Burnout Syndrome : 00 Before the Burnout

Burnout Syndrome (n.) – Chronic physical and mental fatigue caused by accumulated stress, especially work-related stress.

The shrill sound of the phone alarm echoed through the entire room, yanking the owner of the body in the bed out of his trance with a burst of bad-tempered shock. His eyelids opened slowly, heavy with exhaustion, even though he had slept for several hours. He yanked the blanket off himself, letting it fall to the floor, before sitting up and stretching lazily a couple of times. Only then did he reach out to turn off the annoying alarm.

The owner of that thin body took advantage of having the phone still in his hand to check social media. When he tapped the screen, his timeline appeared with a painting he had posted to promote in an art buy-and-sell group. Despite listing it at a very low price, no one had contacted him to purchase his work, which made his motivation to do anything plummet.

Fearing he would soon have no money left to survive, he decided, heavy-hearted, to edit the post and reduce the price from three thousand baht to just one thousand.

If there were still no buyers this time, his only option, as always, would be to borrow money from the people close to him.

Jirajira Hey
Luckily, he wasn’t alone; he had a close friend who always listened, though sometimes they replied and sometimes they didn’t. The advantage was that he had someone to vent his frustrations to. But who would have thought that, after sending a single message, his friend’s reply would leave him puzzled.

Ing

How much do you need? Jirajira
No! I’m not going to borrow from you. Ing
Wow, my mistake. Then what did you message me for? Jirajira
I think I’m burned out, friend. Give me some good advice. Ing
Try getting into debt, I promise it’ll pass.

Jirajira

Ha, I’m already in debt.

Someone had once told him that being in debt doesn’t leave you enough time to even end up burned out; life becomes so chaotic that you spend all your energy trying to find money in any way possible. He had thought the same, but the truth was far crueler.

Even though he was short on money, in debt, and running around looking for work, he was still exhausted.

Ing

Hey, someone contacted me about a new job…

Jirajira

I’ll do it!

Ing
Hey, let me finish! Aren’t you going to ask what it is?

Jirajira

Any job, whatever it is, I’ll do it.

Ing

Alright, I’m free at noon and I’ll call you with the details.

Jirajira

Thanks, friend.

‘Wow, I think I’m not burned out anymore!’

The young man replied with a message full of enthusiasm, though his expression as he typed was so neutral it bordered on emotionless.

…

The photography studio of the nationally renowned fashion company Library was buzzing with activity. That day, the brand was holding a casting for male and female models to prepare the fashion catalog for the upcoming season.

Library was a Thai luxury clothing brand with decades of history, which had made it a widely recognized name in the fashion industry, especially among customers who preferred
tailor-made garments.

“Look right at me. Good. A bit to the left, chin down slightly… there you go!”

Jira’s clear voice echoed as the 28-year-old directed a male model posing in front of him. He had been hired for an important task: to be the catalog photographer, one of the many jobs he had tried over the past few years.

Jira wasn’t someone who gave up easily. When an opportunity appeared, he pushed himself to the limit. He lifted the camera, pressed the shutter, and gave precise instructions to the dark-skinned foreign model.

“Can you lift your shirt up? Like this?” he said, lifting his own shirt as an example. In an instant, the model looked at him with hawk eyes, lifted his shirt, and revealed his abdominal muscles, along with the waistband of his underwear showing the Library logo clearly.

Garments tailored according to the customer’s specifications, size, and preferences. When Jira saw the perfect pose he wanted, he praised the model and pressed the shutter. “That’s right! We will soon sell millions of underwear.”
Flashes lit up the place as the team worked tirelessly. One part of the crew, positioned in front of a huge computer screen, reviewed the photos in real time. Once they had gathered all the necessary shots of that model, it was time to switch to the next.

“Let’s take a break,” Jira announced to the team, placing the camera on the table.

During the short break, Ing quickly approached Jira and handed him a bottle of cold water. “You okay?” Ing asked.
“All good,” Jira replied, taking a sip and wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

“Need anything else?”

“No, thanks. Call the next model to get their makeup done,” Jira said. “Got it,” Ing replied, hurrying out of the studio.
To Jira, Ing was his closest friend, the same age, always there through the good and the bad. Even though in recent years he’d faced so many hardships that he often ended up asking her for help, she was always there. With her confident personality, short hair, and versatility in roles like casting director, gallery assistant, or-like today-freelance fashion coordinator, Ing had the connections needed to bring Jira into various projects. Without her, he probably wouldn’t have work at all.

Outside the studio, in the waiting area, there were about twenty models-men and women-of different ethnicities, body types, gender identities, and skin tones, all sitting in chairs with the same goal: to be selected for the upcoming clothing collection.

Ing noticed a middle-aged Japanese model with freckles on his cheeks that gave him a distinctive charm.

“Josh, ready? It’s your turn,” Ing called. The model stood and followed her into the studio to get his makeup done. But at that moment, Ing seemed to forget something and shouted to Jira to confirm-

“Hey! What do you want for this model?”

Jira looked at the model for a moment and gave quick instructions.

“Light makeup, don’t cover the freckles. Just make sure the skin isn’t dry.”

“Got it,” Ing said, taking the model to the nearby makeup artist. She didn’t forget to repeat Jira’s instructions.

“You heard, right? Natural, no excess, nothing thick or sticky.”

“Got it,” the makeup artist, a veteran, replied with a confident gesture.

“Rachel, you can go to the changing room,” Ing said to a model who had just finished her makeup and hair.

The model nodded and headed to the changing room. The empty chair was then occupied by the Japanese model, Josh.

Everything was well organized and flowing smoothly. When Rachel finished getting dressed, Jira helped adjust the clothes and checked that everything was perfect before the session.

“I think the lip color needs a change,” Jira said, turning to the makeup artist. “Phi, can you switch the tone to something brighter?”
“Bright how?” the makeup artist asked.

“A more vivid red than the current one,” Jira clarified.

“Very helpful, thanks,” the makeup artist said sarcastically, but he got up and approached the model with a set of lipsticks. Although he adjusted the color according to the instructions, Jira, watching closely, still wasn’t satisfied.

“With that lip color, she still looks cold. Can you remove it and use a more orangey red?” The makeup artist nodded and proceeded to wipe off the lipstick to apply the new shade.
While waiting for Rachel, Jira didn’t want to waste time. He walked around the set to check the images on the computer and select some for a preliminary presentation.

“They look good, let’s continue…” Jira said, signaling to the assistant to scroll through the images on the screen. Ing stood behind him, watching.

“Hey, this photo is amazing!” Ing commented. It was clear their tastes aligned. “If you like it, I like it,” Jira said.

“I got chills! Thames is going to love it, I’m sure,” Ing added. “Sure?” Jira asked.
Ing, who had worked with Thames several times, knew his preferences. Jira, on the other hand-this being his first time with the brand-wasn’t as confident.

“I swear. If this job doesn’t pass, I’ll let you hit me in the face with a high heel.”

“What a bet!” Jira exclaimed quietly, staring at the images of the models on the screen. Deep down, he hoped her words were true, which would mean stability, future opportunities, and a bit of money in his account.

“Ready, nong?”

Jira looked up at the makeup artist’s voice. Rachel stood in front of him, her lips now painted in the perfect color. Jira smiled, lifted the camera, and prepared for the session.

Classical music played in the background, creating the perfect atmosphere.

The sound of the shutter and the flashes went off nonstop. Everything was going wonderfully, but the arrival of someone interrupted the session.

Instinctively, Ing’s reaction was faster than anyone else’s. When she turned toward the door and saw the company president standing there, she jumped, the hairs on her arms rising.

Thames, a 55-year-old man with the air of a businessman, wore an impeccable suit that reflected his good taste and influence in the fashion industry.

“Can you turn off the music?” Thames requested.

Ing, with a tense expression, obeyed, and the atmosphere instantly fell silent.

Everyone stopped what they were doing, including Jira, who raised his hand to greet Thames, but the man ignored him. Instead, he walked over to the computer where the photos for the presentation were being prepared and began checking the files with a serious face, as if he wasn’t pleased.

“Why are all the photos like this?” he asked in a cold tone.

Whether it was the models or Jira’s photo work, the images had a different style from the previous photographer Ing had recommended.

“Are you not done yet?” Ing asked, trying to sound confident. “Who selected the models?” Thames asked.
“We all did. What do you want to adjust, Thames? We can change it,” Ing replied.

Thames looked straight at Ing before turning his gaze to Jira, who remained calm. After a brief moment, he turned back to Ing and said something that made her heart sink.

“I want to talk with you for a moment.”

Ing, nervous about whatever Thames wanted to say, followed him out of the studio. Jira watched her back, feeling as if he were hanging from a rope.

Someone once said that waiting is torture, and Jira felt exactly that. Even though only a few minutes passed, they felt like years. Finally, the suffering ended when Ing returned to the studio.

But just one look at her face was enough to know. Disaster was coming.
Ten minutes later, Jira closed the computer, shut the laptop, and sat on the table. He pulled out a menthol inhaler and sniffed it deeply, hoping to ease the stress.

“Up, down, stay calm…” he repeated to himself, trying to hypnotize himself. After a moment, he turned to his friend, eager to know what had happened. “Was it the boss himself?” Jira asked.
“Yes, who else would it be?” Ing replied.

Ing’s thin body looked exhausted. She collapsed into a rolling chair.

“Did he say he didn’t like my photos? I told you… I wasn’t even confident myself,” Jira said.

“It’s not that. Your photos are fine, but he didn’t like the concept itself,” Ing explained, frustrated, while Jira looked confused.

“What do you mean, the concept?”

“The concept we proposed was good, but Thames didn’t like it,” Ing clarified. “Seriously? We had already sold the concept!” Jira protested.
The concept was based on human diversity: the strength in the idea that although no one is perfect, everyone can look stylish wearing the brand’s designs.

“I tried talking to him, but he just said something was missing,” Ing said.

“We had already tested it, and we thought the target audience would like it,” Jira insisted, searching for a thousand reasons in his head.

“Besides, people seem open to this type of clothing. Isn’t it the brand’s job to set trends?”

“Exactly. That’s why Thames can change his mind suddenly. It’s his money,” Ing said, sighing and taking Jira’s water bottle.

“So this job probably won’t go through, and I won’t be able to include it in my portfolio,” Jira lamented.

“And the photography work will have to wait,” Ing added.

He couldn’t believe a single sentence had the power to devastate him so much. All his effort, all his dedication-gone in a single moment.

Jira brought the menthol inhaler to his nose again.

Thames was an influential figure in the fashion industry. If he liked your work, you got hired and got talked about. But if it wasn’t up to par, it was like hammering a nail into the coffin of your career.

Sadly, Jira faced the latter fate.

Sometimes he hated his own human versatility: he could do everything, but excelled at nothing.

He had tried all kinds of jobs, from the simplest to the most complex, searching for his identity. But even what he believed he did best-painting-didn’t bring him income. And now, he had lost an important opportunity. Staying unemployed as a photographer for so long cut off many possibilities in his life. Jira didn’t even know what job to look for next.

“Do you have any casting I can join? I’m at the end,” Jira said after lamenting silently. “There’s an ad you could try,” Ing offered.
“Whatever it is, I’ll do it,” Jira replied.

“But they pay little. Do you want me to lend you something so you can get by for now? You can pay me back whenever,” Ing suggested.

Jira shook his head.

“If you lend me money, I won’t be able to pay you back soon. Better help me find another job.”

Ing frowned, thinking hard until something came to mind. “There’s a dinner escort job. Are you interested?”
“You even accept those kinds of jobs?” Jira asked. “These days, you do whatever you have to,” she replied. “A lot of models take that kind of job.”
The escort job required a lot of physical and mental energy. If you pleased the client, you could earn a lot of money, but if you made a mistake, the disaster was guaranteed.

Jira, who usually acted based on his emotions and prioritized his own satisfaction over others’, decided to reject the offer.

“Better not, let me think,” he said.

“As you want. If you need help, tell me,” Ing replied. “Ing,” Jira called.
“What?” “Remember?” “Remember what?”
“When you said that if this job didn’t work out, you’d let me hit you in the face with a high heel.”

After Jira’s words, Ing was left open-mouthed.

They stared at each other in silence, in a tense and icy atmosphere, neither saying another word.