded tests and a small streaming project”, she replied with a smile. “He handles the camera well. Doesn’t seem to get intimidated easily”.
P’Aof closed the laptop slightly, leaving the image still active on the larger screen: “He’s the type who knows how to listen...” he remarked, after a few seconds. “You can tell by the way he reacts in the tests. It’s not just delivering his line and that’s it, he’s been doing dead well with what he’s had to do”.
Net took a deep breath, leaning back in his chair.
“He does seem good, Phi...” Net agreed, slowly. “But I’d like to meet him before making any real attempt regarding this”.
P’Lin lifted her gaze from the tablet.
“You mean… dinner? Talking?”
“I think anything that isn’t just a recorded test or a work meeting”, Net replied. “I’m not keen on offering false hope. Not to him, not to the fans, not to the team. If I say we’re trying, I want to be sure I actually am”.
There was a second of silence, until P’Aof laughed quietly, shaking his head as if confirming something he already knew: “I knew you’d say that, Nong Net...” he commented, with a smile. “That’s why I left you free to decide how you wanted to do it, so we can go about it this way”.
Net also smiled, but there was a faint tiredness there.
“I know it seems slow…” he said, looking at P’Lin, then at P’Ice. “But I don’t want to repeat what I had with James with someone who’s got no idea what that means. And I don’t want to put someone in that place just because it’s convenient. If I’m going to share a stage, a screen, a career with someone, I need to be able to look at them off-camera and still want to stand there”.
“That’s not being slow, Nong,” P’Lin replied, folding her arms. “That’s being responsible. The question is only how far that responsibility starts weighing too heavily on you”.
Ice nodded in silence, observing.
“Let’s arrange this meeting with Thawin”, P’Aof concluded. “No pressure. You’ll have dinner, talk, see if there’s anything worth exploring. If you don’t feel anything… we’ll come back to the room and look at other names again, if necessary”.
Net tilted his head, agreeing.
“Okay...” he said. “But please don’t tell him anything about a real chance beforehand. I don’t want him turning up thinking he’s halfway there already, I don’t want to disappoint him”.
“Don’t worry!” P’Lin replied. “I’ll present the proposal as something exploratory. No promises, just a simple meeting”.
The meeting went on for a few more minutes, with logistical details, possible dates, Net’s schedule, and Thawin’s availability. It was the fourth meeting about the same subject, and even so, in the end, the feeling was that they were still exactly in the same place.
Late at night, Net pushed the front door open with his shoulder, the key still caught between his fingers. Dinner had been pleasant. Thawin, who had asked to be called just Win, was polite, funny in just the right measure, and knew how to steer things without seeming too keen about it.
They chatted about work, hobbies, childhood, and random things. Nothing had gone wrong. And even so, Net had come home with the feeling that time had slipped through his fingers without leaving anything meaningful behind.
He tossed the keys onto the sideboard, took off his shoes right there and went straight to the living room, where the sofa was waiting for him as the only thing that felt truly familiar at that hour. He sat down slowly, pulled his phone from his pocket and opened LINE, ready to send a message to P’Aof. His fingers hadn’t even touched the keyboard when his name lit up on the screen.
P’Aof calling.
Net accepted the call, lifting the phone to his ear.
“So, then?” he heard the director’s voice on the other end. “Did you get back alright?”
“Huh! I did, Phi…” he replied, leaning back against the sofa. Net felt Dollar’s tail against his leg. “I’ve just got home”.
“How was it?” P’Aof asked, without beating around the bush.
Net thought for a moment before answering.
“It was good, Phi...” he began, calmly. “Honestly. He’s nice. Easy to talk to, doesn’t come off forced, listened to everything I said without trying to impress me. I really liked the conversation and him...”
“But...?” P’Aof finished, noticing the gap.
Net smiled without meaning to, weary.
“But I don’t feel like he’s the one”, Net confessed. “I’m really sorry for making everyone waste time on this, Phi. I can’t explain it, there’s nothing wrong. There wasn’t a single odd moment, nothing he said that bothered me. I just… didn’t feel anything beyond a nice dinner”.
On the other end, the silence was brief, understanding.
“After so many dinners...” Net went on, his voice a little lower. “I’m starting to think the problem is me. That I’m waiting for something that maybe won’t show up”.
P’Aof sighed, but there was no impatience in the sound, only care.
“Net...” he said, calm. “You’re not the problem. You just know exactly what happened, and what you had with James, and you don’t want to pretend anything vaguely similar is enough. That’s different”.
“But what if that makes everything stall?” he asked, staring at the ceiling. He was exhausted. “The series, the fans’ expectations, the company’s timeline… I know I can’t freeze everything just because I’m stuck on what I had before”.
“That’s why we’re here having this conversation at eleven at night on a Friday when I should be drinking...” P’Aof replied, with a smile Net could hear in his voice. Net giggled. “If you were really stuck, you wouldn’t even have gone to that dinner. You’re trying and that’s all I can ask for”.
Net tightened the phone a little more in his hand.
“I wish it were easier”, Net admitted. “Just being able to look and know”.
“Sometimes it is…” the director replied. “Sometimes it isn’t. And that’s fine, Net! We’ll keep looking. In your time, without forcing it. If we force it, you’ll clock it straight away. The public will as well. And then, yeah, we’d have a proper problem. A problem no one wants to face”.
Net closed his eyes for a moment.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“I’m sure!” P’Aof answered, without hesitating. “And until then, I’ll repeat this as many times as needed, Net. It’s all right. Don’t worry”.
They said goodbye shortly after, and Net stayed there for a while with the phone still in his hand, staring at the dark screen, feeling the uncomfortable mix of guilt and relief that came every time he said no inside himself to someone who could work for the role but didn’t work inside him.
A few days later, during an interview, the subject came back, inevitable.
The lights were warm, the reporters in front of him had recorders and phones ready. After questions about schedule, side projects and routine, someone mentioned the series.
“And the project you were filming with the actor Supamongkon Wongwisut?” a reporter asked, leaning forward a little. “Is there any news for the fans, any interesting update?”
Net laughed, adjusting the handheld microphone.
“For Love Upon A Time, it’s still not in any process…” he answered, naturally. “Now we're researching for the actor who suits this role...”
He made a small pause, just enough to sort the next line.
“For selecting, I will do it by myself, so please trust me. I'll choose the person who can get along with me the most as well because we have to work together. Please, stay tuned”.
Those present laughed, some nodded, others took notes.
It was a light answer, but there was a very specific truth there: he really was being left in the hands of his own intuition. And he was searching, tirelessly, for someone who matched him.
When he got home that night, he threw his backpack onto the sofa and went straight to check his phone, which had spent the last few hours buzzing on the side of the interview table. Among notifications from fans commenting on his photos on social media, a few messages from his mother, messages from friends and article tags, there was a notification from P’Aof.
P’Aof:
We’ve got a few photos of some actors I want to show you...P’Aof:
Among them, there’s a lad who used to be a trainee at MBO and LOVEiSP’Aof:
He’s mates with Jakrin Sangruan who was in the GMM Eye Contact seriesP’Aof:
Lin told me you’re friends with him
Net reread the text slowly, feeling his brain link the pieces together. A former trainee, tied to music, a friend of someone from his circle. It didn’t seem all that safe. Not after everything.
At first, Net had a few regrets about his last partner. Not because James was a bad person, nowhere near that. But because he felt as if he hadn’t been good enough to help him with his music career, and he didn’t want to make the same mistake again.
He didn’t want to meet someone who probably had the same dream as James, who might end up feeling frustrated along the way and might, halfway through it all, choose another path while Net was still so sure and so in love with what he did as an actor.
But he didn’t say any of that to P’Aof. Partly because he didn’t want to talk about it just then. And partly because he knew everyone was trying their best and he didn’t want to be the one to muck it all up.
The next day, during a break between commitments, he received another message, this time from P’Lin talking about his last dinner and the possible next dates he might have. That made him think.
He sent a message to P’Zee, speaking openly about what had been making him anxious regarding that new possibility. And the reply was genuinely striking, something he hadn’t seen coming.
P’Zee Pruk:
Net… you’re not responsible for the dreams someone chooses to chase!
You’re only responsible for the way you look after your own...P’Zee Pruk:
And it’s not fair to stop someone from trying something good with you just because someone else didn’t choose to stay...
Net held his breath for far too long.
P’Zee Pruk:
You didn’t fail James... He just needed to go his own way
and you need to learn not to carry that as if it were your fault...P’Zee Pruk:
And if this new lad’s got a similar dream, it’s not your responsibility to shield him from it, Nong!! It’s his responsibility to decide what he wants... yours is just to be honest with him and with yourself
By the end of the night, he scraped together whatever courage he had left and rang the one person who could make a connection between them. As soon as his friend understood, Net explained the situation, the fact they were looking for possible partners, mentioned that one of them was friends with P’Folk and asked if he could speak to him about it.
“Hold on a sec…” his friend said, laughing. “I’ll send you Nong Folk’s new number, I reckon it’s easier if he helps you with this”.
Minutes later, he had Jakrin Sangruan’s contact in his LINE.
He took a deep breath, opened the chat window and wrote a short, respectful message, explaining the situation very briefly: they were looking for a partner to play his match in his new series, they had a list of names, one of them was a friend of P’Folk and he wanted to know if he could speak to that person or at least understand whether there was room for that.
P'Folk didn’t take long to reply:
P’Folk Jakrin:
The thing is... that mate’s in his ordination period right now...P’Folk Jakrin:
He’s a monk and I don’t know if he’ll want to chat about work
Net stared at the screen for a few seconds, not quite sure how to react to that information because it wasn’t the sort of obstacle he was used to. He’d never even considered it.
me:
Ah... I get it, P’... since they sent his photo to me
I thought he was ready for an audition...P’Folk Jakrin:
It’s alright! I can talk to him, but I’m not sure he’ll go for it
And, for a few days, the conversation died there.
P’Folk said nothing else after Net thanked him and apologised again for bothering him with that matter. And after that, he even went out with someone else — someone he had nothing in common with — and spoke to P’Lin about what she thought was best, since she knew him so well.
He was starting to consider having dinner with Win again, because they had quite a few things in common even though Net hadn’t felt that ‘click’ straight away, as P’Lin had mentioned, again, that she liked Win’s presence and thought they suited each other.
Net was working out at home when the phone rang loudly.
He was surprised to see P’Folk’s name lit up on the screen. He was sweaty, his T-shirt stuck to his back, the waistband of his training trousers tight around his hips. He grabbed the phone, still breathless.
“Hello, Phi?”
“Nong Net, it’s Folk...” his voice came from the other side, mixed with the noise of a public place. “Sorry it took so long to get back to you, I’ve only just managed to speak to that mate of mine properly”.
“Ah, that’s alright, Phi. I get it...” Net replied, straightening up. He licked his lips and asked patiently: “But… um… what did he say?”
“He'll finish his ordination a few days ago”, P’Folk explained. “I told him about you, about them suggesting him for you. He didn’t say yes straight away, but he didn’t say no either. I reckon he’s open to talking”.
Net didn’t quite know why, but he felt something spark in his chest, a different feeling, almost a flutter. Maybe because he’d found the whole thing too unusual, maybe because he’d stared at P’Folk’s chat for hours before giving up on getting a reply. Maybe because he’d already been considering moving forward with someone else, even though he wasn’t all that sure, even though it felt a bit risky.
“Do you think he’d be up for meeting me?” he asked.
“Maybe...” P’Folk replied, cautious. “Actually, Nong… if you want, I can arrange for you to meet”.
Net looked at the clock, mentally listing the things he still had to do that day. He bit the inside of his cheeks, then agreed: “If it’s not asking too much, Phi…” he said, without hesitation. “That works for me”.
They arranged a time and place, and as soon as he hung up, Net took a deep breath, trying to get back into his workout, but his mind was already elsewhere. It was the same feeling he’d had while waiting.
He spent the rest of the day at the company. He had a few meetings, a quick photo shoot, and schedule adjustments. During a break, he found P’Aof and P’Lin in their usual room and told them what had been arranged.
“I’m meeting him in a few days...” he explained. “P’Folk’s friend. If it works out, I’ll let you know. But honestly…”
He twisted his phone between his fingers, staring at the dark screen.
“It was really hard to get hold of him. I’ve no idea where this is going”.
“Maybe that’s what’ll make it worth it…” P’Lin replied, a half-smile on her face. “It’s always a shot in the dark. If he’s coming from another path, another routine, another life, maybe he’ll bring something we haven’t seen yet”.
“But go as always, Nong, no big expectations,’ P’Aof added, straight to the point. “And come back with whatever impression you get. That’s it”.
Net nodded, serious.
A few days later, Net's work day went on, packed. When he realised, he was already running late.
The traffic on the way to the place felt slower than usual, even though it wasn’t a particularly busy hour. Net parked near the café P’Folk had mentioned, checked the time on the car’s dashboard and drew a long breath. He was already a few minutes past what they’d agreed.
He swore under his breath and got out.
The café sat on a quiet corner, with a glass front that let him see the small, cosy interior. The light was a warm yellow, the tables were pale wood, a few hanging plants near the window.
Net pushed the door carefully, the chime announcing his arrival like a little tune. His heart was beating a touch faster than it should have for a simple work meeting. He looked around, searching for someone he might recognise. He didn’t know exactly what to expect, but even so, he had a vague actor-type image in his head.
But what he saw was something else entirely.
At the table near the wall, with his back to the window, sat a lad with his head completely shaved, and when P’Folk stood up to greet him, the other turned, revealing that it wasn’t just the head. He had no eyebrows either and was wearing a neck brace.
Net stopped for a second at the entrance, his brain taking a moment to link that image to what he knew of the story: ordination, appearances, monk period. Surprise, curiosity and something he couldn’t name all rushed in at once. It wasn’t the profile he’d seen in the photos, it wasn’t what anyone would expect from someone about to be considered a potential lead for a series.
And maybe that was exactly why he couldn’t look away when the lad stood up as if he’d sensed someone arriving, his eyes meeting Net’s. There was clear shyness there, but also an unexpected openness, as if he were ready to take in whatever came, even if he didn’t know what that was.
Net approached slowly, feeling every step as if he were crossing a line he didn’t yet understand. He stopped in front of the table and raised his hand in a small gesture.
“Hi”, he said, with an awkward but genuine smile.
It was little, but it was enough to mark the beginning of something he couldn’t name yet. Something neither of them could understand.
P'Lin and P'Ice: they are just random names. They do not represent anyone from DMD TV. I chose different names to avoid overloading the text with information I don’t know and associating it with people who are not technically public figures.