The next morning, the world felt like someone had taken his life, shaken it hard, and put it back slightly misaligned.
The coffee shop on the corner was out of his usual roast. The busker under the BTS played a song that Niran was almost sure hadn't been released yet. A kid dropped an ice cream, and for a split second, the splatter on the pavement looked like a white rectangle, perfectly sharp-edged.
Like a door laid flat.
He blinked, and it was just melted ice cream again.
By the time he pushed open the glass doors of Sawasdee Realty, his nerves were humming like a live wire.
"Morning," he said automatically.
"Wow," Sara said, peeking around her monitor. "You look like that door definitely did not lead to Narnia."
"I'm starting to take these as personal attacks," Niran said, dropping his bag onto his chair.
"They're concerned attacks," she said. "It's different."
King rolled his chair over with his usual lack of boundaries. "Scale of one to exorcism, how bad were the dreams?"
"Same door," Niran said. "Same light."
"Any sexy ghosts yet?" King grinned.
"No," Niran said, too quickly.
"You hesitated," Bua called from his desk. "We all heard it."
Before he could dig himself deeper, Kannika emerged from her office, tablet in hand and expression sharp enough to cut glass.
"Morning," she said. The team chorus'd back at her, and work mode rippled through the room like a switch being flipped.
A little later, she called him into the glass-walled meeting room.
"Your numbers last quarter were outstanding," she began, and Niran almost relaxed—until she continued, "But the last couple of weeks, you've been slipping."
He swallowed. "I know. I'm sorry."
"I don't need sorry. I need you to be functional." Her gaze softened just a hair. "You said you haven't been sleeping, right?"
"Yeah. Nightmares. Weird dreams." Saying it out loud made it feel flimsy, small.
"You know HR covers counseling?" Kannika said. "You don't get a bonus for suffering in silence."
Niran attempted a smile. "I'll think about it."
"Don't just think," she said. "If it gets worse, talk to someone. You're allowed to need help, Khun Prachaya. Even you."
He left the room feeling both seen and exposed.
By lunch, the office felt too bright. The fluorescent lights hissed; the white of his screen glared. Every line of his email threads blurred into pale noise. The edges of his vision fuzzed, as if the world was being erased from the outside in.
"I'm going to the bathroom," he told Sara when she asked if he wanted to order food.
He walked past the bathroom.
He kept walking.
—
The sign hit him first.
Arthit Mental Health Center.
Plain building. Tinted glass. Automatic doors breathing open and shut. People coming and going: some in street clothes, some in scrubs, some leaning heavily on the arms of others.
He almost turned around.
Almost.
Then the doors slid open as if on cue, and the rush of cool air washed over him like a hand to the face.
Inside, the lobby was beige chairs and soft announcements. A TV in the corner played something about coping with anxiety. A few people waited, some looking around, some staring into space.
Niran hesitated at the entrance.
A receptionist looked up. "Hello! Do you have an appointment?"
"No," he said. "I-I've been having trouble sleeping. Weird dreams. I just wanted to… talk to someone?" The last part came out like a question.
She didn't laugh. "You're not the first," she said kindly. "We can do a screening with one of our support staff, if you'd like. Just to see what might help."
"Okay," he said, a little too quickly.
She gave him a clipboard. Name. Age. Number. Under What brings you here today?, he wrote: Can't sleep. Strange dreams. Feel disconnected.
He was still staring at the form when he heard it:
"Khun Suradech?"
The voice was calm. Warm. Familiar in the same way a song becomes familiar on the second listen.
He looked up.
It was the man from yesterday. Light blue polo with the center's logo, ID badge on a lanyard. Close-cropped hair. A mole near his left eye. His face tugged at something deep inside Niran—recognition without memory.
The badge read:
Yutthana "Mile" Pratchaya
Mental Health Support Technician.
Not a doctor. Not a nurse.
Just staff.
Somehow, that made him more human. More reachable.
"You filled out the screening form?" Mile asked. His voice fit his face—gentle, measured.
"Yeah," Niran said, and his tongue felt clumsy.
"I'm one of the mental health support techs here," Mile said. "We do basic assessments, check-ins, that sort of thing. If you're comfortable, we can talk in one of the consultation rooms."
"Okay," Niran said.
Mile smiled. It was small but real. "Come with me."
–
The consultation room was plain but not unfriendly: off-white walls, a small table, two chairs, a tissue box, and a clock ticking too loudly.
"Please, have a seat," Mile said, closing the door with a soft click.
Niran sat. His legs felt strangely hollow.
Mile took the opposite chair and set the clipboard on the table. "So," he said. "You wrote that you're having trouble sleeping, with strange dreams, and you've been feeling disconnected. Tell me about the dreams first? Whatever you're willing to share."
Niran stared at his hands. "I keep seeing… a door."
"In your dreams?"
"Yeah. Just… floating in nothing. Black, all around. There's a window. It's too bright. Someone keeps saying my name."
"Your full name?" Mile asked. "Or just Niran?"
"Khun Suradech," he said, and hearing it out loud made his skin crawl.
Mile nodded, like this was a puzzle piece that mattered. "How often do you see it?"
"Almost every night lately."
"How do you feel in the dream?" Mile's tone was gentle, clinical without being cold. "Afraid? Curious?"
Niran searched for words. "Like… something's waiting on the other side. Something I'm supposed to find."
Mile scribbled something. "Do you ever feel… not fully present during the day?" he asked, gaze lifting to meet Niran's. "Like things are foggy, or like you're watching yourself from outside?"
"All the time," Niran said before he thought better of it. "Especially recently."
"Do you hear or see things that other people don't react to?" Mile asked. "Voices, flashes of light, shadows?"
Niran thought of ice cream doors, songs from the future, the office lights turning white.
"Maybe," he said. "Sometimes. I keep telling myself I'm just tired."
Mile's expression stayed neutral, but his eyes softened. "Being tired can make all of that worse," he said. "But it's worth paying attention to. Your brain is trying to tell you something."
"Like what?" Niran asked.
Mile tilted his head slightly. "We don't know yet," he said. "That's what we'd figure out if you did a full evaluation with one of the doctors. But for now, I want to understand how this feels for you."
The way he said I want to understand did something strange to Niran's chest.
"When you came in today," Mile said, "did you feel more afraid… or relieved?"
"Relieved," Niran admitted quietly. "I don't… want to deal with this alone."
"You're not alone right now," Mile said. "I'm here with you. That's already different from before."
The words wrapped around Niran like a blanket.
At some point, while talking about his work and how he kept zoning out at his desk, something in the room shifted.
The clock's ticking faded.
The air grew warmer.
Niran's head swam; a wave of dizziness rolled through him.
"Niran?" Mile's voice sharpened. "You look pale. Are you okay?"
"I—" The room tilted. "I feel… weird."
"Okay," Mile said. "Let's move somewhere more open."
There was the feeling of standing, of walking, of doors opening. The sensory details smeared together.
When things came back into focus, Niran found himself sitting at a small round table.
The lighting was softer. Warmer. Mellow music drifted in from somewhere. A cup of coffee steamed in front of him — dark, rich, fragrant. He didn't remember ordering it.
Across from him, Mile sat with his own cup between his hands, sleeves rolled up, forearms resting casually on the table.
"You okay now?" he asked.
"Where…?" Niran looked around. Potted plants. A counter in the distance. People sitting with drinks, chatting quietly. "Did we… go to a café?"
"We just came down to the lobby's café corner," Mile said. "I thought sitting with something warm might ground you. You were getting dizzy."
"That's…" Niran swallowed. "That's really nice of you."
"I like you upright and conscious," Mile said lightly. "Makes the conversation better."
Niran huffed a laugh. "Guess that's fair."
They sat there a while. The coffee warmed his hands, then his chest.
"What do you do again?" Mile asked. "You said real estate, right?"
"Yeah. Condos, townhouses, dreams of home-ownership I can't afford myself."
"Do you like it?"
"I like helping people find the right place," Niran said. "Watching them walk into a unit and know. That this is where they'll live their lives. It's… satisfying."
"You sound good at it," Mile said.
"Most days," Niran said. "Lately I feel like I'm watching myself fake it from ten feet away."
Mile's gaze went soft. "That sounds exhausting."
"It is," Niran said quietly.
For a moment, Mile just looked at him. Not in a clinical checklist way. Not the way clients do, sizing him up. Just… looking.
"You don't have to be 'on' all the time here," Mile said. "You can just… be tired. Or scared. Or confused. Or whatever."
It felt like a kindness so sharp it almost hurt.
"You talk like you've done this a lot," Niran said.
"I have," Mile replied. "Different people, different stories, same basic loneliness." He took a sip of his coffee. "My job is to make sure they don't feel alone while the doctors figure out what's going on."
"You're good at it," Niran said before he could stop himself.
Mile's cheeks warmed, almost imperceptibly. "I try."
Behind him, for the briefest moment, the café wall flickered — and Niran thought he saw a vending machine and a water dispenser where shelves of syrup bottles had been.
He blinked.
They were bottles again.
He said nothing.
—
When they finally headed back, Mile walked with him to the elevators.
"Are you going back to work after this?" Mile asked.
"I probably should," Niran said. "If I don't answer my emails, Kannika will manifest in my kitchen and kill me."
Mile smiled. "You can tell her you were taking care of your mental health. That's practically corporate-approved self-maintenance now."
"You can tell her," Niran said. "I'll hide behind you."
"Not sure that's how it works," Mile replied, amused.
The elevator doors slid open. They stepped inside. The doors closed, and the two of them were enclosed in a small metal box, alone.
Niran became hyperaware of everything at once — the hum of the elevator, the soft whir of the fan, the faint scent of soap on Mile's skin.
"You're tense," Mile observed.
"Claustrophobic," Niran lied.
"Is that new?" Mile asked.
"…No."
Mile shifted slightly closer. Their shoulders almost brushed.
"You can count with me, if you want," he said quietly. "Or name things you see. Sometimes structure helps when things feel unreal."
"I see… your shirt," Niran said. "Blue. Logo."
"Good," Mile said. "What else?"
"Buttons. Your ID badge." His gaze flicked to Mile's face. "You."
Mile's eyes met his. For a second, the elevator lights dimmed, softening, turning almost golden.
"If you feel like you're slipping away, look at me," Mile said. "Just me. Stay with me."
The words hit him like a physical touch.
He wanted to ask, Is that just your job too?
But he didn't dare.
The elevator chimed. The doors opened.
For a heartbeat, there were no floor numbers outside. Just a white corridor stretching forever.
Then Niran blinked, and the signage snapped back.
Mile stepped out beside him, as if nothing had happened.
–
Back at the front desk, they booked a complete evaluation with one of the center's doctors. Tuesday, 10 a.m.
"Do you have people you can talk to before then?" Mile asked, walking him toward the exit. "Friends? Family?"
"I have friends," Niran said. "They make stupid jokes and bring snacks."
"That sounds like good medicine," Mile said.
"Is that your professional opinion?" Niran asked.
"My professional opinion is that support matters," Mile said. "And that coming here was a good step."
Niran hesitated. "Will I… see you again? Or was this like, a one-time screening with the staff guy I'll never see again?"
Mile paused for just a moment, then smiled faintly. "I work here most days," he said. "If you're around, I'll probably be around."
Probably.
It was nothing.
It was everything.
That night, in the dark behind his eyelids, the door appeared immediately.
The light behind the window glowed softer. A shape moved, and this time it was unmistakable.
Mile's silhouette stood behind the glass. Head tilted like he was listening. Hand lifting like he was reaching out.
"Khun Suradech," the voice said. No echo now. Close.
Niran stepped closer, heart trying to pound its way out of his chest.
"Mile," he whispered. "I found you."
The silhouette's palm pressed to the inside of the glowing square.
Without thinking, Niran raised his own hand and laid it against the white.
His skin met no heat, no texture. But the pressure felt real. Their fingers aligned perfectly, shadow and flesh.
"Don't leave me," the silhouette murmured.
It sounded like a plea.
It felt like a promise.
"I won't," Niran said.
The white light pulsed once, twice—
—and swallowed him whole.