The scent of eucalyptus drifted through the open window as Bang Chan tossed your shared suitcase onto his childhood bed, the worn plaid sheets crinkling beneath it. “This is where awkward teenage me stayed,” he grinned, his voice playful, a touch embarrassed, eyes gleaming with affection.

You traced your fingers along the desk cluttered with old lyric notebooks and faded polaroids of teenage Chan with sun-bleached hair and crooked smiles. “This is where you wrote your first song, isn’t it?” you murmured, settling into the nostalgia-soaked room.

“Yeah,” he chuckled, wrapping his arms around you from behind, “I wrote a whole album about heartbreak here before I even knew what love was… then you came along and made it all make sense, huh?”

Outside, the magpies sang. Inside, the air was thick with summer heat.