Chapter Text
August in Bangkok always started the same way — with a humid morning, a grey sky, and rains that could begin out of nowhere.
Film Rachanun had long grown used to it.
She’d grown used to a lot of things, actually.
To her small loft apartment almost in the city centre, its walls slowly filling up with her paintings. To the smell of paint that had soaked into the wooden floor. To the cup of cold coffee beside her easel. To quiet evenings when the city hummed outside her window, and she could sit in front of a canvas for hours, completely losing track of time.
Her painting earned her enough to live comfortably without worrying about tomorrow. Sometimes Film took on side work in elementary classes — she liked working with children. They were honest. They didn't try to be someone they weren't. If they liked a painting, they said so. If they didn't — they said that too.
Adults couldn't do that.
Especially the girlfriends Film somehow kept ending up with.
Her last relationship, with Pet, had left behind too many painful memories. Jealousy. Arguments. Manipulation. Endless promises to change...
Film had believed for way too long.
So after the breakup, she made herself a promise:
No more bad girls.
Never again.
She had Love and Bonnie — two friends she truly trusted. Though Love was constantly travelling for her work as a lawyer, and Bonnie, who she'd studied with back in the day, had also chosen a legal career.
In the end, Film was left with her paints.
And she was perfectly fine with that.
At least, that's what she thought.
— All right, kids, today we're drawing a vase.
Film placed a small white vase with blue flowers on the table in front of the class.
— And you don't have to draw it exactly as it is. Use your imagination.
The children's pencils immediately started rustling.
One kid drew a vase as big as a house.
Another made it green.
One boy announced that his vase was invisible.
Film just laughed.
— Very creative, Nong Tam.
— It's just invisible! — the boy replied, completely serious.
— Of course it is.
Film smiled and walked between the desks.
At the last desk sat Lunar.
The girl had transferred to their class just a month ago.
She was seven years old, but sometimes Film felt like Lunar talked like an adult.
She was loud, incredibly energetic, and constantly cracking jokes. She got into trouble every now and then, and would later explain with the most innocent face why it "wasn't her fault."
But Lunar drew surprisingly well.
Film stopped beside her desk.
— What are you drawing?
— A vase.
— I can see that.
Lunar looked up and gave her a sly grin.
— Then why ask?
Film laughed.
— Just wanted to talk.
— Ah-h-h.
Lunar bent back over her drawing.
Film looked at it more closely.
For a seven-year-old, the work was truly unusual. The lines were confident, the colours harmonised with one another, and the flowers looked almost alive.
But what always struck Film the most were Lunar's eyes.
One was blue.
The other — an unusual, almost golden-yellow shade.
She'd never seen anything like it.
Sometimes the other kids teased Lunar because of that.
But the girl never cried.
She'd just answer them in a way that made everyone lose the desire to tease her ever again.
Today, everything went quietly.
When the bell rang, the kids quickly packed their things and scattered home.
Film stayed behind in the classroom, tidying up pencils and drawings.
A few minutes later, she finally stepped out of the school.
And then the sky collapsed onto the ground.
The rain poured down so suddenly that Film even stopped in her tracks.
— Oh, come on…
She looked at the road.
The bus stop was only a few minutes away.
But in just a few seconds, she'd be soaked through.
Film sighed, clutched her bag tighter, and started running.
And then, suddenly, an umbrella appeared above her head.
Film stopped.
Beside her stood a young woman.
Tall, beautiful, with dark hair and a strict suit. Her hair was slightly damp from the rain, and on her face was a soft, barely noticeable smile.
— Are you planning to run through the rain like that? — she asked.
Film blinked.
— If you're going to run in this rain, at least take this.
Film turned her head.
Beside her stood a young woman.
A beautiful brunette in an elegant suit, with slightly damp hair and a completely disarming smile.
There was something incredibly warm about her presence.
If Film had to compare her to something, she'd say — a golden retriever.
Just a very beautiful golden retriever in an expensive suit.
— And you? — asked Film.
— Me?
The girl looked at the umbrella, then at Film.
— Rain suits me.
Film laughed.
— Very logical.
— Thank you. I tried.
The girl held out the umbrella to her.
— Take it.
Film took it, but didn't hurry to leave.
— And who should I return it to?
— You don't have to return it.
— Then I definitely won't take it.
— Why?
— Because you'll be left without an umbrella.
— The girl narrowed her eyes slightly, as if pondering this very seriously.
— Alright. Then a trade.
— A trade?
— The umbrella in exchange for a name.
Film looked at her in surprise.
— Do you always meet people this way?
— Only with beautiful girls.
This time, Film couldn't hold back a smile.
Strange.
She didn't usually like being talked to like that.
Especially after Pet.
But right now, for some reason, it felt nice.
Easy.
No tension at all.
— Film, — she finally introduced herself.
— Film?
— Yes.
— Pretty name.
— Thank you.
The girl extended her hand.
— Milk.
Film shook her hand.
— Milk?
— Yes.
— Pretty too.
— Then we're even.
Film laughed again.
Milk took a business card from her bag and handed it to her.
— In case you decide to return the umbrella after all.
Film took the card.
Pansa Milk.
Beneath the name it read: Marketing & Communications.
Film turned the card over.
The office address turned out to be just a short walk from the school.
— Do you work here?
— Yes. Literally ten minutes away.
— Then I can bring the umbrella back.
— You can.
Milk smiled.
— Or you don't have to.
Film looked up.
— Why?
— Because then I'd have a reason to see you again.
Film felt the corners of her lips lift on their own.
She looked at the umbrella in her hand.
— But what about you without an umbrella?
Milk shrugged.
— The important thing is that a beautiful girl doesn't get wet.
Film paused for a second.
Milk was already smiling, clearly pleased with the effect she'd created.
— You're terrible, — Film muttered, trying to hide her smile.
— I get told that a lot.
— I don't doubt it.
Film opened the umbrella.
— Then goodbye, Milk.
— Goodbye, Film.
She took a few steps, then suddenly turned around.
Milk was still standing under the awning.
And she was watching her go.
Film smiled.
Just a little.
Then she walked toward the bus stop.
She didn't know why this brief encounter had felt so pleasant.
She didn't know why she'd read the name on the card several times.
And she certainly didn't know why, for the first time in a long while, she thought:
Maybe not all girls are bad.
By the time she finally got home, the rain was still drumming against the windows. Film tossed her bag onto the sofa, placed Milk's umbrella by the door, and headed for the shower.
Twenty minutes later, she emerged in an oversized T‑shirt with damp hair. The apartment was quiet. Film turned on some music, opened the window, and settled onto the sofa.
Her gaze drifted back to the business card.
She picked it up between two fingers and twirled it.
Pansa Milk. Marketing & Communications.
Film snorted.
— Are you serious?
She set the card next to her phone.
A few seconds later, she picked it up again.
Opened her contacts.
Typed the number.
Deleted it.
Typed it again.
Deleted it again.
Film bit her lip.
She could just return the umbrella tomorrow. No big deal.
But for some reason, she wanted to text right now.
In the end, she opened her messages and typed:
Film: Hi. This is Film. The girl you saved from the rain.
She stared at the message for a few seconds.
Then hit send.
— There.
Her phone buzzed almost immediately.
Film sat up straight.
Milk: Hi, beautiful girl. I was hoping you'd text.
Film couldn't help but smile.
Film: Do you say that to all girls?
The reply came almost instantly.
Milk: No.
A pause.
Milk: Only to the ones who take my umbrellas.
Film let out a quiet laugh.
Film: Then I'll have to return it.
Milk: You can.
A few seconds later, another message arrived.
Milk: But first — coffee?
Film froze.
She read the message again.
Then once more.
Something inside her fluttered pleasantly.
After Pet, she'd spent a long time convincing herself she didn't need a relationship. That it was better to stay away from anything that could end in pain.
But this was just coffee.
Plain coffee.
Nothing more.
At least, that's what she kept telling herself.
Film: Okay.
The three dots appeared almost immediately.
Milk: Tomorrow?
Film smiled at the screen.
Film: Tomorrow.
Milk: Then I'll pick you up after work.
Film raised an eyebrow.
Film: You don't even know where I live.
Milk: But I know where you work.
Film remembered Milk mentioning that her office was just a short walk from the school.
Film: You're quite dangerous, aren't you?
Milk: Only a little.
Film put down the phone and stared at the ceiling.
The music kept playing.
Rain was falling outside.
And on the table lay the business card of a girl she'd met only a few hours ago.
Film smiled to herself.
The next morning, Film woke up before her alarm.
She lay still for a few minutes, staring at the ceiling, listening to the faint hum of the city already waking up outside her window — until finally, the reason for her good mood surfaced in her mind.
Coffee.
With Milk.
— Just coffee, — she reminded herself aloud, as if saying it would make it feel less significant.
And yet, when it came time to choose an outfit, Film spent considerably longer than usual.
She rummaged through her wardrobe, pulling out a couple of options before settling on a light white blouse and a pair of well-fitted jeans. Nothing too fancy. Just comfortable.
Simple.
Still, when she caught her reflection in the mirror, a small smile crept onto her face without her permission.
The lesson started off calmly.
The children were drawing, chatting among themselves, and occasionally trying to swap pencils across the room — despite Film having explained more than once that they had hands for that, not lungs for shouting over half the class.
Lunar sat at her desk, quietly focused on her drawing.
That lasted right up until the boy at the next desk spoke up:
— You stole my blue pencil again!
— I didn't steal it!
— You did!
— You put it on my desk yourself!
— No, I didn't!
Film looked up.
— Lunar. Nong Pit. Quiet.
The children fell silent.
For about three seconds.
Then Lunar stuck her tongue out at the boy.
— Lunar!
— He started it!
Film sighed.
— Let's get back to drawing.
She turned away.
A minute later:
— She's pushing me on purpose!
— Because you're teasing me!
— Kids…
Film walked back over to them.
— That's enough. Stop it. Right now we're drawing, not having a contest over who can shout the loudest.
Both of them fell silent, reluctantly.
Film went back to her desk.
And almost immediately heard:
— You're broken!
The class went quiet.
Lunar slowly raised her head.
Film spun around sharply.
— What did you just say?
The boy shrugged.
— She's broken.
Lunar didn't say anything.
She just stuck her tongue out at him again.
— Lunar!
The girl turned away.
Film crouched down beside her.
— Are you okay?
— Yes.
But from her face, it was painfully clear that wasn't true.
After class, the children started packing up to go home. Film deliberately held Lunar back.
— Lunar.
The girl stopped at the door.
— Yes?
— Are you sure you're alright?
Lunar stayed silent.
Film gave her a gentle smile.
— If something's wrong, you can tell me.
The girl dropped her gaze.
Her fingers tightened around the strap of her backpack.
— I'm defective.
Film felt something twist inside her chest.
— What?
But Lunar had already run off.
— Lunar!
The girl disappeared through the door.
Film stood there for a few more seconds, watching the empty doorway.
It made her feel uneasy.
Very uneasy.
Why should a seven-year-old child even have to think about herself that way?
She'd definitely talk to her tomorrow.
After that, Film tidied up the classroom, gathered her things, and stepped outside.
And for a few seconds, she forgot about everything else.
There was a car parked near the school.
And beside it — Milk.
Today, the brunette from yesterday looked even more beautiful. An elegant suit, neatly styled hair, and that same charming smile that, for some reason, made Film feel warm inside.
Milk spotted her and waved.
— Film!
Film smiled back.
— You actually came.
— I promised.
Milk opened the passenger door.
— After you.
— How chivalrous.
— I'm trying to make a good impression.
Film got into the car.
— It's working.
Milk's smile widened.
— Good start.
The café turned out to be cosy and quiet.
Soft light, the gentle hum of conversation from nearby tables, and the faint aroma of freshly ground coffee beans hanging in the air. Milk didn't try to fill every second with chatter. She listened when Film spoke, asked questions when she genuinely wanted to know more, and easily kept the conversation flowing whenever a pause came.
Film talked about painting.
About the children.
About her apartment.
About how she could sometimes sit in front of a single canvas for hours, lost in the colours and shapes.
Milk listened attentively.
She didn't interrupt.
And Film unexpectedly found herself wanting to tell her more.
When a lull came, Milk began to talk about herself.
About work.
About strange clients.
About the time she showed up to an important meeting with mismatched earrings and only noticed in the evening.
Film laughed.
With Milk, everything felt easy.
No tension.
No games.
No nagging feeling that she had to constantly watch herself.
Just easy.
When they finished their coffee, Milk drove Film home.
She stepped out of the car and was about to close the door when Milk suddenly got out too.
— Wait.
Milk walked around the car and opened the door for Film.
Film looked at her with a smile.
— More chivalry?
— Of course.
Milk beamed.
— I want to ask you to the movies.
Film pretended to think it over.
— I'll consider it.
— Really?
— Really.
Milk narrowed her eyes playfully.
— Does that mean "yes"?
Film smiled.
— Yes.
— Then I'll consider it too.
— Consider what?
— Which movie to pick.
— Good.
For a few seconds, they just looked at each other.
The evening light softened the edges of the moment, and the quiet hum of the street seemed to fade around them.
Film was the first to look away.
But she couldn't hide her smile.
— See you tomorrow, Milk.
— See you tomorrow, Film.
She closed the car door.
Film took a few steps toward her building, then turned around.
Milk was still watching her.
And still smiling.
Film walked upstairs with the silliest grin on her face.
She liked this.
She liked this lightness.
She liked that, with Milk, she didn't have to pretend to be anyone else.
The next two days passed by almost unnoticed.
Milk texted Film in the mornings.
Sometimes just:
— Good morning, artist.
Sometimes she'd send a photo of her coffee with the caption:
— Today's is worse than yesterday's. Save me.
Film replied.
Sometimes within a minute.
Sometimes after ten.
Sometimes they texted back and forth for almost the entire day.
And a couple of times, they even called each other in the evening.
Film liked hearing Milk's voice.
It was just like the girl herself — warm, soft, and just a little playful.
And Film found herself catching more and more often that she was waiting for a message.
A brief pause in her day, a quick glance at her phone, a small flutter every time the screen lit up.
She didn't say it out loud.
But she was starting to look forward to it.
Friday turned out to be noisy.
Film was conducting a class with eight-year-olds when a shout echoed from the hallway.
At first, she didn't pay it any attention.
But then she heard a crash.
— Let go of me!
— You let go first!
Film shot up from her seat.
— Kids, keep drawing and don't go anywhere.
She stepped out into the corridor.
And froze.
On the floor near the wall, two children were fighting.
Lunar.
And that same boy.
Another teacher was already trying to pull them apart.
— Lunar! Pit! Stop it right now!
Film rushed over immediately.
— Careful!
Together, they finally managed to separate the children.
Film looked at Lunar.
There wasn't a single scratch on her.
But Pit's lip was busted.
— Have you both lost your minds?! — the other teacher exclaimed in outrage.
Lunar stayed silent.
She was just breathing heavily, staring at the boy with a glare that could have burned holes through him.
— You're both in trouble. We're going to the principal's office right now. I'm calling your parents.
At the word "parents," Lunar's face shifted.
Her brow furrowed.
Her lips pressed into a thin line.
And she muttered something under her breath — a word that definitely wasn't meant for polite company.
Film noticed.
— Lunar…
The girl didn't even glance at her.
A few minutes later, the children were taken to the principal's office.
Film returned to her class, but her mind kept drifting back to Lunar.
What was going on with her?
Why did she react so strongly to any mention of her parents?
Something about it didn't sit right with Film — a quiet, nagging unease she couldn't shake.
After the lesson, Film decided to go to the principal's office herself.
She was almost there when she heard crying.
Film stopped.
Through the glass door, she could see Lunar.
The girl was sitting on a chair, her brow furrowed so deeply it looked like she was trying to burn a hole through the wall with her glare.
Beside her sat Pit.
He was crying.
Behind the desk stood the principal, speaking on the phone with someone.
Film knocked and entered.
— Excuse me.
The principal looked up.
— Film, good, you're here.
In the office stood a man in his forties.
He looked extremely irritated.
— I don't understand why this girl's parents aren't here at all! — he fumed. — My son came home with a busted lip!
Film frowned.
Lunar dropped her gaze.
She looked nothing like her usual self.
Not loud.
Not cheeky.
The little girl suddenly seemed incredibly alone — small and fragile in that big, cold room.
— We tried to contact her parents, — the principal explained calmly.
— And where are they?
No one answered that question.
And then, there was a knock at the door.
Everyone turned.
The door opened.
A tall young woman, around thirty, stepped into the office.
Plain jeans, a light t-shirt, long chestnut hair.
She was wearing dark sunglasses.
She stopped just inside the doorway.
— Hello.
She took off her glasses.
And smiled.
Film looked at her.
And froze.
Those eyes.
She'd seen eyes like that before.
Not exactly the same.
But incredibly similar.
One eye — blue.
The other — golden-yellow.
Only this woman's shades were darker, more muted.
Film slowly turned her gaze to Lunar.
Then back to the woman again.
The principal seemed to notice the look on Film's face as well.
— Finally, you're here, — said the principal.
The woman nodded.
— I'm sorry, I got held up at work.
She looked at Lunar.
For the first time, the girl lifted her head.
And her expression shifted, just slightly.
— Lunar.
The girl stayed silent.
The woman sighed.
Then she turned to the principal.
— I think we should discuss this calmly.
The principal gestured to the empty chairs.
— Of course. Please, have a seat.
The woman sat down.
Film remained standing by the door.
She still couldn't stop looking at her eyes.
At Lunar's eyes.
Too similar.
Too unusual.
The same mismatched pair — blue and golden-yellow — only in the woman they were deeper, more subdued, like colours that had faded with time.
Film's mind raced with questions she had no right to ask.
The man kept talking.
Loudly.
Too loudly.
He ranted about Lunar's behaviour, about Pit's busted lip, about how the school apparently wasn't strict enough about what had happened.
Film listened in silence.
The principal tried several times to calm him down, but the man just raised his voice again.
Namtan sat next to Lunar, barely moving.
But with every new phrase, her brows drew closer together.
— We believe the best solution would be to temporarily suspend both children, — the principal finally said.
— But that's not fair, — Film unexpectedly interjected.
Everyone turned to look at her.
— Pit has been picking on Lunar for weeks. Today, she just couldn't take it anymore.
Pit's father spun around to his son.
— Is that true?
The boy stayed silent.
— Pit?
He dropped his head.
And then suddenly shouted:
— She's crazy herself! She's defective!
The room fell silent.
Film felt a chill run through her.
But what struck her even more was something else.
Namtan's and Lunar's hands had both clenched into fists at the exact same moment.
Film noticed it.
And she saw how Namtan's brow furrowed.
Not just out of anger.
As if those words had cut much deeper than an ordinary insult.
Pit's father shot to his feet.
— Let's go.
— But Dad…
— Now.
The man muttered something under his breath, grabbing his son by the hand.
The door closed behind them.
In the office remained only Namtan, Lunar, Film, and the principal.
For a few seconds, no one spoke.
Finally, Namtan let out a slow breath.
Her voice turned out to be unexpectedly calm.
With a slight huskiness, low and soft in timbre.
— I'll take care of her behaviour. And I promise you, nothing like this will happen again.
She turned to the girl.
— Right, Lu?
Lunar barely whispered back:
— Mm-hmm…
The principal gave a small, tired smile.
— As her mother, you should be influencing her behaviour. This cannot continue.
— Yes, I understand, it's just…
Namtan didn't get to finish.
Lunar suddenly jumped up from her chair.
— She's not my mother!
Everyone flinched.
The girl looked at the principal, then at Namtan.
Her eyes were glistening.
— She's my sister!
Silence fell.
— My parents are dead.
Lunar spun around and ran out of the office.
The door slammed shut behind her.
Film froze.
The principal, too, was speechless for several moments, her face pale with shock.
Namtan slowly rose to her feet.
Her face wore an expression Film hadn't seen before.
She looked both lost and crushed at the same time.
— I'm sorry.
And she followed Lunar out.
The door clicked softly closed.
Film remained seated across from the principal.
Neither of them spoke for a few long seconds.
Finally, Film asked quietly:
— Is she really her sister?
The principal shook her head slowly, still staring at the door.
— I… I didn't know. She never mentioned a sister. In her file, it only says "legal guardian".
Film looked at the closed door, her mind racing.