Alya' side
Two years. It's been two whole years, and not once did I think I would make it this far. Not like this. Not in this silence. I've started a life again, one that looks like the old days—where I have no one to lean on, where the word home no longer holds any warmth, no longer offers a place I long to return to.
She left—taking all her memories with her. To her, maybe they meant nothing. But not to me. Never to me. Not once in these two years have there been words, not a single hello, not even a whisper across the vast distance. Was it my fault? Maybe. I was always too afraid. My logic always overruled my heart. Every time I reached for my phone, my fingers froze. I was terrified of disappointing her, of making her uncomfortable. Of being ignored. Of knowing that perhaps she never wanted to hear from me again.
Even the air has changed. It doesn't taste the same anymore. It's heavier. Dimmer. The brightness I used to feel when she was around—gone. Wiped clean from my dictionary.
A thousand times—more, even—I've wanted to call her. I wanted to tell her everything. About the days I barely made it through. About the exhaustion. About the storm in my head. Or just something small, like the way I saw fireflies that one night while camping, trying to distract myself from thoughts of her.
I miss her. So much it aches. But I don't even know if I'm allowed to miss her. Am I? People say there's no place for the wrong kind of feelings. But if this is so wrong, why is it even here? Why did my heart have to choose her?
I think I finally understand now—why she hated all the rules. Why she felt so caged by the world's expectations. Sometimes I wonder: if I hadn't been born as me, could I have held her in my arms by now? Would she have looked at me the way I always looked at her?
Two years. And I thought I could bury this feeling. But every time I try to build something new with someone else, my heart betrays me. I compare them to her—always. And always, they fall short.
Now I worry this isn't just love anymore. It's become something darker—an obsession I can't shake. A longing that eats away at me. And look where it's brought me.
Here.
To this foreign country. To the land of Queen Elizabeth. My excuse? Graduate studies. My reason? A foolish hope that I might see her again. I flew thousands of miles across oceans, spending hours suspended in the sky, all because of her. Because of this feeling that refuses to die.
I've crafted countless imaginary scenarios in my head: what I'd say if I saw her. What I'd do. Or what I'd feel if I never saw her again. Maybe she'd be disgusted by me now. Maybe she already is. But honestly, I don't care anymore.
I just miss her.
I don't even know where she lives. All I have is a whisper of a chance—0.001% maybe—that I'll run into her near her office. That's all I know: where she works. Not even the exact building.
Crazy? Maybe. Yeah, maybe I've gone crazy.
For the past month, I've wandered through this business district every lunch hour. Hoping. Praying for a coincidence.
Actually—no—I'm not that crazy. I did find out the company address. I even walked in one day, up to the reception desk. But when I got there, nothing came out of my mouth. I just stood, frozen. Then turned around and left.
So now, I play the waiting game. Lurking. Wandering like a shadow with no destination, driven by nothing but hope.
That's when it happened.
I was standing still, staring blankly toward the building—again—when someone bumped into me. A tall English guy, knocking over my coffee in the process.
"Oops, sorry!" he said, bending down to help clean the mess on my cardigan. He was tall enough to block my view, so I stepped aside instinctively, trying to see the door again.
"Your cardigan's soaked," he said.
"It's okay," I replied quietly, unsure how to explain that the coffee wasn't the real reason I was trembling.
Apparently feeling guilty, he called someone—his girlfriend, I assumed—to bring a spare jacket.
"It's cold today," he said, "but my girlfriend always keeps extra stuff in her locker. Just in case."
I tried to protest, but he was already guiding me to sit on a bench by the street. I didn't mean to trouble him—I was the one standing awkwardly in the middle of a busy path.
Five minutes later, someone came walking toward us, holding a hoodie. And that's when everything stopped. The noise around me faded into slow motion. My breath caught in my throat.
She was here.
She was real.
The guy raised his hand to signal her. She smiled, quickening her steps.
"Honey," she greeted him when she arrived. Then he explained what had happened—about the spilled coffee, the spare hoodie.
He turned to her, "Is it okay if she borrows your hoodie?"
I was still sitting, hidden behind his frame. Then I stood, heart pounding, and her eyes finally met mine.
"Alya?" she said, stunned.
"You know her?" the guy asked.
"Hi, Dis. Long time no see," I said.
She smiled. And then—God—she hugged me. Tight. So tight. I never thought she would. I thought she'd be disgusted, repulsed. I never thought she'd want to touch me again.
"Insecure much?" I mocked myself silently.
"She's my friend from Indonesia," Gadis explained to the guy—Ruben, she said. Her colleague. Her boyfriend.
The words hit me like a punch.
She handed me the hoodie. She had to leave soon—their lunch break was almost over. She asked for my apartment address, promised to come see me after work.
And just like that, she was gone again.
I don't know if she meant it. Or if it was just politeness because her boyfriend was watching. All I know is… that 0.001% chance? It was real. It led me to her.
But now, I don't know what to do with it.