"It is not love or hate that drives us across oceans—
But the ache of becoming what we cannot name."
— The Author
At exactly 4:00 p.m., the bus began its journey.
It was a black coach bus—sleek and silent, like a beetle swallowed in dusk. Its interior shimmered faintly under golden ceiling lights, casting long reflections on the deep purple seats, velvet-rich and almost too pristine to touch.
Niloy sat beside stranger.
The two were quiet at first. Not by choice—Niloy had tried—but by gravity. Stranger, as always, had his head bent low, long fingers scrolling through his phone, face lit coldly by its pale screen. His expression was unreadable, carved from still water.
The bus itself was a sleeping coach. For now, the seats looked ordinary, upright and narrow. But Niloy had already noticed the lever by his side, the thin metal framework beneath. It could be extended—flattened into a bed if needed.
He glanced around. The windows were tinted too dark, almost black. It was impossible to see the outside world.
A breath caught in his throat.
Suffocation began where the glass ended.
He tried to swallow it down. His fingers tightened around the seat's edge as he leaned a little toward Stranger, forcing his voice into something casual.
"Stranger," he said, lips curving faintly, "Why don't you take a regular coach? This one looks expensive."
Stranger gave no response. Not even a flicker of acknowledgement.
Niloy glanced at him, then at the window again. "And the glass... it's too dark. Can't see anything outside."
Still silence. Still that expressionless mask.
But Niloy wasn't the type to be discouraged easily. He tilted his head, speaking more to the window now than the man beside him.
"I like sitting by the window. I love watching people—how they're always rushing, always busy with something. Kids playing on the roadside, old uncles smoking under tea stalls... even if I don't know them, it feels like I belong to their world."
Two conductors moved down the aisle, checking on the passengers, their quiet footsteps blending with the hum of the engine.
"In Bangladesh," Niloy continued, "we have sleeping coaches too, but mostly for long distances—like Cox's Bazar to Dhaka. I've never taken one before, though. I usually choose the regular chair coach. I like to stay awake and look outside."
The bus rolled forward. The road stretched ahead, but Niloy's voice wandered behind.
"If I were home right now, I'd be seeing so many things. Green fields, rice paddies, small roadside bazaars filled with color and noise. Women haggling, children chasing dogs. It's messy, but it's mine."
His voice held a smile, but his eyes didn't. There was something behind them. Something soft. Something quietly breaking.
Stranger looked up from his phone at last.
His gaze, dark as inkstone water, lingered on Niloy's face.
The boy was still turned toward the window, his lashes catching what little light there was. His words carried warmth, but the corners of his lips betrayed him—lifted too tightly. His eyes had the sheen of someone who was remembering more than he was saying.
Stranger's expression didn't shift.
But inside, a storm whispered.
"Just to chase some worthless dream..."
"He abandoned his family without hesitation."
"Selfish. Illegal immigrant."
His fingers tightened on the phone.
"But if he's that selfish... why am I helping him?"
"It doesn't matter. Once we reach Bangkok, we'll go our separate ways."
And yet—
His eyes returned again to the curve of Niloy's mouth, to the flicker of longing in his voice when he said home.
To that ridiculous little smile.
"I don't want to see him."
"...Do I really mean that?"
Just then, Niloy turned to face him. Stranger immediately looked down again, back to his phone. But the silence between them had already shifted—subtle, but real.
One of the conductors approached. "Sir, is it comfortable?" he asked politely.
Stranger nodded without looking up.
The conductor smiled, brushing rain off his sleeves. "If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask."
Stranger replied with a soft "Mn."
Rain tapped gently against the windows like fingers drumming on a coffin lid—too steady to be comforting, too soft to be ignored.
Stranger sat unmoving, face half-lit by his phone screen. His expression was neutral, the kind of cold that didn't ask to be warmed. Beside him, Niloy shifted—half-restless, half-bored, too full of thoughts and too empty of silence.
He turned slightly.
"Stranger..." he said, voice casual.
No reaction.
Niloy blinked.
"Stranger," he tried again, tilting his head, the word deliberately stretched with mock affection.
Still nothing.
A small smirk tugged at his lips, mischief flickering in his eyes like a match in the wind.
"...Husband."
The phone stilled in Stranger's hand.
Five seconds passed.
Exactly five.
Long enough for a chill to settle in Niloy's spine.
Then Stranger turned his head.
His gaze was sharp. Not angry—furious. A quiet, razor-sharp kind of fury, the kind that didn't shout or burn, but froze.
Niloy's smirk faded.
He bit his lower lip, suddenly very aware of the line he'd just crossed. "I was kidding," he muttered quickly, voice lighter than it should be. "Don't take it seriously... go on with your phone..."
Stranger stared at him for another second, then finally spoke.
"Never again."
Two words.
Nothing more.
But they cut through Niloy's mood like a blade through silk.
He gave a crooked little smile, awkward and faint. "Right," he said, trying to laugh it off, but the sound died in his throat.
Stranger looked away. His attention returned to his phone, expression blank once more—as if nothing had happened. As if Niloy had never said a thing.
The silence returned, but it was no longer empty. It sat between them, heavy and sharp-edged.
Niloy turned his face toward the dark window. He leaned back against the headrest, body relaxing only on the surface. The black glass reflected nothing—only his own faint outline, eyes wide open, expression unreadable.
He closed his eyes after a while.
As Niloy leaned back into the seat, the window a sheet of darkness beside him, his eyes slid shut—and the past came, quiet as breath, vivid as thunder.
—
A sliver of orange silk floated into the kitchen like sunlight slipping through a crack. Lata moved like memory itself—tall, composed, wrapped in the soft rustle of a well-worn saree. Her footsteps were not loud, yet they demanded attention. Her voice, however, when it broke the hush of morning, carried both the crisp edge of a mother and the lingering gentleness of someone who once loved poetry.
"Wake up..."
"Niloy..."
"Wake upppp..."
No answer.
She waited, arms folded, patience wearing thin. That boy—if dreaming were a contest, he would have brought home trophies. With practiced annoyance, she ascended the narrow stairs, their creak greeting her like old friends.
The door stood ajar. She stepped in.
The room was still, bathed in the gold of early morning. Niloy lay wrapped in cotton and sleep, limbs slack, the world outside forgotten. His lashes, long and dark, fanned across cheeks the color of warmed honey. His hair, unruly as always, spilled across the pillow like calligraphy undone.
Lata's lips twitched.
Still sleeping.
With a sharp flick, she pulled the curtains aside. The sun leapt in—bold and unforgiving, pouring over Niloy like a blessing too heavy to bear.
He groaned, burrowing deeper, lips twitching in resistance.
Her irritation broke. She stood there for a moment longer than necessary, watching the boy who was no longer quite a boy. She reached down, fingers combing gently through his hair.
"Wake up," she whispered. "Your English exam's waiting."
And like a spell, the fog of sleep lifted. Panic bloomed.
"What—?! Why didn't you wake me sooner?!"
The words, sharp and unthinking, landed hard.
Lata froze, lips parted. But Niloy was already gone—down the stairs, out the gate, the sound of his steps trailing behind like accusation.
—
The streets of Magura bustled with morning chaos. Niloy's bicycle weaved through it all: rickshaws, shouts, the smell of frying lentils and cheap incense. His smile, when it came, was weak—performative. To every passerby who asked after him, he offered kindness like a currency. Inside, his heart was leaden.
A slow herd of cows brought him to a stop. He gazed toward the distant silhouette of Govt. Huseyn Shaheed Suhrawardy College, unmoved by its familiar grandeur.
His stomach growled.
Fifteen taka exchanged hands for bread and bananas. He ate quickly, shame mixed with hunger.
—
In the exam hall, time thickened.
The paper stared back at him. His pen twitched, paused, and fell still. He wasn't dull—not by far—but some part of him refused to move. Not resistance. Not fear. Just—emptiness.
Around him, the sounds of struggle filled the air. Scratching pens, soft coughs, rustling desperation. Some cheated. Some prayed. Niloy simply sat, unmoving.
Professor Ahmed approached like an omen. No words wasted. He snatched the paper.
"Leave."
Niloy stood. He did not argue. The word had already echoed within him long before it was spoken aloud.
"I'm sorry," he murmured, voice hollow.
—
The garden outside was in bloom—roses blushing, hibiscus swaying like dancers in red silk. But to Niloy, they may as well have been ghosts. He walked through them, untouched.
He had everything. A home, a mother, warmth, education.
So why did it feel like he was missing?
By 4:30 p.m., he sat beside the Nabaganga River. Children played nearby. Women fetched water, bare feet whispering against stone. The river murmured to him in a language older than grief.
He sighed.
"I should be fine. So why am I not?"
A football slammed into his side. "Ouch!"
"Sorry, brother!" called out a child.
Niloy waved him off with a smile—real, if brief.
—
That night, back in his room, his phone cast a blue glow across his face. He scrolled without aim, the digital tide pulling him under.
And then—something new.
Two men.
Kissing.
He blinked. Sat up. "Why are they kissing?"
But the question lacked judgement. Only wonder.
"...They're beautiful," he whispered. "And magnetic."
He searched. Fingers trembled.
"TharnType. Thai BL."
He whispered the words aloud like sacred text. Then smiled.
—
Night wore on. The world slept. Niloy did not.
Blanket drawn to his chin, his eyes devoured episode after episode. TharnType's stolen glances, their hesitation, their fire—it lit something in him.
When the final frame faded to black, silence crashed down. But within him, a tiny spark had caught.
"I want that."
"I want to be a BL actor."
From that moment on, Niloy changed.
Others passed time idly. He studied Thai. He learned to listen between the syllables. Within a month, subtitles became unnecessary. The language no longer felt foreign. It felt like home.
—
After his exams ended, he found himself lying on the rooftop under an open sky.
A voice began to sing.
"Letter of Dream."
Each verse floated through his heart like silk soaked in rainwater. He didn't just hear it. He felt it.
***[Song 1] Letter of Dream
(Verse 1)
In the stillness of the night, my dreams take flight,
But they never let me rest, they burn so bright.
I take a sneak peek, searching for my path,
Through the shadows of doubt, I feel the aftermath.
(Chorus)
Yet I'll work hard, despite the pain I feel,
Listening to my heart's silent appeal.
Let's join hands, let our dreams intertwine,
Together we'll reach that pinnacle divine.
(Verse 2)
In the depths of struggle, where tears may flow,
Love and motivation, in our hearts, they'll grow.
We'll climb the mountain, each step with care,
Until we meet at the summit, our dreams are to share.***
He scrambled for the name. Found none.
Still, he downloaded it. Memorized it.
The melody clung to him like fate.
—
"Babu..."
Sonali's voice. She approached with a glass of milk. The moon caught on the yellow of her salwar, turning her soft and golden.
"Ma said to drink the whole thing," she teased.
Niloy took it absently.
"...Didi," he asked, hesitating. "What do you think of homosexuality?"
She stilled.
"Why?"
"No reason. I was just curious."
Her gaze lingered, quiet. "Just be careful. The world isn't always soft to questions like that."
He glanced up. "And you? Have you ever... wondered?"
A pause. Her smile faded. "I don't know."
Then she was gone.
—
Niloy applied to the Thai embassy. Again. And again.
The answers came like falling stones.
Too young. Too soon.
He painted to keep from breaking. His brush became his voice. Fields, skies, markets—he brought Bangladesh to canvas, not because he wanted to stay, but because he needed to carry it with him.
"Babu," his mother called. "Fetch a kilo of carrots. I'll make halwa."
He sighed. "I'm painting."
"I'm cooking. We're both creating."
"...You win."
"You get that from me."
—
Twilight bled over the sky as Niloy returned from the market.
Then—noise.
A helicopter, whirring like a heart beating too fast. Crates being loaded with urgency.
"Where's it going?" he asked a worker.
"Chiang Mai."
The world stilled.
Thailand.
The name trembled in his chest.
He looked at the carrots. Then at the sky.
The voice came again—neither cruel nor kind.
"Go."
"Your path waits."
He swallowed.
"How...?"
"You can."
The carrots slipped from his grasp.
Without thinking, he slipped between crates, folded himself in shadows. The world narrowed. Then vanished.
—
When he woke, the air was different. The hum of blades gone. The silence louder.
He stepped out.
The city ahead glimmered, veiled in night mist.
Bangkok? Chiang Mai? He didn't know.
Rain began to fall. Thunder cracked the sky wide open.