Later, it was around five in the morning, and I was lying on the bed next to them, wide awake, while they slept, exhausted. I just lay there as the slow luminosity of the new day crept in, and the roosters began to crow outside….And then I heard an old Thai woman in the kitchen, washing the dishes while preparing breakfast. I remember everything: the smell, the stillness, the two of them beside me in this bed….

My heart was broken. But my tears weren’t just about the end of our relationship. We had accomplished a monumental work — separately. My own part in it felt epic, a long ordeal that was over at last.

This was life. Could art, should art, be isolated from life? I began to feel more and more strongly that art must be life — it must belong to everybody. I felt, more powerfully than ever, that what I had created had a purpose.

It was a shocking moment. Twelve years of my life ran through my mind in an instant. For me he was so much more than just another visitor. And so, just this once, I broke the rules. I put my hands on top of his hands, we looked into each other’s eyes, and before I knew what was happening, we were both in tears.