Before Bangkok’s chaos kicks in, I’m sitting with a bowl of noodles by this motorbike shop, glasses steamed up, and Somchai acting like my “lens hood drama” isn’t the world’s biggest deal (spoiler: it totally is). Nuan’s curled up against my shin like some furry little therapist. Three months here and some mornings my chest still tightens missing Mom’s ghormeh sabzi and the hum of Farsi in her kitchen. But today, with broth smelled thick in the air and laughter bouncing off the alley walls, it felt softer. Not gone. Just... quieter.

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