16. THE MASK FALLS

Many days had passed since Jira had not returned to his room, but upon arriving, he was stunned by the mess and the dirt.

He remembered that before leaving he had been immersed in the creation of a work of art inspired by Pheem. Luckily, that work was already finished. With that thought, he walked with firm steps, dodging the chaos of scattered objects, until reaching the bathroom.

The canvas painted with acrylic was still leaning against the wall, reflecting vividly the emotions that overwhelmed him in that moment. Charm, skill, strength: everything merged into a single image. Jira had been fascinated with Pheem since the first encounter; the other had everything he admired. Unfortunately, in the end, their relationship did not manage to advance beyond the word “friend.”

How much must a person be worth to be loved? That question maybe did not have a clear answer for Jira.

How much must he like someone to truly love him?

The young man began to realize the dilemma he would face upon seeing Pheem again. But, in any case, he had to put an end to this as soon as possible.

If he himself had created this knot, he also had to undo it. In that instant, little Jira made a decision: he pressed the button to send a message to Pheem to arrange a meeting and give him the painting.

…

In the morning, Jira, free of work commitments, carried a backpack with the painting, a portable-brand one, on his shoulder. In the other hand he carried a tube for storing drawings. He walked until he reached the casting room of the studio.

Ing was sitting at a table, accompanied by an assistant who observed the casting with a serious expression. Not much time passed before the young woman looked through the glass and saw her uneasy friend outside. She signaled him to wait.

When the casting ended, Jira took advantage of the moment when people were leaving to enter quickly.

“Wow, the legend of the heartbreaker! Have you already chosen someone?” While the others greeted him cordially, this friend of his teased him with a sarcastic comment.

“Ing, take a look at the paintings, please.”

“You still haven’t answered my question,” replied Jira, going straight to the point. It was obvious that he was uncomfortable.

The young woman moved to the work table, taking a sip of coffee. Meanwhile,

Jira took out the backpack, extracted two works of art carefully stored and placed them on the table. One was a painting of Ko sleeping peacefully on a balcony, surrounded by an endless number of roses. The other showed Pheem in a rage room (Rage Room).

“What do you think, Ing?”

“How do you want me to evaluate them?”

“As if you were a gallery curator. Which would you choose to exhibit?”

Ing’s relaxed face turned serious. She observed alternately the paintings of Ko and Pheem before looking at her friend, trying to decipher his emotions. It was obvious that he was worried about something.

“I like this one,” she said, pointing at the painting of Pheem.

Disappointment appeared on Jira’s young face, who asked confused: “Why?”

“It is acrylic, vibrant, with an expressionist style. It fits with the emotions of this era. It is aggressive, it reflects the fury toward the environment.” Jira pressed his lips, listening to his friend’s opinion with a mixture of emotions.

“I am not sure if the character in the painting wins or loses, being among the debris, but what is clear is the passionate gaze of the artist. This painting is so impactful that even I would want to hang it in my house.”

Jira was left speechless, astonished, more astonished, and even more astonished. “What I said before… was a lie,” confessed Ing.
“Damn you!” exclaimed Jira, annoyed because his friend had acted with such seriousness that he believed her. Ing hurried to defend herself and brought him back to the conversation.

“Seriously, I won’t tell you how I feel. I want you to be confused for a while.” “Ing, you’re driving me crazy! Which one do you choose?”
“Forget it, pretend nothing happened.” Jira couldn’t keep up with her, but in that moment he could only wait for her opinion.

“Actually, I like the painting of Ko.”

Jira’s eyes shone upon hearing that. He leaned his arms on the table, waiting with attention.

“You already know that I like the classical. This painting, with warm colors, has a spontaneity that captures the moment, but it is full of meticulous details. The way it portrays death is almost erotic. If I had to choose a work of yours to exhibit, it would be this one of Ko.” Jira sighed with relief, as if a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

To be sure, he asked once more: “Really?”

“It’s not true.”

“Ing, what the hell is wrong with you!”

“What I mean is… I can make any painting sound good. But you are the artist, Jira. Choose the one you like the most.”

“I already know what I want, but I’m not sure if my decision is the correct one.” “Then let me ask you: which do you like more?”
“Pheem is perfect in everything. When I saw him in the rage room, he inspired me a lot.

My heart told me to love him, but in the end I don’t love him. On the other hand, Ko is a disaster, but I am always willing to run after him.”

“That is, one is perfect but does not reach your heart, and the other is a disaster but moves you. All that effort to come all the way here, and it turns out that you’re just confused with yourself.”

“You can’t accept that you prefer someone like Ko instead of Pheem.”

In that moment of vulnerability, the connection between Ing and Jira deepened. Because they were so close, she knew him in every aspect, even his secrets and the deepest feelings of his heart.

“Am I an idiot for feeling like this?”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, although you let your emotions guide more than your reason.” Jira seemed to reflect on his friend’s words. Maybe he felt guilt for falling in love with someone “bad” when there was someone “good” who deserved more his support. He was upset with himself, but he accepted it.

“Today I have a meeting with Pheem to give him the painting. I think I’ll tell him the truth.”

“All right,” replied Ing, giving him a pat on the shoulder to encourage him, while Jira looked at the two paintings with a weight in his heart.

…

The atmosphere in the Song Wat neighborhood was lively. The shops and caf s attracted many people. Jira waited for Pheem on the corner of the street where they had met before. He carried the backpack with the painting and the tube with the drawing on the same shoulder. When Pheem’s tall figure appeared, Jira’s face formed a smile.

“This feels like d j vu,” said Pheem as an initial greeting. Seeing that Jira did not understand, he explained: “Like the first time we came here, you waiting for me on this corner.”

“Yes, you’re right,” replied Jira, somewhat uncomfortable. If their relationship had been sweeter, this place could have been romantic, a precious memory. But for them, Jira did not dare to imagine it. Maybe it was even a bitter memory for Pheem.

“Is it the painting you said you’d give me? Did you really paint it?” Pheem noticed the backpack with the painting.

“Shall we look for a place to sit first?”

“Come, let me carry it.” Pheem extended his hand, took the backpack and hung it on

his shoulder. Jira still held the tube with the drawing of Ko. They walked together under the suffocating heat of the afternoon.

A newly opened caf was the chosen place to talk. After ordering a coffee each and chatting a little about their lives, Jira gathered all his courage to speak frankly.

“I’m not sure if you’ll like it, but when I painted it, I felt it was amazing.” He opened the zipper of the backpack, but still did not hand it to Pheem. “If you painted it, I have to thank you anyway,” said Pheem.
Jira showed an expression of discomfort, which made Pheem begin to suspect, although he tried to hide it.

“Pheem… I’ve thought about it a lot, and I think it’s better if we are only friends.” The face of Jira reflected sadness and regret. Pheem, surprised, could barely react. He wanted to rub his ears, but his hands did not respond, as if his body were frozen.

He said nothing, letting several minutes pass in an uncomfortable silence for Jira. Finally, Pheem let out a bitter laugh, as if accepting fate.
“I already imagined that this day would come, but I didn’t think it would be so soon.” Jira lowered his gaze, feeling guilty and not daring to look at him.

“I can ask for a reason, right? If I did something wrong, tell me.” “No, you’re good. I can say that you’re incredible…”
“And do you like the painting that you painted for me?”

“Yes,” he told Pheem, looking at the nearby tube. It was clear, and he knew whose drawing was inside.

“But you prefer the painting of someone else, right?” Jira did not answer, which was equivalent to a confirmation. Pheem insisted: “Can I see his painting, right?”

“It’s not a good idea.”

“Please, let me see it. It will help me get over it.” Jira hesitated, feeling that if he showed it, he would hurt Pheem even more. But before his argument of wanting to close the chapter, he wavered before taking out the drawing of Ko from the tube and unfolding it in front of him.

Pheem laughed, but his face reflected unbearable pain. “Yes, how was I supposed to compete? This hurts a lot.” “I’m very sorry,” said Jira.
“I don’t like at all that, when you don’t love someone, you have to apologize. Don’t say that, it is too cruel for me.” Jira remained silent.

“If you decided to choose him, let me warn you something: be careful, someday you could get tired of him. Ko is like a capitalist. He will love you as long as you are useful to him. For him to value you, you will have to prove your worth constantly.”

“I want to know how long you will endure such a relationship before you feel exhausted.” “I know, but I have already chosen him.”
Jira understood what Ko was like, even the days when he betrayed him, but he kept returning to the same point, striving to be what Ko wanted, while using Ko to satisfy himself.

He didn’t know how the future would be, only that today he still wasn’t tired…

“Jira, you are special. Maybe you can achieve it. I’m leaving,” said Pheem, getting up and leaving the caf without looking back. Jira, realizing that he hadn’t taken the painting, ran after him.

“Wait! I want you to keep the painting.”

“I don’t have money to buy it from you,” answered Pheem, stopping and speaking with sarcasm.

“I don’t expect you to buy it. I just want you to have it.”

“Do you think I can bear to have the painting of someone who rejected me?” “Do what you want with it. If you don’t value it, throw it away.”
Jira put the backpack in his hands and ran back to the caf without looking back.

…

How do people deal with a broken heart?

In his 28 years, Pheem had ended many relationships, but none had made him feel a pain as heartbreaking as this. He was always the one who ended everything first, so he had never experienced the cruelty of being rejected.

Growing up and entering the working world, he no longer wanted serious relationships.
One-night adventures were his only option. He never imagined that fate would lead him to meet Jira in a bar, making someone who didn’t take relationships seriously feel like he had a heart again.

But now, it seemed that that heart had been ripped out and shattered.

Pheem returned to his condo like a walking corpse. He left his wallet on a shelf, leaned the backpack with Jira’s painting against the wall, and took off his shoes, leaving them thrown on the floor. He entered the main area of the living room.

Marwin, who was rehearsing a script, looked at him surprised. Although he tried to hide his sadness, Pheem’s words came out with a trembling voice:

“I lost to the capitalist, really.”

Marwin immediately stood up, opened his arms, and hugged Pheem. The young man let his friend console him and broke down crying.

“You can cry as much as you want, friend,” said Marwin, stroking Pheem’s broad back, not caring that his shirt soaked with tears. It had been a long time since he had seen his friend in such a vulnerable state. It was shocking, but also painful.

“I feel like a failure. I don’t know how to handle this,” said Pheem.

They separated. Seeing the tears run down Pheem’s face, Marwin used his friend’s shirt to wipe them, without much care.

“Look at you!” exclaimed Marwin.

Pheem looked at the shirt that had just been used to wipe his tears, threw it to the floor along with his pants, and, in his underwear, collapsed on the sofa. Marwin took a pillow and placed it under his head.

“Do you want to get drunk?”

“No. Even if I get drunk and pass out, when I wake up it will still hurt.” His voice was barely audible.
“The painting I brought, keep it, please. I still can’t look at it.” Marwin looked at the backpack leaning against the wall.
“All right, don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.”

He watched silently his friend, who remained lying on the sofa, motionless, as if everything had lost life.

…

Jira returned to his room exhausted. After rejecting Pheem, he felt as if he had spent almost all his energy.

His hands left the cloth bag on the edge of the bed and walked toward the desk.

On it was a USB drive with songs from the 2000s. At some point, he had given a similar one to Pheem, but, determined to cut any romantic ties, he had thrown it in the trash. However, shortly after he changed his mind, went back, and retrieved it from the trash can.

With a sigh, he connected the USB drive to his laptop and selected the song Jealous by Silly Fools, letting the music fill the room with a melancholic air.

What happens is for love, but maybe I’m too jealous. My heart has room only for you, I love only you.

When the song reached that verse, Jira lunged toward the laptop and stopped it abruptly, before the chorus finished. He closed the screen and, seeing his phone nearby, thought of Ko. Without hesitation, he dialed his number.

“Can I sleep at your house tonight?” he said, feeling that staying alone would make him wander even more.

[Are you okay?] asked Ko.

“I’m just a little restless and I want to see you.” [Then stay in your room. I’ll come pick you up.] “Why bother going back and forth?”
[It’s no trouble. I want to take care of you, make sure you’re comfortable in my car.]

Jira didn’t expect Ko, the tough guy, to say something so considerate. Unable to resist, he let him do as he wanted.

“Hmm, all right, come then,” he said in a teasing tone.

After hanging up, he disconnected the USB drive and threw it into a pen box.

In less than an hour, a luxurious Maserati parked in front of Jira’s building. The young man got out of the car, holding a small flower pot in his arms. He took out his phone and called the person he was waiting for upstairs. Jira, from the balcony, saw Ko in the yard below. He answered the call with a joke:

“Hey, handsome!”

[I already know I’m handsome, thanks,] replied Ko arrogantly. “Wow, ego! Come up already.”

After hanging up, Jira opened the door to receive the tall man who had just arrived. Upon entering, Ko gave him a gift: a pot with roses that, who knows when, he had bought.

“I didn’t think you had this romantic side,” said Jira. “If you like it, that’s it,” replied Ko.
“Thank you.”

“Did you finish the paintings?” Ko approached the small Jira. “Which of them?”
“Both.”

“The one with the roses is ready, but the lilies one isn’t. I’m not in the mood yet.” “Then tell me the name of the rose painting. How much is it?”
Jira thought for a moment.

“The same as the previous one.”

“Perfect, I’ll transfer it to your account. But this time I’ll add ten percent more, so your work gains more value.”

At first, Jira was surprised by the amount, but then thought that, with or without an increase, it was already enough that someone valued his art.

“Do you want to see the painting first?”

Jira pointed to the tube on the desk, where he had stored the painting inspired by The Roses of Heliogabalus by Lawrence Alma-Tadema, a painting depicting Emperor Heliogabalus killing his guests at a banquet by throwing rose petals on them until they suffocate, a symbol of deadly beauty and perverted power.

*The Roses of Heliogabalus* de Lawrence Alma-Tadema “Better I see it later,” said Ko.
“Try what?”

“If I tell you, it won’t be a surprise.”

“But take it with you, I want to try something.”

Jira didn’t insist. He sat on the bed, watching Ko carry the flowerpot to the balcony and place it alongside other plants. He took some scissors and cut some roses he had cultivated with so much effort, placing them in a small watering can.

“Why do you like flowers so much?” asked Ko, approaching from behind.

In all of Jira’s works, from the first to the fourth, flowers were a constant element. Ko wanted to understand what made them so fascinating to him.

“When a plant blooms, it uses a lot of energy. Some even die after blooming, as if they spent their last strength to produce flowers or seeds and be reborn. That’s why I love flowers: they show effort, struggle, death, beauty. It depends on how you look at them.”

“And why don’t you buy cut flowers? There are many in the market.”

“It’s not that simple! Inspiration doesn’t come that way. I have to live with them, care for them, watch them grow, bloom. That’s what inspires me.”

Ko nodded, understanding partially. He took out his phone and took some photos of the balcony, then came closer to Jira to photograph the plants, the flowers, and the roses he was arranging so carefully.

When Jira looked up, he was startled to see Kotan’s face close, almost touching his nose. “What are you doing?”
“I want to take photos of the balcony as a memory. Help me take them from the same perspective you used in your painting.”

Ko spoke in a coquettish tone, making puppy eyes.

Jira gave in. He put down the scissors, took Ko’s phone, and searched for the perfect angle. He snapped several photos, all with Ko behind, observing him closely.

“Is it done, or do you want more?”

Ko shook his head and took back his phone.

“Why are you so kind today? You do everything I ask,” said Ko.

“Special promotion. After today, it’s over,” replied Jira, joking, as he took the watering can and returned inside. He hung the tube with the painting over his shoulder.

“You sound like we’re a couple,” said Ko, smiling. “And what are we, if not?”
“So after this, you won’t do sweet things for me?” “If I’m sweet every day, you’ll get sick of it.”
“All right, then I’ll also avoid being sweet with you, so you won’t get bored.” Both left the room, heading to the penthouse, their love nest.
…

Jira almost forgot how sad the day had been, having to reject one person to stay with another. But Ko always managed to make him forget his sorrows.

Upon arriving at the penthouse, Ko went straight to the desk. He placed the watering can with Jira’s roses near the computer components. Then he took off his jacket and shirt, staying in his underwear, and sat in front of the desk where tools for assembling keyboards were laid out.

“I was working on this. Let me finish it. If you want, you can shower and sleep,” said Ko, soldering a keyboard, which produced a slight smoke and strong smell.

Jira approached, watching him closely, distracting him.

“Can you do something else? You make me nervous looking at me like that. I won’t be able to finish.”

“I just want to see what you do. I don’t see it often.”

“I do it all the time. Soon you’ll get bored of watching me.”

Imagining living together was curious: an artist obsessed with flowers and a tough tech guy who spends the day assembling computers. A strange combination, but they were together. Jira wondered if this relationship was real or just an illusion.

“Then consider me here to get used to it,” he said, noticing a box with discarded computer parts next to the desk. They looked like trash. Out of curiosity, he asked:

“This is no longer useful, right?” “Yes, thanks to you.”
A sensual image crossed his mind: the night Ko had swept the components off the desk in a fit, and they had passionate sex until dawn. Just thinking about it sent shivers down his spine.

“Who was at fault? You did it and blame me!” “You provoked me first.”
Tired of arguing, Jira cut the conversation.

“All right, I’ll keep the pieces. You keep doing your technology, and I’ll do my art.”

Ko nodded. Jira began sorting the broken pieces from the box on the floor. To break the silence, he started a conversation.

“What’s your thing with computers and technology? You’re always into that.”

“I don’t know. Circuits and computers have a logical structure. Assembling them calms me, like when I played with Legos as a child. It’s my form of art.”

“Wow, the great artist,” joked Jira.

“The world says technology is the new art, kid.”

Jira let out a dry laugh. He stood up, fetched scissors, a hammer, and a tray from the drink counter, and returned to the floor. He began breaking the computer pieces, hitting them as he pleased. Ko, seeing this, shouted in surprise:

“Hey! Do you hate technology that much? You’re breaking everything!” “I don’t hate it. I’m just following your advice: technology is the new art.”
Jira took the broken pieces, placed them on the tray, and poured water from the watering can over them. Ko didn’t seem convinced; Jira had always been reluctant with technology.

“I’m serious. These two disciplines have always been connected. Da Vinci used optics to paint The Last Supper. Cinema exists because someone invented the camera. Today, art is artificial intelligence.”

Jira set the watering can aside, preparing for a serious discussion.

“Would you dare to use AI to generate images and call them art? AI just copies and mixes the work of others. That’s horrible.”

“I’m not belittling your work.” “And isn’t that true?”
Jira took a flower from the watering can and cut its stem with the scissors.

“It’s not so different. You, as an artist, study the work of others, take a bit from here, a bit from there, and create something of your own. Each of your paintings has clear references, right?”

“Art is transmitted, but I don’t copy it superficially. There’s a learning process, filtering what inspires me until creating something new.”

“But actually, AI isn’t that different. It also learns, it just processes faster. If you want it legal, I can do it. All the art I used to train it I bought legally.”

Ko continued soldering the keyboard calmly. Meanwhile, Jira placed the flowers among the leftover components, creating a contrast between soft and rigid, similar to Georgia O’Keeffe’s works.

“But AI couldn’t do what I do, right?”

Ko left his work and leaned in to observe Jira’s freshly finished piece. Surprised, he got up and came closer.

“It’s strange. What does it mean?”

Jira looked away from his work and at Ko’s attractive face. “Think for yourself. What do you feel seeing it?”
Ko observed the piece for a moment before smiling.

“You wouldn’t want to know. It’s more risqu than you think.” “Explain it to me.”
“In my head, I only think of when we had sex last time. It was so intense everything got destroyed. These rigid, lifeless pieces are like me, hardened, not intimate with anyone in a long time.”

“What?”

“And the softness of the flowers is you, awakening my emotions, my life.” “What?”
“If I’m honest, I really want to be with you now. Is that too risqu an interpretation?” “What?”
Jira was stunned, swallowing again and again, not knowing how to react. As Ko approached, his warm breath was palpable. But, fearing everything would end in chaos like before, Ko stepped back, trying to control himself.

“Better I shower to calm down. If you want, go to sleep.” “What? You start like this and make it so easy?”
“You said if we do it too often, you’d get bored. I don’t want to rush.”

Ko headed to the bathroom to refresh, silently cursing himself while trying to regain control.

The sound of water resonated, and Jira, outside, reflected on the day’s events. After rejecting Pheem and choosing Ko, he felt the need for Ko to assure him that his decision had been the right one.

He looked at his freshly finished work, touching the computer remnants and the flowers. Then, determined, he walked toward the bathroom.

Through the curtain, he saw Ko’s naked figure in the bathtub, head resting on the edge, eyes closed. When Jira entered, Ko lifted his head and looked at him.

“Do you mind if I get in with you?” asked Jira. “Of course not,” responded Ko.
Jira undressed under Ko’s attentive gaze. When he entered the bathtub and they faced each other, Ko didn’t look away.

“Honestly, the first day I saw you, I never imagined we’d end up together,” said Ko.

If he thought deeply, Ko never imagined he could love or be with someone. His life was lonely, with few interactions. He dismissed anyone who wasn’t useful. That was his life.

“As if I had planned it. You were even the type of person I wanted to reject,” responded Jira. “So why did you choose me?”
“Because you’re a mess, but you turn me on.” Ko splashed water on his face.
“See? I haven’t even finished speaking and you already interrupt me.” “Yeah, I know.”
“But if I’m honest, you’re adorable. You just don’t like to show it.” “You’ll stay with me, right?”
It was incredible that these words came from Ko’s mouth. He didn’t want to admit his fear of losing, because he had always valued what he had. Since his family lost everything after the bankruptcy, this was the first time he felt love again and he didn’t want to lose it.

“Are you afraid I’ll leave you?” “Yes.”
“The one who should be afraid is me. You’re the type who easily abandons something when it’s no longer useful, like your computers.”

“If you’re not sure, move in here with me. Stay until the house is ready, and then we’ll move together.”

Ko began to dream, and Jira followed him. Was this the security he sought? Ko offered it effortlessly.

“But if I move in, can I leave if I want?” Ko moved closer.
“Look me in the eyes.”

That gesture reminded him of their first meeting in a restaurant. They had shared many glances, each with a different feeling. This time, Ko’s eyes were full of depth and vulnerability.

“What did you feel then? At first, I felt nothing for you. But now… I feel something immense. I want you to be part of my life.”

“The same here.”

With those words, both melted into a passionate kiss in the bathtub, holding each other tightly, overwhelmed by a love difficult to contain.

…[One week later]

Pheem was still living like a lost soul. He had been lying face down on the sofa since the previous night. At dawn, he had not moved. When Marwin left his room, he was surprised to see him still there. He approached the sofa, pulled on his arm to lift him.

“Damn it, Pheem! Are you okay?”

“I didn’t think it would affect me so much…”

His voice was hoarse. Marwin lifted him and dragged him to the bathroom to wash his face.

“Last night I tried to distract myself looking for a job, but I ended up looking at art images and thinking of him again.”

Marwin ignored his words and washed his face roughly, as if caring for a small child. Pheem remained still, silent.

“Awake now?” “Yes…”
“I have a casting today. Are you coming with me?” “I don’t have the strength.”

“Come on, cheer me up. Think about something else so you’re not so sad. I’ll prepare your clothes, you shower.”

Marwin closed the tap and tapped him on the head before leaving. Pheem looked at his reflection in the mirror, confronting his own pain.

…

“Introduce yourself briefly: age, height, weight, and previous jobs. Look at that camera,” said Ing, pointing at a camera.
Marwin took a deep breath, trying to calm down.

In the casting room, Ing and his assistant watched seriously. On the table were resumes of various candidates. In front of them, a camera recorded, making Marwin nervous.

“Hello, I’m Marwin, I’m 28 years old, I’m 1.88 meters tall, I weigh 75 kilos. It’s my first casting,”

he said in a tense voice.

Ing, fearing he would get more nervous, asked him to limit himself to that.

“Did you bring the script prepared? Then start. Someone will give you the lines.” Marwin nodded. A man entered to give him the lines.
Marwin was so nervous he barely heard the order to start. He had researched the script and discovered it was inspired by Mulholland Drive by David Lynch, but he didn’t care anymore. He got into the role, changed his expression, and said the first line:

“Why are you still here? Why did you come back?!”

The other actor responded professionally, but Marwin was stiff, his eyes moving erratically. Before continuing, he interrupted:

“Cut, cut!”

“Marwin, please don’t cut yourself. Play, even if it’s not perfect,” said Ing. “All right. Can I try again?”
“When you’re ready. Take your time.”

Marwin waved his hands to relax but wasn’t sure he could do it well. He decided to ask Ing for help.

“Can I ask my friend to act with me? I practiced with him.” “Let’s try. Let someone else in, but only this time.”

“Thanks, really!”

Marwin ran to find Pheem, who looked at him confused. “Help me, please!”
“Who died?”

“Me, if you don’t help me! Come in and act with me, I beg you.”

Pheem seemed desperate, just like Marwin. The latter couldn’t imagine how Pheem, in his state, could help him.

“Don’t you see I’m terrible? We’ll ruin everything!” “You almost did last time.”
“Almost isn’t enough!”

The argument didn’t advance, and Pheem was trapped in his sadness. He couldn’t handle his emotions to act in front of a camera.

But Marwin kept trusting him, trying to convince him with a thousand arguments. Finally, he mentioned something he knew would touch his heart: Jira.

“Look, you don’t need much emotion. Just show the sadness of saying goodbye to someone you deeply love, but can’t be with.”

“It’s easy to say, but act it?” “You can.”
“How?”

“You never said goodbye to Jira, right?” “I still have to see him. He’s not dead.”
The phrase stopped the conversation. In another situation, Marwin would have hit Pheem for his sarcasm, but he restrained himself.

“I mean say goodbye as a partner. From now on, you’ll be his friend or whatever.” “And what?”
“Look at me,” said Marwin softly.

“Imagine I’m Jira. If you had to say goodbye, what would you tell him? I give you the chance to say it, because I know you never would.”

Pheem always hid his vulnerability behind a tough facade. Even if he had a thousand complaints and pain, he would never express them. Marwin, as a friend, was willing to listen. This could be the only way to help Pheem channel his sadness for the role and, at the same time, heal his heart to move forward.

One last chance.

“All right, but let me smoke a cigarette first.”

Pheem took a cigarette, lit it, and took a deep drag. Then he lowered his hand and approached Marwin. The image of Jira appeared in his mind. He swallowed and spoke the first line, full of pain:

“Jira is incredible, really incredible…”

Marwin remained silent, acting as a messenger.

“The first time we met, with just the introduction, Jira had already won me over.”

The memories returned: the bar where everything changed. At first, Pheem just wanted to meet Jira out of passing interest, maybe as a fling. But over time, talking and getting closer, his feelings changed. He wanted more than that. He had never had to strive for love, and Jira was different.

“Jira’s shirt, full of paint, wasn’t pretty, but because it was Jira, I saw it as beautiful.”

“The paintings Jira made, I wanted to be part of them. I even imagined what it would be like to be together: Jira painting, and me in front of the computer.”

Each line was beautiful and painful at the same time.

There were days he was furious for not getting what he wanted, days he questioned why he wasn’t chosen, days he sank into sadness, feeling less valuable. His confidence, which had always supported him, collapsed in an instant.

“I’ve always won, damn it, but today I have to truly admit that I lost… I lost to Jira… I concede it to you…”

And then, little by little, he realized that no matter how good or bad something was, if it wasn’t right, everything ended.

Where is the line that defines the importance a person has in another’s heart?

Pheem didn’t know. He just followed his feelings. The truth is that, if someone hurts you, cutting them out of your life ends everything. And when a new day comes, Pheem’s life would be filled with new people who would enter, introduce themselves, make him love them, and grow fond of them.

But Jira… he didn’t want to push him away. He still wanted to keep the other person close, no matter in what role.

“To protect this swamp, I had to stay here, in this place where I can still see you…” It was already time to say goodbye.
“Goodbye, Jira, and also…”

The young man’s voice trembled. Tears ran down his face without him trying to wipe them. He couldn’t finish the sentence, choosing instead to take another drag of his cigarette. The white smoke rose into the air, while the afternoon breeze blew gently.

Time passed from seconds to minutes.

Finally, he turned around with a smile on his face again. “Hello, Jira! I’m Pheem, your friend, you know?”
It was a greeting to start a friendship that would never fade.

Marwin cried too. He sniffled hard, wiping the tears from his cheeks with his arm, before approaching to hug and console his friend, saying simple but warm words that filled the heart.

“You’re incredible, friend. Whatever happens, you’ll always have me.” Ten minutes later.
There was no verbal response, no pleas, nothing.

When Pheem came back to himself, he found himself standing in front of the filming set, all eyes on them, ready to continue with the script.

However, the Pheem and Marwin of today were completely different from those of yesterday.

…A cargo van entered the hotel and stopped where the butler was waiting.

Shortly after, another car arrived. Three IT technicians got out, led by a white-skinned foreigner in a long-sleeved shirt, the Principal Investigator. The other two, a Thai and a Hindu, were engineers.

“I’ll go check the equipment. Ruj, can we bring it up now?”

“I’ll go and check,” responded the Thai engineer. Then he went to the butler: “Hello, can we bring the equipment up to the penthouse?”

“Yes, the owner authorized it.”

The engineers opened the van, revealing IT equipment. Carefully, they unloaded curved monitors and a supercomputer the size of a refrigerator, supervising every step.

“Come to my room, I have a surprise.”

Jira received that message in the morning. The word “surprise” made him smile and pace excitedly. He showered, dressed, and took a taxi to the hotel.

Upon entering, he saw a curved monitor and several cameras. The technicians had already left, leaving only Ko and the strange equipment.

“Are you going to stream a video game?” Jira joked, not knowing what it was for. “I’ve streamed before, but without showing my face. Guess the name of my channel.” “You’re so mysterious I couldn’t guess. Tell me.”
“Korn Wick,” said Ko.

“Obviously,” Jira laughed. With a little more time, he would have guessed, since Ko’s Line profile had a picture of John Wick.

“I thought you were tough, but you’re a green kid. So, is it a game stream?” Ko approached a chair in front of the monitor and cameras, inviting Jira to sit. “Sit. I want you to see these images and tell me what you feel.”
“How?” Jira was confused.

“I want to understand you, know how you think. Say what you feel when you see the images, whether you like them or not.”

Ko opened an image on the monitor: a watercolor painting Jira had painted for him. “Do you want me to critique your work?” asked Jira. Ko nodded seriously.
“What did you want from me to paint this?”

“The first time I saw you, you were a mystery. Your actions were strange. You seemed reserved, but suddenly you undressed in front of me. You’re contradictory, but fascinating.”

That was all Jira felt for the man whose name he didn’t know then.

Ko changed the image. He showed Jira’s balcony with flowers, roses, and orchids, a photo he had taken days ago.

“That’s my balcony. What should I critique?” “When I slept there, how did you paint me?” Jira closed his eyes, remembering.
“When you slept, the wind made rose petals fall. It was a magical moment. I imagined I was one of those petals, touching your body a thousand times.”

Ko nodded, satisfied, and asked:

“Did you have any inspiration for that painting?” “Yes, I thought of The Roses of Heliogabalus.”
Ko typed something, and Alma-Tadema’s painting appeared on the screen. “What do you feel?”
“It’s a masterpiece, who would dare critique it?” “You. I want to hear.”
“Well… I like its detailed approach. Each petal is so well made it feels like you can smell the roses. The flowers and people blend into an exquisite texture.”

Jira compared the work with his own, though not at the master level. He continued:

“But it’s also mysterious. It’s a feast where the roses kill the guests. That contrast between flowers and death fascinates me.”

“Go on.”

Summer Days by O’Keeffe appeared, with animal bones over clouds in an American landscape.

Summer Days de Georgia O’Keefe

“Summer Days?”

“Yes, I know you like it. Tell me what attracts you.”

“It’s surreal, it invites you to seek truth in the unreal. The skulls and the flowers represent the cycle of life, death, and rebirth. I love that. And the flowers, so alive, are a small but detailed point, as if they had life.”

Ko straightened, observing Jira’s joy while talking about art. “I think that’s enough.”
“Already? I was getting warmed up.”

“I want to surprise you. This was a test for software I created.” Ki pointed to the cameras.
“They recorded your face and voice, sending data to an AI to analyze them.” “You’re having an AI study me?”
Jira was astonished by the revelation.

“It’s not that. I wanted to test the AI’s capabilities. I used your paintings, the inspirations you told me about, and the data from now. Do you want to see how the AI would paint my image sleeping under the roses on your balcony?”

Jira became uneasy, his heart pounding, fearing what would appear. When Ko gave the system the command:

“Draw a man sleeping on a balcony, based on The Roses of Heliogabalus, in Jira’s style,” the screen displayed “generating.”
Soon, a watercolor image appeared with fluid lines and rose petals, similar about 70% to Jira’s painting.

“I haven’t seen your painting yet. Let’s compare them.”

Ko took the tube from the desk, but Jira lunged to grab it, refusing to let go. Seeing his anxiety, Ko spoke slowly:

“You already named the painting. Can’t I see it?”

Jira reluctantly gave in. Ko unrolled the painting in front of the monitor and was astonished: the AI’s image and Jira’s were incredibly similar.

“I did it! This will be the most expensive software in history. What do you think?”

Jira, in shock, felt his body go numb. He processed what had happened and realized… He had become a tool for the developer.

The pain was not enough to describe what he felt. Still, he wanted to explain to Ko:

“Remember when you saw your painting at my house and asked how I did it? Every time I paint you, the work has meaning, life, because I interpret your essence in that moment. It’s the relationship between the artist and his muse. But your AI, copying my style, is horrible.”

Ko paled. He hadn’t expected his achievement to infuriate Jira. He tried to explain:

“I know you’re upset, but look at it carefully. Your life could improve with such a precise AI. Last month, Thames’ clothes were designed with my AI. He talks to it once a week, like you.”

“Thames wouldn’t approve of something so empty.”

“He loves my AI. It has improved his designs. It all depends on taste and choice.”

Ko explained how they designed a garment, from creation with the AI to its sale on his app, Hive.

“Thames talks to the AI for a few hours, and it generates hundreds of designs. I upload them to Hive, and the ones that work are produced. If Thames’ taste is outdated, I hire a young designer or influencer to adjust the system.”

“Fashion changes fast, but we are faster.”

Jira boiled with rage, his voice trembling and tears appearing.

“I spoke with Thames about how fashion is pure capitalism, but I didn’t imagine you’d be so cruel.”

“We can’t stop the world. We only decide how to survive in it.”

Ko shared his plans. Before, he hadn’t thought about it, but loving Jira made him want to change.

“I plan to grow Hive for a couple of years, show how incredible this AI is, and then sell it. We’ll retire, and you’ll have time to make the art you love.”

“Isn’t that irresponsible?”

“Responsible for what? Whoever buys it will decide how to use it.”

Jira understood everything. Ko had deceived him, using his trust and feelings for a business. He could buy the paintings legally, but he never asked if Jira was willing to give them up.

Even if he wanted to shout at him, it wouldn’t change reality. Jira stopped in front of the monitor and said firmly:
“Delete this painting.”

“Calm down, I don’t underestimate your work. It’s so good I used it as a reference.”

Jira interrupted:

“I didn’t give you permission. Delete my data from your system.”

“Hey… I bought your painting legally. I can use it however I want. The data you gave is part of the work, it’s in the contract. Be reasonable.”

“And asking me to go out with you was part of the contract?” “Don’t mix things up.”
Ko was disappointed by Jira’s lack of reason, who mixed the personal with the professional. “Everything is connected. Will you delete it or not?”
Ko remained silent. Jira, without patience, exploded:

“Then I quit!”

He stormed out, opening the door forcefully. “Wait! You quit over this? That’s stupid!”
“If you don’t understand why I quit, the stupid one is you.”

“If you want to let your emotions take over, do it. But you’ll come back,” shouted Ko. Jira turned, furious:
“I won’t come back, and I’m done with you too!”

The door slammed shut with a bang. Ko stood frozen, watching Jira’s back retreat after being rejected without warning.

Jira ran to the elevator. He had never felt such urgency. But for a moment, he looked back at the door, hoping Ko would follow.

He didn’t.

Jira entered the elevator, his face covered in tears that wouldn’t stop falling until the doors closed.

With a cold heart, it will always be a cold heart.