Phana had always thought he had Ming figured out. In his mind, Ming was the definition of predictability—stoic, serious, and always composed. It was as though Ming operated on a script of perfection, never stepping out of line, never doing anything remotely spontaneous. But all that changed one quiet afternoon when Phana stumbled upon a side of Ming he never expected to see.
Phana had been out running errands and decided to stop by his favorite bookstore. It was a cozy little place tucked away in a quiet corner of the city, with warm lighting, shelves packed with books of every genre, and a faint smell of coffee lingering in the air from the cafe next door. It was his sanctuary on stressful days. Today, however, he wasn't expecting to see anyone familiar, let alone Ming.
As he rounded a corner in the poetry section, there Ming was—sitting cross-legged on the floor, completely absorbed in a book. The sight stopped Phana in his tracks. Ming, the same Ming who always looked like he belonged in a boardroom, was sitting on the ground in jeans and a sweater, his usually immaculate hair slightly mussed. His head was bowed, his fingers gently turning the pages of a slim, leather-bound volume.
Phana leaned against the bookshelf, folding his arms with a smirk. "Well, well, well. Who knew the mighty Ming has a poetic side?"
Ming didn't startle. He looked up slowly, his dark eyes meeting Phana's with the calm, measured gaze that always unnerved him. "And who knew you spent your free time sneaking around bookstores like a nosy teenager?"
The comeback made Phana laugh. "Touche. But seriously, poetry? I thought you were more of a 'finance textbook and instruction manual kind of guy."
Ming closed the book with a deliberate motion and placed it gently on his lap. "That's because you're too busy talking to notice anything else."
Phana feigned offense, clutching his chest dramatically. "Are you saying I'm not observant? I'll have you know I notice everything."
"Really?" Ming asked, tilting his head slightly. "Then why do you look so surprised right now?"
Phana blinked, caught off guard. Ming's tone wasn't mocking, but there was an edge to it, a quiet confidence that made Phana feel unexpectedly self-conscious. He covered it up with a teasing grin, plopping down on the floor beside him.
"So," he said, nodding toward the book, "what's the appeal? Dark, brooding poetry to match your mysterious vibe?"
Ming's lips twitched slightly, the closest thing to a smile. "Beauty. Timeless, thoughtful, and not overly dramatic. Unlike some people."
Phana gasped in mock outrage. "Excuse me, are you calling me dramatic?"
"If the shoe fits," Ming replied, returning his attention to the book.
For a moment, Phana simply watched him. There was something almost mesmerizing about the way Ming was so... still. Phana was used to chaos—his own, and the kind he stirred up in others—but Ming operated on an entirely different wavelength. He was calm, deliberate, and, as much as Phana hated to admit it, deeply intriguing.
"Okay," Phana said after a long pause. "I'll bite. Why poetry? What's so special about it?"
Ming looked up again, this time holding Phana's gaze a little longer. "Poetry isn't about the words themselves," he said quietly. "It's about what's left unsaid. The spaces between the lines."
Phana stared at him, momentarily speechless. Ming's voice was steady, but there was something in his eyes—a depth, a quiet vulnerability—that Phana had never noticed before.
"You're full of surprises," Phana said softly, his usual bravado fading.
"And you," Ming replied, closing the book and standing up, "assume too much."
He walked past Phana, leaving him sitting on the floor, staring after him. For the first time, Phana realized just how little he actually knew about Ming—and how much he wanted to learn.
