Echoes of the parallel

III. Between worlds

The days that followed were a blur of writing and anticipation. I'm already drawn to my desk, my fingers flying across the keyboard, fueled by the memory of the dance and the lingering magic of Thanakrit's presence. I poured my experiences into my writing, weaving a tapestry of words that captured the wonder and the strangeness of our encounters.

I decided to share my work with Professor Saeng, the professor who had helped me during my entrance examination. Saeng was a kind and encouraging soul, a beacon of support in my lonely journey. He had a reputation for nurturing young talent, and I felt a deep trust in his judgment.

I nervously handed to Prof. Saeng a neatly printed copy of my latest story. Prof Saeng read it with a thoughtful expression, his brow furrowed in concentration. When he finished, he looked up at me, his eyes filled with admiration; I hope he is impressed with my work.

"Niran," he said, his voice warm and sincere, "This is truly remarkable. You have a gift, a unique voice. This story is unlike anything I've ever read."

My heart swelled with a mixture of pride and disbelief. I always loved writing, but I never imagined my words could be considered truly special. Prof Saeng's praise was a validation, a confirmation that his experiences, however strange, had given him something valuable.

"I believe in you, Niran," Saeng continued. "You have the potential to be a great writer. I want to help you get published. I know some editors who might be interested in your work."

I was overwhelmed with gratitude. I had never considered publishing my work before, but Saeng's belief in my work ignited a spark of ambition. I realized that my experiences with Thanakrit, as strange as we were, had given me a gift - a voice that was both powerful and original.

I couldn't wait to share this news with my friend Thanakrit. I had been thinking about him constantly, wondering if I would ever see him again. The thought of sharing my writing with Thanakrit, revealing my deepest thoughts and feelings, filled me with a mixture of excitement and nervousness.

Later that evening, as the sun began to set, I found myself drawn in my room's old mirror. I had always avoided it, finding the reflection unsettling, but something compelled me to look.

"Why I don't have reflection now? Am I dead?" I asked.

And there, I see Sanskrit standing behind me in the mirror as my reflection. Not a shadow, but a real, tangible presence. He was as beautiful as I imagined, his eyes sparkling with a gentle light. A wave of emotions washed over me.

"Thanakrit," I whispered, my voice trembling with disbelief.

Thanakrit smiled a warm and welcoming smile that seemed to light up the room. "Hello, Niran," he said, his voice as soft and melodious as I remembered.

"You're not a shadow anymore!" I said in shock.

"No! You are the one who is not a shadow anymore." Thanakrit response.

I felt a surge of joy, a feeling of belonging that I had never experienced before. I knew, with a certainty that defied logic, that this was just the beginning of our story, a story that was just starting to unfold.