"Think about it again, Papa," Mrs. Sofie said, keeping her voice low. "Don't repeat what happened with Indra and Isma. They were matched without ever being given a choice."
Mr. Hasan exhaled heavily. His gaze remained fixed on the table in front of him.
"They're fine now, Ma."
"Fine," she replied quietly, "or simply accustomed? Not every child dares to refuse their parents."
Silence stretched between them—thick, unresolved.
Mr. Hasan finally spoke again, his voice softer but no less firm.
"I only want the best for Al."
"And who do you believe is the best?" Mrs. Sofie asked.
"A suitable woman," he answered without hesitation. "Someone his age. A clear background. Not… a woman with complications."
Mrs. Sofie stiffened.
"Who are you referring to?"
"Silvi," he said. "One of your boutique employees."
Mrs. Sofie said nothing. She knew Silvi. She knew the woman was kind, composed, and careful—someone who never crossed lines she didn't fully understand. But she also knew how easily society reduced a person to labels it found convenient.
"There's a significant age gap," she said at last.
"That's exactly why I want Al to meet another option," Mr. Hasan replied. "Usman's daughter. At least let him try."
Mrs. Sofie closed her eyes.
She had seen this pattern before. Once her husband spoke this way, the wheel had already begun to turn.
"…Alright," she said quietly. "We'll try."
In his room, Al sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his phone.
No reply.
One minute passed.
Then five.
Then ten.
The silence didn't make him restless. It made him clear.
He stood, changed his clothes, and reached for his motorcycle keys.
"Mas Al."
Rima stood in the yard, hope too visible to be hidden.
"I have an event tomorrow," she said quickly. "Could you accompany me? Everyone else is bringing their partners."
Al shook his head.
"No."
"Why?"
"I've already chosen," he replied.
Rima froze.
"Mas Al… it's just pretending."
"I don't pretend," he said calmly. "And I don't give hope where I can't stay."
He left without looking back.
I was sitting in the backyard when I heard the sound of his motorcycle.
"Silvi," he called, stopping at a respectful distance.
"In the back," I replied.
He approached, his breathing still uneven.
"I was worried. You didn't answer your phone."
"I was home," I said. "I needed silence."
He nodded and sat—not too close.
"I just wanted to make sure you were alright."
I studied him for a long moment.
"Al… your family has started moving."
His jaw tightened.
"I know."
"And?"
"I won't step back."
"Are you certain?" I asked quietly.
He met my eyes.
"I've never been more aware of a choice in my life."
I inhaled slowly.
"We'll take this slowly," I said. "I won't let it become another wound."
"Alright," he replied. "As long as you don't ask me to disappear."
I didn't answer.
But I didn't ask him to leave.
In that silence, I realized something unsettling—this was no longer just about what I felt. Once names were spoken, once glances lingered and questions formed, this connection no longer belonged only to us.
And that frightened me more than being alone ever had.
That evening, a message came from Indah.
Seven o'clock. Don't be late.
I read it twice before replying with a brief acknowledgment.
Al drove me to the café. He kept his distance, but his presence was steady—like something that didn't press, yet refused to vanish.
Indah's gaze moved between us.
"Silvi…?" she asked cautiously.
I nodded.
"I'm trying."
Al inclined his head politely.
"I'm serious, Mbak Indah."
She exhaled slowly.
"I only want one thing. Don't break her again."
"I won't," Al said. "If I ever feel I can't protect her—I'll step back."
We sat together.
No hands held.
No promises spoken aloud.
But the decision carried weight.
As laughter rose and conversation drifted lightly, I felt it—something irreversible settling into place. I had spent years believing love only hurt when it was loud, when it ended in betrayal or anger.
I hadn't prepared myself for the kind that arrived quietly, asking for patience instead of passion.
This kind of beginning didn't promise happiness.
It promised consequence.
I looked at Al.
He returned my gaze—not triumphant, not reckless—but calm.
And I understood—
Whatever awaited us beyond this moment,
this had already begun.