Chapter Text
Mayuree Syazana-Bertram never thought of herself as attractive, nor did she ever imagine she fit the picture of the girl boys were supposed to want. Growing up in a middle-class neighborhood in Bangkok, she learned early how to make herself content to be invisible, to be the quiet girl at the back of the classroom with her nose buried in a book. While other girls compared crushes and practiced smiles in mirrors, Mayuree measured her worth through grades and library cards. Her reflection, often marred by persistent acne that drew unkind looks from boys, became something she learned to tolerate rather than admire. When she complained, her mother gently assured her it was normal, that beauty was temporary, but those words never quite rooted themselves in Mayuree’s self-image.
She once had a suitor in fourth grade—a boy who passed her notes and waited for her after class but the idea of romance terrified her more than it thrilled her. Raised in a strictly Catholic household, Mayuree grew up with an almost mythic fear of sin and consequence. She genuinely believed that holding a boy’s hand might somehow lead to pregnancy, disgrace, and eternal shame. The “relationship,” if it could even be called that, faded quietly, leaving behind only embarrassment and relief.
Despite her seriousness in academics, Mayuree was not antisocial. She loved conversation, laughter, and the warmth of human connection. Yet her parents’ rules in high school were immovable, reminding her there’s no dating, no late nights, no freedom without supervision. By the time she entered college, that restraint snapped into rebellion. Armed with independence and a smartphone, she turned to Tinder and Bumble, collecting secret dates and short-lived boyfriends like borrowed coats—useful, comforting for a moment, but never meant to last. She found situationships convenient: no expectations, no promises, no future to disappoint.
Commitment felt heavier than loneliness.
She never had a serious boyfriend, not because she lacked opportunity, but because casual affection required less courage.
It allowed her to leave before the man would leave her.
Now, at twenty-eight, Mayuree feels that convenience is slipping into emptiness. The freedom that once thrilled her no longer feels youthful—it feels stalled. Fun relationships seem childish, even irresponsible, yet the idea of something serious terrifies her in a different way. She works a nine-to-five job at a fashion brand, clocking in and out like muscle memory, her creativity reduced to deadlines, revisions, and branding meetings that leave her drained rather than inspired. The work pays the bills, but it never fulfills her, never answers the quiet question she carries home each night.
Writing is the one thing that still belongs to her. It's her identity as she remembers vividly that she writes journals, essays and poems when she was studying. She still continues to write stories, fragments, half-finished thoughts but far less often now. As the holidays approach and deadlines pile up, her notebooks remain closed more than she would like to admit.
She did love the money that came with her marketing job. That, at least, she never pretended otherwise. The salary gave her a life her parents never had at her age—weekend flights across Southeast Asia, hotel rooms with white sheets and city views, a week in Japan the year before where she wandered alone through quiet streets and convenience stores at midnight, pretending for a moment that she was the kind of woman who had already figured things out. Travel made her feel expansive, capable, almost brave. It softened the monotony of office life and convinced her, briefly, that she was moving forward.
But somewhere between airport lounges and branded presentations, an unease settled in. An existential question followed her home each time she unpacked her suitcase: Is this really what I want, or just what I can afford to want right now? The job gave her comfort, but not meaning. Stability, but no direction. She began to wonder—quietly, guiltily—what her life might have looked like if she had pursued the career she once believed was hers by nature: writing.
Her grandmother’s voice returned to her during those moments of doubt, gentle but insistent. Write, she used to say, as if it were not advice but fact. Her grandmother had noticed it early, the way Mayuree filled notebooks before she learned how to keep a diary properly, the way she observed people with patience and curiosity. Writing, her grandmother believed, was not something Mayuree enjoyed; it was something she was.
Passion, however, did not pay rent.
Reality arrived quickly, as it always did. Mayuree was not born into wealth, nor did she inherit the luxury of time or safety nets. There was no generational fortune waiting for her if she failed. Her family owned a small bookstore beneath their apartment on a narrow street in Khlong Tan, Bangkok—a place that smelled perpetually of old paper, dust, and faint incense drifting in from nearby shrines. The shop was humble, cramped but warm, its shelves slightly warped from humidity, stacked with secondhand novels, school textbooks, and yellowed magazines from decades past. A small bell chimed whenever someone entered, though customers were rare and often familiar faces from the neighborhood.
Her parents ran the store with quiet dignity, never complaining if there’s no sale during the day and most of all, never expecting more than survival. The business kept the family afloat but never allowed them to dream recklessly. Growing up, Mayuree learned early that passion had to coexist with practicality.
Dreams were allowed, but only after bills were paid.
And so she chose safety like everyone else. She chose marketing over manuscripts, deadlines over drafts. Yet every time she passed the bookstore on her way upstairs, every time she touched the spines of old books that had shaped her childhood, she felt the weight of a life she hadn’t lived pressing gently but persistently against her chest.
Somewhere between obligations and expectations, Mayuree Bertram feels herself standing at the edge of something unnamed—too old to drift, too uncertain to leap, and quietly aching for a life that finally feels like her own.
Mayuree’s workdays moved with numbing efficiency. She arrived just before nine, coffee balanced in one hand, laptop in the other, already bracing herself for the controlled chaos of marketing deadlines and campaign revisions. The office was bright and modern, filled with people who spoke in metrics and trends, their enthusiasm rehearsed but convincing enough. She was good at what the management usually praised her annually—organized, observant and reliable to the team.
By mid-afternoon, she had answered a hundred emails, approved designs she felt nothing for, and contributed ideas that were practical but never personal. When the clock finally crept toward five, relief washed over her like a small mercy.
That evening, she didn’t go straight home. She met her friends at a bar tucked between office buildings, known for catering to tired professionals. The place has dim lighting, wooden tables sticky with spilled drinks, and music low enough for conversation. It was meant to be casual, just a drink or two to unwind after the workweek. Mayuree arrived last, slipping into her seat with an apologetic smile, loosening herself from the stiffness of the day.
Laughter filled the table quickly. They talked about work frustrations, bad clients, and office gossip. Mayuree listened more than she spoke, nursing her drink, feeling comforted by familiarity. These were the people who had known her through different versions of herself—college dreams, first jobs, and bad decisions.
For a while, it felt easy.
Then Kate Foyle cleared her throat, her voice lighter than usual but charged with something unmistakable. She announced her engagement with a shy excitement that barely masked how certain she was. Someone gasped, someone reached for her hand, and Mayuree felt herself smiling instantly, standing to hug her, telling her how happy she was for her. She knew Kate’s boyfriend for a long time and it's deserving to see that Kate got her happy ever after. She noticed that Kate glowed in a way that made the future feel solid and inevitable, and she can’t wait to see it unfold.
Before the excitement could settle, Mark Newton shared his news. He was moving to the Netherlands to pursue his doctorate. The reason followed naturally, almost as an afterthought as he wanted to be with Sophia Leung. His long-time girlfriend and Mayuree’s close friend from college. The table buzzed again with congratulations, questions about visas, cities, and timelines.
Mayuree raised her glass, her voice steady as she toasted for them. She admires her friends because they were brave, decisive and moving toward lives they had chosen with intention. But as the night went on and the drinks disappeared, a quiet ache settled in her chest. It came not from jealousy, but from comparison she hadn’t invited. Around the table were plans, commitments, futures unfolding neatly into place. And then there was her—twenty-eight, employed, financially stable, well-traveled, and somehow still hovering in the same unresolved space she’d occupied for years.
She laughed when it was expected, nodded at the right moments, but her thoughts drifted. She felt suddenly aware of time—how it moved differently for everyone, how it never waited. For the first time, the idea struck her with uncomfortable clarity: while she had been surviving and sustaining, others had been building.
When she stepped outside at the end of the night, the city air warm and heavy against her skin, Mayuree realized that the fear wasn’t of being alone—it was of standing still while everyone else moved on.
A week later, the apartment above the bookstore felt fuller than it had in years.
Mayuree came to her parents’ apartment and right away, she heard the sound of voices overlapping—laughter, the scrape of chairs, and the low murmur of familiarity. Her grandmother, Dhana Syzana, had arrived that afternoon, small and upright at eighty-one, her presence filling the space as though she carried her own gravity. Time had softened her body but not her spirit; her eyes were still sharp, observant, missing very little. With her was Dhanika, her adopted sister or her cousin by blood, taken in after their aunt’s death, hovering nearby with her usual quiet attentiveness.
The moment Dhana saw her, she smiled wide and opened her arms.
“Maa laeo rue, Mai,” she said warmly. (Mai, you’re home.)Then, without waiting, she added, “Pen yang ngai bang, luk? Sabai dee mai?” (How are you? Are you doing well?)
Mayuree bent slightly to hug her, breathing in the familiar scent of tiger balm and jasmine oil.
“Sabai dee ka, ya,” she answered softly, slipping back into the rhythms of childhood. (I’m fine, Grandma.)
Dhana pulled back just enough to study her face, eyes narrowing in affectionate scrutiny. It took only seconds before the inevitable question arrived.
“Laeo tam-mai yang mai phaa faen maa baan la?” (And why haven’t you brought a boyfriend home yet?)
Mayuree felt her shoulders tense, the way they always did when that question surfaced. Before she could answer, her mother, Maleena, stepped in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel.
“Mae… ploi hai Mai tad-sin jai eng thoe na,” Maleena said gently.
(Mama, let Mai decide for herself.)
Her grandmother waved a hand dismissively, unimpressed but amused. “Chan gor khae thaam eng,” she said. (I’m just asking.)
Then she smiled again, softer this time while she looked at Mayuree. “Tae ya ruu-seuk dee na… ruu-seuk waa diao gor ja mii laeo.” (But I have a good feeling. I think she’ll have one soon.)
Mayuree suppressed a sigh. Her grandmother’s good feelings were rarely without explanation.
By evening, tarot cards appeared on the dining table as if summoned by habit alone. Her grandmother shuffled them with practiced ease, murmuring to herself while arranging them carefully. She spoke of energy, alignment, and destiny as though they were practical matters, no different from budgeting or weather forecasts. Feng shui corrections were suggested for the apartment; zodiac signs were discussed with serious intent.
Dhanika leaned in eagerly, eyes bright. She pulled up a birth chart on her phone, already cross-referencing planetary placements.
“Taa duu jaak duang khong Mai na… lakkana baep nii plae waa—” (If you look at Mai’s chart, this ascendant means—)
Mayuree laughed quietly, shaking her head.
“Phor laeo,” she said. (That’s enough.)
She loved them, but she couldn’t bring herself to believe that her life could be reduced to symbols on paper or cards on a table. The idea felt almost insulting, too simple for the complexity she carried.
Her skepticism, she knew, came from her father. A man of logic and research, he had lived his life in academia, believing in evidence, structure, and long arguments backed by footnotes. She had inherited his doubt, his refusal to surrender agency to fate.
Love, career, and meaning—those were choices, not predictions.
Still, as her grandmother smiled knowingly over the spread of tarot cards, Mayuree couldn’t entirely dismiss the warmth of being seen, even if it was through superstition. She didn’t believe in destiny but she believed in the people who hoped for her happiness, even when she herself wasn’t sure what shape that happiness should take.
Mayuree hesitated when her grandmother gestured to the low table.
“Mai, maa nang dieng noi na,” Dhana said, patting the cushion beside her. (Mai, come sit with us for a moment.)
She wanted to retreat to her room and shut out the world for a while, but something in her grandmother’s gaze made her pause. Finally, she gave a small nod and sat, letting the old woman show her the tarot cards.
Her grandmother shuffled the deck with careful, deliberate movements, her fingers surprisingly steady for someone her age. With a soft hum, she placed three cards face-up on the table.
Mayuree leaned slightly forward, curious despite herself finding the predicament ridiculous.
The first card was The Fool. “Nii khue khun mai ja bpai tee nai, bpai nai, lae ja mee khwam jing jing mai roo laeo, lek-dtao,” Her grandmother said softly. (This card shows you will go somewhere unknown, take a new journey without knowing what will truly happen.)
The second card was The Lovers. “Khun ja phop phuu chai, ja mee khwaam rak, tae ja pen ngai, ja tam yang ngai, ja pen khwam suk mai suk, chua khun ja dtam-kid yai.” (You will meet a man, experience love, but it will be complicated, and you will have the most difficult choice of your life.)
The third card was The Chariot. “Khun ja tong bplae-bplaao, ja dtam kid lae tam lae bplae waa khun ja bpai nai, ja bpai nai tua-eng.”
(You will have to take control, make decisions, and determine your own path.)
Mayuree watched quietly, taking in the imagery and the words, though her expression remained polite and calm.
“Mai, roo mai wa… nee pen khwam jing ja?” Dhanika whispered excitedly. (Mai, don’t you think… this is true?)
Mayuree smiled faintly, shaking her head. “Khun ja mai haeng lae, chan ja pai hong nang loi. Wan nee yen maak laew, chan ja pai phian.” (It doesn’t matter. I’m going to my room. It’s been a long day, and I just want to rest.)
Her grandmother studied her with a soft, knowing look, lips pursed in quiet amusement. “Khun mai roo wa, tae yua ruu waa khun ja mee wan tee dee na.”(You may not understand now, but I know good days are coming for you.)
Mayuree nodded politely, stood, and left the room, leaving her grandmother and Dhanika murmuring softly over the cards.
Later that evening, after Mayuree had retreated to her room, there was a soft knock on the door.
“Mai, ja mai pai, yua mee arai hai khun?” Her grandmother’s voice came gently. (Mai, are you still here? I have something for you.)
Mayuree looked up from her journal and saw her grandmother stepping inside, holding a worn, familiar book.
“Nii lae khun ja roo, khun ja roo wa, chan ja dai maa dai yaang ngai,” Dhana said with a soft chuckle, handing her the book. (Here, I think you’ll remember this. You used to read it so fast.)
Mayuree’s fingers hesitated over the cover. It was Gone with the Wind, its edges frayed, pages yellowed from years of love. She noticed the Thai edition’s title: “Raan Plaeng Phan Waen”— Floating Paradise. A faint smile tugged at her lips, she had always found it a peculiar translation, considering the story of the American South and the chaos it contained.
Memories came rushing back—the way she and her grandmother would sit side by side, reading aloud, taking turns with the dialogue, laughing at Scarlett’s audacity, crying when tragedy struck.
Mayuree smiled faintly, but there was a heaviness in her chest. She opened the first page and paused. She remembered devouring it in a day or two, laughing at the drama, feeling swept away by the story. But now, reading it feels different. The language, the sensibilities, and the casual racism implied in the story that she couldn’t fully enjoy it the way she used to.
The book she once loved now felt complicated, uncomfortable, a relic of a time and worldview she could no longer accept.
Her grandmother laughed softly, the sound warm and familiar. “Chan yaak khun ja roo dai neung wan nai kae sang-phaap nueng jao,” she said, shaking her head fondly. (I remember you reading this in just a day or two, finishing it all at once.)
Mayuree let herself smile, despite the tension in her chest. She traced the cover with her fingers, remembering not the story itself, but the feeling of being with her grandmother, sharing something magical. That warmth remained, even if the story had become too complicated for her innocence to hold.
It was late in the evening when Mayuree quietly slipped out of her room and down the narrow staircase to the mini-library tucked at the back of her parents’ bookstore. The soft scent of old paper, faint ink, and dust greeted her like an old friend. She had planned to type some of her reports, needing to catch up on deadlines, but her hands still carried the worn copy of Gone with the Wind.
She sank into the small armchair by the window, the city outside quiet and dark. On a sudden whim, she opened the book to skim through it, hoping the familiar story would soothe her mind. But as she flipped through the pages, her heart skipped a little—the last chapter was torn out.
She frowned. She didn’t remember tearing it. In fact, she had always been careful with her grandmother’s books. She turned the pages again, half-expecting it to be a mistake, but the last chapter was gone, leaving only the abrupt ending before Scarlett’s famous declaration. She remembered that line clearly from her childhood: “Tomorrow is another day.” It had fascinated her once, the defiant optimism, the audacity of hope.
But now, with adulthood pressing in, it felt smaller somehow—less daring, less full of promise.
She placed the book beside her, a little disappointed but still comforted by its presence. Turning to her laptop, she opened it, ready to type, to create something tangible in her own life rather than live in someone else’s story.
But before she could write a single word, a sudden wave of dizziness washed over her. The library spun softly around her, the lamp light flickering in strange patterns. She blinked, trying to understand what was happening, but the world tilted again, and a heavy, uncontrollable sleep overtook her.
The last thing she remembered was the faint rustle of pages and the city lights outside the window, before she slipped into a deep, dreamless slumber that felt almost like falling into the depths of a story she could no longer control.