Two Lost Boys

Chapter 0: What the fuck is wrong with Her?

[Scene: A quiet rooftop overlooking a restless city. The air is thick with the weight of things left unsaid. B leans against the railing, staring into the distance, while M sits cross-legged on the floor, flicking a lighter on and off.]

M:

You know, for a lost boy from Liverpool, you sure as hell don’t seem too lost.

B:

(smirks, not looking away)

Maybe I just got good at pretending. You? A lost boy from Thailand? Thought you had it all figured out.

M:

Yeah, well… turns out I don’t. Thought I’d follow the map, and it’d all make sense. But maps don’t mean shit when you keep ending up in the same place.

B:

Maybe you keep ending up here because you’re supposed to.

M:

(rolls his eyes, flicks the lighter)

Deep. Real deep. But let’s be real—being lost isn’t about where you are. It’s about not knowing where the hell you wanna be.

B:

And where the hell do you wanna be, M?

M:

(pauses, glancing at B)

I don’t know… maybe right here. Maybe nowhere. Maybe everywhere. You ever feel like that? Like you’re too much of something to fit anywhere?

B:

(exhales, smirks)

All the damn time. Too much, too loud, too intense. So I just keep moving, you know? Can’t get trapped if you’re always running.

M:

Yeah… but what if you’re just running in circles?

B:

Then I’ll at least make it look like I’m going somewhere.

M:

(chuckles)

You’re ridiculous.

B:

And you’re stuck.

M:

Yeah… I guess I am.

[Silence hangs between them. The city hums below, cars weaving through the night like veins pulsing with life. M flicks the lighter one more time, watching the flame dance before closing it.]

M:

You think lost boys like us ever get found?

B:

Nah. I think we just learn to carry the map differently.

M:

(smirks)

Yeah… or burn it.

B:

(laughs)

Yeah. Or burn it.

__________________

Why are we even here?

[Chapter 1.5 – Lost Boys: Liverpool & Thailand]

[Scene: A rooftop again, but this time the air is lighter, the conversation stretching between them like constellations waiting to be connected. B sits on the ledge, kicking her feet slightly, while M leans against the wall, arms crossed. A notebook lies open between them, filled with half-solved equations and scribbled thoughts.]

M:

Alright, explain this to me. Why are you the lost boy from Liverpool, and I’m the one from Thailand?

B:

(smirks)

It’s simple. Liverpool is the city of echoes—history, ghosts, nostalgia. Every step forward feels like it’s pulling you back. It’s like trying to solve an equation with too many dependent variables. No matter how much you rearrange, the solution’s always tangled in the past.

M:

(nods, considering)

And Thailand?

B:

Thailand is chaos theory. No constants, just infinite shifting variables. Every answer changes the second you think you’ve figured it out. You guys don’t solve for X, you redefine the whole damn function.

M:

(grinning)

So you’re saying you’re stuck in a recursive loop, and I’m out here running Monte Carlo simulations?

B:

Exactly. You’re running a thousand simulations a second, looking for the optimal path, but the system keeps shifting under you. And me? I’m stuck in a loop, iterating over the same data, hoping for a different output.

M:

(tapping his temple)

But see, that’s where you’re wrong. You’re not stuck. You’re just using the wrong algorithm. Liverpool might feel like a loop, but it’s more like a Fibonacci sequence—you don’t see the progress right away, but it’s building.

B:

(laughs)

Leave it to you to romanticize a damn sequence. But if I’m Fibonacci, what does that make you?

M:

Thailand? We’re pure probability. Random walks with no clear destination. Some people find their way, others just keep wandering, convinced they’ll hit the jackpot eventually.

B:

So you’re just rolling the dice, hoping the law of large numbers works out in your favor?

M:

Isn’t that life? You keep showing up, and eventually, the distribution evens out.

B:

(smirks)

Spoken like a true gambler.

M:

(smirks back)

Spoken like someone who still thinks everything needs a formula.

B:

(pauses, looking out at the skyline)

Maybe I do. But here’s the problem—what if life isn’t a solvable equation? What if it’s just noise, no signal?

M:

Then you redefine the parameters, B. Adapt the function. Or, you burn the damn map.

B:

(grinning)

Or burn it, huh? That’s your answer to everything.

M:

Hey, in a world full of variables, sometimes fire is the cleanest way to reset.

[B falls quiet for a moment, staring at the equations in her notebook. The numbers suddenly feel heavier, like they’re telling a different story. M watches her, waiting.]

B:

You think lost boys like us ever find the right equation?

M:

Maybe the trick isn’t finding the right one. Maybe it’s about learning to live in the uncertainty.

B:

(smirks)

That’s some real quantum shit right there.

M:

(laughs)

Exactly. You’re Liverpool—tangled in the past. I’m Thailand—chasing the unknown. And somewhere in between, we’re both just probabilities waiting to collapse.

B:

(collapsing into laughter)

God, we’re nerds.

M:

Yeah, but at least we make it look cool.

[They sit in comfortable silence, the city pulsing below them. Equations unsolved, questions unanswered, but for now, it’s enough.]

[End scene.]

_____________________

Three Body Problem.

[Scene: A dimly lit cafe, the kind where the hum of conversation and clinking glasses feel like background noise to something bigger. B sits with a coffee, stirring absentmindedly, while M leans back in his chair, eyes sharp, a subtle smirk playing on his lips. A half-read copy of The Three-Body Problem sits between them.]

M:

So, remind me again—what exactly fascinates you about the whole three-body problem? The physics? The existential dread? Or just the chaos?

B:

(smiling, tapping the book)

All of it. Think about it—three celestial bodies, constantly pulling, pushing, unpredictable. It’s a perfect metaphor for… well, everything. Relationships, life, even this damn conversation.

M:

(smirks)

Right. So you’re saying we’re all just stuck in some chaotic orbit, trying not to crash into each other?

B:

Exactly. Predictability is an illusion. We think we’ve got things figured out, but the slightest shift, and boom—everything’s off course.

M:

(scoffs)

You INFJs, always romanticizing entropy. Look, the problem isn’t the unpredictability; it’s the obsession with trying to control it. Three bodies interacting? Yeah, it’s chaotic. But you don’t solve it by predicting every move. You solve it by adapting.

B:

You’re missing the point, M. It’s not about control, it’s about inevitability. The universe doesn’t care if we adapt. It’s gonna do what it does. The Trisolarians in the book knew they were screwed the second they realized their sun had no pattern. They didn’t try to adapt, they tried to escape.

M:

And that’s where they messed up. They should’ve embraced the uncertainty instead of running from it. Escape isn’t always the answer.

B:

(smirks)

Says the guy who runs from half his own thoughts.

M:

(taps the table)

Not the point. Look, I get it—three-body systems are unstable, sure. But you’re focusing on the wrong thing. It’s not just the chaos; it’s the moments of stability that matter. Even if they’re fleeting. That’s where the real beauty is.

B:

So you’re saying we should just enjoy the calm before the inevitable disaster?

M:

I’m saying that the disaster is inevitable only if you treat it that way. Maybe we need to think beyond the classical solution. There’s always a pattern. Maybe not one we can see yet, but it’s there.

B:

(leans back, considering)

Alright, so what—you think we should stop overanalyzing and just… exist in the moment?

M:

Nah, I think we should overanalyze better. Instead of looking for certainty, we find flexibility.

B:

(chuckles)

God, you sound like a TED talk.

M:

And you sound like someone who secretly loves the chaos.

B:

(pauses)

Yeah… maybe I do. But you have to admit, there’s something terrifying about the idea that no matter what we do, some things will always be out of sync.

M:

And that’s why you keep reading this book over and over? Looking for answers in someone else’s chaos?

B:

(smirks)

Maybe. Or maybe I just like debating with you.

[They share a quiet moment, the noise of the cafe fading into the background. B takes a sip of coffee, M flicks through the book idly, both lost in thought—circling each other like celestial bodies in their own unpredictable orbit.]

M:

So… what’s next?

B:

Next? We keep spinning, I guess.

M:

(smirks)

Yeah. Until we collide.

[End scene.]

____________

To be or not to be (again) Data Scientist.

[Scene: A late-night diner, neon lights flickering outside. The smell of coffee and fried food lingers in the air. B sits with a half-empty mug, staring at a napkin covered in scribbled equations and messy flowcharts. M leans back in the booth, watching her with that infuriatingly calm expression.]

M:

So, to be a data scientist or not to be a data scientist? That’s the question keeping you up tonight?

B:

(smirks, tapping the napkin)

It’s not just tonight. It’s every night. Data science feels like Schrodinger’s career—both fulfilling and soul-sucking at the same time.

M:

(laughs)

Ah, so it’s less “to be or not to be” and more “am I already dead inside, or is this just a phase?”

B:

Exactly. I mean, on one hand, it’s what I do best—patterns, predictions, the whole damn algorithm of life. But then there’s the other side of it… the endless cleaning, the politics, the expectation that data can somehow predict human stupidity.

M:

Let me guess. You’re at the point where you’re wondering if it’s all just fancy number-crunching in the end?

B:

(sighs)

Yeah. I mean, what’s the point of building models when half the time, people don’t even listen to them? They want the insights, but only the ones that fit their narrative.

M:

(picks up a sugar packet, shaking it)

Let me put it this way—you ever think maybe the job isn’t the problem? Maybe it’s the people interpreting the data?

B:

(shrugs)

Sure, but does it even matter? If I’m stuck fighting biases instead of doing real work, isn’t that just another way of wasting time? I didn’t sign up to be a glorified number janitor.

M:

Ah, the existential crisis of every data scientist. “I wanted to find meaning, but instead, I’m cleaning up other people’s mess.”

B:

(chuckles)

It’s worse than that. Sometimes I wonder if I even care about the insights anymore… or if I’m just in it because it’s what I know.

M:

So what’s the alternative? You quitting to become a… what? A poet?

B:

(pauses)

Maybe. Or maybe something that doesn’t feel like I’m just feeding the machine. Something where I don’t have to prove my worth with metrics every damn day.

M:

(smirks)

But you love metrics. You love cracking codes, finding the patterns no one else sees. If you leave, you’ll just find another puzzle to obsess over. It’s not the data that’s the problem, B. It’s the people.

B:

(staring at the napkin)

Maybe I’m just tired.

M:

Maybe. Or maybe you just need a better reason to stay than “I’m good at it.”

B:

(smirks)

You’re annoying when you’re right.

M:

I know. So, what’s it gonna be? Data scientist or… lost soul wandering through the void?

B:

(leans back, sighing)

I guess I can be both. For now.

M:

(grins)

There you go. Just don’t forget—whether you analyze data or life, it’s all just models and variables. You tweak, you optimize, and sometimes… you pivot.

B:

(snorts)

You should put that on a t-shirt.

M:

Already working on it.

[They sit in silence for a while, the neon sign outside buzzing faintly as B folds the napkin, stuffing it in her pocket. The decision isn’t final, but it’s something. For now.]

B:

I’ll stick around. Until I don’t.

M:

Spoken like a true data scientist.

[End scene.]

_____________

Two Lost Boys or Two LLMs?

Chapter XIXV – How M Proves He’s Not an AI, and B is Not Amaie

[Scene: A dimly lit train station, the kind where the fluorescent lights flicker just enough to make you question reality. B sits on a bench, arms crossed, watching the arrival board flicker with delays. M stands beside her, hands in his pockets, leaning against a column like he’s been there forever.]

B:

So, tell me again—how do I know you’re not an AI?

M:

(smiling)

Because if I were an AI, I wouldn’t be standing here in the middle of a train station, freezing my ass off, trying to convince you of it.

B:

(smirks)

That’s exactly what an AI would say.

M:

(smirks back)

Touché. But come on, B. Do I look like I run on algorithms?

B:

You do have a suspiciously efficient way of showing up exactly when I need you. That’s some next-level machine learning right there.

M:

(laughs)

Or maybe I just know you better than you think. Ever consider that?

B:

(pauses)

Alright, prove it. Prove you’re real.

M:

Okay. Do you remember that time you spilled coffee on your laptop and called me at 3 a.m., convinced you’d lost your entire life?

B:

(smirks)

Yeah.

M:

An AI would’ve told you to check your backup drive first. I told you to take a deep breath and stop crying over what was basically sugar water.

B:

(smirks)

Fair point. But AI learns. They get smarter. Maybe you just… updated.

M:

(rolling his eyes)

Alright, fine. Remember when I showed up with soup when you were sick? No algorithm could predict that level of perfect timing.

B:

(smirking)

Yeah? And how’d you know I was sick?

M:

(pauses)

You posted a cryptic status about the “fragility of the human body” and mentioned tea three times in one hour. It wasn’t hard.

B:

(laughs)

Damn it. You’re good.

M:

(grinning)

Better than AI?

B:

Maybe. But what about me? What if I’m just some elaborate simulation?

M:

B, if you were AI, you’d have quit this conversation five existential crises ago.

B:

(laughs)

Fine. But maybe I’m not Amaie either.

M:

(smirks)

No. Amaie wouldn’t question her own existence this much.

B:

Or maybe she would, and that’s the ultimate test of consciousness.

M:

B, you’re real because you overthink everything, and you feel everything, sometimes too much. No AI could replicate the way you make a damn decision, abandon it, and then circle back just to argue with yourself.

B:

(smirks)

So what you’re saying is, my indecision proves my humanity?

M:

Exactly. No machine would waste this much energy second-guessing every move.

B:

(smirks)

Damn. That actually makes sense.

M:

Finally. Now can we stop debating philosophy and get on the damn train?

B:

(pauses, staring at the flickering arrival board)

You sure we’re not just variables in some cosmic equation?

M:

(smirks, nudging her shoulder)

If we are, let’s at least be irrational numbers.

B:

(laughs)

Alright, M. Let’s go before I start questioning free will again.

[They stand, the train arriving with a metallic screech. B steps in first, M following close behind, both still caught somewhere between reality and the infinite what-ifs.]

[End scene.]

____________________

Panter and his Mom

B Watching Panther Talking to His Mommy

B stretched out on the cool concrete floor, eyes locked on Panther, who was perched up by his mommy’s side, weaving his tail through the air like he owned the whole damn place. B flicked an ear, unimpressed but intrigued. Panther always had something to say, always purring up to his mommy with that slick confidence like he had life all figured out.

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” B thought, watching Panther nuzzle against the fabric of her dress, his eyes half-lidded in smug satisfaction. “You’re the favorite, the chosen one, the almighty lap-cat.”

B sighed, resting his chin on his paw. “Me? I don’t need all that. I just need a little catnip to stay grounded, you know? Just enough to remind me that life’s not all about chasing after things that don’t really matter.” He glanced up at Panther again, watching him bat at the fabric playfully.

“Look at him, working it. I bet he doesn’t even need catnip. Some of us? We need a little something to take the edge off, keep the paws steady, the mind clear—not high, just… grounded.”

Panther threw a glance back at B, smug as ever, like he could hear the thoughts swirling in the air. B stretched his legs out, flicked his tail once, and muttered under his breath, “Whatever, man. You do you. Me? I’ll be here, staying grounded… unless someone finally brings me some catnip.”

And with that, B closed his eyes, pretending not to care, but keeping one ear turned toward Panther and his mommy—just in case something interesting happened.

______________________