Sorry, What? / ขอโทษนะ / Pakiulit
"Sometimes, the best conversations start with 'Sorry, what?'"
— Ryan Lopez
The bell rang for the last class of the day, and Ryan stood at the front of the classroom, wiping his hands with a slightly damp handkerchief. The ceiling fan above buzzed weakly, struggling against the Bangkok heat. Students shuffled out, laughing and chatting in Thai, their energy still somehow full even after a long day of lessons.
"Thank you, kru Ryan!" one of his students shouted as he and a friend bowed quickly before running down the hallway.
That word again, "kru." Teacher. It had become one of Ryan's favorite Thai words. Short. Respectful. Comforting.
He lingered in the empty classroom for a moment, staring at the chalkboard doodles and leftover notes. A drawing of the Philippine flag was scribbled next to a clumsy heart. Someone had written "Sawatdee!" in English letters under it. He smiled.
Ms. Patcha peeked in through the open door. Her messy ponytail swayed as she stepped inside, holding two plastic cups of cold jelly dessert.
"Survived another day?" she teased.
"Barely," Ryan chuckled, accepting the cup. "My jokes still don't land. Either they don't get it, or they think I'm serious."
"Don't worry," she said, settling beside his desk. "Thais laugh with their eyes more than their mouths. If they look at you for more than five seconds, it's a compliment."
Ryan took a sip of the dessert and nodded. "It's just... some days I feel like I'm not here, you know? Like I'm floating through all these smiles and wai bows, but not connecting."
Patcha patted his shoulder gently. "Talk to them more. You don't need perfect Thai. Just heart. We understand the heart."
The school lights dimmed as the janitor made his rounds. Ryan packed up, the classroom fading into quiet.
Later that evening, Ryan found himself again in the cool, quiet haven of 7/11. The store's neon lights cast a calm glow, and the soft hum of the fridge was oddly soothing. Mongkhon was there, restocking snacks and adjusting a shelf of instant noodles. He had a tiny bandage on his finger and a faint ink smudge near his jaw. Ryan smiled.
"S̄wạs̄dī kráp," Ryan greeted, his accent still clumsy.
"S̄wạs̄dī," Mongkhon replied with a polite nod.
"Chá nom?" Ryan asked, pointing toward the milk tea machine.
Without a word, Mongkhon got to work, his movements fluid and quiet. Ryan watched him, then took out his phone and typed something into Google Translate. He turned the screen around:
"How was your day?"
Mongkhon read it, then held up a thumbs-up and raised an eyebrow in return. And you?
Ryan chuckled. "Kids were great. I just... tried explaining sarcasm to teenagers in my broken Thai."
Mongkhon didn't quite catch the word but laughed anyway. The connection was there, imperfect, but real.
As Ryan sipped his tea, the door chimed behind him and a delivery driver entered, greeting Mongkhon with loud, teasing Thai. Mongkhon replied with a grin and a few fast-paced phrases, before glancing at Ryan and giving a wink, as if saying, "See? I can talk too fast, too."
Later that night, in a small apartment nestled in a quiet soi, Mongkhon sat on a woven mat beside his grandmother, who watched a lakorn drama while fanning herself slowly. A soft electric fan hummed, and outside, a dog barked in the distance.
Mongkhon scrolled through his phone, tapping into Ryan's Facebook profile. There were pictures of food, students, and handwritten lesson plans. One photo showed Ryan posing with his class, grinning beneath a row of Thai flags.
"Khon níi yàang-ngai?" his grandmother asked, her voice crackly with age.
"Khru farang," Mongkhon replied with a half-smile. Foreign teacher.
"Nà-rák," she said simply. Cute.
Mongkhon smiled without looking up, cheeks warming slightly. He tapped on Ryan's recent post and paused. There were phrases in English, little Tagalog expressions he didn't understand, but somehow the mood translated: humor, warmth, sincerity.
Quietly, he said to himself, "Sorry... what?" and chuckled.
Back at 7/11 the next evening, Ryan approached the counter and Mongkhon handed him his tea—this time with a small folded note. Curious, Ryan unfolded it.
On it, written in three different scripts, were the words:
Sorry, what?
ขอโทษนะ
Pakiulit
Underneath, Mongkhon had doodled two cartoon figures: one with messy teacher hair, the other in a green apron, both holding phones with translation bubbles above their heads.
Ryan laughed, genuinely and loudly. He folded the note carefully and slid it into his wallet. "I'm keeping this," he said.
Outside, the sky hung low with clouds, and the city throbbed with distant motorbike engines and honking horns. Inside the convenience store, a connection was forming, bit by bit, word by word, between two people who barely shared a language but somehow shared something deeper.