Work Text:
PRESENT TIME
Late in the evening, the kitchen was the only room in the apartment still holding on to the light. A single lamp above the table cast a warm glow over the wooden surface, leaving the edges of the room to disappear into shadow. Beyond it, the living room sat in darkness, the outlines of the couch and shelves were barely visible. The hallway was no brighter, stretching into a quiet blackness that made the kitchen seem smaller than it really was.
The light fell between Namtan and Film like the last ember of a fire that had once burned brightly as they sat across from each other at the table.
Namtan had both her hands clasped together on the table, her fingers were loosely intertwined. Film's hands rested comfortably in her lap, her shoulders relaxed against the back of her chair. Neither of the two seemed to be in a hurry to move.
Namtan's fingers eventually loosened. Her right hand lifted, and her thumb brushed over around her finger. She rubbed it slowly, once, then again, watching the dent catch the light before letting it disappear beneath the shadow of her palm. She stopped as her eyes rose across the table, where Film was already looking at her.
There was heavy familiarity in the way they looked at each other. It was a look that could only come from years of knowing someone. It was the recognition of habits, expressions, silences, and all the little things that had become so deeply domestic that they no longer needed to be explained.
Film's eyes softened first at the sight of the unchanging beauty in front of her.
So did Namtan's.
There was the tenderness of two people who had shared years of their lives together, who had watched each other change, who had laughed together until their stomachs hurt and held each other through nights when neither of them knew what to say.
Film drew in a slower breath. Her eyes briefly dropped to the table before returning to Namtan. “Do you remember the day we bought this table?”
Namtan's eyes never left hers while the corner of her lips began to curve upward, somewhere behind her eyes, the years seemed to fold back easily.
THREE YEARS EARLIER
They had already spent more than an hour wandering through the furniture showroom, circling the same aisles so many times that Film was beginning to suspect they had somehow entered a maze. Their first apartment was still mostly empty, and they had arrived that afternoon with a list of things they needed, a rough budget, and an entirely different ideas of what their home should look like.
Namtan stopped in front of a dark wooden table and rested one hand against its smooth surface. The corners were rounded, the legs elegantly shaped, and the finish caught the overhead lights making it stand out from the other pieces surrounding it.
“This one.”
Film came to stand beside her. She studied the table, then looked at Namtan, who was already watching her expectantly. “No.”
Namtan's eyebrows lifted. “No?”
Film shook her head and pointed at the table. “We're going to eat on it.”
Namtan glanced down at the table as though Film had just given her a completely unnecessary explanation. “Yes.”
“We're not going to display it in a museum.”
“I know that.”
“Love, it looks like it belongs in one.”
Namtan slowly folded her arms over her chest. “That could only mean I have taste. Don't you agree?”
A laugh escaped Film as she turned away. “You have an expensive taste, that is.”
“Well, honestly, you have a boring taste for things like these.”
Film walked ahead, shaking her head. “I have practical taste.”
“You wanted to buy the first table we saw.”
“Because it was a table.”
Namtan followed after her, trying to look offended while the corners of her lips betrayed her. “Love, you don't exactly understand me.”
Film glanced over her shoulder. “I understand perfectly. You just want our dining table to have a personality.”
“As it should.”
“Love, it's just a furniture.”
“Not just, it can be both.”
Film stopped walking and looked back at her. Simply staring at her beautiful fiancée, then she smiled, all the while Namtan smiled back.
This was the kind of argument they had been having all afternoon and one neither truly wanted to win.
They had already circled the dining section twice. They had wandered through the living room displays three times. They had stopped at every bookshelf that caught Namtan's attention and every sofa Film thought might actually fit through the narrow doorway of their new place.
They reached the kitchen displays.
Film walked ahead, running her fingers along the edge of one of the counters while Namtan followed behind. She was still talking about the table they had just left when she suddenly stopped.
“Wait.”
Film turned around.
Namtan had already pulled out a chair from one of the showroom tables. She sat down, straightened her back, and placed both hands neatly on the tabletop. Her expression became so serious that Film immediately knew she was about to do something ridiculous. “Come and sit with me.”
Film stared at her. “What are you doing?”
Namtan gestured toward the empty chair across from her. “We're having dinner.”
Film glanced around at the showroom kitchen, then back at Namtan. “We're in a furniture store.”
“Sit.”
The smile threatening to appear on Film's face finally broke through. She sighed dramatically before pulling the chair out and sitting opposite her.
Namtan immediately looked around the display as if the two of them were already in their new apartment. She picked up an imaginary spoon. “How was the soup, my love?”
Film looked down at the empty table and played along, lifting an imaginary bowl with both hands. “It was bitter.”
Namtan's eyebrows knitted together. “Bitter?”
Film took another imaginary sip, deliberately grimacing before setting the invisible bowl down. “Very much so.”
Namtan stared at her for a beat before placing her imaginary spoon on the table with exaggerated disappointment. “Then this is the wrong table for our kitchen,” she stood abruptly and walked toward the next aisle.
Film remained seated for a moment, watching her go. A laugh escaped her as she shook her head, she pushed herself out of the chair, and hurried after her.
They spent another forty minutes doing almost exactly the same thing. They disagreed about chairs, they disagreed about shelves, they disagreed about whether they needed a coffee table, they somehow agreed on almost nothing and still managed to enjoy every second of it.
Namtan held up a lamp and tilted her head, examining it from different angles. “Do you think this would look good beside our bed?”
Film stood a few steps away, pretending to examine another lamp. She looked at Namtan instead. “It'll look good because you picked it.”
Namtan immediately rolled her eyes, but the smile she tried to hide stayed on her face. She lowered the lamp and walked over to Film, gently bumping her shoulder against hers. “You're learning.”
“I'm learning what? What do you mean?”
“How to answer correctly.”
Film laughed and nudged her back.
They found themselves back in the dining section. The table was simpler than the one Namtan had originally chosen. It was sturdy without looking plain, warm without being too dark, and wide enough for people to sit comfortably without taking up too much space.
Film approached it first. She ran her palm along the edge, testing the smoothness of the wood. “What about this one? This looks good enough.”
Namtan came up beside her and looked at it. She ran her fingers across the same edge before glancing at Film. “Are you sure?”
Film nodded, she turned toward Namtan. “What do you think?”
Namtan pretended to think about it. She walked around the table once, examining it from every angle, before finally returning to Film. “Okay. I like it.”
Film's eyebrows rose. “Really?”
Namtan gave her a pointed look. “Don't ruin the moment now.”
Film laughed and reached for her hand. They sat down together at the showroom table, looking around the empty chairs, the staged kitchen, the fake bowl of fruit sitting on the counter, and the table between them.
It was strange how something so ordinary could suddenly feel like a promise.
Namtan rested her elbows on the table and looked at Film. “We could have dinner here.”
Film nodded. “Every night?”
“Most nights.”
Film leaned back slightly, studying her. “What about when you're tired?”
“I'll still eat. You know I always have the appetite.”
“What if I'm the one who's tired?”
Namtan smiled and reached across the table, lightly tapping Film's wrist. “Then I'll cook.”
Film immediately laughed. “You can't cook. That was why the soup was bitter earlier.”
“I can cook.”
“You once left the noodles too long to boil in the stove the water dried out and it got too burnt into the pot that we have to throw the whole thing out.”
Namtan withdrew her hand and pointed accusingly at her. “You're not allowed to bring that up anymore. It happened once, I was in the middle of showering.”
Film's laughter grew louder. She covered her mouth before looking back at Namtan, whose attempt at looking offended was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain.
“Fine. We're gonna survive on take-outs then.”
Film looked around the showroom kitchen again. “We could have people over too.”
Namtan smiled as she imagined it. “We'll need more chairs.”
“We'll buy more chairs.”
“And bigger plates.”
Film frowned slightly. “Why?”
“Because you always invite too many people.”
A grin slowly spread across Film's face. “Then we'll buy bigger plates.”
Namtan laughed leaning back, folding her arms comfortably against her chest as she looked around the kitchen. She could clearly see their friends crowded around the table, voices overlapping, someone laughing too loudly from the other side of the room. Film would be standing beside her with a dish in her hands while she complained that she had forgotten something in the oven. Their families would come over too. There would be birthdays and holidays and long dinners that lasted until midnight. People they love would fill the apartment until there wasn't an empty chair left.
“What about breakfast?”
Film turned toward her. “What about it?”
Namtan traced a small circle on the tabletop with her fingertip. “We'll have breakfast here too.”
Film smiled. “That's every morning?”
“Every morning.”
Film looked at her for a long moment. “You're going to get tired of seeing me every morning.”
Namtan's eyes softened. “I already see you every day and still yet to complain.”
“That's different.”
Namtan tilted her head. “How so?”
Film opened her mouth, then paused. She looked down at their intertwined hands resting on the table. “It just is.”
Namtan smiled.
The answer was simple, they would wake up together, they would argue about who had to make coffee, they would steal food from each other's plates, they would leave for work and come home to the same place. Maybe the table would get scratched, the chairs would eventually need replacing, the walls would be repainted. But they would still be there together.
Film reached across the table and gently tapped Namtan's hand with her fingertips. “Imagine us when we're old.”
Namtan looked at her. “Old?”
“Really old.”
Namtan laughed softly. “How old?”
“Old enough that we'll complain about everything.”
“I already complain about everything.”
Film grinned. “Yes, you do. Except when you're with me.”
Namtan shook her head, laughing under her breath. “Will you still love me when that day comes?”
Film's smile softened. “I'll probably love you more.”
The teasing disappeared from Namtan's face. She seemed to take in everything about her fiancée, the way she smiled, the way her fingers rested against hers, the warmth in her eyes.
She reached across the table and intertwined their fingers. “Then we'll get this one.”
Film squeezed her hand. “Okay.”
Neither of them knew how many meals they would eventually share at that table, how many birthdays would pass, how many arguments would happen, or how many nights would end with one of them asleep against the other's shoulder. They didn't know what the apartment would eventually come to mean to them, they didn't know what the future would ask of them, they only knew that they wanted it.
What it was, was that they simply loved each other.
Both of them believed every word they had said. They weren't the ones to mistake love for certainty, or were they naive enough to think nothing would ever change.
Sitting across from one another at a showroom table they had spent nearly two hours arguing over, the future felt less like a puzzle piece they had to figure out and more like something waiting patiently for them to arrive.
Film lifted Namtan's hand and pressed a small kiss against her knuckles.
Namtan smiled down at her before looking back into her eyes. Then she leaned forward across the table. “Let's make it ours.”
Film smiled. “Let's.”
The first pieces of furniture they bought together arrived on a Saturday morning. The delivery truck took up nearly half the narrow street outside their apartment building, forcing a passing motorcycle to slow down and squeeze carefully around it. From the open windows above, the sounds of cardboard being dragged across the floor and furniture being carried up the stairs echoed through the building loudly.
Namtan stood in the middle of their living room with a clipboard in one hand, watching two delivery men carry a long, flat box through the front door.
“Where do you want this?”
She glanced at the box, then at the room around her as though the answer should have been obvious. “Bedroom, please.”
Film appeared at the bottom of the stairs, one hand gripping the railing. “Hold on, you don't know what's inside.”
Namtan turned toward her with complete confidence. “What do you mean, of course I do.”
“You haven't even opened it.”
“I know what we ordered.”
Film walked into the apartment and leaned against the doorframe, folding her arms. “What if it's the wrong box?”
Namtan looked down at the clipboard, she shortly paused before speaking. “Then we'll put it in the other bedroom. Problem solved. Let's not over complicate things.”
Film laughed and moved aside as another box was carried through.
Cardboard boxes were stacked against the walls, plastic wrapping covered parts of the floor, instruction manuals were scattered across the coffee table they had not even finished assembling, and several small bags of screws sat beside Namtan's clipboard.
Film stood in the center of the mess and slowly turned in a circle. “I knew it, we bought too much.”
Namtan was already kneeling beside a box, trying to cut through the tape with a pair of scissors. “No. We bought exactly enough.”
Film pointed around the room. “There are twelve boxes, love.”
Namtan pulled at the cardboard. “That's because furniture comes in pieces.”
Film picked up a box and read the label. “That says shelves.”
Namtan pointed toward another. “That's also shelves.”
“They're different shelves.”
A smile began forming on Film's face. “Oh yeah? Of course they are.”
Namtan immediately narrowed her eyes. “Stop the attitude and let's start assembling them.”
They started with the dining chairs. The first chair should have taken ten minutes, but it took nearly twenty. Film held one side of the frame while Namtan tried to fit one of the legs into place. The instruction manual lay open on the floor, its diagrams somehow made the whole process more confusing.
“That goes there,” Film said, pointing at the picture.
Namtan followed her finger. “No, it doesn't.”
Film leaned closer. “Yes, it does.”
Namtan turned the piece around. “Look! That's the back.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you pointing at the front?”
Film paused, she looked down at the diagram. Then she looked at Namtan. “The diagram is confusing me,” she studied the page carefully before turning the booklet upside down.
Namtan stared at her. “Why did you turn it upside down?”
“I'm checking something.”
Namtan covered her face with both hands.
Film burst into laughter. “You said you knew how to do this.”
Namtan lowered her hands and pointed at the chair. “I said I could figure it out.”
“Love, you said, 'How hard can it be?'”
Namtan sighed.
Eventually they figured it out. The chair stood in the middle of the living room, slightly crooked but perfectly functional. Namtan immediately sat down and the chair held. She lifted both arms triumphantly. “That's a success.”
Film applauded teasingly. “Don't celebrate too soon, we still have plenty left,” she pointed toward the pile of boxes.
By noon, the apartment was beginning to resemble the place they had imagined when they signed the lease. The shelves were assembled, although one leaned slightly to the left. Film crouched beside it and shoved a folded piece of cardboard underneath the bottom edge. The sofa took another hour and the coffee table nearly ended them. They spent fifteen minutes trying to fit one of the legs into place before discovering they had attached it backward.
Film leaned her head against Namtan's shoulder. “Should we call someone?”
Namtan sighed. “We're adults, we can figure this out.”
Film lifted her head. “You said that forty minutes ago.”
Namtan gave her a look. “Look at what we've done so far. You're selling us short.”
Film's smile widened as she rested her head against Namtan's shoulder again. “I love your confidence.”
They sat for another moment before Namtan bumped her shoulder gently against Film's. “Come on, let's finish the rest.”
Together, they fixed the table. The furniture was finally where it belonged. They pushed the sofa against the wall. They arranged the dining chairs. They placed the shelves where they wanted them and stood in the middle of the living room, both with their hands on their hips.
The apartment was still messy, but it was theirs.
Namtan stepped closer and wrapped her arms around Film while laughing into her shoulder, the other girl's arms came around just as naturally. Namtan leaned in and kissed her. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” Film replied with a smile on her face.
Their grocery trips were never as quick as they intended them to be. They could enter a store with a list of five things and somehow leave an hour and a half later with three bags, an enormous receipt, and absolutely no explanation for how half of the items had ended up in their cart.
Film pushed the cart while Namtan walked beside her, scrolling through their shopping list. “Eggs,” she reached for a carton and placed it carefully inside, “milk,” she added a bottle, “bread,” and then a few more items followed.
Namtan looked at the next line. “Vegetables.”
Film stopped the cart, she looked at Namtan. “What vegetables?”
Namtan looked down at the phone. “Vegetables,” she locked her phone and slipped it into her pocket, “just pick some.”
Film pushed the cart toward the vegetable section. “How about these?”
Namtan shook her head. “That's one too many.”
Film put them back and picked up broccoli. “What about these?”
“It's too green.”
Film slowly turned toward her. “That's usually how vegetables look like.”
Namtan burst out laughing. She took the broccoli from Film and placed it in the cart. “Alright, fine. Put it in.”
They moved shoulder to shoulder through the aisles, occasionally separating to grab something before meeting again at the end of the row.
Sometimes they discussed what they were buying, but mostly they didn't.
Film would reach for something, and Namtan would quietly remove it from the cart when she wasn't looking.
But Film would put the item back when she wasn't watching.
They reached the snack aisle. Film slowed down and stopped in front of a particular packet of chips. She picked it up and examined it.
Namtan shook her head. “No.”
Film turned toward her. “Why? These are good.”
“We already have snacks at home.”
“Those are your snacks.”
“They're the same flavor, look. I have 3 packs at home.”
Film held the packet against her chest. “You are hurting my feelings, you know.”
Namtan laughed, she shook her head. “Put them back," she breathes, “now.”
Film looked at the packet and slowly returned it to the shelf. Namtan smiled and turned the cart around. But a few seconds later, Film slipped another packet beneath the loaf of bread.
Namtan caught her in the act. “Film.”
Namtan pointed at the hidden packet. “Put it back where you found it.”
Film immediately pushed the cart forward. “No.”
They made it through three aisles before Film finally confessed that she had also hidden chocolate underneath the vegetables.
Namtan stopped the cart. “Why do you need that much chocolate?”
Film looked entirely pleased with herself. “You married me. This is who I am. We love chocolate.”
Namtan stared at her. “I don't. And we're not married.”
Film's smile softened. “Yet,” she lifted her hand and showed her finger where an engagement ring was glowing.
An elderly woman nearby glanced toward them. Both immediately became very quiet.
Namtan straightened her posture. Film pressed her lips together, trying desperately not to laugh. They pushed the cart away from the fruit section.
When they reached the checkout, the cart was full. Film stared at the groceries as the cashier began scanning them. “Did we really need all this?”
Namtan looked over the pile. “No.”
Film nodded in agreement. “As long as we both got what we wanted.”
Friday nights developed their own rhythm. Dinner would be finished, the dishes would be abandoned in the sink for a little while, and one of them would inevitably reach for the remote. The living room lights would be turned low, only the television illuminated the couch along with the scattered cushions that had somehow never stayed where they belonged.
Choosing a movie, however, was never part of the rhythm.
Film would usually settle into one corner of the couch with the blanket pulled over her legs, while Namtan would sit beside her with a drink balanced carefully on the armrest. The remote would pass between them several times before either of them actually agreed on something.
Film scrolled through the options while Namtan leaned over her shoulder, rejecting one title after another with a shake of her head. Film stopped asking for explanations. She had learned that Namtan could dismiss a movie based entirely on its poster, its title, the actor's haircut, or simply the expression on the fictional character displayed across the screen.
When Film finally selected something, Namtan reached for the remote and replaced it.
Film stared while Namtan smiled innocently. The remote changed hands again with another movie and then another rejection. Soon enough, they were both laughing. The movie selection became less important than the argument itself.
Namtan would lean across Film to change the screen, only for the girl to pull the remote away and tuck it against her chest. One would attempt to retrieve it, climbing halfway across the couch while the other tried to keep it out of reach. The blanket would slip to the floor. A cushion would fall between them. Neither would bother picking it up.
At one point, Namtan managed to get hold of the remote and immediately lifted it above her head.
They ended up tangled together in the corner of the couch, laughing so hard that the movie menu continued looping unnoticed behind them.
Film gave up as she lets Namtan choose. She shook her head and reached for the popcorn.
Namtan rested her head against Film's shoulder.
Film looked down at her. The teasing irritation had already disappeared from her face. She pulled the blanket back onto the couch and covered them both as the movie played.
Their fingers found each other beneath the blanket, it settled together without either of them looking.
They had spent almost as much time arguing about the movie as they had watching it.
Another ordinary piece of their life together.
Some evenings ended before they reached the bedroom. It usually happened without either of them deciding it. A long day would leave them tired enough that the couch became more appealing than the bed. One would sit down, the other would join, and somewhere between one conversation and the next, the apartment would grow quiet.
One rainy Sunday evening, Film curled herself into the corner of the couch while Namtan sat beside her with her phone in one hand.
Film had pulled a blanket over her legs, and sometime during the documentary neither of them was actually watching, her head began drifting toward Namtan's shoulder.
Film's eyes were already closing. Namtan lowered her phone. She adjusted herself against the couch, making room for the other to settle more comfortably. Film's head found her shoulder. One of her hands rested loosely against Namtan's thigh. She pulled the blanket higher.
Namtan occasionally glanced down at Film. Each time, the girl seemed to have fallen a little deeper asleep. She stopped checking, as her own eyes grew heavy. Her hand slipped from the phone and found Film's beneath the blanket. “So much for no more sleeping in the couch,” she chuckles on her own while looking at her lover.
They had fallen asleep sitting upright, surrounded by a blanket that had slipped halfway onto the floor and two empty glasses that had been forgotten on the coffee table.
Their apartment was not built for overly large gatherings. That became obvious the first time they hosted for their friends.
The living room had become a maze of shoes, bags, jackets, and people sitting wherever there was room. The couch was full, dining chairs were occupied. Someone had taken a seat on the floor. Another person had somehow claimed the armrest. The kitchen was even worse.
Namtan moved between the stove and the counter carrying plates while Film tried to keep track of glasses, drinks, and the increasingly loud conversation coming from the living room.
Every few minutes, Film would appear beside her. Sometimes it was to steal food, to ask where something had been placed, she simply stood close for a few seconds before disappearing again.
Namtan learned to recognize the last one. She found herself in the kitchen more often than she expected, while Film moved from person to person, making sure everyone had something to eat.
Every once in a while, their eyes met from across the room, directly speaking to each other without uttering a word. They had developed an entire language without realizing it for the years they have been together.
Later, when everyone finally left, the apartment looked destroyed. The plates covered the table, glasses were scattered around the living room, a cushion had somehow ended up in the hallway, and there were crumbs on the floor.
Film stood in the middle of the mess and stared at it. Namtan came up behind her carrying a stack of plates.
Then Film started laughing out of nowhere. Namtan joined her.
“You were right. I do bring too much people.”
They then cleaned together. Film washed while Namtan dried, then they switched. They moved around each other easily, passing dishes without asking, opening cabinets for one another, wiping counters and picking up abandoned glasses. They discovered just then that here was something peaceful about cleaning after everyone had gone.
Hours went by and everything was almost back in place.
Film leaned against the kitchen counter and Namtan stood beside her. They looked toward the living room. The couch was still crooked, and the coffee table had been pushed several inches from where it usually stood. A blanket was still lying across the armrest.
Film smiled. “You should host the parties from now on. You were always better at it than me.”
“I hardly agree on that, love,” Namtan reached for her hand. “For now, let's call it a night.”
They walked toward the bedroom together with their fingers intertwined.
During New Year's their families arrived throughout the afternoon carrying food, bags, gifts, and enough containers to suggest they had collectively decided nobody in the apartment should ever experience hunger again.
Someone was always opening a cabinet, always asking where the glasses were.
Namtan moved through the chaos with ease. Film was always somewhere nearby.
Each time, Namtan would glance over her shoulder, and Film would smile already looking at her.
The apartment was warm from the bodies gathered inside.
Someone turned music on. Smaller groups were made as the elders began telling an old family story.
Namtan stood in the kitchen collecting glasses when Film appeared behind her. She wrapped her arms around her waist. She immediately leaned back into her.
The noise from the living room continued around them. Film rested her chin against Namtan's shoulder, a smile appeared on her face. “You're doing great, hostess.”
The song then changed.
Film reached for Namtan's hand, the girl turned towards her. There was barely enough space between the kitchen counter and the dining table to dance but they danced anyway. A gentle sway, stepping to the side. Film laughs as she nearly bumped into a chair. Namtan moved the chair out of the way with her foot, while Film laughed again. But they continued.
A family member smiled from the living room when they saw them. Another person joined them. Soon the kitchen became another gathering place. People laughed and moved around each other.
Namtan and Film remained in the middle of it, still holding hands.
When the countdown began, everyone crowded toward the television.
Ten… Film turned toward Namtan. Nine… Namtan smiled sweetly. Eight… The two moved closer. Seven… Film's arms settled around Namtan's shoulder. Six… Namtan wrapped her hands on Film's waist.
Five… Someone shouted louder from the living room. Four… They all laughed hysterically. Three…
Namtan looked into Film's eyes. Two… Film leaned closer.
One…
The apartment erupted as cheers filled the room. Bottles were opened while they hugged everyone in reach. Their families laughed and shouted over one another.
In the middle of it all, Namtan softly kissed Film. “Happy New Year...”
“To more New Years with you,” Film can't hide her smile.
Someone then pulled Film away to dance. Namtan laughed and followed. Soon they were all moving through the apartment, bumping shoulders, stepping around chairs, laughing whenever someone nearly collided with the other.
Later, when the celebration had quieted and most of the family had settled into the living room, Namtan and Film found themselves alone in the kitchen again.
The counters were still covered in dishes, the floor needed cleaning, and few decorations had fallen from the walls.
Film rested her head against Namtan's shoulder, as she slipped an arm around her. They swayed slowly, there was no need to perform the happiness they had been surrounded by all evening.
Film lifted her head.
Namtan looked at her.
They smiled at each other.
“I love you.”
“I love you even more.”
Another year had begun. The future stretched ahead of them, untouched and unknowable. They had no idea what it would bring. They only knew where they were standing together.
At the time, that felt like the easiest thing in the world to believe.
There was no single morning when they woke up and discovered that something between them had changed. There was no argument large enough to divide their lives into a before and an after. Their engagement did not suddenly become unhappy, nor did the love between them disappear.
If anything, it continued to look much the same from the outside. The ring was still on Film's finger. Namtan's was still there too. Their photographs still filled the shelves. Their shoes still ended up beside the front door in an untidy pair. Film still left her coffee cup on the kitchen counter whenever she was in a hurry, and Namtan still complained about it before washing it herself.
They still kissed goodbye, asked each other how their day had been, laughed and loved each other.
But small things began to change.
They were so small that neither of them thought they needed to be named. One evening, two years after the day they had bought the dining table, they sat across from each other.
Dinner had already been cleared away. Two glasses remained between them, along with the small bowl of fruit Film had brought to the table and forgotten to touch. The kitchen light cast the same warm circle over the room it always had, catching against their rings whenever either of them moved their hands.
They had been talking about the wedding. Not the ceremony itself. They had already discussed most of that. The guest list, food, flowers. Where their families would sit. The small details that had once made Film stay awake at night because she was too excited to sleep.
Tonight, the conversation had drifted somewhere beyond the wedding.
After the wedding. What their life after it would be.
Namtan leaned back in her chair, one hand wrapped around her glass. “We'll probably stay here still,” she said it casually, as though she were talking about what they would have for breakfast the following morning.
Film looked up.
Namtan continued, her thoughts already moving ahead.
They could rearrange the second bedroom. They had talked about turning it into an office once they were married. There was enough space if they organized things properly. They knew the neighborhood. Their families knew where they lived. They had friends nearby.
They had spent years making the apartment theirs. There were scratches on the floor from the furniture they had moved around. There was a mark on one wall from the first shelf they had assembled badly. There were photographs in the hallway. There were memories in every room.
It seemed natural to Namtan that they would remain there. It was where they had always imagined beginning their married life. Even before they signed, they had talked about it.
The apartment had never been temporary in their minds.
It had been the beginning and their forever.
Namtan smiled as she explained how they could finally replace the old sofa, perhaps paint the bedroom. She talked about small renovations and furniture they could eventually afford, her fingers moving absently against the stem of her glass as she pictured it.
All the while, Film listened, she smiled once. But the second smile did not reach her eyes.
Namtan noticed that and stopped her rambling immediately. “What?”
Film looked down at her hands, she simply turned her engagement ring around her finger. “I don't know.”
Namtan waited.
“Uh, I don't know if I want to stay… here,” Film lifted her eyes. The words were quiet, it was so quiet that they seemed almost harmless.
Namtan blinked, she glanced around the kitchen, then back at Film. “What do you mean by that?”
Film shrugged slightly. “I don't know. I just...” she paused, searching for the right words. “I don't know if I want this to be where we stay after we're married.”
Namtan's expression remained open, she was confused rather than hurt. “But we've always said we'd stay here.”
“I know.”
“Film, we talked about this before we even moved in.”
Film's voice was gentle, “Love, I know that.” There was no accusation in it.
That somehow made it harder for Namtan to understand.
Namtan leaned forward, resting her forearms against the table. “Then what's going on? What changed?”
“I don't know if anything really changed,” Film looked at her ring again.
Her answer made Namtan frown.
Film took a breath. “I think maybe I changed.”
Namtan stayed quiet.
Film looked toward the window. She began speaking slowly, she wasn't hiding anything, she was trying to understand it herself while saying it aloud. She had been thinking about other places, other cities, and other opportunities.
There were things she wanted for them to try while they still could. Work that might take them somewhere else. Experiences they had once assumed could wait. Places they wanted to see. A life that did not necessarily have to begin and end in the same apartment simply because they had once imagined it that way.
She wanted to know what it felt like to leave somewhere familiar, wake up in a city neither of them knew, build something from the beginning again.
Maybe even to do something entirely on her own. It wasn't that she hated their apartment or that she hated the life they had built.
She loved it.
That was precisely why the thought confused her.
Namtan listened with her eyebrows slightly drawn together. “But why now? Now that the wedding is finally close to happening? We have at least a year for it.”
Film gave a small, uncertain smile. “I don't know.”
Namtan looked down at the table. She tried to arrange Film's words into something that made sense.
There had to be a reason. There had to be something she had missed.
“You never said you wanted any of that before,” Namtan's voice was breathy, close to being sad.
“I didn't know I did.”
Namtan looked back up.
“I think maybe that's the problem,” Film's expression softened.
The words settled between them, neither spoke for a while.
Somewhere outside, they could hear a car passing along the street, the clock on the wall continuously ticking, nothing in the kitchen had changed. The same table was beneath their hands, the same chairs surrounded it, and the same apartment held them.
Yet, Namtan looked around the place and wondered whether they had been imagining the same future all this time. She wasn't necessarily angry. She was mostly confused.
Film wasn't asking to leave tomorrow, se wasn't saying she wanted to end anything. She was simply saying that she wasn't certain at the moment.
And certainty was what Namtan needed. She had always believed that loving someone meant choosing the same direction and walking toward it together. Film, sitting across from her, seemed to be discovering that loving someone did not necessarily mean wanting the exact same road, to the least, not anymore.
Namtan reached across the table, Film watched her hand approach, and their fingers touched.
Film turned her palm upward and let Namtan hold it. The gesture so familiar that it almost erased the discomfort of the conversation.
“We don't have to decide tonight, right?” Namtan said quietly.
Film squeezed her hand. “Of course not.”
When Film was first late for the wedding preparations, Namtan told herself it was nothing. They had agreed on ten.
Namtan had taken the morning off from work to make it. She arrived at the bridal shop with coffee in one hand and her phone in the other, still answering two last-minute messages from the office as she waited for Film.
The woman helping them had already laid out the fabric samples.
Namtan smiled apologetically when she realized she had been staring at the door for several minutes. “I'm sorry for the delay. My fianceé will be here soon.”
The woman smiled politely.
Namtan checked her phone.
1:07.
A message from Film appeared. Running a little late. Sorry.
Namtan looked at the fabric samples again. “It's okay,” she placed her phone face down.
Ten minutes later, the consultant returned with another set of options. Namtan stood beside the table and listened. She compared the fabrics, asked questions, and chose between two shades of white while glancing toward the entrance.
At 1:31, Film finally walked through the door. Her hair was still slightly messy, her bag hanging from one shoulder, her phone in her hand. She stopped when she saw Namtan. “I'm sorry.”
“It's okay, love,” Namtan smiled.
Film walked over and kissed her cheek. “Traffic is worse today.”
Namtan nodded.
The consultant began explaining what they had gone through.
Namtan moved closer and handed Film the coffee she had been holding. “I got this for you.”
Film looked at the cup, then at Namtan. “Thank you, love.”
The afternoon was more difficult, Film had to leave early for work. Namtan stayed behind to finish discussing the details without complaining. She understood that Film had work. She had work too. That was why she had moved things around in her own schedule to be there. But she didn't mention it.
A few weeks later, they had another appointment. This time, Film was forty minutes late. The delays began to feel less like accidents and more like the shape their days were taking.
Namtan stopped checking the time after the first half hour. She sat and waited. When Film finally arrived, she always had a reason.
A meeting ran over. An email needed answering. Someone had called. Something unexpected had happened.
The reasons were never ridiculous. That was what made them difficult to argue with. Namtan understood every single one. But she didn't understand why hers always seemed to be the thing that could wait.
The same thing began happening outside the wedding preparations. One Friday night, they had all agreed to meet at their usual grill bar with their common friends.
Namtan arrived on time, she sat at the table with the others, her phone placed beside her plate. The drinks were slowly being ordered, the stories started, the conversation moved easily around the table.
But Film's chair remained empty.
Namtan glanced at it once.
“Is Film coming?” one of their friends asked.
Namtan picked up her glass. “She's on her way,” she said it with enough certainty that nobody questioned it.
Namtan laughed when she was supposed to, she contributed to the conversation, and every few minutes, her eyes drifted toward the entrance. Her phone remained silent.
At 9:12, she checked it.
At 9:34, she finally sent a message, to where Film replied several minutes later. She put the phone down. She smiled when one of their friends looked at her. “She's almost here,” she said.
With another set of drink arriving, another new story being told, and another ten minutes, Film finally appeared.
She walked through the entrance with her bag still over her shoulder, looking tired rather than careless. She spotted them fast, her face softened, walking toward the table. “I'm sorry.”
Namtan looked at the clock. “You're an hour and a half late,” the table went quiet slowly.
“I know, sorry,” Film stopped beside the empty chair.
Namtan's smile disappeared. “You said you were almost here.”
“I thought I was,” Film's brow started to furrow, she was looking at her friends then to Namtan.
Namtan breathes out heavily. “You said that an hour ago. Next time, maybe just honestly tell me so we wouldn't have to repeatedly assume.”
Film glanced around the table. Their friends suddenly became very interested in their drinks, some looking down. She lowered her voice. “Love, I said I'm sorry.”
Namtan pushed her chair back, she stormed out. Film hesitated for a few seconds, she looked at their friends again, then she followed outside.
They stood on the sidewalk beneath the streetlights.
Namtan folded her arms.
Film rubbed her forehead. “I had something come up.”
“You know, you always have something come up lately.”
“That's not fair, love,” Film looked at her.
“Neither is sitting there alone every time we make plans.”
“You weren't alone,” Film gasped at the statement.
“You know what I mean,” Namtan's voice rose just a little.
Film exhaled, she gestured with her hands, pleading. “I told you I was coming.”
There was heat beneath her tone, “And I believed you.”
“Then what's the problem?”
Namtan stared at her, she seemed unable to find an answer that wouldn't make the argument worse. “The problem is that I don't know where I fit in your life at the moment.”
Film's expression changed.
Namtan looked away. “I make plans with you, and you come when you can. I make plans with our friends, and you come when you can. We make wedding appointments, and you come when you can.”
Film's jaw tightened. “I have work.”
Namtan was trying her best to stay calm. “So do I, but you don't see me running off late at any of it.”
“I know, okay,” Film's tone softens as her eyes scan the sidewalk.
Namtan's eyes stayed on her lover, “Do you? Then why am I always the one waiting, Film?”
Film looked at her. Her shoulders shrugged as she says, “I don't know.”
Namtan laughed once, she wasn't in the slightest amused. “Stop saying you don't know!”
“What do you want me to do? Quit my job?” Film's voice rose equally.
“No!”
“Then what?” Her breathing was getting heavier as she looks at Namtan across her.
Namtan's hand were at her temples, rubbing them, “I want you to show up.”
“I am showing up, Namtan.”
“You're always late,” she looks away from Film.
“I still came, isn't that what matters?” Film's breathing had become even heavier. “Every time I do something for work, you make it sound like I chose it over you… over our friends… and over everything else.”
Namtan was fast with her reply. “Because lately, you are. You are choosing work over and over again. Over me… over our life… over everything else.”
Film looked away. The words hit harder than either of them expected.
Through the restaurant window, their friends could be seen sitting around the table, pretending not to look toward the door.
Film lowered her voice. “I don't want to fight here.”
“Neither do I.”
They stood in silence for a few more minutes. Then Film reached for the door but Namtan stopped her.
“Not yet.”
Film turned around.
Namtan's voice had softened. “Please.”
Neither of them wanted their friends to see them like this. The argument felt too private to be witnessed, and so they stayed outside a few more minutes.
When they finally returned to the table, they sat beside each other. Film apologized to everyone. She reached beneath the table and found Namtan's hand.
For the rest of the evening, they sat together. From across the table, they probably looked fine. Maybe they even looked happy. But Namtan's fingers remained loosely intertwined with Film's, while Film's thumb moved absently over the engagement ring on her hand.
The difference was already there.
Namtan was still arranging her life around the things they had promised each other. Film was beginning to arrange hers around the things she wanted to discover for herself.
They were beginning to arrive at different places, and little by little, they were starting to notice.
Namtan sat at one end of the couch with her feet tucked beneath her. Film sat at the other, still wearing the clothes she had worn to work. Neither had suggested the conversation, it had simply become impossible to avoid. For weeks, they had been moving around the same subject without touching it. They could talk about venues and guest lists, about work and money, about where they might spend the holidays, but every conversation eventually circled back to the same unanswered question.
What kind of life did they actually want?
Namtan reached for the engagement ring on her finger and slowly turned it around. “I want a home,” her eyes remained on the ring. “I want to know where I'm waking up the next morning. I want somewhere that belongs to us. Somewhere we can keep changing because we're choosing to, not because we have to,” she looked around the apartment, with the shelves they had filled together, the photographs, the little imperfections they had stopped noticing years ago. “I don't want to keep packing my life up.”
Film listened without interrupting.
Namtan leaned forward, resting her elbows against her knees. “I want something steady, Film.”
Film looked down at her own hands, she stood, walking toward the window and pulled the curtain aside, looking out at the sleeping street below. “I want to go,” she kept her eyes outside. “I want to see places I haven't seen. I want to take the work when it comes. I want to be able to say yes before I start thinking about all the reasons I shouldn't,” she turned back. “Maybe even live somewhere else for a while.”
Namtan remained quiet.
Film walked back toward the couch but didn't sit. “I don't know where I'll end up,” she smiled faintly. “I think that's what I like about it… and I really want you with me.”
Namtan looked at her for a long time. She understood, that was the heartbreaking part. She understood exactly what Film meant. Her lover wasn't asking to escape their relationship, she wasn't saying their apartment was a cage, she wasn't saying she wasn't enough. She mainly wanted a life that had room for uncertainty.
But Namtan knew she wanted the opposite. She wanted to know.
They sat together again, Film reached for Namtan's hand. Their fingers intertwined.
“I don't want you to resent me if I say no,” Namtan said.
Film's thumb stopped moving. “I don't want you to resent me either.”
There was no solution waiting for them. There was only the uncomfortable truth that they were asking the same love to carry two completely different futures.
A future where Namtan wanted roots and Film wanted roads.
Neither could easily give the other what she wanted without giving something up herself. They both knew that. None of them wanted to say it too loudly. So they did what people in love often do when faced with something frightening.
They promised to figure it out.
Film leaned forward and rested her forehead against Namtan's. They stayed that way for several seconds. Then Namtan wrapped her arms around her, Film held her tightly.
For that night, it was enough. They would try to figure it out. They had always figured things out before.
Except this time, figuring it out did not mean finding one answer, it meant learning how to live with two.
When Film left for work abroad for the first time, they told themselves it would only be for a month. A month was manageable, they packed together. Namtan folded her clothes while she checked her passport for the third time.
They argued over how many sweaters she needed. Namtan insisted she would need them but Film insisted she wouldn't. Though, eventually, both ended up in the suitcase.
At the airport, Film kissed her goodbye. Namtan held her for a long time. Not one of them said anything about how strange it felt to watch the person she had planned a future with walk toward a departure gate.
They promised to call.
At first, every call lasted hours. Film would sit in her temporary apartment with her laptop open beside her, telling Namtan about the city outside the window.
Namtan would walk around their apartment while listening, showing Film things she had already seen a hundred times.
Sometimes in their calls, they ate together through their phones, they watched the same movie while hundreds of kilometers separated them. They even sometimes fell asleep on the call.
Those nights almost felt like nothing had changed.
But as their wedding gets closer and closer, Film's work became heavier. Their calls became shorter.
A message would arrive in the morning instead of at night. The later became tomorrow. Tomorrow became the weekend.
The month eventually ended.
Namtan met her at the airport.
For a while, everything seemed better. Film was present again. They cooked together, went out, saw their friends, finalized wedding plans.
They were back in the routine they have gotten used to since the beginning of their relationship.
Namtan began to relax.
But as soon as she settled, another opportunity for Film appeared. This time, it was longer.
Film hesitated before telling her.
Namtan didn't ask whether Film wanted to go because deep down she already knew. So instead, she asked when she was leaving.
And the cycle began again.
The distance itself was never what hurt them most. They easily learned how to survive distance, they learned to leave the bedroom light on during calls, they learned which nights were easiest, they learned how to send photographs instead of explanations, and they learned how to say I miss you without making it sound like an accusation.
But something remained, that was the indifference neither of them knew how to name.
Film would come home and find Namtan already asleep. Namtan would wake up and find Film working at the kitchen table.
One would suggest dinner, the other would say she had a deadline. A weekend would pass without them doing anything together.
Then the next one would.
They still kissed and touched. Still slept beside each other, saying good morning and goodnight on the days and nights.
But there were moments when one of them would speak and the other would only hum in response. Moments when a disagreement began over something small and ended with both of them walking into separate rooms.
Sometimes Namtan would stand in the kitchen with her hands braced against the counter, waiting for Film to come back. Sometimes Film would sit in the bedroom, staring at her phone, waiting for Namtan to knock.
Neither always did.
The fights became less explosive and perhaps that should have been a good thing. Because they no longer shouted as often, they had learned the shape of each other's anger, they knew when to stop, they knew when to leave a room, and they knew how to apologize.
But the arguments never disappeared. Each one could become the beginning of the same conversation.
They tried.
The relationship became a strange rhythm of separation and reunion, where Film would leave, Namtan would wait, and Film would return.
They would try again.
But then something would pull Film away once more. And each time, Namtan became a little less surprised. Each time, Film became a little more careful about asking.
Not one of them wanted to hurt the other, neither wanted to give up what they wanted from life, and neither wanted to admit that the compromises they were making were beginning to feel less like compromises and more like pieces of themselves being quietly placed on the table.
Still, they kept trying.
Because they loved each other, they had spent years building a life together. There were still mornings when Film would wake before Namtan and watch her sleep, evenings when Namtan would reach for Film's hand without thinking, moments when laughter returned so easily that both of them could almost believe they had solved everything.
Then the next argument would come, then the next trip, the next missed dinner, the next silence.
They were not miserable. That would have been easier. They were just no longer certain that love could keep asking them to become people neither of them wanted to be. They were physically together while increasingly living separate emotional lives.
Their friend's engagement party was held in a small garden behind their home. Namtan and Film arrived together, looking like they always had. Their hands found each other as they crossed the garden, fingers naturally intertwining, and when their friends spotted them, Film immediately smiled.
They were both genuinely happy, that was the strange part. There was no pretending when they hugged the newly engaged couple. Namtan held one of them tightly, laughing as she congratulated her, while Film pulled the other into an embrace and immediately began admiring the ring. They teased them about the proposal, demanded to know every detail, and laughed when the couple tried to defend themselves from the interrogation.
From a distance, they looked the perfect couple they've always been seen as.
Their friends had always admired them. Namtan and Film had been together long enough to become the couple everyone went to when relationships became difficult. They were the ones who supposedly knew how to talk things through. The ones who could disagree without destroying each other. The ones who had survived distance, work, changing plans, and years of growing together. They had become an example without ever asking to be one.
One of their friends lifted her glass and looked between them. “At this rate, you two are going to get married before these two.”
The newly engaged woman immediately nudged their friend. “Shut it.”
Everyone shared an awkward laugh.
Film rolled her eyes with an amused smile and slipped an arm around Namtan's waist. “Apparently I'm the problem.”
“You are a very busy woman,” their friend said, grinning.
Film gave her a teasingly exaggerated look of offense.
Namtan laughed with everyone else. She even squeezed Film's waist. But her heart tightened just a little than necessary over a joke. It was only a small pinch, barely there if you aren't sensitive enough.
She looked at Film, she was laughing, and she looked happy.
The conversation moved on almost immediately when another friend began teasing the newly engaged couple about who had cried first during the proposal.
Everyone turned toward them, and Namtan joined in. She laughed, drank, and smiled for photographs. When Film leaned close to whisper something into her ear, she laughed again.
Nothing about the evening looked wrong.
They drank enough to loosen their shoulders without losing themselves. They danced once when someone insisted. They took pictures with their friends. They congratulated the couple again before leaving.
On the drive home, Film rested her head against the seat, while Namtan kept both hands on the steering wheel.
Film then reached across the center console, her fingers touched Namtan's arm. They gave each other a glance, enough to make each other smile. The gesture was domestic, making the silence feel safe again.
They reached the apartment as the night had become quiet. They changed into their pajamas without speaking much.
Film stood in front of the bathroom mirror, wiping away the last traces of makeup with a cotton pad. Namtan sat on the edge of the bed, removing her earrings and placing them carefully on the nightstand.
Namtan watched Film through the reflection in the mirror. “You looked very happy tonight.”
Film paused. She looked at Namtan through the mirror. “I was.”
Namtan nodded. “So was I.”
Film walked toward the bed, rubbing the last trace of makeup from beneath her eye. “They're going to be good together.”
Namtan looked down at her hands. “Yeah, I think so too.”
Film sat beside her, their shoulders touched. For a moment, it seemed like the night might end peacefully. They had gone out, seen their friends, had laughed, and came home together. Maybe they could leave everything else for tomorrow.
“We should get some sleep,” Film glanced at the clock.
Namtan nodded as she reached for the blanket.
Film stood to put her phone on the nightstand while Namtan watched her.
Without meaning to, Namtan said, “Do you think we'll ever actually get married?”
Film slowly turned around. “What?”
“I didn't mean—” Namtan looked at her.
“What did you mean?”
Namtan exhaled, looked away, and said, “Nothing.”
Film's expression switches, “Don't do that now.”
“What?”
“Say something and then pretend that you didn't.”
Namtan stood. “I just asked a question.”
“It didn't sound like a question, Namtan.”
Namtan's jaw tightened. “Fine,” she crossed the room and picked up her earrings from the nightstand, placing them inside their small dish. “There is something inside me saying that I don't know anymore,” Namtan continued before she could stop herself, “I don't know if we're ever going to get there.”
Film took a step closer. “Is it because I'm working?”
“No! No. It's because you're never actually here,” Namtan turns herself.
Film's face changed. “Well, I'm pretty obviously here now.”
“You just don't get it, do you?” her voice was breathy, frustrated at most.
Film steps closer. “Then what do you mean?”
Namtan turned away from Film again. “I mean I don't know how much longer I can keep doing this.”
Film's voice rose. “This? Doing what?”
“Waiting,” Namtan faces Film, the tears in her eyes were starting to fall. Namtan's eyes filled, she turns to face her, she didn't look away. “I don't want to wake up one day and realize I spent my life waiting for you to come home.”
Film's breathing became uneven. She looked toward the floor, then back at Namtan. “Well, I don't want to wake up one day and realize I stopped living because I was afraid of leaving you.”
Namtan flinched as Film stepped backward. The words had come out louder than she intended.
The silence was unbearable.
Namtan wiped quickly beneath one eye. “I never asked you to stop living. I never told you not to take those opportunities,” she shook her head. “But why does it feel like I'm always the thing you're leaving behind, Film?"
Film's voice cracked. “Because you're the person I have to leave behind.”
Namtan stared at her.
Film immediately shook her head. “No. That's not what I meant.”
“That's what it feels like. And maybe that's the truth,” Namtan tries to keep herself together.
Film ran both hands through her hair and turned away. “Love, I don't know how to make you understand.”
“I have been trying to understand you for such a long time,” Namtan's voice softened while it broke.
“I've been trying to understand you too.”
Namtan's voice broke even more. “I'm losing you.”
“That's because I don't want to lose myself," Film turned around.
The words silenced Namtan.
Film stood there, breathing heavily. “I don't want you to give up what you want for me.”
“And you know I don't want you to give up what you want for me,” Namtan's voice became quieter. “Asking you to do that would be selfish… because, what I want is you. It will forever be a life with you.”
Film swallowed, more tears escaping her eyes, after what Namtan said. “I can't ask you to come with me,” she pauses, “I mean… I could. But I know what your answer will be. I can't ask you to stay with me either.”
“I know.”
The room seemed suddenly too small. Their pre-wedding photographs were still sitting on the dresser. The calendar with their plans was still pinned to the wall. Their engagement rings were still on their fingers. Everything around them was evidence of a future they had once been certain about. Now neither knew whether that future still belonged to both of them.
Namtan sat on the edge of the bed. Film remained standing for a moment before slowly sitting beside her. They were close enough that their knees touched. Neither of the two reached for the other, as they didn't try to soften the truth either.
Namtan looked at Film. “I love you.”
Film's lips trembled. “I love you too.”
Their love for each other had survived the distance, the missed dinners, the arguments, the forgotten plans, the long months apart. It did not disappear, the truth was that it was sitting between them now, as undeniable as it had ever been.
Neither of them was the problem. Namtan did not need less from life, Film did not need less from life. Neither of their dream was wrong. They weren't asking for too much. The problem was that the lives they wanted were beginning to pull them toward different directions. And loving each other could not make those directions the same.
Namtan's hand finally moved across the bed as Film looked down. Now, their fingers touched. Film turned her hand over. Their palms met, they held on. Because neither wanted to let go.
They didn't promise each other anything grand or any certainty that everything would be easy from then on.
They had finally understood that compromise had to be something they both participated in.
Film was at the apartment, on a Tuesday.
Namtan had not expected anything from the evening. She had finished work later than usual and was still answering emails when she heard a knock from the front door. She looked up and saw Film walked in carrying two paper bags.
Namtan blinked repeatedly. “What are you doing?”
“I did tell you I would be here,” Film smiled as she slipped off her shoes.
Namtan glanced at the clock.
Film walked into the kitchen and placed the bags on the counter. She pulled out two containers of food from their favorite place nearby, followed by a small dessert that Namtan liked.
“I thought you might not feel like cooking,” she smiles as she lifted one of the container.
Namtan stared at her, then she smiled. “You're still learning.”
Film laughed as she came around the counter and kissed her cheek. “It may be of use someday, you never know.”
They ate together at the kitchen table as Film told Namtan about her day, reaching across the table to steal something from her plate. Namtan complained every time and moved the plate farther away, only for her to reach across again. Namtan had stopped pretending to be annoyed.
That started with one evening. Then an evening turns to another. Until it was a month.
Film began protecting certain hours of her day as carefully as she protected her work. When something important came up, she told Namtan. When she knew she would be late in their meetings, she called. When she could leave early, she did. And sometimes she easily came to the apartment.
A few weeks later, their friends invited them to a Sunday lunch.
Namtan arrived first this time. She was standing outside the restaurant when she heard footsteps behind her, Film appeared with two coffees in her hands.
They walked inside together.
Their friends were already seated. The moment they saw Film, one of them lifted both hands dramatically gasping. “She actually came on time.”
“She threatened me,” Film immediately pointed at Namtan.
Namtan laughed as she took her seat. “That is completely untrue. Threatening is never my thing.”
Film stayed through the entire lunch. She listened when someone was talking, she also joined the stories, she laughed until she had to wipe tears from the corners of her eyes.
When Namtan got up to refill her drink, Film's hand instinctively caught the edge of her sleeve. She turned and Film silently held out her empty glass, she chuckled and took it.
Their friend across the table watched them. There was something about seeing them like that again that made everyone relax. The couple they had always known seemed to be finding their way back.
When Film had to travel for work, things were different. She still left, that part had not changed. But before she went, they sat together at Namtan's kitchen table and planned their evenings around the time difference.
Film wrote the schedule down. Namtan added small notes beside it. They promised to call. And they did, every night they could.
Film would prop her phone against a hotel lamp while she ate dinner. Namtan would sit at the kitchen table with her own dinner.
They would talk for an hour, even in times they were too tired they stayed on the call while doing separate things.
Film would work while Namtan would read. The comfort was in having the other there when they needed to vent about random trivial things.
When Film returned, Namtan was one of the people that waited at the airport. Film spotted her before she reached the arrivals area. Her face immediately lit up and she walked faster.
Namtan opened her arms. Film practically fell into them. She giggled as Film wrapped both arms around her.
“I was only gone for a month,” Film pulled back to look at her, “why are you acting like I was gone for a year,” Film's parents smiled at the two.
“I missed you,” Namtan's smile softened.
Film can only laugh at the dramatics she witnessed. “I missed you too,” then she reached for her suitcase.
Namtan grabbed the handle first. “I got it.”
Film walked with her parents and they followed Namtan, their shoulders bumping as they walked.
They walked through the streets they had walked through hundreds of times before and somehow found something new to laugh about.
Sometimes Film would be at the apartment exhausted and simply rested her head on Namtan's lap.
Namtan would run her fingers through her hair while watching television.
Sometimes Namtan had a difficult day and Film would leave her phone on the table, sit beside her, and listen.
Of course, their friends noticed too. At another dinner, one of them looked across the table as Film passed Namtan the last piece of food without being asked.
“You two are disgustingly happy.”
Namtan just lets out a laugh at the statement while Film leaned back in her chair. Namtan glanced at the girl hysterically wheezing beside her.
Film was already looking at her and they smiled at each other.
It was such a simple thing. But their friends smiled too. Because for a while, everything seemed right again.
PRESENT TIME
The apartment looked larger, so much of it was gone. The shelves that had once been crowded with books, photographs, little souvenirs, and things neither Namtan nor Film could remember buying were half-empty. The walls carried pale rectangles where frames had hung for years. The living room rug had been rolled up and placed against one wall, leaving the floor beneath it strangely clean. A strip of scotch tape remained stuck to the floor near the hallway, its loose end curled upward as if whoever had packed it had been too tired to remove it.
There were cardboard scraps near the couch. A pair of scissors rested on the coffee table. The last few boxes sat against the side of the living room, neatly sealed and labeled. FILM. A name that appeared on every box.
The kitchen was the only part of the apartment that still looked almost untouched. The cabinets were the same, just as the counter. There still laid the same small imperfections they had never bothered repairing.
In between them stood the table.
The table they had bought when they were younger, standing in a showroom and pretending to eat imaginary meals. The table they had carried into their first apartment and assembled badly before finally figuring out which piece went where. The table that had held birthday cakes, grocery lists, unpaid bills, takeout containers, wedding invitations, laptops, photographs, arguments, apologies, and countless ordinary dinners.
Tonight, it held only two things.
Their engagement rings.
They sat side by side in the middle of the table. Three years of promises reduced to two small circles of metal.
Namtan's hands were clasped loosely in front of her, while Film's rested on her lap.
Film's eyes traveled slowly around the room, she looked toward the living room. There were boxes, the empty book shelves, spaces where her things had been.
Then her eyes returned to Namtan. “Do you remember the day we bought this table?”
Namtan's mouth curved. Her eyes softened as she looked down at the wood beneath her hands. “It's a very durable table.”
Film's lips twitched.
Namtan glanced at her. “All thanks to you. We didn't have to worry about buying another one.”
Film let out a quiet chuckle.
Namtan leaned back slightly and looked around the apartment again. The emptiness became almost funny. “Who knew that you were the one to hog all the space of the apartment all those years?”
Film followed her gaze. She looked at the empty side of the living room. “I also just realized that when we were cleaning up earlier.”
Namtan smiled. “Here I thought I was the messy one.”
“Well, you kinda were.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Film shrugged. “You're just less visibly messy.”
Namtan laughed under her breath. The one Film had heard thousands of times. In that moment, it sounded like every other night they had spent at that table. Except the apartment was half-empty, Film's belongings were packed into boxes, and their rings were no longer on their fingers.
They sat together in the quiet for a couple of minutes.
There were no accusations left, the raised voices were only turned to soft tones. They didn't need to ask questions about who had tried harder. They already spent months asking those questions themselves. They spent months trying to determine which sacrifice would hurt less.
And they had finally realized that there was no answer.
After that night at their friends' engagement party, they didn't sleep, that night, they talked until morning.
They talked about the years they had spent together. They talked about the opportunities Film had wanted, the home Namtan had wanted, all the times they had tried to bend themselves toward the middle. About how neither of them had ever meant to make the other feel guilty for wanting more.
Before the sunrise, they had stopped trying to find someone to blame. They had looked at each other and understood.
Their lives had changed. They had changed slowly enough that they had spent years mistaking movement for distance and distance for something they could fix.
Now they were sitting at the table where they had once imagined their forever, neither of them was angry.
Namtan's fingers moved across the wood. She traced a small scratch near the edge. “I think we knew, deep down,” she kept her eyes on the table, “somewhere along the way.”
Film nodded. “I think so too.”
There was a gentleness about admitting it.
Film looked toward the boxes again. “I should've said it sooner.”
Namtan shook her head. “I should have too.”
“I'm sorry.”
“So am I,” Namtan finally looked at her.
Film's eyes lowered to the rings between them. They were not apologizing for loving each other. They were not apologizing for the years they had spent together. They were apologizing for how long it had taken them to understand that holding on was no longer the same thing as choosing each other.
Namtan reached toward the center of the table. Her fingers stopped beside her ring.
Once, those rings had represented a future they were certain would arrive. Now they were simply objects waiting to be put away.
There would be no wedding tomorrow, photographs, vows, their families gathering beneath flowers and lights. There wouldn't be moment when they would look at each other and promise to spend the rest of their lives together.
The future they had once imagined had not been destroyed, it mainly ceased to be theirs.
Film leaned back in her chair. Her eyes traveled around the apartment one last time. “I thought this place would feel smaller when everything was gone.”
“I thought the same thing,” Namtan smiled faintly.
Film looked toward the living room. “It weirdly feels bigger.”
Namtan nodded.
The irony sat quietly between them. The apartment had been built around two lives, now there was room for each of them to become separate again.
Film reached across the table, Namtan met her hand, as their fingers intertwined. There was no desperation in the gesture nor an attempt to stop what was going to happen. But it was easily familiar to the both of them. A final gesture between two people who had spent years reaching for each other without thinking.
Namtan's fingers tightened around Film's hand as she stood. Film looked up at her, her head tilting slightly, her eyes narrowing with quiet curiosity as she tried to understand what Namtan was doing.
Namtan didn't let go. “Before you leave,” she said softly. Her expression softened into a smile. “May I please have a last dance?”
Film only looked, then a quiet laugh escaped her. She shook her head gently, smiling through the sadness already gathering in her eyes.
She nodded. “Okay,” she stood.
Their hands remained together. They didn't need to decide who would lead because their bodies already knew.
Namtan stepped closer, and Film followed. Their arms found each other almost instinctively, as though the years of loving one another had taught them the shape of the other person's body better than anything else could. Namtan's arms settled around Film's back. Film's hands rested against Namtan's back in return.
There was hardly any space between them, and they were almost hugging. Film moved closer, her head came to rest against Namtan's shoulder.
Namtan lowered her head until her cheek rested gently against Film's hair.
There was no song playing from a phone or a record turning somewhere in the apartment. Yet they began to sway slowly. Their feet moved together as naturally as they always had.
They had danced in this kitchen before, while cooking, after midnight, while their friends laughed at them, on New Year's Eve with their families crowded around them.
Back then, there had always been music.
Tonight, there was only them.
Film closed her eyes and Namtan did the same. They remain in the moment instead of giving attention to what was surrounding them.
Film's fingers curled more tightly into the fabric of Namtan's shirt. Her breathing began to tremble. The first tear slipped quietly down her cheek and disappeared against Namtan's shoulder.
Namtan had her arms tightened. She didn't say anything as she felt another tear followed.
Film tried to breathe through it but she failed, and a small sniff escaped her.
Namtan's eyes remained closed while her own tears had already begun falling. They slipped silently down her face and into Film's hair.
They continue to hold each other tighter while their swaying continued.
Film's shoulders trembled against Namtan.
Namtan's hand moved gently across her back, once, then again, the same motion she had made on nights when Film was exhausted, sick, frightened, or simply needed to be held.
Here, in this moment, there was nothing they could fix.
Film buried her face deeper into Namtan's shoulder. All the while Namtan rested her cheek against Film's head.
Their tears continued to fall. Their breathing broke into sniffles that filled the silence between.
Neither wanted to be the one who stopped.
They both knew what would happen when the dancing ends.
They sway back and forth across the small space they had once filled with furniture, laughter, friends, family, meals, arguments, plans, and dreams. The same floor where they had once danced while imagining all the years ahead of them.
Now there were no years to imagine.
Namtan pressed one last kiss against the top of Film's head. “I love you so much, Film.”
“I love you... so, so much,” Film's voice was breathy, the break was still there.
They continued swaying in the middle of the nearly empty apartment, dancing to nothing, holding on to something that had already become a memory.
They did not need to stop loving each other. Because sometimes a love could be real, beautiful, complete, and still reach a place where two people could no longer build the same life inside it.