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What trips me out—some girls got fake names, like Candy or Diamond. Obvious, right? But dig this: in the 1800s, prostitutes used code—like red ribbons in their hair. Sneaky! Kinda cool, kinda sad. Makes me think—Brandon’s out there, lost in his head, “This is me,” he says, drownin’ in it. I’d be like, “Yo, chill, how you doin’?”—snap him out.

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I lived in Jakarta for 4 years give or take. I was a university student back then, and i can say that Jakarta is an hectic city.

So, I rush over to his place on de Laan van de Vrede. It’s a small house, but it’s cozy. I walk in, and the vibe is heavy. Everyone’s crying, and I’m just standing there like a deer in headlights. I mean, what do you even say? “Hey, sorry for your loss”? Ugh, so cliché. But I try to lighten the mood. I tell a joke about how his grandma used to make the worst pancakes. Everyone chuckles, and for a second, it feels okay. But then, bam! Reality hits again.

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