17. WHERE LOGIC LOSES YOU

Pheem was sitting on the balcony of his room, drinking a cold beer from a can.

In front of him, on a low table, there was a plate with street food. He enjoyed the quiet atmosphere and the fresh breeze alone, until the calm was broken by the arrival of a whirlwind.

Marwin, just out of the shower, approached with a can of beer in hand and sat beside him. He observed his best friend’s face with curiosity before firing a surprised question:

“During the casting, you were incredible. Was it my ability to build emotions that motivated you?”

“In part, thanks for helping me say goodbye to Jira,” Pheem replied. “You cried rivers!”
“I was devastated.”

“Sighing for love, huh? Love…” Marwin dramatized with a sigh.

“Damn fool, always so exaggerated! You didn’t let me finish,” said Pheem, while Marwin raised an eyebrow and gestured for him to continue.

“What I wanted to say is that I feel good.”

The tall man raised his beer and took a sip, organizing his thoughts.

“When I acted with you, I realized I don’t have to sink into sadness. Suddenly, I became another person, forgetting myself for a moment.”

“Wow, you became a master actor faster than me!” Marwin joked.

“Seriously, I think there’s a lot to explore. I don’t have to be trapped in myself. Looking back, saying goodbye to someone like in the script was so painful that I don’t want to say goodbye to anyone in real life again.”

“Come on, even if you’re not with him, you can move on. Do you know why? Because you have me,” said Marwin in a theatrical tone.

“You’re so cheesy, damn it!” If he interpreted it as friendship, it was touching, but if he looked at it romantically, it gave him goosebumps.

“I could go out with you, seriously! Look me in the eyes,” said Marwin, pointing to his eyes and bringing his face closer to Pheem’s. Pheem stared without blinking before replying sarcastically:

“Your eyes lie more than they speak.”

Pheem raised his beer for another sip. Both looked outward, where tall buildings rose imposingly. The calm atmosphere was interrupted by the vibration of a mobile phone. Their eyes met at the same moment on the screen, where a message in large letters read: DO NOT ANSWER.

“‘Do not answer’? Who is it?” asked Marwin. “Who do you think it is?” replied Pheem.
“Damn it, don’t tell me it’s him! What are you going to do?” “Let me handle it.”
Pheem got up from the table and went to a corner of the balcony to answer the call. He didn’t give Jira a chance to speak first, firing immediately:

“Why are you calling?”

[Pheem, I know I was an idiot, but I have something urgent and need your help. Can you come down to talk to me?]

[I’m downstairs, at your condo,] Jira added. Pheem quickly turned to Marwin, as if asking his opinion on what to do.

Finally, Pheem sent Marwin as an emissary to the condo reception. There, he saw Jira sitting on a sofa, with an expression so sad it inspired pity. Marwin quickly approached to follow his friend’s orders.

“Jira? I’m Marwin, Pheem’s friend.”

“Hi, and Pheem?” The conversation was brief and direct.

“Pheem sent me. As his friend, I can’t let you upstairs. To be clear… Pheem asked me to get you out of the condo.”

“I understand,” said Jira, staying silent for a moment before showing an expression of disappointment and resignation.

“Tell him I apologize for bothering him.” “Wait…”
Marwin didn’t let him go. He changed the subject to something personal he had wanted to resolve for a while.

“Maybe you don’t remember, but I was the one who threw urine at you at the NECTEC event.”

Jira listened without showing any emotion. If this had happened right after the incident, he would probably have exploded with rage. But now, with time, he only felt indifference.
Perhaps the graver things he had faced made this seem insignificant.

“It’s over, doesn’t matter,” Jira replied.

“I’ll take you upstairs because I owe you one. Consider it my way of apologizing. But once you’re there, no matter what happens, I won’t help you anymore. This ends here,” said Marwin, speaking as if he had already decided everything. Jira, seeing the opportunity, nodded quickly.

“So he agreed? Did he say anything about me?” asked Pheem anxiously as Marwin opened the door to the room. His friend was standing by the sofa, visibly nervous.

“If you really want to know, talk to him yourself,” replied Marwin with a smile, knowing his decision might cost him a good scolding.

Marwin pulled Jira by the arm to enter. The unexpected appearance made Pheem shout furiously:

“Why the hell did you bring him?!”

“Because he’s the guy I threw urine at. If anything happens, call me,” said Marwin, quickly escaping to his room to avoid consequences, leaving the two face to face in prolonged silence.

“What do you want?” said Pheem finally.

“I just want to know what the Hivemind AI learned from Ko and if it’s possible to delete that data,” explained Jira. Pheem let out a sarcastic laugh. Jira wasn’t here for him, but, as always, for Ko.

“It happened faster than I thought. Has the AI already replaced you?” said Pheem ironically. “You can mock if you want, but can it be deleted?”
“It’s difficult.”

“But difficult means possible, right?”

“I quit; I don’t have credentials to access the system. You’d have to ask someone from the company to delete it. But even if you do, in the future, whoever buys your work can have the AI study you again. Accept it.”

Pheem viewed the world realistically. The AI already dominated everything, and it was almost impossible to control. If Ko didn’t do it, someone else eventually would.

“Alright, I won’t bother you anymore. Sorry,” said Jira, head down.

At that moment, he couldn’t think of anyone else to turn to but Pheem. He knew he himself had hurt Pheem by rejecting him and now was asking for help under a trivial pretext. His actions were reproachable, he knew, but he couldn’t help it.

Pheem wanted to be tougher, but seeing Jira’s sad expression, he couldn’t maintain his coldness. Finally, he stopped him and offered the help he could provide.

“I’ll try to delete it now. Sit and wait.”

“Thanks, really,” said Jira, relieved and grateful. He sat in a nearby chair, watching Pheem work on the computer, accessing the Hivemind development program.

Pheem typed commands attempting to hack the backend system*, but each attempt resulted in an “access denied” message. He sighed, exhausted, and leaned back in the chair.

(*) A backend system is the part of an application or website that users don’t see directly. It handles the logic, data processing, and information management that makes the application function correctly and securely. It’s the “brain” of the application, managing databases, servers, and communication between the frontend (visible interface) and the rest of the system.

“If you can’t do anything, it’s okay,” said Jira, resigned.

“I tried a brute-force attack* on the backend, but it didn’t work. The other option is to ask someone from Hivemind to do it, but I don’t want to get others in trouble. This is all I can do.”

(**) A brute-force attack involves trying all possible combinations of passwords or data, using a computer’s computing power to find the correct solution.

“That’s enough,” said Jira. “And now what will you do?”
“I guess I’ll go back to painting, look for new ways to do it. I can’t keep painting for Ko forever, right?”

Jira, in his process of maturing, still had much to learn about life’s truths. But from now on, each day would make him stronger. The world was full of kind and cruel people. His encounter with Ko only pushed him to strive harder to survive in his career. Perhaps in the future, he would find a new path for his art or even a new muse.

“How ironic, we’re both unemployed,” said Pheem, noticing Jira’s somber expression. To cheer him up, he resorted to an old tactic: reading his hand.

“Let me see your hand.”

Jira, understanding his intention, cooperated and extended his right hand. After a brief analysis, Pheem gave his prediction:

“You don’t have lines of fatality in your career. You won’t be unemployed for long.” “I hope that’s true,” responded Jira.
“It is. Someone as talented as you will be valued anywhere. Don’t worry,” said Pheem, letting go of his hand, as if also releasing the feelings he still held for him.

“Thanks. I’m leaving,” said Jira.

Just as Jira was saying goodbye and about to leave, Pheem asked one last question, one he had been waiting a long time to ask:

“It may sound clich , but… can we still be friends?”

Jira stopped. A heavy silence enveloped him for a moment before his clear voice softly resonated:

“Yes, I was hoping you’d ask that too.”

A small smile formed on his face, etched into the memory of the one watching. Jira left, leaving Pheem with the determination to move forward.

…

[The first night after breaking up with Jira]

Ko went straight to another workstation, took a sleeping pill that had already made him nauseous several times, and swallowed it. Then, with trembling hands, he took a framed painting and placed it in the center of his room, near the bed. He tried to bring it closer before collapsing onto the mattress.

His sharp eyes looked at the painting for a moment, hypnotizing himself to fall asleep. It was an image of him sleeping, protected by an angel in his rest.
[The second night after breaking up with Jira]

Ko tossed and turned in bed, countless times. He pushed the sheet aside, feeling uncomfortable. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t sleep. The painting next to the bed seemed to mock him.

The angel in the painting did nothing to help him rest.

Determined, he got up, dressed, grabbed the car keys, and left the room.

Ki arrived at Jira’s bedroom at one in the morning. He stopped in front of door number 69 and knocked hard, hoping it wouldn’t be cruel enough to be ignored. At least, he wanted to clear things up.

He knocked once. Silence. Knocked twice, three times. He didn’t give up until, finally, the door opened, revealing Jira in a T-shirt and shorts.

His clean, pale face made Ko long for him even more. Just seeing him awakened in Ko the desire to hug him again. But when he took a step toward him, Jira stepped back, making it clear that any closeness existed only in Ko’s mind.

“What are you doing here?” asked Jira.

“I gave you time to rest. Now you can go back to work. I’ll act as if nothing you said happened,” said Ko, pretending the problem didn’t exist, like a fool who didn’t know how to face the situation.

“I told you I quit. Leave,” replied Jira, starting to close the door. Ko stopped it with his hand.
“I can’t sleep. Can you sleep with me again tonight?” Jira sighed, with a mixture of pity and disdain.
“If you can’t sleep, solve your problem on your own.”

“You’re incredibly selfish. Are we really going to end over this? You know, if it’s not me, someone else will,” said Ko, repeating the same argument he had used before, just like Pheem. It was a worn-out excuse, showing his refusal to adapt.

“If you had told me from the beginning what you were doing, it wouldn’t hurt so much,” said Jira, his voice breaking from the effort of speaking.

“Listen to me, please…” Ko insisted. “You were fine until you got angry.”
“I didn’t know, I was an idiot. I thought it was something good until you got mad.”

Jira clenched his fists, convinced that Ko still didn’t understand what he had done wrong. He remained silent, letting the other speak nonstop.

“The first day we met, you told me you could be whoever you wanted.”

“Can’t you just be someone who loves me? Without talking about work, without talking about anything else, just about us.”

“So cheesy! Now you come begging me?” said Jira, mocking. “I can’t live without you,” Ko insisted.
“But I can,” Jira replied firmly.

“What if I pay you? What if I hire you so everything goes back to how it was? Can you do that for me?” Jira let out a bitter laugh, hating that mentality of resorting to money when there were no other ideas.

“My life may seem desperate, but I don’t value myself that little. Leave.”

Jira slammed the door and locked it, leaving Ko unsure how to continue insisting. Slowly, he went down the stairs, exhausted and powerless.

…

[A week after breaking up with Jira]

A dim light guided the tall man to his destination. Pushing open the door revealed a bar counter standing out in the center. The place had few customers. Ko approached the bartender, a man named Ben, who recognized him before he could say anything.

“Well, Mr. Red Wine! It’s been a while since you came. The usual?” “Something stronger this time,” Ko replied.
Ben served a strong liquor in a glass, but couldn’t help asking with curiosity: “Do you remember all your clients?”
“No, but you, yes, because you seem to suffer from burnout more than anyone. What happened? Trouble with the boss again?”

“Worse, trouble with a subordinate,” said Ko, taking the glass and drinking the liquor neat in one gulp.

The bitter taste and warmth of the alcohol ran down his throat, awakening his body after a week without sleep. He signaled for another glass, and Ben poured it, continuing the conversation.

“Your subordinate must be a tough nut to crack.”

“I’m not sure. Maybe I’m the terrible boss,” Ko admitted.

Ben lifted a whiskey bottle, poured another drink, and handed him a table card with a number. Ko moved to a corner to find someone to vent to.

Soon, a young woman with the same table card approached. She was Ing. They had never met, although she had seen Jira’s paintings, which were not realistic portraits but emotional expressions. That’s why they started by introducing themselves.

“I’m Ing.”

“I’m K,” said Ko.

Meeting a stranger and having to converse was a big hurdle for Ko. He didn’t know how to start and seemed like he wouldn’t speak first. To prevent the atmosphere from becoming awkward, Ing took a question card from the table.

“What animal do you think represents how you feel right now?” Ko thought for a moment before replying in a low voice:
“I feel like a dog abandoned by its owner. And you?”

“Like a chicken, always paranoid, fearing they’ll cook or stab me,” said Ing.

“Is it that bad?” asked Ko.

It was a decent start, though somewhat pathetic.

“It’s been a problem for a while. I love my work, but it doesn’t let me thrive. It’s like constantly fighting, hoping someone values what you do. It’s like business and passion don’t fit together,” explained Ing.

“Can I ask what you do?” said Ko.

“Mostly I do castings, but out of passion I invested in opening an art space with a friend and work as a curator.”

“Didn’t work? I also thought about opening an art space,” commented Ko. “Don’t do it, run!” exclaimed Ing.
In his mind, Ko had planned his life. Knowing Jira loved art, he wanted to support him so he could do what he loved. Maybe it was a utopian idea, but it didn’t sound bad.

“Maybe it could work. It can’t be that terrible,” Ko insisted.

“If you have a lot of capital, you could sustain it. But I don’t have that much money, so I have to find a commercial hook,” said Ing, and then began to vent.

She spoke about how frustrating it was to find a selling point for art, something inherently contradictory. As a curator, she had to select works with artistic value, but if they didn’t sell, she had to rely on caf income. Customers came for photos and coffee, not to appreciate the art, which became secondary.

“In less than a year, the capital will run out. If I don’t make it, I’ll go back to castings and pause my passion. And you? What makes you want to open an art space?”

Ko nodded, understanding partially. Then he shared his problem, which connected with what Ing had said.

“I wanted to open it for my partner, but now I don’t think I will. We had a fight, and I feel like a dog abandoned.”

“What a shame,” said Ing.

Silence enveloped them again. Feeling out of topics, Ko took another card from the table. “If you could go anywhere right now, where would you go?”
“I’d go back to my room, sleep one night, and start over tomorrow,” Ing replied simply, but effectively.

“And you?”

“I’d look for my ex. If I found him, I could sleep.”

“Then go,” said Ing.

“But he’s my ex, it’s not that easy.” “Do you still love him?”
“I never stopped.”

“Then just approach him without bothering him. When you’re ready, you can live without him,” advised Ing.

…

In pajamas, Jira passed by a trophy from the Khao app that Ko had received at the NECTEC event. He felt a pang of pain and threw it in the trash. But it wasn’t enough. He took a drawing of Ko among lilies, still incomplete, from the tube where he kept it. Frustration and disappointment consumed him, and he tore the paper into pieces that scattered across the floor.

His large eyes looked at the fragments, realizing he had acted impulsively. Regretful, he tried to pick up the pieces to reconstruct the drawing.

At the same time, a Maserati parked in Jira’s dormitory lot. Ko rolled down the window, turned off the engine, and looked at the lit window of Jira’s room. Sadly, minutes later, the light went out, plunging everything into darkness.

Ko reclined the seat, settling to sleep. He closed his eyes slowly and let himself be carried into slumber.

In his dream, he saw Jira lying on a bed. He approached, slipped under the sheets, and they hugged tightly, sleeping together.

… Ugh!
Ko woke up startled in the car seat, sweat running down his forehead. Exhausted, he opened his eyes and saw a new day had begun. The image in front of him was blurry, or perhaps he hadn’t fully shaken off sleep, because it seemed like he saw Jira watching him from not far away.

Stunned, Ko remained still. Jira approached a motorcycle. When Ko realized it wasn’t a dream, Jira had already gone.

…

Jira went to Ing’s gallery after an artist’s exhibition had ended. She was dismantling an installation in the center of the room with her team. Jira watched silently until he noticed wilted flowers being thrown into a black bag. Suddenly, he thought of Ko, and tears began to flow.

“You’re more down than an abandoned dog,” said Ing.

“I broke up with Ko,” admitted Jira. Although it was a sudden confession, the pain was still there.

Ing, surprised, quickly adjusted her expression and hugged Jira, rubbing his back to comfort him. Then they sat in a corner of the studio to calm down.

Jira told her everything: the relationship, the work, the future. “Are you feeling better?” asked Ing.
“I don’t know. Sometimes I wonder if I should leave this and do something else, something the AI can’t replace.”

“What you do, the AI can’t do,” assured Ing. “You haven’t seen how terrifying it is.”
“No matter how terrifying it is, technology learns from you. You are its master,” said Ing, making Jira reflect. It was true.

“Your job is to find new possibilities, to create new art. If you give up because of this, don’t call yourself an artist.”

“Of course I’m an artist! I’m just tired,” complained Jira. Everyone goes through moments of discouragement. With the accumulated problems of work and relationships, his complaints were more intense.

“Don’t let yourself sink. Go back to doing the work you love,” insisted Ing. “But without Ko, I don’t know what to paint. I feel empty.”
“Grow up a little. Didn’t you hear what I said? An artist doesn’t only paint their love. You can’t depend only on your emotions and expect others to admire them. Paint about society, the environment, anything can inspire you.”

“Give me some time. I just broke up with my partner, I’m not in the mood,” replied Jira.

Seeking comfort from Ing, he received a dose of reality, as expected from his best friend. Without her, he didn’t know how he would have survived. Someone comforted him while simultaneously giving him a wake-up call.

“I don’t have time to pamper you. I’m giving you a deadline: by the end of the year, I want a complete collection,” said Ing.

“What?”

“I’ll exhibit your work. If you don’t take it seriously, if I delay and stop being a curator here, you’ll have to sell your works on your own.”

“What? Are you going to quit this job?” “Yes, I have burnout.”
“And then you scold me!” exclaimed Jira.

“Everyone has their lows. As friends, we take turns keeping each other upright. If nothing else, I keep working,” said Ing, leaving Jira alone with his new task.

Ing had told him that taking on a debt could cure his exhaustion, but she still suffered from burnout. She had told him to find a new muse for inspiration, but he ended up breaking up with his partner and feeling more exhausted than ever. No matter the advice, in the end, the adviser suffered the same burnout as he did.

…

An incoming call appeared on the screen: DO NOT ANSWER.

Pheem looked away from the computer, where he was searching for content analysis jobs. Marwin, lying on the sofa, was reading a Stanislavski acting book.

Pheem hesitated to answer, but the name said it all: DO NOT ANSWER. “What the hell!” he decided to pick up.
“What’s up?” said Jira in a deep voice. Marwin, bored, approached to listen to the conversation like a nosy neighbor.

“Sorry to bother you again, but can I borrow the painting I made of you? I want to use it for an exhibition,” said Jira.

“Sure,” replied Pheem. Marwin dropped his face onto the table, signaling Pheem to remember reality. He moved his lips silently: Don’t go back… don’t go back… He knew the more Pheem talked to Jira, the greater the risk of falling into his trap. He tried to avoid it at all costs.

“Can you bring me the painting? We can meet somewhere,” Jira suggested.

Without caring, Jira invited him out, and the friendly Pheem couldn’t resist, even suggesting a place.

“Tonight at Burnout? I just wanted to go grab a drink.” “Thanks, really,” said Jira, and the call ended.
Marwin couldn’t contain himself and exploded:

“You don’t have to put DO NOT ANSWER if you’re going to answer anyway!”

“If I didn’t have a real problem, I wouldn’t call,” reasoned Pheem. Then he remembered the painting he had left with Marwin. Since receiving it, he hadn’t looked at it. Now, feeling stronger, he asked for help.

“Give me the painting, I think I’m ready.” “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”

Marwin went to his room and returned with the bag containing the painting. Pheem nervously opened the zipper, turned the frame, and felt a mix of excitement and fear. It was an acrylic painting with vibrant lines and unique colors.

It was an image of him in the rage room, so beautiful he couldn’t describe it. He wanted to hang it on the wall and took a photo with his phone to share it on social media, so all his friends could see.

But beyond the beauty, something became clear.

He had inspired Jira as a human being, as someone he knew. However, it was not like Ko’s painting, which exuded passion, seduction, and infinite longing.

They both loved the same person, but in different ways.