"Indah, let's go."
I pulled my friend's hand, walking quickly away from the cafeteria. Break time was over. We had to return to the boutique before the supervisor appeared with that flat expression—always ready to issue a warning.
The rest of the day passed in its usual rhythm. There was one thing that made my steps feel slightly lighter—payday. A day everyone waited for, even though the excitement usually faded once expenses began lining up in our heads.
By evening, the store finally closed.
We rearranged the displays, turned off the lights, then walked out one by one toward the parking lot. The evening wind carried the smell of asphalt and the constant hum of traffic that never truly stopped.
I had just exited the parking area when—
Breeeet!
The sound of a large motorcycle horn roared right in front of me.
I braked hard on instinct. My scooter nearly swerved. My heart leapt straight into my throat.
"Hey! Be careful—"
The rider stepped off his motorcycle.
Tall. Solid. His movements calm—almost too calm.
He lifted his helmet visor.
That familiar crooked tooth.
"Why leave when you're being waited for, Mbak?"
I blinked, glancing around. "Who's waiting for who?"
He pointed at his own chest. "Me."
My chest tightened.
"What are you doing here?" I tried to keep my voice steady. "I'm tired. I want to go home."
I reached to start my scooter—but he raised a hand, stopping not me, but the moment.
He didn't touch me.
Didn't block my way.
"Just listen for a moment," he said. His voice was low. Controlled. Not demanding.
I looked at him sharply. "Talk."
He took a breath, as if preparing himself.
"I like you, Mbak Silvi."
No drama.
No performance.
"I'm serious."
I crossed my arms. "You know I'm older."
"Yes."
"I've been married."
"Yes."
"And I'm not looking for anyone."
"I know."
His answers were too prepared.
"I'm thirty-three," I said coolly.
"I'm twenty-two," he replied. "I'm legally an adult. I'm in college. I work part-time. And I'm not playing."
My chest throbbed, slow and uneasy.
"Go home," I said at last. "Tomorrow you'll wake up, and this feeling will embarrass you."
He smiled faintly—not mocking, not offended.
"And if it doesn't?" he asked softly.
I held his gaze for a moment longer than necessary.
"Time will answer," I said shortly.
I started my scooter and left before my thoughts could betray me.
At home, I collapsed onto the sofa.
My hands trembled. My head ached. Old memories returned, circling like water that had never truly settled.
The betrayal.
My husband.
My best friend.
After it happened, I destroyed myself quietly—
ink on skin, metal through flesh, alcohol replacing sleep.
Not because love ended.
But because trust collapsed all at once.
My phone vibrated.
Ammar.
"Assalamu'alaikum," his voice sounded hesitant. "Mbak… I'm afraid something might happen to you."
"I'm fine," I replied, though my voice shook.
"I'm in front of your house," he said quickly. "I won't come in. I just want to make sure you're safe."
I froze.
I hadn't asked him to come.
And he knew that mattered.
I pulled the curtain aside slightly.
He stood outside the gate, helmet still in his hand. Not crossing the boundary. Not moving closer.
I opened the door—but stayed at the threshold.
"You're not allowed to come here late at night," I said.
"Yes," he answered immediately. "I'm sorry."
My strength gave out without warning. Tears fell.
"I'm tired," I whispered. "I don't want to get hurt again."
He didn't step forward.
"I won't touch you," he said softly. "I'm just here."
Silence wrapped around us.
My crying broke free—not loud, not dramatic—
but complete.
He stayed outside. Sat on the steps. Waiting. Keeping his distance.
"I'm going home," he said finally. "Please rest."
I nodded.
When I closed the door, something unfamiliar settled in my chest.
What I allowed that night wasn't a man's presence.
It was rest.
Something I had forbidden myself for years.
For the first time in a long while—
I slept.
Without fear.