My Florentino was about to destroy the enemy base. A couple more hits, and I would have cracked the Top 50 ROV players in Chonburi province. And then it happened.
The sound of an incoming LINE video call.
For normal people, it’s the sound of someone missing you. For me, it’s an air raid siren screaming: “Evacuate! Disappear right now!”
I throw my phone on the bed (praying my team can carry the match without me), grab a pillow, and fly out onto the narrow balcony of our rented studio. I carefully slide the glass door shut and squat right under the air conditioner compressor. It blows hot air directly into my face like a hairdryer from hell.
This is my daily ritual. The routine of a Thai husband stripped of his job, his money, and any remaining shreds of dignity.
Through the glass, I watch my girlfriend, Noon, fix her hair and flash a perfect, sickeningly sweet smile at the screen. She’s talking to “him”—the European pensioner who pays for this room, our dinner, and the very 5G Wi-Fi I use to play ROV. Noon softens her voice, chirps “I love you,” and tells him how terribly she misses him.
Meanwhile, I, her actual boyfriend, am sitting on the balcony, swatting mosquitoes and feeling like an absolute ghost.
Pride? Dignity? Please. My male ego evaporated the day I first saw a K-Plus bank app notification pop up on her screen. When a 30,000 Baht transfer drops in, the pain of watching your girlfriend coo at a grandpa magically vanishes. It’s immediately replaced by a massive wave of relief: we survived for another month. Now I can buy a new in-game skin and a bottle of SangSom.
I do work, technically. I have a green LINE Man rider jacket. It hangs on a chair. But I only put it on when Noon throws one of her epic tantrums, screaming,
“You’re a piece of shit, sitting at home all day!”
When that happens, I sigh heavily, put on the uniform, start my bike, and go deliver Pad Thai. I work exactly long enough for Noon to calm down. The second the storm passes, the jacket goes right back on the chair, and I go back to the ROV lobby. And I wait for the next fight.
An hour later, Noon finally hangs up. She slides the balcony door open. Her face is heavy and exhausted. I walk silently back into the room, lie down on the bed bought with that guy’s money, and hug the girl who just swore eternal love to another man.
Call me a leech. Call me a coward. I won’t argue. Because reality is harsher than any insult: without this Farang, Noon and I would simply starve to death. I’d rather be a dog with a full belly than a starving tiger.
Besides, my ROV tournament is coming up, and I need money for energy drinks.
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