Scripted For Us

Under The Banyan Tree

Yet, this didn't last for long. Napha, too, noticed something strange about Anurak, it was a small thing—so small that he convinced himself it was nothing.

They were sitting by the riverbank one evening. The sky was painted in soft shades of orange and pink. Napha was shaping a block of wood with his chisel, the faint scrape of the tool blending with the rustling of leaves and the chirping of insects. Anurak sat beside him, quiet as always, watching.

It wasn't unusual for Anurak to watch him work. Napha had always found it endearing—the way Anurak's gaze lingered on his hands, his lips curling into the faintest smile whenever Napha looked up and caught him staring.

But that evening, when Napha shifted slightly to stretch his back, he felt Anurak's gaze follow him closely. It wasn't just watching anymore; it was something more focused, more deliberate. There was a quiet intensity in the way Anurak's eyes tracked his movement, as if taking in every detail with a possessiveness that lingered in the air. It wasn't overwhelming, but it felt like an unspoken claim, a subtle pressure that made Napha's movements feel a little more careful, a little more aware of the space between them.

"Are you okay?" Napha asked, forcing a lightness into his tone.

Anurak blinked, his expression softening, as if he hadn't realized he had been staring. "Of course," he said, his voice as smooth as the river's flow. "I'm just glad you've returned."

Napha found Anurak's choice of words strange, but he didn't think much of it at the time.

The second time Napha felt something was off, it wasn't as easy to brush aside.

It happened late one evening in the temple where he was working. The air was thick with the scent of paint and oil as Napha focused on fixing Phra Mae Thorani's giant statue. He was in the final stages of perfecting the intricate details of her flowing hair when a soft voice broke the silence.

"Are you still working at this hour?"

Napha turned, startled, to see Anurak standing near the top of the stairs, having just reached the landing where Napha was working. His silhouette was backlit by the faint glow of the moon outside, his face partially veiled in shadows.

"Why did you suddenly show up here?" It was unusual for Anurak to appear so far from the banyan tree, but today seemed to be an exception.

"You're always working, Pha. You hardly have time for anything else. For anyone else." Anurak said as he stepped closer. His movements were slow and deliberate, like a predator stalking prey.

"Because it's important," Napha said, setting down his brush. "I need to finish it before the full moon. The village elder said—"

"The village elder says a lot of things," Anurak interrupted.

There was a sharp edge to his tone, barely concealed, but Napha masked his discomfort with a forced smile. He turned back to his workbench, uncomfortable under Anurak's gaze. He picked up the brush again, but his hands felt unsteady. "You don't have to wait for me," he said gently. "It's late. You should rest."

Anurak didn't move. Instead, he stepped closer, his presence looming behind Napha. "I don't mind waiting," he said softly, his breath brushing against Napha's neck. "But do you have to rush? You're always so eager to finish. What if you slowed down?"

Napha frowned, glancing over his shoulder. "What do you mean?"

Anurak's smile widened, but there was something unsettling in it. "What's the harm in taking your time? If you finish too quickly, you'll leave. And then what?"

Napha froze, his pulse quickening. "Rak, I still have more to do for the project. I will be here for a while longer."

Anurak's expression darkened, though his voice remained eerily calm. "Will you? Or will you find another reason to leave? Another excuse to run away from me?"

"Run away?" Napha repeated, confused. "What are you talking about?"

Anurak didn't answer right away. He reached out, his fingers hovering over the still-wet statue. "You're always trying to finish things," he murmured. "Always moving forward, always looking ahead. But what about us, Pha? Why can't you just stay?"

The air suddenly felt suffocating, as if there was no distance between them. Napha stepped back, creating space, but Anurak caught his hand, stopping him from moving away.

"Rak, you're scaring me," Napha whispered, his voice barely audible.

Anurak's grip was firm, but his eyes softened, and yet that only made the moment more chilling. "I don't mean to scare you," he said, his voice low and tender. "I just don't want to lose you. You're the only thing keeping me here. If I let go, Pha, everything falls apart. Don't make me let go."

Napha struggled to free himself. Anurak's hold was unyielding—crushing, leaving no room for him to breathe.

The days that followed were even more suffocating. Anurak began to show up everywhere—not just in the physical sense, but in the way his life seemed to bend around him.

One day, Napha was finally unable to take Anurak's possessive behavior any longer. He decided to go to the village elder in desperation. However, the elder said nothing and only gave him an old journal.

Napha then took it to his room to read. His fingers trembled as he turned the pages of the leather-bound journal. The room was dimly lit by the faint glow of an oil lamp, and the air carried the scent of aged paper and damp wood. The journal entries were written in neat penmanship, though the ink had faded, with the words whispering secrets from decades past.

After reading for a while, his eyes landed on an entry dated 90 years ago. The words were hurried, as though the writer had been in a frenzy to capture the memory before it faded.

Recently, the banyan tree by the river has grown even more unnaturally. No matter how many storms pass, it stands untouched, its roots digging deeper into the earth. They say it's cursed, but I know the truth. It's because the spirit of a young man dwells within it—a young man who died before his time.

Napha's breath hitched as he read further.

The young man had once loved an honored guest to the village. Anurak, just like his name, was meant to protect the land, to remain pure and impartial. But his emotions led him to abandon his duty. Tragedies began to unfold one after another, and the people could no longer bear the suffering. The elder pleaded with Anurak to release his feelings, but he refused. Though he returned to his duty, it wasn't enough. And then... we did something terrible.

We hid his lover, forcing him to disappear from Anurak's life. Then, we performed a ritual to purify Anurak's soul, but it went wrong. The entire village was consumed by flames, and most perished in the fire. As for Anurak, he was bound to the tree forever. His soul could not leave, and his body could not age. He lives, but he is not alive.

He remained, always waiting—waiting for his lover to return. Little did he know that the man he loved had died in that fire as well.

The words blurred as tears welled in Napha's eyes. His mind raced, piecing together the fragments of what he knew. The villagers' behavior around the tree and Anurak, Anurak's strange presence, his unwillingness to let Napha leave, and his obsessive need to keep Napha close—it all pointed back to the banyan tree.

He thought of the times they'd sat together beneath its sprawling canopy, Anurak's voice soft as he spoke of dreams and promises. Napha had always found the tree comforting, its roots wrapping around the earth like a protective embrace. But now, he realized, it was a prison—a living tomb for the young man who could not let go.