The alarm went off at 06:50.

Phum had set it the night before — Sunday, 22:40 — a time he hadn't gone to bed since high school, before he knew what a merge conflict was, before he knew what an energy drink was.

The sound was unfamiliar. His old alarm was the default chime of the system, set to eleven, used for five years until his ear couldn't tell the difference between an alarm and a Slack notification. The new one was a siren — louder, faster, designed to wake.

Phum opened his eyes.

The light in the room wasn't darkness, but it wasn't bright either — a grey light that leaked through the thin curtains of his On Nut condo, in silver lines on the floor, in faint streaks across the ceiling. A light he had never seen — not because it had never been there, but because he had never been in this room at this hour.

His hand fumbled for the alarm — silenced it — and then he did what he had planned the night before.

Got up.

Not snooze. Not five more minutes. Up.

Because the night before he had moved his phone to the table in the middle of the room, not beside the bed — so that to silence it he would have to stand.

It worked.

He stood in the centre of the room, bare feet on the cold laminate floor, vaguely annoyed at himself for regretting the lost sleep, and then vaguely annoyed at the regret itself.

He walked to the kitchen, opened the fridge. Cold water bottle. Three swallows.

This was the first thing to enter his mouth today.

Not coffee. Not energy drink. Those two had been thrown out Saturday night.

The room had no leftover smell of instant noodles — he'd taken out the trash that morning too. There was only the air conditioning that had run all night, and the faint old shampoo smell of his blanket.

Phum stood ten seconds in front of the fridge, looking into a space that was almost empty — eggs, a water bottle, the carton of orange juice he had brought home from the office last week.

Then he thought something he wouldn't call a thought — it was just an image — an image of the bathroom mirror, of himself looking at himself.

He walked to the bathroom.

Brushed his teeth — the first morning brush before nine in months.

Washed his face. Cold water.

Looked in the mirror.

Two dark circles under his eyes, hair messy on the right side, the small stubble around his mouth he had forgotten to shave for four days, the old t-shirt he wore to bed — a 2019 Hackathon shirt with "DEPLOY OR DIE" peeling across the back in faded white.

Phum stood in front of the mirror for a minute — long enough to know he was standing long.

And then he saw something he had never seen — not on his face — in his eyes. His eyes in the mirror, in this morning light, looked brighter.

Not freshness. Not happiness.

Awake.

Phum showered — five seconds of cold first because the heater hadn't caught up. He didn't complain.

Changed his clothes.

Combed his hair. Actually combed it. The first time in months he did something that made other people see that he was looking after himself.

Eight-ten.

Phum left the condo wearing a grey hoodie, black sweatpants, and the sneakers he had bought last year and worn exactly four times — three of which were trips to 7-Eleven at two in the morning.

On Nut at this hour was a different On Nut.

Eight motorbike taxis at the mouth of the soi — lined up in orange — three drivers sitting drinking hot coffee from paper cups, talking about last night's Premier League match.

The auntie selling sticky rice and grilled pork at the front of the soi — five customers in line — a man in a security uniform, a woman in office clothes.

Phum walked past, feeling like a tourist in a city he had lived in for six years.

The BTS at On Nut going into town. Crowded. He hadn't ridden the BTS at this hour in five years because at this hour he was asleep.

In the carriage — people on their phones, the woman in front of him listening to music leaking out of her earbuds, K-pop he couldn't name. Someone in a tuxedo in the morning. *Going to a wedding? What kind of job?*

The smell of perfume, of shampoo, of coffee from a Starbucks cup held by the office girl beside him. Everyone in a hurry. Everyone with a rhythm. Everyone who knew where they were going.

Phum didn't know why he felt he should once have been one of them — a long time ago — in his first year at university, when he still woke up early for an 8 a.m. class, when coffee was just coffee and not a caffeine medication.

Eight-forty-two. Phum got off at Phra Khanong.

The Briskly office was in a co-working tower four minutes from the BTS — eight storeys, owned by a new Thai-German operator. The whole fifth floor was Briskly's.

Eight-forty-eight. He tapped his card at the door.

In the lift, he was alone.

He normally entered the office at 10:30 or 11:00 — flexible hours. The lift at that time would be loud with greetings, notifications, conversations about lunch.

At 8:48 the lift was silent.

He pressed 5. The lift rose. The mirror inside reflected him — hoodie, sweatpants, sneakers.

He didn't look like someone going to the office.

He looked like someone going to the gym.

Because he was.

On the fifth floor the company was split into two zones — the work zone with desks, the kitchen, the meeting rooms — and the smaller wellness zone, included to comply with the "employees must have a space to care for their health" line that CEO Sam had put in a LinkedIn post the year before.

That wellness room — Phum walked past it almost every day — but had never entered.

It was about four by six metres, mirrored on one wall, three yoga mats, dumbbells in 3, 5, and 8-kilo pairs, one punching bag, and a tall window facing Phra Khanong.

Phum walked toward it.

But ten metres before the door — he saw, in the mirror of the wall —

Someone was already inside.

Phum stopped for three seconds.

Then walked on.

At the glass door, Baitoey was on a mat — in downward dog — her face calm, her breathing slow, her hair gathered in a loose bun at the nape of her neck — black sportswear, grey yoga pants — bare feet.

Morning light from the large window onto Phra Khanong fell at an angle across her mat — the soft gold light of May, catching dust in the air, turning the dust into visible lines.

She didn't turn — she didn't hear his shoes because he was walking slowly — but Phum thought she would probably catch the new smell of someone entering.

Phum stood at the door.

Three options in his head.

One — walk back. Wait for her to finish. Come later.

Two — go to the kitchen. Pretend he had come in early to work, not for the gym.

Three — go in.

He went in.

The glass door slid open silently — but in the room there was no sound except Baitoey's breathing — so the door was the loudest sound there had been.

Baitoey held downward dog. Did not move.

But in the mirror on the wall, her eyes lifted — saw him.

For one second only — then dropped back. Bowed back to the breath.

She saw him. He saw that she saw. Neither said anything.

Phum chose the mat furthest from her — opposite corner.

Rolled it out.

He didn't know what he was doing.

This was his first time in this room. He had never done yoga. He had never lifted a weight. He had never run. He had never done anything with his body that wasn't sitting in front of a screen.

He stood on the mat for thirty seconds, vaguely amused at himself — coming into a room without knowing what to do in it, in clothes that weren't gym clothes, at an hour he was supposed to be asleep.

But he stayed.

Phum did what he could do. Went down for push-ups.

First one, barely came up — hands at the wrong angle, elbows knocking against his ribs.

Second one, came up — but his body twisted to the right.

Third, his arms shook. Sweat dropped onto the mat.

Fourth, fifth — within minutes the muscles in his arms signalled stop.

Phum stopped. Sat down on the mat. Breathing heavily. His old, unused lungs complaining in a small whistle. In the mirror, he saw Baitoey change pose.

It was a pose whose name he didn't know — kneeling, forehead to the floor, arms stretched forward. She stayed there a long time.

Phum went on — sit-ups.

He counted in his head. One, two, three, four, five.

The sixth, his stomach hurt.

Stopped.

Sat breathing.

Looked at the mirror.

In the mirror — the image of himself, in the hoodie he usually wore at a desk, sitting on a yoga mat, breathing heavily, dark circles. Comically out of place.

But sharing the frame with Baitoey, who was on the other side of the room.

Both in the same room.

Not speaking.

Just there.

Baitoey changed pose again — this time lying on her back, knees up, hands on her stomach — she stayed there three minutes. Phum knew because he had started counting. He started counting because he didn't know what else to do. He didn't want to get up.

Then she got up.

Rolled up the mat. Put it in the corner. Re-tied her hair. Picked up her water bottle. Walked out.

Did not turn. Did not speak. Did not greet.

But at the door — she touched the door frame, briefly. A touch that might be nothing — a habit some people have when leaving a room — a way of keeping balance going from bare concrete onto carpet.

Or maybe not.

Phum thought about it for four seconds — then stopped thinking about it. Because thinking about it any longer would mean making it up.

Phum stayed on the mat another ten minutes — five more push-ups, three more sit-ups, the static stretches he remembered from middle school P.E.

9:35.

Phum rolled up the mat — put it back — walked out.

Baitoey wasn't in the office — probably in the shower, probably in the kitchen, probably somewhere.

He went to the office bathroom — washed his face — wet his hair — wiped it with paper.

In the bathroom mirror — his eyes were the same as before — same dark circles — but his face was flushed from the exertion.

He went to the kitchen — pressed the hot water dispenser — tea — because the doctor had said no coffee.

Two or three people were already in the kitchen. P'Neung. He looked at Phum and changed his expression.

"Phum — early?"

"Yes."

P'Neung looked at his clothes for two seconds — hoodie, sweatpants, sneakers — but did not ask.

"How are you doing? Saw on Saturday you went to the hospital."

Phum paused two seconds. He hadn't told anyone at the office about the ER — but on Slack P'Neung would have seen him offline until Saturday evening, and might have checked the location share that Phum had left enabled on his Briskly account — Smithivej Thonglor was clear enough.

"…stomach, P'Neung. It's nothing."

"Take care of yourself, Phum. Work doesn't go anywhere."

"Yes."

P'Neung smiled and walked out — but before leaving he turned and said one more line. "And — Royal Princess on Friday — really good, Phum."

Phum nodded. He wanted to say *I almost deployed the wrong fix at one in the morning* — but didn't.

P'Neung left.

Phum stood waiting for the tea — looking out the kitchen window onto the soi — the number 8 bus passed.

He sipped the tea. Hot. Not as good as coffee. Bitter in the way that doesn't wake you up.

But it was fine.

10:00.

Phum sat at his desk, opened his laptop — Slack pinged — work — a 10:30 meeting — everything beginning.

But before he opened Jira he did one thing.

Opened the Notes app on his phone — created a new page — gave it a title.

*Trying.*

Then typed the first line.

"Monday — 7:55 — office gym — push-up 5+5 sit-up 5+3"

No emoji. No goal. No streak counter.

One line.

Phum put the phone face down.

Started work.

Baitoey came to her desk at 10:15 — hair still wet at the ends — a white linen shirt — completely different from the outfit of an hour before.

She walked past Phum's desk — did not turn — did not greet.

But in the dark mirror of his phone, face down, he saw her shadow pass.

And then the shadow slowed for half a second — at his desk — before walking on.

Phum did not look up.

He opened the terminal.

Started typing git pull.

Outside the office window — the morning light of a Monday Phum had never seen before — soft blue without cloud — a flock of pigeons passing.

Phum began to work.

Without the word *change* in his head — without the word *new habit* — without the word *streak*.

Only the one line in the notes: "Monday — 7:55 — office gym."

And a feeling he still couldn't name — that today had begun somewhere other than at a screen.

That might be a beginning.

Or it might just be a Monday morning that passed and ended.

Phum didn't know yet.

But the line in the note was still there.

闹钟在06:50响起。

阿普是星期天晚上睡前设的——22:40——一个他自高中以来就没有上过床的时间。那时候,他还不知道merge conflict这个词,还不知道能量饮料是什么。

这个铃声不熟。他旧的闹钟是系统默认的chime,设在十一点,用了五年,耳朵已经分不出闹钟和Slack通知有什么不同——新的是警报声,响些,急些,刻意要把人叫醒。

阿普睁开眼。

房里的光不算黑,也不算亮——是一种灰色的光,从翁努的公寓那层薄窗帘的边沿漏进来,在地板上是银色的线,在天花板上是淡淡的痕。一种他从未见过的光——不是因为它从未出现过,而是因为他从未在这个时间待在这间屋子里。

他的手摸到闹钟——按掉声音——然后做了昨晚就计划好的事。

起。

不是按snooze,不是再睡五分钟。起。

因为昨晚他把手机放在了房间正中的桌上,不在床边——这样要按掉声音就必须站起来。

果然奏效。

阿普站在房间中央,光脚踩在冰凉的复合木地板上——心里对自己有些恼,恼自己醒了之后还在惋惜没睡够的觉——又恼这惋惜本身。

他走到厨房,打开冰箱——一瓶冷水——喝了三口。

这是今天第一口进到他嘴里的东西。

不是咖啡,不是能量饮料。这两样在星期六晚上就被丢掉了。

房里没有泡面的残味——因为垃圾桶今早也提走了——只有空调整夜运转的味道和被子上旧洗发水的气味。

阿普在冰箱前站了十秒——看着几乎空着的冰箱,只剩下鸡蛋、那瓶水,和上星期从公司带回来的纸盒装橙汁。

然后他想起了一件他不敢称之为想法的事——那只是一幅画面——浴室镜子的画面,他看着自己的画面。

阿普走进浴室。

刷牙——这是他几个月来第一次在九点之前刷牙。

洗脸——冷水。

看镜子。

眼下两圈黑,头发右边乱,嘴角一圈四天没刮的胡茬,一件当睡衣穿的旧T恤——是2019年那场Hackathon的衣服,背后"DEPLOY OR DIE"的白字已经掉色。

阿普在镜子前站了一分钟——久到他知道自己站了很久。

然后他看见一件从未看见过的东西——不在脸上——在眼睛里。镜子里自己的眼睛,在这种早晨的光里,看起来比平时亮些。

不是新鲜。不是快乐。

是醒。

阿普洗澡——前五秒是冷水,因为热水器还没反应过来——他没抱怨。

换衣服。

梳头发——真的梳——这是几个月来他第一次做让别人看出他在打理自己的事。

八点十分。

阿普离开公寓,穿一件灰色连帽衫、黑色运动裤,以及一双去年买了却只穿过四次的运动鞋——其中三次是凌晨两点去7-Eleven。

翁努在这个时间是另一个翁努。

巷口八辆摩的——排成一排橙色——三个司机坐着喝纸杯里的热咖啡,聊昨晚的英超。

巷口卖糯米烤猪肉的阿姨——排着五个客人——一个穿保安服的男人,一个穿上班装的女人。

阿普走过去——觉得自己像是在一个住了六年的城市里当游客。

翁努BTS上行线——挤——他已经五年没在这个时间挤过BTS,因为这个时间他都在睡。

车厢里——人们在按手机,他前面一个女人耳机里漏出韩文流行乐,他叫不出歌名——有个人一大早穿着燕尾服。阿普想*去婚礼?干哪行?*

香水味、洗发水味、旁边那个office girl手上Starbucks杯子里的咖啡味——每个人都赶时间,每个人都有节奏,每个人都知道自己要去哪里。

阿普不知道为什么他觉得自己曾经也应该是这群人里的一个——很久以前——大一的时候,那时他还会早起去上八点的课,那时咖啡还只是咖啡,不是咖啡因这种药。

八点四十二,阿普在帕卡农下车。

Briskly的办公室在离BTS四分钟的一座共享办公楼里——八层,泰德合资的新业主。Briskly包了整个第五层。

八点四十八,他在门口刷卡。

电梯里,他是一个人。

他通常进公司是10:30或11:00——公司时间灵活——那时电梯里都是问候声、通知声、聊午饭的声音。

8:48的电梯是静的。

他按五。电梯升。里头的镜子映着他——连帽衫、运动裤、运动鞋。

不像要去上班的人。

像要去健身房的人。

因为他就是。

第五层,公司分两个区——办公区有桌子、厨房、会议室——和另一个小的wellness区,那是为了配合CEO山姆去年在LinkedIn上写的"员工必须有照顾健康的空间"这句话才搞的。

那间wellness房——阿普几乎天天经过——但从没进去过。

大约四米乘六米,一面墙整面是镜子,三块瑜伽垫,3、5、8公斤的哑铃各两副,一只沙袋,一扇朝向帕卡农的大窗。

阿普朝那间房走去。

但在离门十米的地方——他从那面墙的镜子里看到——

里面已经有人。

阿普停了三秒。

然后接着走。

玻璃门前,拜黛在垫子上——下犬式——脸平静,呼吸缓,头发松松地束在颈后——黑色运动上衣,灰色瑜伽裤——赤脚。

朝帕卡农的那扇大窗投进来的晨光,斜斜地落在她的垫子上——是五月那种柔和的金色,撞到空气里的尘埃,把尘埃变成可以看见的线。

她没回头——她没听到阿普的鞋声,因为他走得慢——但阿普觉得她大概能闻到一个新人进房间的气味。

阿普站在门口。

心里——三个选择。

一,回头。等她做完再来。

二,去厨房。装作是早来上班,不是来健身。

三,进去。

他进去了。

玻璃门安静地滑开——但房里除了拜黛的呼吸声外没有任何声音——所以那扇门是房里最响的声音。

拜黛保持着下犬式——没动。

但墙上的镜子里——她的眼睛抬起来——看见了他。

只一秒——又落下——继续随呼吸俯下。

她看见他。他看见她看见。两人都没说话。

阿普选了离她最远的那块垫子——对角。

铺开。

他不知道自己在做什么。

这是他第一次进这间房。他从没做过瑜伽。从没举过铁。从没跑过步。他从没对自己的身体做过任何不是坐在电脑前的事。

他在垫子上站了三十秒——心里觉得有点滑稽——一个人走进一间不知道要做什么的房,穿着不是健身房的衣服,在本该睡觉的时间。

但他没走。

阿普做他能做的——趴下做俯卧撑。

第一个,几乎撑不上来——手摆错了角度,手肘撞到肋骨。

第二个,撑上来了——但身子往右扭。

第三个,身子在抖,汗滴在垫子上。

第四、第五——几分钟内,胳膊的肌肉发出停止的信号。

阿普停下——坐在垫子上——大口喘气——那对长久未用的老肺发出一声细细的哮声——镜子里,他看到拜黛换了姿势。

是一个他不知道名字的姿势——跪着,额头贴地,双手向前伸。她在那个姿势里停了很久。

阿普接着做——仰卧起坐。

心里数。一、二、三、四、五。

第六个,肚子疼。

停。

坐着喘。

看镜子。

镜子里——是他穿着平时坐在电脑前的连帽衫,坐在一块瑜伽垫上喘气,眼下黑——看起来滑稽,看起来格格不入。

但和房间另一头的拜黛同框。

两人都在同一间房里。

不说话。

但都在。

拜黛又换姿势——这次是仰躺,膝盖立着,手放在腹上——她在这个姿势里停了三分钟——阿普知道是因为他开始数——开始数是因为他不知道该做什么——不想起身。

然后她起来。

卷起垫子——放回角落——重新束头发——拿起水瓶——走出去。

没回头——没说话——没招呼。

但走到门口——她的手轻碰了一下门框——那一碰也许什么都不是,是有些人离开房间时的小习惯——是从裸水泥地面走到地毯之前保持平衡的一个动作。

也许不是。

阿普想了这件事四秒——然后不再想下去——因为再想下去就是自己编故事。

阿普又在垫子上待了十分钟——又做了五个俯卧撑、三个仰卧起坐、中学体育课记得的几个静态拉伸。

9:35。

阿普卷起垫子——放回原位——走出去。

拜黛不在办公区——大概在洗澡,大概在厨房,大概在某处。

他走到公司的洗手间——洗脸——头发打湿——用纸擦干。

洗手间镜子里——眼神和原来一样——一样的黑眼圈——但脸因为刚才用力而发红。

他走到厨房——按热水机——茶——因为医生说不能喝咖啡。

厨房里已经有两三个人了。一能哥。看见阿普,神色变了一下。

"阿普——来得早?"

"嗯。"

一能哥看了他的穿着两秒——连帽衫、运动裤、运动鞋——但没问。

"还好吗?星期六看到你去医院。"

阿普停了两秒。他没告诉公司里任何人去了ER——但Slack上一能哥应该看见他离线到星期六晚上,可能还查过阿普留在Briskly账号里的位置共享——Smithivej Thonglor写得清清楚楚。

"……肠胃,一能哥。没什么事。"

"自己照顾好自己,阿普——工作跑不掉。"

"嗯。"

一能哥笑了一下走出去——但出门前回头又说了一句。"还有——星期五Royal Princess那件事——真做得好,阿普。"

阿普点头。心里想说*我凌晨一点差点deploy错*——但没说出来。

一能哥走了。

阿普站着等茶——看着厨房的窗,朝着巷口——8路车经过。

他啜茶。烫。不如咖啡。是那种不能把人叫醒的苦。

但还行。

10:00。

阿普坐到桌前,打开笔记本——Slack弹出——工作——10:30的meeting——一切开始。

但打开Jira之前他做了一件事。

在手机上打开Notes——新建一页——起个名字。

*试。*

然后输入第一行。

"周一 — 7:55 — 公司健身房 — 俯卧撑 5+5 仰卧起坐 5+3"

没有emoji。没有目标。没有streak counter。

只有一行。

阿普把手机扣在桌面上。

开始工作。

拜黛10:15回到她的桌前——头发还湿着发梢——一件白色亚麻衬衫——和一小时前的那身完全不同。

她从阿普桌前走过——没回头——没招呼。

但他扣在桌面上的手机屏幕那面深色的镜里——他看见她的影子掠过。

那影子在他桌前慢了半秒——然后才接着走。

阿普没抬头。

他开了terminal。

开始打git pull。

办公室窗外——一个阿普从未见过的星期一早晨的光——一种没有云的浅蓝——一群鸽子飞过。

阿普开始工作。

心里没有"改变"这个词——没有"新习惯"这个词——没有streak这个词。

只有Notes里那一行:"周一 — 7:55 — 公司健身房"。

和一种他还叫不出名字的感觉——今天是从别处开始的,不是从屏幕。

那也许是开始。

也许只是一个过去就过去的星期一早晨。

阿普还不知道。

但Notes里那一行还在。