When lunchtime arrived, Mrs. Sofie stepped out of her office.
Her movements were composed, but her eyes swept across the boutique—as if searching for something she couldn't quite name.
"Have you all had lunch?" she asked gently.
"Yes, Ma'am," one of the employees replied. "Those still out are Mbak Silvi, Mbak Indah, and Mbak Ita."
Mrs. Sofie nodded.
"If anyone asks for me, tell them I've gone home for a while."
"Yes, Ma'am."
She walked away with a faint smile, but unease settled quietly in her chest. She hadn't seen Silvi all day—and despite herself, her thoughts kept circling back to one name.
Silvi.
She didn't know when concern had begun to replace judgment, but it unsettled her more than she cared to admit.
Ammar had been sitting in the fast-food restaurant longer than he realized.
At first, he told himself to relax. He ordered a drink, chose a seat near the window, and scrolled through his phone—pretending not to check the time every few seconds.
Fifteen minutes passed.
Then twenty.
Restlessness crept in.
"She said she'd be here…" he murmured.
He called.
Unavailable.
He tried again.
Still nothing.
His breathing shortened, uneven.
"What's wrong?" he whispered to himself. "Don't do this…"
He typed a message.
Where are you?
No reply.
The unease sharpened into something colder—not panic, but the kind of fear that came from sensing a shift you couldn't name or control. Something was wrong. He could feel it in the hollow space settling in his chest.
Without allowing himself to think further, Ammar stood up and headed back toward the boutique.
He entered quickly, eyes scanning the room.
Empty.
"Mbak," he asked one of the staff, "where's Mbak Silvi?"
"She already went home, Mas," the woman replied. "She said she wasn't feeling well."
His chest tightened.
"Thank you."
He turned and left.
From a distance, Mrs. Sofie saw the tension etched across her son's face—the way his steps were too fast, his shoulders too rigid. She didn't call out to him.
For the first time, she felt afraid of something that hadn't yet happened.
Ammar rode straight to Silvi's house.
The yard was empty. Her motorcycle wasn't there.
He knocked.
No answer.
He waited a moment, forcing himself to breathe, reminding himself not to assume the worst.
A neighbor approached. "Mbak Silvi hasn't come home yet, Mas. She's usually back by afternoon."
"Yes, Ma'am. Thank you."
He nodded absently and sat back on his motorcycle, fingers trembling as he held his phone.
Please let me know when you get home.
The message sent.
No reply.
He stared at the screen longer than necessary, then slipped the phone back into his pocket. He didn't want to imagine things that weren't there—but his chest refused to settle.
For the first time, waiting felt unbearable.
On the other side of the city, Silvi sat on a long bench facing the sea.
The coastal wind brushed her face. This place had always been her refuge—a space where silence didn't demand explanation, where she could exist without being watched or measured.
Her phone was turned off.
Her mother's words echoed relentlessly.
You're too different.
You're not suitable.
She closed her eyes.
Should I step back now,
before this becomes another loss?
A voice cut through her thoughts.
"Hi, Nissa."
Her body stiffened.
Only one person ever called her that.
Ilham.
He sat beside her without asking.
"I've been looking for you," he said casually. "Your phone's off."
Silvi kept her gaze on the sea.
"I was wrong," Ilham continued. "I regret it. I broke up with Ria."
Silvi stood immediately.
"Don't touch me," she said coldly as he moved closer. "And don't speak as if you didn't destroy me."
Ilham froze.
"I've forgiven you," she said steadily. "But coming back is not an option."
She turned and walked away without looking back.
Her steps were firm—not rushed, not shaking. Leaving him behind felt less like victory and more like closure she had earned.
Minutes later, Ammar arrived at the beach.
He asked a drink vendor.
"Over there," the woman said, pointing.
Ammar walked quickly—then stopped.
He saw Silvi.
And a man standing not far from her.
Heat surged in his chest.
Not anger.
Not jealousy.
Fear.
Am I too late?
His fists clenched—then loosened.
He took a long breath.
Stay calm, he told himself.
Listen first. Don't assume.
He watched as Silvi walked past the man without turning back, her posture steady, her expression unreadable from this distance. Whatever had happened, she was leaving on her own terms.
Something inside Ammar shifted—not toward confrontation, but toward certainty.
This feeling had grown beyond restraint.
And whatever came after this—
would not be simple.