He was the son of a village head.
His father was respected, influential, and known by everyone. His mother was a successful woman whose boutiques were often talked about. His future seemed carefully arranged—waiting only for him to step into it.
And me?
A grown woman who had failed at marriage. From an ordinary family. Living alone. Someone who had fallen, broken, and learned to stand again with wounds that had not fully healed.
Could we even be on the same page?
No, my mind answered firmly.
I took a deep breath, steadying myself.
"I'm heading out, Mbak."
He stood on the porch, a backpack slung over his shoulder. His gaze hesitated, as if he wanted to say something—but chose to hold it back.
"To campus," he added. "I won't be long."
"Alright," I replied quickly. "Be careful."
He smiled faintly. No teasing. No stepping closer.
"Don't forget breakfast," he said before leaving.
I nodded.
The motorcycle disappeared down the road, leaving behind a strange quiet—not lonely, but hollow.
I returned to the table and ate the food he had left. Stir-fried bitter melon, fried tempeh, boiled fish. Simple. Yet everything was just right.
How did he know?
I stopped chewing.
The realization warmed my chest—then sharpened my alertness.
Silvi, you're getting comfortable.
And that comfort frightened me.
Because it meant the line I had guarded so fiercely was beginning to blur.
Since I was on leave that day, I spent my time in the small garden behind the house. Under the Barbados cherry tree, I sat tending to the plants. Gardening always calmed me—like postponing decisions that felt too heavy to face.
My phone vibrated.
An unknown number.
I ignored it.
It vibrated again.
A message came in.
How are you?
I inhaled slowly. The next message tightened my chest.
Still your old number. Haven't deleted it, huh?
It's me. Ilham. Can we meet?
My fingers froze.
Ilham.
My ex-husband.
More than a decade without news. Without contact. And suddenly his name appeared—as if the wound had only been sleeping, waiting to be disturbed.
Another message arrived.
If you don't want to meet outside, I can come to your house.
My hands trembled.
I turned off my phone without replying.
I lit a cigarette. The smoke rose slowly. Cigarettes didn't ask questions. Didn't demand explanations. Didn't reopen the past. They simply burned—quietly, like the way I had survived all these years.
The television played without my attention.
I fell asleep on the sofa.
When I woke up, a blanket covered my body.
I startled.
Sat up quickly.
The house was silent. No one else was there. On the table sat a bowl of warm soup and a small note.
Mbak,
I left some food on the table.
I didn't go into your room.
Sorry if I worried too much.
— Al
I held the note for a long time.
He came.
He left.
Without forcing himself.
And that was precisely what cracked my defenses.
As evening approached, my phone lit up again.
Al's name appeared.
Mbak, are you awake?
I just wanted to make sure you've eaten.
I replied briefly.
Yes. Thank you.
The response came quickly.
I'm glad.
Just one word.
No flirting. No demands.
Yet my chest still felt warm.
That night, I sat alone in the living room, staring into the darkness beyond the window.
Ilham's name lingered in my thoughts.
Ammar's name—slowly slipped in.
One was a past that had destroyed me.
The other was a future that felt dangerously brave.
I hugged my knees to my chest.
If I stepped back, I would be safe.
If I stepped forward, I might break.
And between those two choices, there was a thin, invisible line—
a line I had guarded with everything I had.
That night, I realized something:
I hadn't crossed it yet.
But I was no longer standing as far away as I used to.
And that…
terrified me.