Hello, Who Are You?

The year was 1995.

The world was simpler, yet louder. In Bangkok, the humid air wasn’t just thick with exhaust fumes; it was electric with a new cultural revolution. They called it the “Alternative” era. It was a time when teenagers traded their neat pop songs for distorted guitars, plaid shirts, and an attitude of deliberate indifference.

In the middle of this cultural shift lived Kawin, a second-year university student who had mastered the art of doing absolutely nothing.

It was a Sunday afternoon, the kind that feels like it stretches on for eternity. Kawin lay sprawled across his bed in a small, cluttered room that smelled faintly of old paper and cassette tape magnetic strips. The afternoon sun sliced through the dusty blinds, casting striped shadows across the walls. Those walls were a shrine to his musical gods: a large, brooding poster of Oasis stared down from the ceiling, flanked by a slightly torn picture of Blur and a gritty black-and-white cutout of Kurt Cobain.

Kawin was currently floating in his own private universe. His eyes were closed, and the foam headphones of his Sony Walkman were pressed tight against his ears. The cassette inside—a mixtape he had painstakingly recorded from the radio—was spinning the melancholic intro of a Modern Dog song. He was perfectly content. He was perfectly isolated. He was perfectly asleep.

Until the silence was shattered.

(Riiiinnnnng... Riiiinnnnng...)

The sound was jarring, a mechanical scream that had no volume control. It was the landline—a sturdy, cream-colored device that sat on a small table by the door, its coiled cord tangled into an impossible knot.

Kawin groaned, his brow furrowing. He didn’t move. In 1995, you didn’t see who was calling. Every ring was a gamble. It could be his mother checking in, a friend wanting to borrow lecture notes, or a telemarketer selling life insurance.

(Riiiinnnnng... Riiiinnnnng...)

“Go away,” he muttered to the ceiling, turning up the volume on his Walkman.

But the phone was relentless. It screamed for attention, cutting through the bassline of the music. With a heavy sigh of defeat, Kawin hit the ‘Stop’ button on his player. The sudden silence in the room made the ringing even louder. He rolled off the bed, his feet shuffling across the cool wooden floor, and snatched the receiver up with the enthusiasm of a man being marched to the gallows.

“Hello?” he answered, his voice thick with sleep and annoyance.

“I’m calling, just like I promised. You gave me this number on Saturday.”

The voice on the other end was a shock to his system. It wasn’t his mom, and it certainly wasn’t a telemarketer. It was a girl—young, bright, and radiating a level of confidence that Kawin found immediately exhausting.

Kawin blinked, shaking the sleep from his head. “Uh... sorry, who is this?”

The girl let out a small, airy laugh. It was a sound that suggested she thought he was being cute. “Oh, stop it. Don’t play dumb with me... It’s about Kwee—the guy I met at the tape shop.”

Kawin rubbed his temples. The name triggered nothing. “Kwee?”

“Yes, Kwee. The guy from the tape shop.”

“I think you’re confused,” Kawin said, leaning against the wall and staring at a stack of comic books. “There’s no one named Kwee here. My name is Kawin.”

The playful tone on the other end of the line evaporated instantly, replaced by a sharp edge of suspicion. “Kawin? Kwee? Seriously? You’re going to play word games over a slightly different pronunciation?”

“It’s not a game,” Kawin said, his patience thinning. “It’s my name.”

“How can it be a wrong number?” she insisted, her voice rising in pitch. She sounded like someone who was used to getting her way and was currently baffled by this obstacle. “Listen to me. Last Saturday. Siam Square. The tape shop near the cinema. You remember, right?”

“I was home on Saturday,” Kawin mumbled, though she plowed right over him.

“You were too shy to ask for my number yourself, so you sent your friend over,” she recounted the story with absolute conviction. “When I told your friend no, you walked over, wrote this number on a slip of paper, and handed it to me. You said, ‘This is my number. If you change your mind, call me.’ You looked really cool doing it, by the way. So, here I am. I’m calling. If you have something to say to me, say it.”

Kawin stood there, holding the phone away from his ear slightly. The story was detailed, cinematic, and completely fictional as far as he was concerned. He hated Siam Square on weekends; it was too crowded. He hadn’t bought a tape in two weeks. And he definitely, absolutely, had never walked up to a girl to give her his number. He didn’t have that kind of courage.

“Look, miss,” Kawin said, trying to keep his voice level. “I think you’ve got the wrong house. Actually, I think you have the wrong universe. I wasn’t at a tape shop. I didn’t give you a number. You are mistaken.”

“You’re lying,” she snapped.

“I’m hanging up,” Kawin countered. “Sorry.”

Click!

He slammed the receiver down into the cradle with more force than necessary. The plastic clattered.

“What is wrong with people?” he muttered to the empty room. “Wrong number and she still wants to argue about it.”

He turned back toward his bed, ready to dive back into the safety of his music. He took one step, two steps—

(Riiiiinnnnng!)

The phone screamed again. It hadn’t even been five seconds.

Kawin froze. He spun around, staring at the cream-colored device as if it were a bomb. It rang again, demanding, angry.

He snatched the receiver up, adrenaline spiking. “Hello!”

“Hey you!” The voice exploded in his ear before he could take a breath. “Why did you hang up on me?! That is the most rude, ungentlemanly thing you could possibly do!”

Kawin was stunned. He opened his mouth, but no words came out initially. He was an introvert; he avoided conflict. Being yelled at by a stranger was his nightmare scenario. He took a deep breath, trying to channel his inner calm.

“I told you,” he said, speaking slowly as if talking to a child. “You. Have. The. Wrong. Person. I am not the ‘Kwee’ you are looking for.”

“Still playing games, huh?” Her voice dripped with disbelief. “You think this is ‘hard to get’? It’s just annoying.”

“Fine,” Kawin said, a spark of defiance lighting up in his chest. “If you’re so sure it’s me, describe this ‘Kwee’ guy. Tell me what he looks like.”

“Okay, fine! I will!” she retorted, accepting the challenge. “He has... shoulder-length hair, kind of messy but cool. He’s really tall and skinny. And he loves wearing black t-shirts. He looked like a rock star!”

Kawin paused. He turned his head to look at the full-length mirror attached to his wardrobe door.

He saw a young man with a military-style crew cut that was growing out awkwardly. He saw a body that was average—not fat, but certainly not the “skinny rock star” build. And looking down at his chest, he saw a faded, oversized white t-shirt with a cartoon duck on it.

“Yeah,” Kawin said dryly. “That is a completely different human being. I have short hair. I am not skinny. And I am wearing a white shirt with a duck on it. I am not cool, and I am definitely not a rock star.”

There was a silence on the other end. For a second, Kawin thought he had won with logic. But he had underestimated the stubbornness of a high school girl who believed in destiny.

“Are you... are you trying to piss me off?” Her voice began to tremble, hovering on the edge of tears or rage. “You’re describing yourself as the exact opposite just to mock me? Do you think I’m stupid? Do you think I can’t remember a face from yesterday?”

“I’m telling the truth!”

“If you didn’t want to talk to me, why did you give me the number in the first place?!” she screamed. “Why give me hope if you were just going to be a jerk?!”

Click!

This time, she hung up on him. The dial tone hummed in Kawin’s ear, mocking him.

He slowly lowered the phone, staring at it in total bewilderment. He felt like he had just been hit by a whirlwind. “What... just happened?”

He sat down on the floor next to the phone table, hugging his knees. His peaceful Sunday was ruined. His heart was beating fast. He tried to process the logic: A guy named Kwee gives a fake number. The number happens to be Kawin’s. The girl calls. Kawin denies it. The girl thinks Kawin is Kwee pretending not to be Kwee to be mean.

“That guy Kwee is a genius,” Kawin whispered to himself. “An evil genius.”

He waited. He knew it wasn’t over. The script wasn’t finished.

Almost a minute passed. The silence in the room was heavy. Then—

(Riiiiinnnnng!)

Kawin picked it up immediately. He didn’t even say hello. He just breathed into the receiver.

“Why haven’t you called me back yet?!” She sounded frantic now, her anger mixing with a strange desperation.

“Because,” Kawin said, his voice flat with exhaustion, “I don’t have your number. You called me. Remember?”

There was a pause. The logic seemed to penetrate her force field of emotion.

“Oh,” she said. Then, quickly recovering her momentum, she rattled off a string of digits. “02-XXX-XXXX! Got it? Now you know! No more excuses!”

Click!

She hung up again.

Kawin looked at the phone in his hand. He hadn’t written anything down. He shook his head, let out a long, groaning laugh, and placed the receiver back on the cradle.

“Crazy,” he concluded. “She is absolutely crazy.”

He stood up, intending to go to the kitchen to get a glass of water and wash this weird encounter out of his mind. He had zero intention of calling her back. Why would he? She was aggressive, irrational, and looking for someone else.

He took three steps toward the door.

(Riiiiinnnnng!)

“Oh, come on!” Kawin shouted at the phone.

He grabbed the receiver. This was the fourth call.

“Listen—” he started.

“No, you listen!” she interrupted, her voice taking on the tone of a strict schoolteacher. “Let me teach you something about women, Mr. Kwee!”

Kawin stayed silent, leaning his forehead against the wall.

“When a girl gets mad and hangs up the phone,” she lectured, “the guy is supposed to call back immediately! You don’t wait. You don’t go get a snack. You call back! If you leave her waiting like this, she’s going to think you don’t care, and she’s going to get even more angry! Do you understand?!”

“I...”

“Call me back!”

Click!

Silence returned to the room.

Kawin stood there, the receiver in his hand, the dial tone buzzing like a persistent fly.

When a girl gets mad and hangs up, the guy is supposed to call back immediately.

It was a ridiculous rule. It was the logic of soap operas and teenage magazines. It made no sense.

And yet...

Kawin looked at the phone. Then he looked at his unmade bed. Then he looked at the Oasis poster.

His annoyance was fading, replaced by something else. Curiosity.

This girl wasn’t just a “wrong number” anymore. She was a character. She was fierce, persistent, and possessed a bizarrely confident logic system that fascinated him. Most people would have realized their mistake by call number two. She was on call number four and was now giving him dating advice.

She was a mystery. A puzzle.

And Kawin, for all his introversion, was bored out of his mind.

“If I don’t call,” he reasoned to himself, “she’s just going to call again. And again. She’s not going to stop until she gets her ‘Jerry Maguire’ moment.”

He sighed, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He walked over to his desk, grabbed a pen and a scrap of paper. He closed his eyes, recalling the string of numbers she had shouted at him. He had a good memory for numbers.

0... 2...

He wrote it down.

He sat on the floor, cross-legged, the phone in his lap. He spun the rotary dial (or perhaps punched the buttons—it was 1995, the transition era).

Beep... Beep... Beep...

He waited. His heart did a strange little flip.

“Hello?” Her voice answered on the first ring. She had been sitting right next to the phone.

Kawin took a breath. “Okay... are we done sulking? Can we talk like civilized humans now?”

There was a long silence on the other end. When she spoke, her voice had lost its sharp edge. It was softer, smaller. “I guess... if you stop being mean.”

“I wasn’t being mean,” Kawin said gently. “I was being honest. But let’s start over.”

“Fine,” she whispered.

“What’s your name?” Kawin asked.

“Namsai,” she replied. “I’m a senior in high school. All-girls school.”

“Namsai,” Kawin repeated. Clear Water. It was a nice name. “I’m Kawin. I’m a sophomore at the State University. I study Engineering. And I repeat: I am not Kwee.”

“You’re still sticking to that story?” She sounded less angry, more amused now.

“It’s the only story I have,” Kawin said. “Look, I have a proposal. You clearly don’t believe me over the phone. You think I’m this cool, long-haired guy from the tape shop who is playing a prank.”

“Well, yeah. Why else would you have the number?”

“Coincidence? Fate? Bad handwriting?” Kawin suggested. “Here’s the deal. Do you want to meet up? Somewhere public. Siam Square. Center Point. We meet, you look at my face, you realize I’m a short-haired guy in a duck t-shirt, and then you accept that it was a wrong number.”

“You want to meet?” Her voice spiked with a mix of excitement and hesitation.

“I want to clear my name,” Kawin lied. In truth, he just wanted to see the face that belonged to this chaotic voice. “If you see me and realize I’m not him, you have to promise to stop calling and yelling at me.”

The line went silent for a long time. Kawin could hear her breathing. He could imagine her twisting the phone cord around her finger, biting her lip.

“No!” she said suddenly.

“No?”

“I don’t want to meet!”

“Why?” Kawin asked, confused. “I thought you were desperate to talk to this guy.”

“I don’t want to get involved with a liar!” she said, though her conviction was wavering. “What if you are him, but you’re just... weird? Or what if you’re a creep?”

“I’m offering to meet in the middle of Siam Square on a weekend,” Kawin reasoned. “It’s the most crowded place in Bangkok. If I’m a creep, you can just scream and a thousand teenagers will tackle me.”

She laughed. It was a genuine laugh this time. “True.”

“So?” Kawin pressed. “Come on. Prove me wrong. Prove that I’m actually Kwee.”

“If I go...” she started slowly. “If I go and you’re not him... then I look stupid.”

“No,” Kawin said surprisingly gently. “Then you just made a mistake. And we can grab a Coke or something, and you can tell me how much you hate this Kwee guy for giving you the wrong number.”

“Okay,” she said softly.

“Okay?”

“Fine! But...” Her voice regained a bit of that feisty spark. “When you come, don’t tease me again, okay? If you show up and you actually do have long hair and a black shirt, I’m going to kick your shins.”

Kawin laughed. “I promise. Crew cut. White t-shirt. Average looking guy. You can’t miss me.”

“Okay. Saturday. 2 PM. Center Point fountain.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Bye, Kawin.”

“Bye, Namsai.”

Click.

Kawin hung up the phone. The room was silent again, but the atmosphere had changed completely. The boredom was gone. The lazy Sunday energy had evaporated, replaced by a strange, buzzing anticipation.

He looked at the phone. He looked at the reflection of his ordinary face in the mirror.

“What the hell just happened?” he whispered.

He had started the afternoon wanting to take a nap. He was ending it with a date—or at least, a confrontation—with a high school girl who thought he was a grunge rocker.

He flopped back onto his bed, staring up at the Oasis poster. Liam Gallagher sneered down at him. Kawin grabbed a pillow and covered his face, letting out a muffled shout of confusion and excitement.

“Is this...” he wondered aloud, his voice muffled by the pillow. “Is this what they call getting hit on? Or did I just accidentally sign up for a disaster?”

He reached for his Walkman and pressed play. The music swelled back into his ears, but this time, the lyrics didn’t feel so melancholic.

Maybe, he thought, closing his eyes, wrong numbers are just right numbers waiting for the right time.