Chapter 11: Aquatic Meditation
The silence in his condo was a solid, appreciable thing. It wasn’t empty silence, but a thick, velvety quiet that pressed against his ears, broken only by the faint hum of the refrigerator and the distant, muffled pulse of the city thirty-two floors below. Bell stood in the middle of his living room, a glass of water in his hand, and breathed it in.
His phone lay on the kitchen counter, a sleek black rectangle of pure off. It had been off since yesterday morning, when he’d silenced it, shoved it in a drawer, and walked out of his own life for forty-eight hours. He hadn’t checked it once. The thought of the notifications—the emails, the CC’d memos, Non’s nitpicking messages disguised as helpful questions—was a faint, buzzing itch at the very back of his skull. He consciously ignored it.
Yesterday had been for total release, for the surrendering of all tension in a haze of steam and skilled hands and uproarious laughter. Today was for the quiet after. His body felt loose, muscles supple but buzzing with a residual energy that needed a channel.
He wanted to move. Not to exhaust himself, but to feel his body work in the silence, to translate that leftover vitality into clean, solitary motion.
He drank the water, placed the glass in the sink, and padded to his bedroom. He pulled on the swimsuit without much thought, the fabric stark against his skin. The neon green high-cut speedos were a relic from his university swim days, impractical and flashy. He rarely wore them, but today they felt right—a private joke, a burst of color for no one but himself and the sky.
The elevator ride to the rooftop was a smooth, silent ascent. He watched the floor numbers blink upward, his reflection a vague green-and-tan blur in the bronze doors.
The doors slid open directly into the oasis.
Morning light, sharp and clear, flooded the space. The infinity pool was a sheet of liquid turquoise, its surface utterly still, mirroring the vast, pale blue of the sky and the sharp geometric lines of distant skyscrapers. Lush, towering ferns and broad-leafed palms in concrete planters bordered the space, their greens deep and wet-looking. The air was cool and clean, carrying a faint scent of chlorine and damp earth.
Not a soul was there. The rows of white loungers stood empty, towels stacked neatly. The only sound was the gentle, artificial whisper of a waterfall feature at one end of the pool.
Perfect.
Bell dropped his towel on a chair, toes curling against the cool, wet tile of the deck. He walked to the pool’s edge, the city sprawled beneath him in a breathtaking, silent panorama. For a moment, he just stood, the morning sun warming his shoulders, the vast quiet pressing in.
Then he dove.
The water was a shock, cooler than the spa’s onsen but still heated, swallowing him in a sudden, perfect embrace. It muted the world. He broke the surface with a smooth pull, water sheeting off his hair, and began to swim.
His strokes were long, powerful, and economical. He fell into a rhythm instantly: the reach, the catch, the pull, the kick. His body remembered this. It was nothing like the social performance of the night before; this was a private conversation between his mind and his muscles. The neon green of his suit flashed under the water with each kick, a vibrant, alien streak in the blue, sparkling where fractured sunlight pierced the surface.
Reach. Pull. Breathe.
The city turned lazily in his peripheral vision with each breath. He didn’t think about work. He didn’t think about Non’s thinly-veiled critiques in the last planning meeting, or the way some of the junior analysts seemed to cluster around him for directives instead of their actual manager. He didn’t think about the quarterly report looming like a grey cloud.
He thought about the feel of the water parting over his shoulders. The burn of oxygen in his lungs. The way his body, still humming from Keng’s deep-tissue work, moved without a single protest. He thought about the ridiculous weight of that crown, the sound of their laughter, the cool marble under his bare feet as he walked out, blissfully, stupidly naked.
A smile bubbled up inside him, and he breathed out a stream of bubbles into his next stroke.
He swam lap after lap, the monotony a form of meditation. The only markers were the ends of the pool. He’d flip turn, push off the wall with solid force, and surge back into the blue. His world shrank to the lane, the rhythm, the flash of green, the expanding and contracting of his own chest.
After twenty minutes, he rolled onto his back, floating. He spread his arms, letting the water hold him. The sky was immense. A single contrail from a high-altitude jet bisected the blue, slowly fraying at the edges. Up here, the noise of Bangkok was a distant, muted rumble, the city transformed into a silent, detailed model.
This was peace. This was the reset.
He closed his eyes, the sun warm on his eyelids. The water lapped gently at his ears. For the first time in weeks, the constant, low-grade hum of responsibility was gone. It was just him, the water, and the sun.
He didn’t know how long he floated. Time had softened, lost its edges. Eventually, he righted himself and swam a few more lazy laps, not pushing, just enjoying the glide.
Finally, he hauled himself out, water cascading from him in rivulets. He grabbed his towel and rubbed it over his head, then wrapped it around his waist. He stood at the railing, looking out at the awakening city, steam rising from his skin into the cool morning air. He felt clean. Empty in the best way. Recalibrated.
He picked up his towel and key card, his footprints dark and fleeting on the sun-bleached deck. The elevator chimed softly as he stepped in, leaving the rooftop sanctuary to the sun and the silent, watching city.
The quiet in his condo welcomed him back. He made coffee, the rich aroma filling the kitchen. He still didn’t touch his phone. The peace felt fragile, a perfect bubble. He intended to preserve it, whole and untouched, for as long as he possibly could.
He intended to preserve it, whole and untouched, for as long as he possibly could.
An hour later, coffee cup empty and a simple breakfast of fruit and toast eaten, he stood in his steamy bathroom. He peeled off the damp neon speedos, the bright fabric a discarded puddle of color on the white tiles. The hot shower water washed away the faint chlorine scent.
After, he simply let the towel fall to the floor. The air, cool from the air conditioner, raised gooseflesh across his shoulders and back. He was still damp, skin pink from the heat, as he walked, completely naked, into the living room.
He didn’t bother with clothes. There was no point.
He flopped onto the wide, cream-colored sectional sofa, the soft fabric cool against his back and thighs. The television remote sat on the low table. He grabbed it, flicked the TV on to a sports channel showing a muted, hours-old European football match, and dropped the remote onto his bare stomach.
He settled in. This was the second, more lethargic phase of his off-day ritual. After the energetic release of the swim, his body demanded stillness. The deep, cellular fatigue from weeks of long hours and the physical relief from Keng’s expert hands finally claimed its due.
He watched the silent, green pitch for a few minutes. He shifted, turning onto his side, curling a little. The low hum of the television was a soothing, meaningless drone. His breathing slowed. The city’s afternoon light, harsh and bright beyond the window, softened behind the sheer curtains.He slept. A deep, dreamless, and heavy sleep right there on the sofa, one arm tucked under his head. He didn't stir. No phones rang. No deliveries came. The sun climbed, the light moving across the floor to touch his discarded towel and the pile of his discarded swimsuit, bypassing his form entirely.
He woke sometime around noon, disoriented, the game now replaced by a Thai soap opera on the screen. He blinked, groggy. The empty, quiet flat felt alien for a moment. His bare skin was warm where the sun had found it.
He stretched, a long, full-bodied stretch that pulled every muscle taut before releasing into a luxurious looseness. A low groan escaped him. He ran a hand through his hair, felt the fuzz of sleep in his eyes. He was hungry.
He sat up, the emptiness of his stomach making itself known with a low, solid pang. He reached for his phone on the charger, its black screen a mirror. For a moment, he just held it, enjoying the last seconds of its quiet disconnection. Then he thumbed the power button.
It buzzed to life, bright and demanding. The screen lit up, notifications cascading down.
Emails. Thirty-seven of them.
Message requests on the work chat. Fifteen, most with Non's name attached.
He scrolled past them, his face set in a neutral, bored mask. His thumb moved quickly, a practiced dismissal. He was searching for one particular conversation, the only one that mattered today. He’d find a 'good swim?' from Keng, or maybe a blurry, teased photo from Boom referencing last night’s ridiculous send-off.
But there was nothing. His personal chats were quiet.
He switched to the work application, bracing for the inevitable onslaught of anxious pings from juniors that Non had probably ignored.
Instead, he saw a single unread message, timestamped from late yesterday afternoon. It was from David.
Bell’s brow furrowed slightly. This was unusual.
David never messaged him on the weekend.Never. Not even during a crisis. David’s method was more direct; if something genuinely urgent hit during Bell’s time off, David would just show up at his condo door with a bag of street food and a contrite look, ready to talk shop for fifteen minutes and leave.
Yet the solitary message sat there: ‘P’Bell, sorry. The new trainee batch needs help tomorrow morning with the system walk-through. Non isn’t available.’
Bell read it twice. The feeling wasn't annoyance, but a low, distinct curiosity. A prickling at the back of his neck.
He thumbed back to his main chat list. No frantic updates from the project group chat. No passive-aggressive, thinly-veiled queries from Non asking for "status checks" on deliverables already agreed upon. The silence from that quarter was louder than any complaint.
David, who never messaged, had messaged. And Non, who never stopped messaging, was radio silent.
He leaned back against the sofa cushions, the phone cold in his hand, the rest of him still warm and naked. His mind, sluggish from sleep, began to click through possibilities. The only social plans he had were the Spa's exuberant, full-body welcome parties. This wasn't about that.
He stared at David’s message. The wording was bland, professional. But the context was all wrong.Non not available? Non made himself available for every potential power point, especially to new trainees.
A slow, bemused smile touched Bell’s lips. He closed the messaging app.
This wasn't a problem. It was a signal. David was telling him something without saying it. David was planning something. A surprise at the office tomorrow? Some small rebellion against Non's tedious micromanagement, staged for Bell's benefit? Probably.
Bell let out a short, soft laugh through his nose, a puff of air. His curiosity settled into a warm, comfortable anticipation. He wouldn’t reply. He wouldn’t ask. He’d show up tomorrow and see what David had orchestrated. It was a tiny, intriguing gift waiting to be unwrapped, a small counter-current in the usual corporate stream.
He dropped the phone onto the cushion beside his hip. He’d deal with everything tomorrow. For now, his stomach growled again, more insistently.
He reached for the tablet he used for ordering, the smooth screen springing to life under his fingertips. He opened the food delivery app, the familiar grid of restaurant logos and tempting photos filling the glow.
His mind drifted from David’s mystery to the immediate, more pressing one: green curry or massaman? He scrolled slowly, his free hand idly resting on his stomach.
The cool air of the room washed over his skin. As he scrolled past a particularly vivid image of a spicy basil pork dish, a familiar, low thrum of arousal, disconnected from any immediate thought, stirred in his gut. His cock, soft against his thigh, began to thicken, responding to the sheer, relaxed idleness of the moment, to the memory of the sun on the rooftop water, to the freedom of his own nakedness in the silent apartment.
It lengthened, growing to a half-hard state, curving against his lower abdomen. He ignored it, or rather, accepted it as part of the lazy afternoon’s sensory landscape, his focus still nominally on the parade of delicious options sliding past under his thumb.