[STORY] Remote work is freedom… but freedom gets lonely

Four weeks ago, I was in Bali, sitting at a bamboo café by the beach, trying to finish a client project on my laptop.

The Wi-Fi was sketchy, the iced latte was sweating all over my wooden table, and the sound of waves mixed with the chatter of other digital nomads tapping away on their keyboards.

That’s the life—remote work and digital nomad life. Instagram makes it look like palm trees and cocktails, but in reality, it’s deadlines, Zoom calls at midnight, and praying the Wi-Fi doesn’t collapse during a client presentation.

I was deep into debugging a stubborn code when a guy from the next table leaned over.

“Bro, your Zoom keeps freezing. Want me to hotspot you?” he asked, flashing that easy digital-nomad grin.

I sighed. “Please. My client thinks I’m in London, not Bali. Can’t let them see coconuts behind me.”

We laughed, and he slid his phone over. His name was Diego, a Spanish content creator who’d been hopping cities for three years. He wore loose linen, had tattoos of world maps on his arm, and looked like someone who’d never worked a 9-5 in his life.

“You get used to it,” he said. “The Wi-Fi failing, the jet lag, the pretending you’re online when you’re actually in another timezone. But hey—better than a cubicle.”

I nodded, sipping my latte. “True. At least here, if I lose my job, I can cry while watching a sunset.”

We both chuckled, but then he leaned in, lowering his voice.

“Careful though. Remote work is freedom… but sometimes freedom gets lonely.”

I didn’t think much of it. Until later that night.

The café had turned into a co-working hub with fairy lights strung across the bamboo roof. Laptops glowed, fingers tapped, espresso machines hissed. I had my AirPods in, deep into a call, when suddenly Diego sat across from me, looking pale.

“Can I borrow your laptop?” he whispered.

“Why?” I frowned.

“Long story. Please. Just five minutes.”

Against my better judgment, I slid it over. He began typing furiously, logging into some account. I caught glimpses: cryptocurrency wallets, encrypted emails, something that didn’t look like casual work.

“Bro… what are you doing?” I asked cautiously.

He looked up, eyes wide. “I can’t explain. But you’ll thank me later.”

Before I could press further, three men walked into the café. Not backpackers. Suited, serious, scanning faces. Diego slammed my laptop shut.

“Act normal,” he muttered.

The men approached our table. One of them, bald with sharp cheekbones, asked in a clipped accent:

“Have you seen this man?” He showed me a photo of Diego. Same shirt, same tattoos.

My throat went dry. I glanced at Diego, who shook his head ever so slightly. My heart thumped like a djembe drum in the background.

I forced a smile. “Nah, mate. Haven’t seen him. Just working here.”

They studied me for a beat too long, then left to question others.

Diego exhaled, sweat glistening on his forehead.

“What the hell was that?” I whispered.

He grabbed his backpack. “Remote work keeps us free, but sometimes we’re running from more than just offices. Thanks for covering me.”

And just like that, he disappeared into the night.

The next morning, I woke up in my hostel bunk to an email notification on my laptop. Subject line: “Payment Received.”

I clicked. My crypto wallet balance had jumped by $5,000. No explanation, no sender name. Just a message:

“For your silence. Enjoy your freedom.”

I stared at the screen, the sound of motorbikes buzzing outside, and for the first time, remote work felt less like a dream and more like a thriller I never signed up for.

But hey—freedom always comes with a price.

That’s remote work and digital nomad life—sometimes beaches, sometimes burnout, and sometimes secrets you never saw coming.