We left the café almost at the same time.
City lights reflected on the asphalt, still warm from the afternoon sun. The night air was damp, carrying the scent of rain that hadn't fallen yet. We walked side by side toward the parking area, our steps unhurried—as if neither of us wanted the moment to end too quickly.
Indah and her boyfriend reached their motorcycle first. Before leaving, she turned back to me.
"Sil," she said with a knowing smile, "you still owe me a story."
I huffed softly. "Yeah."
They left, and suddenly it was just the two of us.
"Shall we go home?" Ammar asked.
I nodded. "It's late."
He walked me to my motorcycle with measured steps. His movements were careful, deliberate. He kept his distance—never touching me more than necessary, never taking more than what I allowed.
The ride home was quiet. The wind brushed against my face while my thoughts grew louder inside my helmet.
"I'm happy," he said suddenly. "But I know… this is only the beginning."
I looked at his back. "I'm scared, Al."
"So am I," he answered without hesitation. "That's why I want to move slowly."
That should have comforted me.
Instead, it made my chest feel heavier—because it sounded like something real.
We stopped in front of my house.
He got off first, then stepped back, giving me space.
"Thank you for today," he said. "For listening."
I removed my helmet. "Thank you… for understanding."
He smiled faintly. "I'm going home."
I nodded.
There was no hug.
No kiss.
Only a gaze that lingered a second too long.
When his motorcycle disappeared down the road, the silence returned—dense and pressing.
In my bedroom, I stood in front of the mirror, staring at my own reflection.
"Do I deserve to be happy?" I whispered.
"Or am I just afraid of not knowing how to be alone anymore?"
I lay down and closed my eyes.
But Ammar came uninvited—his restraint, his patience, the way he never crossed what I hadn't allowed.
My phone vibrated.
Ammar:
Thank you for being honest today.
Rest well, Mbak.
A simple message. No expectation.
It should have calmed me.
Instead, it unsettled me.
Dawn arrived.
I woke, performed ablution, and prayed. Afterward, I cooked simple fried rice—motions I had repeated for years, routines that usually kept my heart steady.
Knock. Knock.
I froze.
Peering through the window, I saw him standing outside the gate. His school uniform was neat, his bag slung over his shoulder.
"Assalamu'alaikum," he said.
"Wa'alaikumsalam," I replied, opening the door just enough.
"I just wanted to say goodbye," he said quickly. "I'm heading to school."
I frowned slightly. "You came this early?"
He smiled, a little embarrassed. "I passed by your street. I thought… I'd remind you to be careful."
I exhaled. "Thank you."
He didn't step inside. He didn't come closer.
"I don't want to make you uncomfortable," he added. "I want you to know—I'm serious. And I respect your boundaries."
My chest trembled.
"Slowly," I said.
He nodded. "I can do that."
He stepped back.
"See you later."
"Study properly," I replied.
He smiled, then left.
I closed the door and leaned against it for a moment.
The house felt different after he left.
Not louder.
Not quieter.
Just… aware.
I stood there longer than necessary, listening to my own breathing, to the faint ticking of the clock on the wall. Nothing had changed—yet everything had. For years, this silence had been my refuge, a place where I didn't have to explain myself to anyone.
Tonight, it felt like a question instead of an answer.
I wasn't standing at the edge of love.
I was standing at the edge of choice.
And for the first time in a long while, I wasn't sure which side felt safer anymore.
Not because of age.
Not because of what people might say.
Not even because of my past.
I was afraid—
Because this time, there was something real at stake.
Something I could truly lose.
And that fear was far more terrifying
than being alone.