Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I can still picture the school in Thailand as if I were standing there again- the sunlight spilling through the open-air corridors, the hum of students echoing from the courtyard, and the faint smell of Pentel pen ink drifting out of the teacher’s room. Some places stay with you softly, like they settled into your senses without asking.

When I think back to my early days there, teaching English, I remember how the senior teachers carried a calm experience that made the environment feel safe. Their gentle reminders, their advice over mismatched mugs of coffee, and the sound of the old fan humming above us gave me comfort when everything still felt new.

But what made the transition even more meaningful were the teachers who arrived in the same year as I did- Joseph, the Math teacher, and Jaspel, the Computer teacher. We didn’t join at the same time, and we didn’t make a dramatic entrance as a group. But when you’re new, you recognize another newcomer instantly. There’s a shared sentiment, an unspoken understanding in the eyes:
“You’re figuring this out too.”

It wasn’t a dramatic bond- just quiet familiarity.

I still see snapshots of us in those early weeks. Me with my storybooks tucked under my arm, Joseph with his math tools and easy laugh, and Jaspel, always calm and quiet, carrying his laptop like a steady companion. We didn’t need to say much; sometimes a small smile across the hall was enough. Being new can feel lonely at times, but knowing there were two others walking the same uncertain path made the days lighter.

And then there was M1 EP camp- the moment when our subtle connection grew into something warmer and more solid. During that camp, we spent time together not just as teachers but as people. Along with the Science teacher, we found ourselves editing grades side by side, laughing and shaking our heads as we talked about the students we had in common—their quirks, their strengths, their little personalities that made our days both challenging and entertaining.

At EP camp, I remember one evening when we were all sitting together after a long day of activities. The air was cool, the students were finally quiet, and the four of us- English, Math, Science, and Computer- were tired but content. It was in that moment that I realized a sense of belonging-a quiet brotherhood where support isn’t spoken aloud yet always understood: they’d be there for me, just as I’d be there for them, whether it was swapping classes or covering for someone when they couldn’t make it.

Not because of deep talks or dramatic moments, but simply because I was surrounded by people who understood how it felt to be far from home, learning a new culture, adapting to a new environment- and doing it together.

Those shared spaces of understanding shaped our years more than we noticed at the time.

Strangely, we also ended up leaving the school in the same year. Again, not planned, not in the same month, and certainly not for the same reasons. But there was a kind of quiet poetry in it- entering and exiting within the same chapter of the school’s story.

When I look back now, I don’t remember days as much as I remember details:
sunlit hallways, chaotic classrooms, the laughter of students, the hum of the fans, the smell of Pentel pen ink, Joseph’s jokes, Jaspel’s quiet calm, and the warmth of our little EP camp circle.

It wasn’t dramatic friendship.

It was something quieter, more human.

A shared sentiment, a mutual understanding, a gentle sense of belonging. Sometimes, reminiscing about those days feels like walking back into a golden afternoon classroom- soft light filtering in, distant voices echoing, and that familiar, comforting realization that for that short but meaningful moment in time, I truly belonged.