BRRINGGG!
The sharp, metallic ringing of his old Nokia phone cut through the night like a blade. It was loud, insistent, almost violent in the way it shattered the fragile silence that had settled between them. The sound hit Randi straight in the pit of his stomach, as if someone had punched the air out of him without warning.
For a split second, time froze.
The warmth that had wrapped around him only moments earlier—the smoky scent of Padang satay still lingering on his fingers, the quiet intimacy of sitting across from Cantika on creaking wooden stools, the unspoken pull that had drawn their faces closer and closer until there was barely space left for breath—collapsed in an instant. The kiss that almost happened vanished like mist, leaving behind only cold air and unfinished longing.
Then Dea's voice exploded from the phone.
"RANDI PRANATA!"
Her scream was sharp enough to make his ears ring. It carried anger, shock, and something that sounded dangerously close to betrayal. Heads from a few tables away turned instinctively, curiosity sparked by the sudden disruption. The humid night air of the satay stall seemed to vibrate with the force of her words.
"Do you know I just ran into Akmal, he was sitting all cozy with that Architecture girl, Vina? And when I tried talking to him—just talking, Randi—he said now he doesn't want to hang out with people who are full of fake behavior and stab others in the back. HE WAS SO OBVIOUSLY TALKING ABOUT YOU!"
Randi flinched hard, instinctively pulling the phone a few centimeters away from his ear. His heart, which moments ago had been racing with anticipation and nervous excitement, now slammed violently against his ribs, each beat heavy and uneven. The sudden shift—from warmth to threat, from closeness to confrontation—left him dizzy.
Across the small plastic-covered table, Cantika froze.
She was still holding a satay skewer halfway to her mouth, her fingers pausing mid-motion as if someone had pressed a pause button on her body. Her eyes widened, the softness that had filled them just moments earlier replaced by alert confusion. Slowly, carefully, she lowered the skewer back onto her plate, as though afraid even the smallest sound might worsen whatever storm had just erupted.
Randi swallowed hard.
"Dea, are you crazy or what?" he said, forcing his voice down, though his pulse thudded loudly in his ears. He turned his body slightly away from Cantika, angling the phone toward his shoulder, trying to create a thin barrier between his private chaos and her. "I don't understand what you're talking about. What does Akmal and Vina have to do with me?"
"DON'T PLAY DUMB!" Dea shot back instantly, her voice cracking with emotion. "He said people who are fake and stab others in the back! Who else could he be talking about if not you? You two were inseparable before, Randi. And then suddenly you disappeared. I know you had problems with him because of a girl. He must still be holding a grudge! And now he's spreading stories, making it sound like you betrayed him!"
Randi closed his eyes. A glimpse of Story of The Year songs – And the Hero Will Drown came to his mind:
Maybe it's time,
To spit out the core of our rotting union
Hopefully before it chokes Us to our senses.
Guess it's too bad,
That everything we have Is taken away.
Images flooded his mind without mercy.
Akmal's face, twisted with anger, the vein in his forehead standing out as he shouted. The sting of words thrown carelessly but with precision, each one landing exactly where it hurt most. The bitter mix of pride, misunderstanding, and wounded ego that had turned what should have been a conversation into a disaster. The silence that followed afterward—heavy, unresolved, and full of things left unsaid.
He had buried all of it. Or at least, he had tried to.
He never meant to stab Akmal in the back. He had never planned to hurt him. But intention didn't erase consequence. And from the outside, stripped of context and emotion, the story could easily look ugly. Treacherous, even.
And now, like a bad dream returning just when life had begun to feel manageable again, it was clawing its way back to the surface.
"Dea," he said slowly, choosing each word with care, "that's between me and Akmal. You don't understand everything. And he didn't say my name, right?"
"He doesn't need to say your name!" Dea snapped. "The context is obvious! I'm just warning you. Be careful. He sounds like he's campaigning, Randi. Badmouthing you to anyone who'll listen. I don't want you getting into trouble."
Her tone softened slightly at the end, concern seeping through the drama. That somehow made it worse.
Randi exhaled shakily. "Okay. Okay. Thanks for telling me." His throat felt tight. "But I'm… I'm busy right now. I'll call you back later."
He didn't wait for her response. His thumb pressed the red button, ending the call abruptly. The screen went dark.
Silence rushed in to replace the noise, thick and suffocating.
The satay stall felt different now. Too open. Too exposed. The hiss of meat grilling on charcoal sounded louder than before. Somewhere, a motorbike roared past, splashing through puddles left behind by the earlier rain. The air was damp and sticky, clinging to his skin.
Randi placed the phone face-down on the table, the plastic cover beneath it slightly tacky from spilled sauce. He still couldn't bring himself to look at Cantika.
The fragile normalcy they had built—days of working side by side, shared stress over deadlines, quiet laughter over coffee, the gentle trust that had grown without either of them fully noticing—suddenly felt like thin glass. One wrong movement, and it could shatter completely.
"Randi?"
Cantika's voice was soft, careful. It wasn't accusatory. It wasn't demanding. But it carried weight.
"What problem?"
She didn't ask who Dea was. She didn't ask why someone was yelling his name over the phone. She simply asked that one question, and somehow it felt heavier than all of Dea's shouting combined.
Randi finally lifted his head.
He saw the details he had started to memorize without realizing it: the way her ponytail had loosened slightly, strands of hair escaping after a long day bent over documents and screens; the faint shadows under her eyes from lack of sleep; the calmness she tried to maintain even as uncertainty flickered beneath the surface. The warmth that had lit her face earlier was dimmer now, replaced by cautious attention.
He rubbed his face with both hands, the roughness of his stubble scraping against his palms. His mind raced. How much should he tell her? How much could he tell her without dragging her into a mess she didn't deserve?
Pak Andi's voice echoed faintly in his head from earlier that day: "You two really work well together, huh? Like real work partners."
Partners.
Did partners hide things like this?
"That…" he started, his voice coming out hoarse. He cleared his throat. "That… it's complicated."
He watched her closely as he spoke, searching for any sign of impatience or judgment. He found none. Just attention.
"Dea… she said she ran into Akmal." He saw Cantika stiffen almost imperceptibly at the name, her fingers tightening around the edge of her glass. "He… said some bad things. About me."
"The problem from yesterday?" she asked quietly.
He nodded. "Yeah."
She didn't interrupt him. She didn't urge him to continue. She just waited, her fingers tracing slow circles along the rim of the empty tea glass, grounding herself in the motion.
Randi swallowed.
"Me and Akmal…" He paused, searching for the right words, hating how inadequate they felt. "We were very close. Like brothers. Then… misunderstandings happened. A lot of them. Ego, pride, stupid assumptions." He let out a short, humorless laugh. "I thought it was over. Guess I was wrong."
He dared a glance at her face. Her expression was unreadable—not cold, not warm. Just listening.
"And what he said to Kak Dea," she asked gently, "about fake behavior and stabbing from behind?"
Randi clenched his jaw. "That's his perception. I never stabbed him, Tik. Never." His voice sharpened despite himself. "But the situation looked bad. And people love simple stories. It's easier to believe someone betrayed you than to accept that things just fell apart."
He hated how defensive he sounded, but he couldn't stop.
"I'm not asking you to take sides," he added quickly. "Or even understand everything. I just… I want to forget it."
Cantika was silent for a long moment.
The stall owner passed by, collecting empty plates, offering them a polite smile that neither of them returned properly. The world kept moving around them, indifferent to the small emotional earthquake unfolding at their table.
Finally, Cantika spoke.
"You know," she said slowly, "when you told me yesterday about your past… I didn't think you were lying. Or pretending." She looked at him directly now. "People who are fake don't worry this much about being misunderstood."
Randi felt something tight in his chest loosen slightly.
She continued, her voice steady but warm. "I don't know Akmal. I don't know what really happened between you. But I know what I see when we work together. And I know how you act when you're stressed, or tired, or under pressure." She offered a small, tentative smile. "That matters more to me than rumors."
For a second, he didn't trust himself to speak.
The kiss that had almost happened earlier hovered in the back of his mind, no longer a possibility but a reminder—of what could grow if he didn't let his past poison his present.
"I'm sorry," he said finally, quietly. "For bringing this mess into tonight."
"You didn't," she replied immediately. "Life did."
The rain began to fall again, lightly this time, tapping softly against the plastic tarp above the stall. The sound wrapped around them, gentle and forgiving.
They sat there for a while longer, not touching, not rushing, letting the weight of the moment settle. The satay grew cold. The night deepened.
Whatever Akmal thought. Whatever Dea feared. Whatever misunderstandings lingered like ghosts from the past.
For now, there was still this table, this shared silence, and the fragile but real connection between them—unbroken, though tested.
And Randi knew, with a quiet certainty, that facing tomorrow would be easier than facing yesterday had been.