Chapter 2: Chapter 2: Iced Coffee and Unspoken Questions
Michael arrived at the campus café ten minutes early. He is always early. Being on time meant arriving unnoticed, avoiding the awkwardness of walking into a room full of eyes. He found a seat tucked into the farthest corner, partly hidden behind a potted fern, and ordered an iced green tea. The condensation on the glass offered a small, grounding comfort against the Bangkok heat that lingered even in late afternoon.
His sketchbook rested on his lap like a shield, his fingers lightly curled around the edges. Part of him hoped William wouldn't show; not out of dislike, but because conversation, especially with someone like him, felt like stepping onto a stage without knowing your lines. And yet, somewhere deep inside, another part of him, the quieter, curious part, waited.
He didn't have to wait long.
A ripple of laughter rolled in from the entrance, unmistakable and bright. William had arrived, surrounded by a trio of fellow Communication Arts students. They looked effortlessly cool, stylish in that casual way students in media programs often were. One of the guys was tall and wiry, laughing at something only half-funny. The girl beside him, all sharp eyes and sarcasm, mimicked a professor's voice with exaggerated flair.
"And then Professor Somchai says, 'Your script needs more oomph, William! More drama!" the girl mocked.
William threw his head back, laughing. "Hey, I'm working on it! You can't rush brilliance! My characters have depth, Nida. They can't just break into song."
He scanned the room mid-laugh, and then his eyes found Michael. His whole face lit up with recognition. Without hesitation, he excused himself from the group.
"Top-secret meeting time," he grinned, offering a mock bow. "Later, guys!"
Pao, the lanky one, elbowed Nida. "That's him? The quiet sketchbook guy?"
William winked. "Maybe. Wish me luck."
He breezed over and slid into the seat across from Michael as if he'd done it a hundred times. His cologne, sweet and citrusy, hung lightly in the air, and even in the hum of the café, his presence felt large.
"Sorry, I'm late. My professor cornered me about a script idea, and then those three ambushed me. You know how Comm Arts people are, everything's a performance."
Michael gave a small smile. "You're fine. I just got here."
He said it gently, but his mind was still back on William's friends. They were talking about me. The thought prickled under his skin.
William flagged down a server with the confidence of someone used to being seen. "Iced Americano, extra shot, please!"
Then he turned back to Michael. "So. Fine Arts. That's impressive. I can't even draw a decent stick figure. What's your focus? Painting? Sculptures? Or those incredible sketches?"
Michael toyed with his straw, eyes on the melting ice in his glass. "Mostly sketching. And sometimes painting. I like… capturing moments. Things people miss."
"Easier than talking, right?" William said, and his grin softened. "Same with me and writing. I can write a thousand words without blinking. But in person?" He shook his head. "It's like my brain stalls mid-sentence."
Michael looked up, surprised. William? Struggling with words?
William sipped his coffee, eyes curious. "You're from Nakhon Sawan, right? Must be a big shift, coming to the city."
Michael nodded. "Yeah. It's quieter back home. More space. More green."
He glanced outside at the rush of cars, the blur of motorbikes weaving through traffic. "Everything moves so fast here."
"But it's got a rhythm, don't you think?" William said. "There's energy in it. Inspiration, even in the noise."
He said it with his usual spark, but something flickered behind his eyes—a shadow, quick and subtle, before his grin returned full force. Michael noticed. He always noticed things like that.
"What about you?" he asked, surprising even himself. "You seem like you belong here."
William's smile held steady, but something in it wavered. "Born and raised in Bangkok," he said, stirring his coffee absentmindedly. "It's home. Though sometimes… it feels like a home with too many locked rooms."
The words hung in the air a moment too long before he shook his head, dismissing them. "Anyway, I love the city. It's full of stories. That's why I chose Comm Arts. I want to tell them."
"What kind of stories?" Michael asked.
That question brought the light back to William's eyes.
"Fantasy, mostly. Worlds where anything is possible. Where people fight for something bigger than themselves. Where magic exists, and secrets matter."
He leaned in, voice dropping. "I've had this idea brewing for years. It's called The Whispering Labyrinth. Imagine a place that shifts and changes. It whispers to you; your fears, your desires. But it only reveals its path if you listen closely enough."
Michael's fingers twitched toward his sketchbook. The name stirred something in him: The Whispering Labyrinth. It sounded like something he could see already. Before he knew it, he was flipping open a page, pencil at the ready.
William saw the motion and lit up like a child handed a treasure map.
"You feel it too, don't you?" he said, his voice suddenly quiet, reverent.
Michael didn't answer. He didn't need to.
William leaned back, eyes never leaving him. "You know, Michael… I think we're going to be great friends."
He took another sip of his coffee, smile softer now, as if something real had settled between them.
"So," he said, tapping the table, "about that Labyrinth…"
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