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My first encounter with him took place at the funeral of an acquaintance.
It was like an unfixed event of life—a meeting that felt strangely memorable and striking.
Yet, he and I truly met for the first time on that very day.
What I remember most were his eyes, which seemed to glance with a cheerful, hidden amusement. The lips of that man, coated in a bright shade of lipstick, appeared fuller than usual as he kept them tightly closed, but his eyes were genuinely laughing.
Seated in the far corner of the guest row, he sat silently, his black collared long-sleeve shirt rolled up at the sleeves. Throughout the service, he spoke to no one, nor did he greet or express condolences to the deceased’s family. Though a few guests occasionally shot him curious glances, he merely closed his eyes for a moment without bothering to exert any further effort.
His eyes were fixed solely on the name plaque inscribed with "Sifa Nirawit."
The deceased was one of my acquaintances. Since he was friendly and well-liked by everyone, his sudden death came as unexpected news to all. Although I wasn't particularly close to him, I felt sad for someone who had been a good person.
His wife was overcome with grief, weeping continuously. Their marriage of barely three years had been far too short; she was young and deeply deserving of sympathy.
Sifa was perceived as someone successful at work—a man with great social skills, endless prospects, and a marriage and career that anyone would envy. He was like the main character straight out of a novel: helpful, good-natured, and cheerful. The list of his virtues was endless.
One might think that grief alone would never be enough for such a man's final rest.
However, in the dark brown eyes of that man, which seemed to harbor a mocking laughter, a different shade of emotion swirled silently.
He and I were sitting in the same row. His profile, seen from the side, possessed an undeniable pull that kept my eyes from wandering away. Slender strands of soft black hair rested against the edges of his shirt collar. His long eyelashes fluttered with precise detail, as if caught in a dance of light and shadow embracing him.
It was as if a sculptor had carved him while kneeling to the angels. He held within him the gentle ocean's fierce turbulence.
I thought to myself that it was truly intoxicating.
On that day, that man anchored himself firmly into my memory.
About halfway through the service, presumably preparing to leave, he let out a soft sigh and stood up. Before walking away, I noticed him cast a brief glance toward Sifa's wife. Whatever connection lay between them, his lips remained tightly sealed. I was certain within myself that whatever he felt, it was not sorrow.
Unable to resist, I approached someone who had been closer to Sifa and asked:
"Do you know the person who just left?"
"The one in the last row?"
"Yeah. It seemed like he didn't talk to anyone."
"I don't know either. First time seeing him."
It was a complete enigma. Even if he didn't know anyone attending the funeral, he surely ought to have been close to a family member. Yet he came in silence and left in silence.
Though it was none of my business, perhaps those dark brown eyes were simply too intriguing. Or perhaps I was just being foolishly overly curious.
As expected of a funeral, the atmosphere grew suffocatingly heavy with grief, so I stepped outside to smoke a cigarette. To my surprise, he was still outside. Just as I thought he must have left long ago, seeing him brought a subtle sense of satisfaction.
He was standing, leaning against a building wall. He looked a bit weary, his posture relaxed with a slight touch of indolence. Those eyes from earlier were gazing out toward the roadway. With a stillness that made it seem as though he wasn't even breathing, he held an unlit cigarette in his hand. Since it was just the two of us near the smoking area, the quiet air allowed me to catch a faint, subtle trace of his perfume.
When I lit my cigarette, our eyes unexpectedly met.
"Could I borrow your lighter for a moment, Khun?"
He spoke, his lips curving into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. Even a casual smile like that felt as though it demanded surrender. As I handed over the lighter, the gentle touch of our fingertips carried a fleeting softness—a moment left delicate and weightless, like trying to catch butterfly wings.
"Thank you."
Taking a drag from his cigarette as he handed back the lighter, there was a faint gloominess in him that I couldn't quite fathom.
I responded with a simple nod, and though we both retreated silently into our own thoughts, he broke the silence first.
"Were you close with Sifa?"
His voice carried the stillness of a sea breeze—not heavy, yet capable of holding a person's complete attention.
"He was just an acquaintance."
"Hmm... I suppose he's still as popular as ever."
He murmured as if talking to himself, leaving a faint trace of lipstick smudged on his cigarette.
"What about you, Khun?"
When I asked him back, the response I received was a soft, clear laugh. A sudden contrast stood out against the heavy atmosphere hanging over us.
"We used to know each other."
That was all he answered.
"When I saw you walk out earlier, I thought you had left."
"Ah, yes. I wonder why I haven't left yet either. Since I have nothing left to do here anyway."
He murmured with a smile, looking as if he were wandering aimlessly toward nothing. I didn't know how to respond. As if noticing my confusion, he chuckled, which felt slightly comforting. He spoke quite cheerfully:
"At first, I just wanted to smoke. But I couldn't figure out where I dropped my lighter."
Giving an answer that wasn't quite an answer, he took another drag of his cigarette. Compared to inside the service, his posture felt like a ribbon loosely untied.
"It's been years since I last saw him. Then the other day, an invitation unexpectedly arrived at my house. For his funeral. Truthfully, I don't even know who sent it. I didn't think anyone would still remember to invite me."
"Yet you came."
"I had to come to say goodbye. Since someone went out of their way to invite me, I had to show up."
The cigarette smoke curled and drifted upwards. The sky began to darken with rain clouds, while the distant rumble of thunder served as a gentle warning.
"I think it's time for me to head back now."
He spoke with a sigh. As the wind blew, the dying embers of the cigarettes glowed a bit brighter.
He pushed himself up from the wall he was leaning against, crushing the spent cigarette stub. Yet his swirling brown eyes were still smiling.
"I'll be taking my leave then."
He said his goodbye and turned to leave.
"By the way, Khun... what is your name?"
After blurting out an unnecessary question in haste, my voice cut off, but he smiled gently.
"I am Nani Hirunkit. And you?"
He asked in return.
"Sky Wongravee."
"Alright. If we cross paths again, I'll be sure to call out to you."
The person who said goodbye with a cheerful demeanor at a funeral left behind no reason for us to meet again. Nor was there any logical link connecting us.
How far could a conversation over cigarette smoke really go? Regardless, I found myself softly repeating his name over and over in my mind. Just like that, the man named Nani Hirunkit felt almost like an illusion.
After Sifa's funeral, a busy period began for me. Preparing for an art exhibition meant I had to spend all my time in the studio. It's been three months since the funeral.
Every time I applied paint onto the canvas, that faint, remembered image echoed softly. It felt like a subconscious obsession. I kept replaying that slice of time in my brain over and over. I could almost hear the sound of those heavy rain clouds again, and his clear laughter took a distinct place in my memory.
Even so, I couldn't bring myself to paint him. The remembered fragments were not enough to capture his image. Whenever I thought of him, I would flip open a sketchbook and quickly grab a pencil, only to end up feeling like a child just learning to draw. It was truly not enough. The lines I sketched felt too far from capturing his essence.
Perhaps I was also afraid of ruining it; I couldn't afford even the slightest mistake. I hadn't felt this way in a long time—to the point where I questioned if I even knew how to paint anymore. I found myself getting frustrated with my own limitations.
Because of that, the shade of red lipstick I remembered became the central theme in every painting I created. As the exhibition drew near, my state of mind felt increasingly dreamlike, intoxicated like a addict wandering in a haze. Yet I had no cure. Every time red paint smudged across the canvases, I saw a trace of him. The ungraspable feeling was far from satisfying.
I lost track of time in the studio, overwhelmed by finishing touches and event preparations. Naturally, deep dark circles formed under my eyes. Sometimes when I looked in the mirror, I no longer recognized myself.
It wasn't that I was lost; rather, I was longing intensely for something. When what you want seems impossible to reach, your mind begins to play tricks on you.
When the paintings were finally finished, my manager looked at me strangely.
"Did you suddenly change your style?"
"Does it look that way?"
"It's not bad at all. But this feeling is brand new."
He smiled brightly and continued:
"This is the first time I've seen your paintings feel so distinctly focused on something. The exhibition is definitely going to go well."
I could only manage a bitter smile. If I told anyone these paintings were created out of an inescapable obsession with a man I met just once—written almost like a heartbreak—they would probably laugh out loud.
"The critics will certainly have something to write about, won't they?"
"Regardless, everyone has been curious since this is your first exhibition after two years of complete silence."
My manager was genuinely elated. As for me, I only took a deep breath once the paintings were done. Only after escaping that heavy, suffocating feeling did I realize how deep into the pit I had fallen. To make up for sleepless nights, I collapsed onto my bed as soon as I got home and fell fast asleep.
Then, I had a dream. My dreams are always strange, perhaps compounded this time by sheer exhaustion.
It was a dream about the sea. White waves attempting to engulf me advanced bit by bit onto the sandy shore. The deafening sound of the ocean wind rang in my ears, alongside the swirling blue storm clouds at the corner of my eyes and the scent of salty air—a beach on the verge of a storm.
And then, that red flower.
A red spider lily smiling at me. Before the ocean waves under the blue sunset could pull me under, I caught sight of those dark brown eyes once more.
When I woke up from the dream, I was drenched in sweat, wondering if I had truly sunk into the ocean. Why was my heart trembling so much? After firmly massaging my temples, I checked the clock by the bed: it was just past 3:00 AM.
My exhibition wouldn't start until 9:00 AM. Knowing that sleeping again would make me late, I couldn't go back to sleep. I went straight to the bathroom and turned on the shower without turning on the water heater. Midst the chills rising on my skin, I stood there dazed, wondering why dreams couldn't come true. It was my habit to remain dazed after having a dream.
By the time I finished showering, it was just past 3:30 AM. Having nothing else to do, I walked out to the balcony. Lighting a cigarette, I thought back to the scent of his perfume that day. It was a gentleman's fragrance, yet not overly sharp or overpowering—soft like a forest, reminding me of cinnamon. Breathing in that scent amidst the cigarette smoke brought a sense of stillness.
I thought about how busy the morning exhibition would be and tried to gauge how many people would show up. My manager had certainly put all his effort into this event. After my last exhibition, I had gone traveling continuously, arriving at various places. Sometimes I would disappear on long trips without telling anyone. It wasn't that I stopped painting; I painted whenever inspiration struck, but I didn't care to keep them. I would just send them to my manager and tell him to sell them at whatever price he liked.
Essentially, I had been searching for something to paint, though I hadn't found it. But after two years, my manager nagged me so much about holding an exhibition that I finally gave in just to stop the headaches. I had no ideas in mind, but I couldn't stand him knocking on my door twelve times a day anymore.
Anyway, now that it was done, I still felt unsatisfied. To keep from painting the whole world in red, I found myself wishing to meet that man again.
It was almost unbelievable that I spent time waiting on the balcony from 3:00 AM until 7:00 AM. But around 7:00 AM, my manager called to ask when I would arrive, so I stopped my thoughts and prepared to leave. I lost count of how many cigarette butts were in the ashtray, but I definitely needed to buy a new pack.
"My goodness, this exhibition really has a whole new feel to it!"
I heard a woman whisper at the exhibition, though I could only manage an awkward smile. Standing like a stone statue in the corner, no stranger would ever guess I was the artist behind the paintings. My manager told me to go talk to some important guests, but perhaps due to lack of sleep, I found myself getting tired of replying with one-word answers.
Normally, I wasn't someone with such poor social skills, but I found myself praying for time to pass quickly. Sensing that my manager was looking for me again, I tried to slip away from where I was standing.
There were 25 paintings in total—some oil, but mostly acrylic, a mix of old and new works. Anyone with a keen eye could tell the new apart from the old, as the newly added pieces differed significantly from my previous work. Walking through the gallery, I arrived near the last painting I had completed. This artwork, which looked like a burst of red paint, felt like an explosion to me.
I stood there staring at it for several minutes. It reminded me of my dream. As I stood there, it felt as though white waves were washing against my feet.
"What is the title of this painting?"
The voice that snapped me out of my thoughts sent a chill down my spine. It felt like it took me a long time just to turn around. Suddenly, I wondered if I had fallen back into my dream or was experiencing sleep paralysis.
"Why do you look so surprised? I didn't think you'd be this shocked."
The man spoke lightly, laughing so softly that his hair shook. The scent of his perfume inhaled drew me back to reality.
"I told you, didn't I? I'd call out to you the next time we met."
This time, the corners of Nani Hirunkit's lips curved even higher. To be honest, I truly loved the way he smiled.
"Yes, but... I didn't expect to meet you here."
I replied, my voice dry.
"Is that so? I came here specifically expecting to see you."
Hirunkit answered, his eyes clearer and brighter than that day.
"Specifically... meaning?"
"Of course I'd know my favorite artist."
He said effortlessly, while I stood frozen like a short-circuited wire.
"I even attended your last exhibition. Seeing your work again this time is truly satisfying."
These revelations hit my brain like an electric shock; I genuinely hadn't expected it. When we met, this man hadn't acted like a fan of mine at all.
"Really? I had no idea."
"Do I look like someone who doesn't appreciate art?"
Hirunkit asked playfully. I quickly shook my head.
"Of course not. Hirunkit himself looks like a work of art."
"Ah... that's a bit too flattering."
"It's true. Ever since I first saw you, Hirun, I thought you were beautiful."
I had no intention of hiding those words. His appearance demanded to be acknowledged out of courtesy. While others might have reacted differently, Hirunkit simply laughed softly.
"Thank you. It's been a long time since I heard someone say that to me."
A moment of silence fell between us. He gazed at the painting, while I focused on the embroidery on his shirt.
"Answer my question first."
He reminded me softly. I hesitated for a moment—not because I forgot my own painting's title, but because I wondered how Hirunkit would react to it.
"Liberation."
When I answered, the corners of his eyes crinkled in apparent satisfaction.
"Spider lilies are quite captivating, aren't they?"
He murmured softly.
We both stared back at the painting. The red spider lily on the black background stood out vividly amidst heavy yet quick brushstrokes, surrounded by splatters of crimson. I intended for viewers to feel as though this flower was blooming outward with intense energy.
"What a pity. This piece isn't for sale, is it? Otherwise, I would have bought it."
"Have you bought any of my paintings before?"
"Of course. At the exhibition two years ago—the piece titled Espresso."
Hirunkit spoke with a touch of pride.
"Oh. So you were the buyer of that piece. I didn't know."
"Indeed. I was very fond of that painting."
Since I left all sales matters to my manager, I rarely knew who the buyers were. Hearing this made me feel a bit foolish—complaining that I might never see someone again, when he was not only my fan but had even bought my artwork.
"What do you think of this exhibition?"
When I asked, he tilted his head slightly, the silver chain around his neck catching the light.
"I haven't seen all of them yet. But this time, most of them feel like they are struggling. Your paintings used to be still lifes—capturing moving things and locking them within a frame. This time, it feels as though the still things are struggling to break free."
Hirunkit's commentary felt like being caught red-handed, yet he merely laughed softly.
"I like this collection better, though. I was planning on buying one, but since the one I like isn't for sale..."
His voice was like a gentle breeze. I couldn't hold back the question in my mind any longer:
"It might sound overly curious, but there's something I've wanted to ask you since last time, Hirunkit."
"Go ahead and ask. I don't mind at all."
"What was your relationship with Sifa? That day, you left without speaking to anyone."
He smiled as if he had expected my question, making me feel a bit embarrassed.
"So you were watching me."
He said playfully, sending a wave of warmth rushing through my veins.
"Sifa Nirawit was my ex-fiancé. About three years ago."
I hadn't expected that answer. Although I had known Sifa for a long time, I had truly never heard the name Nani Hirunkit from him.
"Three years ago, he broke up with me. The reason was that he was going to marry that woman. What was her name... Mon?"
I nodded, and he continued:
"I was madly in love with him. We were together for nearly five years. Right before our anniversary, my boyfriend left me out of nowhere, saying he was marrying someone else—not a very pretty ending. If I keep going, it'll sound like I'm speaking ill of the dead."
He ended with a chuckle, but I still wanted to know more.
"It stays between us."
He smiled knowingly, and keeping his eyes on the painting, he continued:
"Sifa Nirawit was a good person to everyone except me. I don't say that just because he broke my heart. Even when we were together, he was unbearable. He was quick-tempered, short-fused, and cruel. I don't understand how he hid those traits from others, but whenever he came to our shared house, he was violent.
There were nights we couldn't sleep because we fought so much. When he got angry, he raised his hands against me. He put me in the hospital more than once or twice because of it. But after it happened, he would get on his knees and beg—begging like his life depended on it. And I couldn't bring myself to cut ties, so I took him back. But that cycle kept repeating itself."
As Hirunkit spoke, a glint returned to his eyes—the same mocking laughter I had seen at the funeral.
"One day, after a fight, he left. About a week later, he came back to pack all his things, saying he was getting married. That day, I just sat on the floor, watching him.
I'm not someone who expects love to last forever. But even if we broke up, I never thought I'd experience something like that. It's almost funny—he even brazenly sent a wedding invitation, which I burned. Now, three years later, when his funeral invitation arrived, I almost thought his ghost sent it. Truthfully, he never told his family about me. Even our engagement was just between the two of us, sealed over a cheap ring."
I had no words to offer, but as usual, he seemed to understand.
"Surprisingly though, after breaking up with him, I didn't feel heartbroken. Perhaps we were already over long before we actually split."
He spoke like a free man. Although it was painful to hear, it was hard to fathom that Sifa Nirawit had been that kind of person. But people are just people, aren't they? We all harbor lies.
Thinking about it that way, Hirunkit felt like an open book whose pages could be turned one by one; he made no effort to close the cover.
Although he left early on the first day of the exhibition, on the final evening, he was waiting for me in the parking lot. He asked if he could catch a ride toward his home. I nodded easily, but we actually ended up driving toward the beach.
When we arrived, it was dusk, just bordering on nightfall—5:53 PM, the exact moment when sunset clouds glow in shades of blue. The ocean breeze was heavy and cold, yet Hirunkit ran across the sand like a child. We teased and played with each other, walking through the deep sand until we were exhausted. It felt as though my dream had come to life.
That day, my feet sank beneath the white waves while the red spider lily smiled down at me. His dark brown eyes shone as wet and bright as the stars above the ocean.
Getting close to Nani became easier than expected. He was straightforward in his speech and his eyes would crinkle playfully whenever he found something amusing. Sometimes he explained the songs he wrote—which was how I eventually learned he was a songwriter. Hirunkit was simpler than I had imagined, living life in the most uncluttered way without holding onto worries.
It didn't feel like we were meeting for the first time. According to the beliefs of Ascensionism I once learned about, perhaps that was why. Someone once told me:
They believe humans possess two souls—one physical soul, and one spiritual soul (our true Soul).
Every time our physical soul perishes, the spiritual soul will reincarnate on this earth time and again until the final judgment. Even if our physical forms differ, we remain who we are. Every time I looked at Hirunkit, I thought of this.
Perhaps our souls had met countless times somewhere in the universe. Though nothing could prove it, that was simply how I felt.
On Saturdays, Hirunkit liked to drink whiskey at his favorite bar. Though he mentioned he preferred wine, he still enjoyed a glass of whiskey. Joining him there added a cozy spot for me to pause on tired evening commutes home.
Once, on our way back after drinking, I saw him cry. His eyes always looked as though they were on the verge of tears, but when he actually wept, it felt strangely unfamiliar to me—it suited him least of all. Yet he sobbed quietly. That day, after crying, he sat quietly in my car, taking slow drags from my cigarette.
He didn't explain why he cried, but I felt as though I already knew. That night, he slept over at my apartment, curling up comfortably on the sofa as if completely at ease. When I tried to carry him to the bedroom, he followed along softly like a cat.
After that, he visited me frequently, and I certainly didn't mind. Whenever he came over, Hirunkit always brought a bottle of wine. Thanks to him, I learned quite a bit about wine—even buying the bottles he recommended to keep at home so he wouldn't need to bring one every time.
He also loved glossy red lips. When I gifted him a tube of lipstick, he left a kiss print on a small canvas in my studio. The lipstick smelled faintly of strawberry wine.
Like shifting tides, we drifted into each other effortlessly. Without needing elaborate explanations, my palms were already stained in red.
"I still want that painting," he said longingly one day. I merely nodded, but he remained calm and moved on to another topic.
Then one day, a bouquet of red spider lilies arrived at my gallery. Though he never mentioned sending it, I placed the bouquet right in the center of the exhibition space.
That evening, he came to my apartment. Watching him slowly pour wine was like watching a cat focused intently on something. Red wine flowed through both of us. He slid closer to me, and I didn't forget to embrace him. That day, a smudge of lipstick remained on my shirt.
While preparing for my next exhibition, he would spend time in my studio passing the hours with a guitar. He sat quietly, watching me work without asking anything. I loved how his lips curved upward whenever he saw splashes of red paint.
"Are you going to display that painting this time too?" Hirunkit asked softly.
"I had it delivered to your house, Hirun"
This time, his brown eyes widened in surprise. Setting his guitar aside, he walked over to me. The embrace of his slender, pale arms felt like ocean waves sweeping over me.
I kissed his palm as his favorite perfume wafted through the air.
"The spider lily I love has already bloomed in my hands. You can keep the painting, Hirun."
When I said that, he laughed so happily that his hair shook—bright and delighted. His lipstick-coated lips parted with subtle pride.
Brushstrokes danced across a fresh canvas. Upon my body, the red shades he painted remained softly stained.
That man had truly become my red spider lily.
— The End —