His gaze rested on me longer than necessary.
Not with anger.
Not with demand.
With restraint.
I recognized it immediately—the careful effort of someone holding himself together. And somehow, that control made my chest ache more than any confession ever could.
"It's been a very long time, Mbak," he said at last. His voice was steady, but there was weight beneath it. "So long that I sometimes forget when it started."
He drew in a breath, then continued, softer—as if the words were meant for himself.
"When I first realized my feelings toward women were… different, the first person who ever made me aware of that was you."
I didn't respond.
"Do you remember a chubby elementary school boy who used to peek from behind the window?" A faint smile touched his lips. "The one you teased for being shy."
My chest tightened.
"That was me," he said. "You probably don't remember. But I do."
He met my eyes without stepping closer.
"I tried to forget," he went on. "For years. I told myself it was nothing. That it would fade."
It hadn't.
He reached into his wallet and held it out—not toward me, but open between us.
"Please," he said. "Just look."
I hesitated before taking it.
Inside was an old photograph.
Of me.
Alone.
My breath caught. "Where did you get this?"
"I'll explain," he said quickly. "I just need you to know—I didn't come into your life suddenly. This feeling didn't appear overnight."
I closed the wallet and handed it back.
We ate in silence.
I studied him from time to time—a man too young for my history, too honest for my defenses.
Afterward, he cleaned the kitchen without being asked. No performance. No attempt to impress. Just quiet efficiency.
When he finished, he stopped a short distance away.
"I took the photo from Aunt Vita's album," he said. "Years ago. I didn't keep it for anything improper. It was… a reminder of who I didn't want to become careless about."
I exhaled slowly.
"Let's go outside," I said.
We sat in the backyard, leaving deliberate space between us. The evening breeze cooled my skin as I lit a cigarette.
"Mbak," he said quietly, "when did you start feeling alone?"
I didn't look at him.
"When I lost trust," I replied. "I was broken once. And I'm afraid of letting anyone get close enough to do that again."
He listened. Didn't interrupt.
"I'm not asking you to trust me," he said after a while. "I just want you to know—I'm not playing."
I turned to him.
There was hope there.
And fear.
"You know this is complicated," I said.
"Yes."
"You know your father won't stay silent."
"Yes."
"You know I could walk away at any time."
"Yes."
Each answer landed heavier than the last.
"I don't want you to fall because of me," he added. "If you want me to stop… just say it."
I stayed quiet.
I didn't say stop.
But I didn't invite him closer either.
And that was when I understood—
I was no longer standing where I used to be.
Night settled.
"I should go," he said. "Thank you for listening."
I nodded.
When the gate closed behind him, the house returned to silence.
But it was a different kind of quiet.
Sharper.
Louder inside my thoughts.
At his home, the lights were still on.
"You're home early," his father said.
His mother glanced up. "Have you eaten?"
"Yes."
His father studied him. "What's wrong?"
He didn't answer.
He went straight to his room and lay back, staring at the ceiling.
For the first time, something became clear to him—
This feeling was no longer contained.
And once he stepped any further,
there would be no easy way back.