Various locations in Berlin - Six months later
Bayu's opening invitation lay on Arjuna's studio table for a week, untouched. "MURAL STORIES: Individual Exhibition by Bayu Situmorang" was printed in bold font above a photo of one of Bayu's latest works—a colorful mural depicting immigrant life in Berlin with a style that was playful yet meaningful.
Arjuna stared at the invitation while mixing paint for his 15th painting in the past two years. Yes, the 15th. He'd been counting. Fifteen paintings he'd never submitted to any gallery because he never felt they were "good enough." Fifteen canvases stored in the corner of his studio, covered with white cloth like ghosts from the past haunting him.
"He succeeded," he muttered to himself. "First solo exhibition in a proper gallery, not just a group show or street festival."
Pride mixed with jealousy made him sick of himself. This was Bayu, his best friend. He should be happy. He should already be preparing his best clothes to attend the opening night. But what he felt was a burning failure—why wasn't he the one standing on gallery walls, explaining his work to interested visitors?
His phone rang. Dina.
"Jun, are you coming to Bayu's opening? It starts at seven at Galerie Neurotitan."
"I'm... I'm finishing touches on a new painting. Might not be able to make it."
A moment of silence on the other end. "Jun, this is Bayu. Our friend. His first opening."
"I know. I'm just—"
"You're just what? Jealous?"
The word hit like a punch to the gut. Because it was true. He was jealous, and hated himself for being jealous of his best friend's success.
"It's not like that, Din."
"Then what is it like? You never hang out with us anymore. When we invite you to eat or watch movies, there's always an excuse. When we come to the studio, you treat us like strangers who are disturbing you. And now, when Bayu achieves something he's dreamed of for years, you can't spare one night to support him?"
Arjuna fell silent. Indeed, over the past six months he'd increasingly withdrawn from their friendship. Every time Bayu or Dina talked about new projects, about opportunities they'd gotten, about their career progress, he felt slapped—a reminder that he was stuck in the same place.
"I'll try to come," he finally said.
"Try? Jun, this isn't a dentist appointment that can be rescheduled. This is your friend's opening night."
After the call ended, Arjuna sat silent in the increasingly empty studio. Bayu and Dina rarely came anymore—maybe tired of his increasingly antisocial attitude, maybe they already had new circles that were more supportive and less dramatic. He looked at Bayu's invitation again, reading the prestigious gallery name, reading the list of sponsors and media partners. All the things he dreamed of for himself.
At seven PM, Arjuna stood in front of Galerie Neurotitan with sweaty hands. Through the large glass windows, he could see a crowd of sophisticated people—art collectors, critics, established local artists. They stood in front of Bayu's murals displayed on clean white walls, wine glasses in hand, conversations that sounded intellectual even from outside.
"Damn, Jun! You came!" Bayu emerged from inside the gallery with a broad smile, wearing a black shirt and formal pants—very different from his usual casual style. "I thought you weren't going to show up."
"Sorry I'm late. Traffic."
Bayu hugged Arjuna with genuine warmth, no trace of resentment despite their recent lack of communication. "Come on, I want to show you my works. There are several pieces inspired by our conversations back in the studio."
Arjuna followed Bayu into the gallery, trying to smile despite the knot in his stomach. Bayu's works were indeed impressive—mature mural techniques, strong storytelling, bold and striking use of color. There were several pieces depicting their life as a trio in the studio, and others telling immigrant experiences with humor and hope.
"This piece," Bayu stopped in front of a large mural in the center of the gallery, "I made after our conversation about belonging. Do you remember when we talked until dawn about feeling like outsiders?"
Arjuna remembered that conversation. A cold and vulnerable night when the three of them shared fears and insecurities about living in a foreign city. Now that conversation had become an art piece displayed in a gallery, appreciated by dozens of people who had never experienced the same struggle.
"Impressive, Bay. Really."
"Thanks, bro. I knew you'd understand the message, because we experienced the same thing."
But Arjuna no longer felt like he'd experienced the same thing. Bayu had moved on from that outsider status, had already integrated with Berlin's art scene. While he was still stuck in the same limbo—not German enough to be accepted, not successful enough to be respected.
"Arjuna!" Dina appeared with camera in hand, having been photographing the event all evening. "Finally! I've photographed everyone except you."
"Hey, Din."
"Did you see Bayu's work in the corner? The one about our old studio? So nostalgic."
They walked to the corner of the gallery where there was a small series about "Jakarta Berlin Art Collective"—three friends chasing dreams in a foreign city. There were images of their former factory studio, hang-out moments at the Indonesian warung, even sketches of Arjuna's face while painting with intense concentration.
"Do you remember this moment?" Dina pointed to one of the panels. "When we first entered the studio, you said 'this is heaven.'"
Arjuna remembered. But now that heaven felt like purgatory—stuck between heaven and hell, not moving forward but not moving backward either.
"Hey, Jun," Bayu said while greeting some passing guests, "have you met Klaus Weber yet? He's the director of Galerie Contemporary in Mitte. I mentioned your name, he's interested in your work."
Arjuna's heart skipped a beat. Galerie Contemporary was one of the most prestigious galleries in Berlin, the place that had been his ultimate dream.
"Seriously?"
"Seriously. He said he wants to see your portfolio. This is the chance you've been waiting for, bro."
Klaus Weber turned out to be a middle-aged man with grey hair and vintage glasses that gave him an intellectual aura. When Bayu introduced them, Klaus extended his hand with a warm smile.
"Ah, Arjuna. Bayu told me a lot about your work. He said you have a very unique approach to painting—very emotional, very raw."
"Thank you. I mean, I try to put everything into my work."
"That's good. In Berlin's art scene, technique is baseline. Everyone has good technique. What separates great artists from good artists is emotional authenticity." Klaus sipped his wine. "I would love to see your portfolio sometime. Maybe you can send me some images via email?"
"Of course. I'll send them this week."
"Perfect. I'm always looking for fresh voices, especially from artists who bring different cultural perspectives."
After Klaus left, Arjuna felt a mix of excitement and panic. This was the opportunity he'd been waiting for years, but were his works ready for that level? Were the fifteen paintings stored in his studio good enough to impress one of Berlin's most influential gallerists?
"Are you okay?" Dina noticed Arjuna's expression. "You look pale."
"I... I don't know if my work is ready for Klaus Weber."
"Are you kidding? You're the most talented artist I know. Stop undermining yourself."
But self-doubt had already crept in. Throughout the rest of the opening night, Arjuna couldn't fully enjoy the event—his mind was already racing about which paintings to submit, how to photograph them properly, what to write in his artist statement. Even when chatting with other guests or viewing Bayu's other works, there was a voice in his head constantly analyzing and comparing.
"Jun," Bayu approached him at the end of the event when guests had begun to thin out, "thanks for coming. I know things have been weird between us lately."
"Bay, I apologize if I've been an asshole friend. I know I've become antisocial and—"
"Stop. You don't need to apologize. I understand the pressure you're feeling. I just want you to know that you're still my brother, regardless of career shit or whatever."
They hugged, and for a moment Arjuna felt the warmth of genuine friendship that had been missing for so long. But even in that moment, there was a part of him still calculating—what if Klaus Weber wasn't interested in his portfolio? What if this was just false hope? What if Bayu's success tonight only made his own failure more apparent?
That night, Arjuna returned to his studio and immediately opened all the paintings he'd been hiding. Fifteen canvases of various sizes, temporarily displayed throughout the studio space. He walked from one painting to another, trying to see his works through Klaus Weber's eyes—what would impress him? What would disappoint him?
There were melancholic Berlin winter landscapes, portrait series about immigrant faces, abstract pieces born from frustration and homesickness. Technically, they were all good. But were they enough to compete at an international gallery level?
He sat in the center of the studio, surrounded by his own work, feeling more isolated than ever. Bayu's success tonight should have been inspiring, but what he felt was multiplied pressure. Now he wasn't just competing with himself, but also with the expectations Klaus Weber might have after meeting him through Bayu's recommendation.
"Ma," he whispered in the night's silence, "I got the opportunity I've been waiting for years. But why am I scared? Why do I feel like I don't deserve this success?"
Questions without answers, echoing in the studio full of works waiting for validation from the outside world. Arjuna didn't know that this fear of failure would change his approach to art—from expression to performance, from authenticity to calculation.
And he didn't know that this change would be the beginning of the end for the friendship that had once been his anchor in this foreign city.