That morning, the sky was slightly overcast, but Bagus's heart felt bright. He stood in front of Indah's gate, wearing a gray jacket and holding two bundles of yellow rice wrapped in banana leaves—still warm. In his left hand, a folder containing a manuscript titled "For Indah"—his own writing, about their meeting, the feelings that grew, and the courage he'd pieced together through the night.
He took a deep breath before pressing the doorbell.
Not long after, the door opened. Indah stood there, her hair still slightly messy, wearing a warm sweater and a face that was clearly not fully awake yet. But when she saw who was standing at the gate, her eyes lit up instantly.
"Bagus…"
"Good morning, Indah," Bagus greeted with a smile. "I brought something to make your morning a little warmer."
He lifted the bundles of yellow rice.
Indah smiled wide, surprised and touched at the same time. "You remembered I like yellow rice?"
"Of course. You told me during our video call last month. You said you love having yellow rice in the morning, especially when it's wrapped in banana leaves."
Indah opened the gate, her eyes not leaving Bagus, who stepped in with a sure stride—no longer like the awkward version of himself the night before.
"I also brought this…" Bagus said, handing over the folder.
Indah received it carefully, as if what she held was a piece of someone's soul.
"What is this?"
"A story. About you. About me. About how our meeting—one that began in the digital world—became something real. I wrote it overnight."
Indah opened the first page. The bold title stood out clearly: "For Indah: The Story of a Writer Who Finally Wants to Live in the Real World."
She went silent. Emotion welled up in her throat. Then slowly, she looked at Bagus, now sitting on the living room couch, unwrapping the yellow rice.
"You're serious?"
Bagus turned to her. "I've never been this serious."
They ate in silence for a while, but it wasn't an awkward one—it was a warm silence, full of understanding. Amid the aroma of yellow rice and the pages waiting to be read, something was growing: sincerity, slowly transforming into the courage to begin their own story.
And that morning, in a modest house on the outskirts of the city, two hearts that had once known each other through screens finally met in the real world—with one manuscript, one breakfast, and one feeling that could no longer be denied.
---
After breakfast, Indah sat in her favorite chair by the window. Sunlight filtered gently through the white curtains, illuminating the pages of the manuscript now open on her lap. Bagus sat across from her, watching quietly, trying to guess her reactions with every breath she took.
Indah slowly turned to the first page. Her fingers touched each word as if they were something fragile yet precious. It read:
> "I knew her from a screen, but her smile felt alive in every notification. And when she spoke about yellow rice, I knew—I wanted to be her morning."
Indah let out a soft laugh as she wiped her eyes, then continued reading.
> "Indah is a name too often used in poetry, but this isn't about words. This is about eyes filled with hope, about a woman who is not only strong, but also quiet. And I want to be the voice in that silence."
Page after page turned. And the more she read, the deeper she was moved. There was a part where Bagus wrote about the first time he saw her through a video call, how her laughter became music in his lonely nights, how Indah, unknowingly, began to heal wounds he had never shared.
Until finally, Indah stopped reading halfway through. Her vision blurred with tears she could no longer hold back. The clear drops fell, wetting the corners of the pages still warm from her touch.
Bagus remained silent, his body slightly tense, unsure of what to do.
But suddenly, Indah looked up at him—eyes full of tears, yet also full of warmth and relief.
"Bagus…" her voice was hoarse. "I'm a journalist. I've interviewed so many people. I've heard so many stories. But this is the first time someone has written a story about me… with such honesty."
Bagus simply smiled, his own eyes glistening. "I just wrote what I felt. And you… you make me want to be a better man every day."
Indah placed the manuscript on the table and moved closer to Bagus. She held his hand tightly.
"Thank you… for being here in the most beautiful way," she whispered. "And I'm sorry if I was ever afraid you'd leave after knowing who I really am."
Bagus shook his head. "If I walked away, then I'd never have deserved to love you."
And in the brightening morning light, their hands held tight—not just because of the words written, but because of the unspoken truth between them: that their love, though it began behind a screen, was now real, alive… and worth fighting for.
---
Not long after the warmth between Indah and Bagus settled in, Indah's phone buzzed softly on the table. She reached for it, still with a trace of a smile and slightly teary eyes. But as she saw the sender's name, her smile slowly faded.
Mom.
Indah opened the message.
---
Mom:
Indah, I'm coming to Jakarta tomorrow evening. I want to meet you. There's someone I'd like you to meet. A friend of mine has a son, 37 years old, works in banking. He's kind, polite, and well-established. I think you two would be a good match.
---
Indah froze. Her fingers gripped the phone tighter, as if trying to hold back the fury rising in her chest. That familiar feeling returned—disgust, disappointment, exhaustion. She wasn't even surprised anymore. It wasn't the first time her mother had tried to set her up.
What hurt the most was… her mother always measured worth by titles and status.
Unconsciously, tears fell again. But this time not from emotion.
This was the cry of exhaustion—the fatigue of being a "product that must be sold" in the eyes of her family.
Bagus, sitting not far from her, immediately noticed the shift in her expression.
"Indah? What's wrong?"
Indah turned slowly, her gaze weary but sharp. She handed the phone to Bagus so he could read the message from her mother.
After reading it, Bagus fell silent. His eyes dropped to the table, then lifted back to Indah.
"Are you… okay?"
Indah let out a soft, bitter laugh.
"I always look okay, Bagus. But every time my mom does this, it feels like I have no control over my own life."
Bagus said nothing for a few seconds. Then, calmly, he moved closer and sat beside her.
He held her hand—warm and full of conviction.
"You don't have to go along with it," Bagus said gently.
"And you're not alone."
Indah looked at him, her eyes starting to well up again.
"I'm scared... that when my mom comes and sees you, she'll say you're not 'good enough.' And everything we've built… will be dismissed just like that."
Bagus took a deep breath, then looked at Indah with the most serious expression she had ever seen on him.
"If we want to walk this path together, we need to face more than just love—we need to face its challenges too.
If your mom doesn't see my worth, then I'll show her. But I won't back down, and I won't let you walk alone."
Indah looked down, holding back a sob.
His words felt like a shield for wounds she had long left exposed.
She knew a storm was coming.
But for the first time in her life, Indah felt… maybe this time, she had someone who would stand beside her—not just behind her.
---
The sun had not fully risen when Bagus returned to the living room, carrying two cups of warm coffee. Indah was still sitting quietly by the window, her gaze drifting far away. Her face looked tired, her eyes puffy, and her shoulders slightly hunched—as if an invisible weight was pressing down on her body.
Bagus approached slowly, placing one cup on the table near Indah. "Come on, let's take a morning walk."
Indah turned, her brow furrowed. "Now?"
Bagus gave a gentle smile. "Yes. Just a short walk. Breathe in the morning air. We're not going far. I just want you to breathe... not from pressure, but because you deserve peace."
Indah looked at him, hesitant for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Okay..."
A few minutes later, the two of them stepped out of the house. The neighborhood streets were still quiet. The morning breeze brushed gently against their faces, and sunlight shyly filtered through the leaves.
Their steps were slow, side by side. They didn't talk much, but their presence beside each other was enough to quiet the noise in Indah's mind.
They passed a small park at the end of the block. Bagus stopped and pointed to a wooden bench under a flamboyant tree.
"Shall we sit for a while?"
Indah nodded and sat beside him. The morning breeze played with her hair, and the scent of damp earth after last night's rain lingered in the air.
"In the past," Bagus said softly, "I often came to parks like this to think. Sometimes about stories, sometimes about life. But now... I'm just glad to be sitting here with you."
Indah gave a small smile. "Thank you, Bagus."
"For what?"
"For still being here. Even though you know my mom probably won't like you."
Bagus looked straight ahead, then replied calmly, "I don't need to be liked by everyone, Indah. I just need one thing: the chance to prove that I can make you happy."
Indah turned to him and saw the sincerity in his eyes. Her eyes welled up again—but this time, not from sadness. There was hope, a growing sense of trust.
"In that case... let's face all of this together," Indah said finally.
Bagus smiled. "With pleasure."
And that morning, beneath the flamboyant tree whose leaves gently fell around them, two people who had once met in the digital world began to find their steps in the real one—facing fears, confronting the past, and believing that love, when fought for together, could overcome anything.
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