The Last Account

The last place Farid found Cindy was not in a photograph, not in an old café, not in the corner of a street where memory liked to pretend it had a body. It was in the empty space where her name used to be.

At first, he thought the app had glitched.

The screen showed the same pale search bar, the same blinking cursor, the same list of people whose lives had no reason to hurt him. He typed her name once, then again with the nickname she used for her private account, then again with the small spelling variation she hated because people always got it wrong. Nothing appeared except strangers and old fan pages and a woman in Surabaya selling handmade bracelets.

Farid stared at the phone until the light burned softly into his eyes.

Outside his bedroom window, rain pressed itself against the glass in thin restless lines. It was not heavy enough to be called a storm, but it had been falling since evening, turning the street below into a black ribbon broken by headlights. Somewhere in the apartment, Momo scratched the sofa with the dedication of a creature convinced furniture existed only to be challenged.

“Mo,” Farid called, without looking away from his phone.

The scratching paused.

Then resumed, louder.

Farid let out a breath that was almost a laugh and lowered the phone to his lap. The bedroom was dark except for the screen and the narrow strip of yellow light under his door. Bunda was still awake outside, probably watching one of those dramas where everyone cried in expensive houses and forgave each other too late. The smell of fried shallots lingered from dinner, mixed with detergent, rain, and the faint dusty warmth of his laptop that had been running since he came home from work.

He should have left it alone.

He knew that before he opened the first app. Knew it in the tired place behind his ribs that had been warning him for weeks. Do not check. Do not search. Do not confirm what you already know. There were wounds that only hurt if you pressed them, and Farid had become very good at not pressing.

But that night, for no noble reason, his restraint had failed.

Maybe because Dimas had mentioned her name earlier that day and pretended it was accidental. Maybe because Bunda had made soup with too much pepper, the way Cindy used to like it, and then gone quiet when she realized. Maybe because Momo had fallen asleep on Farid’s work bag with one paw over the zipper, and for one stupid second Farid had reached for his phone to send Cindy a photo.

Habit was cruelest when it arrived dressed as tenderness.

He unlocked his phone again.

Instagram first. Nothing.

WhatsApp next. Her profile photo was gone, replaced by the blank grey silhouette that looked less like privacy and more like erasure. The last chat remained, preserved with the awful politeness of technology: old messages sitting beneath the date of their final conversation, as if grief could be archived neatly. Farid did not open it yet. He hovered over the chat, thumb suspended, feeling the absurd weight of a single tap.

Then he checked the other account. The one she said she barely used. Blocked there too.

The playlist they used to share had disappeared from his saved library. Their old collaborative notes link no longer opened. Even the food review account she made as a joke during lockdown showed no trace of her when he searched.

Cindy had been thorough.

Farid leaned back against the side of his bed and laughed once under his breath. Not because anything was funny. Because of course she had done it properly. Cindy did not half-close doors. If she decided a room was dangerous, she locked it, returned the key, and convinced herself not to stand outside listening.

From the living room, Bunda raised her voice.

“Momo! Jangan garuk sofa!” / “Momo! Don’t scratch the sofa!”

The scratching stopped again. A beat of silence followed, full of offended feline dignity.

Then Bunda added, softer, “Farid, kamu belum tidur?” / “Farid, you’re not asleep yet?”

He turned the phone screen down against his blanket, as if she could see through the door.

“Belum, Bun.” / “Not yet, Mom.”

“Besok kerja, kan?” / “You have work tomorrow, right?”

“Iya.” / “Yes.”

“Kalau iya, tidur. Jangan main handphone terus.” / “Then sleep. Don’t keep playing with your phone.”

He smiled faintly despite himself. To Bunda, every adult sorrow still had the same first diagnosis: too much phone, too little sleep, not enough warm water.

“Iya, nanti.” / “Yes, later.”

A few seconds passed. He heard her slippers drag against the floor, then the small complaining creak of the sofa as she sat down. Momo made a chirping sound, probably pretending innocence beside the crime scene.

Farid picked up his phone again.

The blank profile icon stared back.

He turned the screen off.

---

By the time he left his room, the drama on television had reached a funeral scene. A woman in a white blouse stood beside a hospital bed, sobbing with remarkable eyeliner. Bunda sat on the sofa with a folded blanket over her lap and a bowl of peeled oranges on the coffee table. Momo was pressed against her thigh, eyes half-closed, one paw resting smugly on the sofa arm he had been destroying for months.

The damage had become part of the furniture now. Thin pale scars cut through the grey fabric in uneven lines. At first, Bunda had threatened to throw the sofa away. Then she threatened to throw Momo away. Then, somehow, both stayed.

Farid stood at the edge of the living room and watched his mother feed the cat a small piece of orange peel for him to sniff. Momo recoiled dramatically, as if betrayed.

“Serve you right,” Farid muttered in English.

Momo ignored him.

Bunda looked over. Her face softened when she saw him, then sharpened the way mothers’ faces did when they noticed what their children hoped to hide.

“Kamu pucat.” / “You look pale.”

“Lampunya aja.” / “It’s just the lighting.”

“Lampunya dari tadi sama.” / “The lighting has been the same all night.”

Farid walked to the kitchen instead of answering. He filled a glass with water, drank half, then leaned one hip against the counter. The apartment was small enough that silence had nowhere to go. It sat between them, polite and heavy.

On television, the grieving woman whispered something about destiny. Farid almost laughed again.

Bunda muted the volume.

That was worse.

He glanced at her. “Kenapa dimute?” / “Why did you mute it?”

“Berisik.” / “Too noisy.”

“You were watching.”

“Sekarang nggak.” / “Not now.”

Farid turned the glass slowly in his hand. The water was room temperature. He used to hate that, but Cindy had always preferred it, said cold water at night made her throat feel strange. The thought arrived without permission. Small, ordinary, unbearable.

Bunda peeled another orange segment, removing the white strings carefully with her nails.

“Tadi Dimas telepon?” / “Did Dimas call earlier?”

Farid kept his face neutral. “Chat aja.” / “Just texted.”

“He mentioned her?”

There was no need to ask who.

Farid looked down into his glass. His reflection bent inside the water, distorted by the curve.

“Sedikit.” / “A little.”

Bunda nodded as if this confirmed something she had already guessed. She placed the orange segment in her mouth and chewed slowly. The television cast soft blue flashes over her face, making her look older every time the scene changed.

“She’s okay?” Bunda asked in English, because sometimes English made difficult things sound less exposed.

Farid took too long to answer.

“I think so.”

Bunda watched him, waiting for the rest. When it did not come, she looked at Momo instead and scratched the top of his head. The cat melted shamelessly into her palm.

“Dia udah makan?” / “Has she eaten?”

The question slipped out so naturally that Farid felt something inside him tilt.

For a second, he did not know how to answer. Not because the words were complicated, but because they belonged to another life. Bunda used to ask him that almost every evening when Cindy had late shifts, or church activities, or family dinners she attended out of obligation. Has she eaten? Did she reach home? Is the rain heavy where she is? Tell her to bring an umbrella next time. Tell her not to skip breakfast. Tell her I packed extra.

Farid’s grip tightened around the glass.

“Aku nggak tahu, Bun.” / “I don’t know, Mom.”

Bunda’s hand stilled on Momo’s head.

The apartment seemed to notice the sentence with them. Even the rain softened for a moment, becoming a hush against the window.

Farid regretted his tone immediately. It had not been harsh exactly, but it had carried more pain than the question deserved. Bunda did not flinch. That made him feel worse.

“Maaf.” / “Sorry.”

“Untuk apa?” / “For what?”

He shrugged. “Nggak tahu.” / “I don’t know.”

Bunda sighed, not dramatically, not with the theatrical weight of the woman on television. Her sigh was smaller, worn smooth by years of bills, prayer mats, grocery lists, and loving a son who had always believed quietness could protect other people from his hurt.

“Duduk sini.” / “Sit here.”

“Bun, I’m fine.”

“Duduk.” / “Sit.”

He sat.

Momo, offended by the shift in cushion balance, opened one eye and gave Farid a look that suggested legal action. Farid scratched under his chin anyway. The cat allowed it after a moment, because dignity had limits and Farid knew the correct spot.

Bunda did not speak right away. She unmuted the television by accident, heard the grieving woman sob again, frowned, and muted it properly this time. Farid watched the silent scene continue. Mouths opened and closed. A hand touched a coffin. Tears moved without sound.

It was almost comforting.

Bunda folded her hands in her lap.

“Farid.”

He looked at her.

“Kamu masih tunggu dia?” / “Are you still waiting for her?”

The question did not stab. It did something worse. It entered gently, sat down, and looked around at all the places he had hidden the answer.

Farid stroked Momo’s fur. The cat was warm and heavy under his hand, a living weight that demanded nothing except food, furniture, and worship.

“No,” he said.

Bunda did not react.

He swallowed.

“I mean... bukan tunggu.” / “I mean... not waiting.”

“Lalu?” / “Then?”

Farid stared at the muted television. A man had appeared onscreen now, crying too late beside a hospital corridor. The entire episode seemed committed to poor timing.

“I don’t know,” Farid said at last. “Aku cuma belum terbiasa.” / “I just haven’t gotten used to it yet.”

Bunda’s expression softened, but she did not rush to comfort him. That was one of the things he loved most about her and hated most tonight. She gave pain room to be honest.

“Belum terbiasa dia nggak ada?” / “Not used to her being gone?”

He nodded once.

The truth, once released, made the room feel colder.

Bunda reached for an orange segment and placed it in his hand. He looked at it, then at her.

“Eat.”

“I just brushed my teeth.”

“No, you didn’t.”

He almost smiled. “You don’t know that.”

“You came out with coffee breath.” / “Kamu keluar bau kopi.”

This time, he did smile, though it did not last long. He ate the orange. It was sweeter than he expected.

Bunda watched him chew, then said, “Kadang orang baik tetap nggak bisa tinggal.” / “Sometimes good people still cannot stay.”

Farid looked down.

The words were too simple. He wanted to argue with them, but simple things often had the worst habit of being true.

Cindy had been good. That was the problem. If she had been cruel, he could have turned her into a lesson. If she had lied, he could have sharpened his hurt into anger. If she had left carelessly, he could have told himself he deserved better and moved forward with the clean arrogance of the wronged.

But she had cried when she left. She had held both her own hands together because he would no longer hold them. She had said she loved him in the past tense because the future had become impossible. She had blocked him only after warning him she might have to. She had done everything that hurt with the face of someone performing surgery without anesthesia.

Good people could still break each other.

Maybe that was the part nobody taught properly.

Bunda shifted, leaning back against the sofa. Momo used the movement as an opportunity to roll onto his side, exposing his belly like a trap.

“I still ask about her sometimes,” Bunda said quietly.

“I know.”

“Not because I want to make you sad.”

“I know, Bun.”

“She was kind to me.”

Farid’s throat tightened.

“I know.”

Bunda’s gaze moved to the rain-dark window. Her reflection hovered there faintly, transparent over the streaking glass. “First time she came here, she helped me wash plates. Remember?”

He remembered.

He remembered telling Cindy she did not have to, and Cindy rolling her eyes as if he had offended her. He remembered Bunda pretending not to be impressed while secretly giving Cindy the good container to take food home. He remembered Momo, still small then, trying to climb Cindy’s jeans with needle claws while Cindy whispered, “Aduh, sakit, tapi lucu banget.” / “Ouch, it hurts, but you’re so cute.”

He remembered too much.

“She was nervous,” Farid said.

Bunda smiled. “Very. She kept calling me ‘Aunty’ then ‘Bunda’ then ‘Aunty’ again.”

Farid let out a soft laugh. “She panicked after. She asked me if she was rude.”

“She was sweet.”

The smile faded from Bunda’s face slowly.

“Does her family know you two stopped talking?”

Farid rubbed his thumb over Momo’s fur. “Probably.”

“Hmm.”

That single sound held everything Bunda did not say.

They had talked around it many times but rarely directly. Farid was Muslim. Cindy was Christian. At first, the difference had lived quietly beside them. It appeared in small accommodations: Friday prayers, Sunday services, halal restaurants, Christmas gifts that did not feel like declarations, Eid visits that Cindy attended with careful respect. They had been young enough, or hopeful enough, to believe love could remain private until it became strong enough to face the world.

But families did not stay theoretical forever. Marriage was not an idea forever. Futures eventually asked for names, prayers, ceremonies, children, compromises that could no longer be solved with soft smiles and “we’ll figure it out later.”

Later had arrived.

Neither of them had been ready.

Farid leaned his head back against the sofa and closed his eyes. The television flickered silently. The rain resumed its steady tapping.

“She did the right thing,” he said.

Bunda did not answer immediately.

Then: “Maybe.”

Farid opened his eyes and looked at her.

Bunda’s mouth curved sadly. “Right thing can still hurt.”

He looked away first.

---

After Bunda finally went to bed, Farid stayed in the living room.

The apartment settled into its after-midnight sounds. Pipes clicked inside the walls. Rainwater rushed down the balcony drain. Somewhere upstairs, a chair scraped across the floor. Momo moved from the sofa to the rug, then back to the sofa, as if conducting important business.

Farid turned off the television. The sudden darkness made the room feel larger. Only the kitchen light remained on, a soft square of yellow falling across the tiles.

He should have gone to sleep.

Instead, he picked up his phone.

The WhatsApp chat sat where it had always been, though everything inside it had become untouchable. Cindy’s name at the top. No profile photo. No status. No last seen. A room emptied of furniture but still carrying the smell of someone who once lived there.

His thumb hovered.

Then he opened it.

The last message from her was months old.

Cindy: I think we need to stop making this harder. Please don’t hate me.

Cindy: Aku sayang kamu, Rid. Tapi aku nggak tahu gimana caranya tetap di sini tanpa bikin kita makin sakit. / I love you, Rid. But I don’t know how to stay here without hurting us more.

Farid had read those lines so many times they no longer felt like words. They felt like a room he kept walking through in the dark, knowing exactly where the furniture was and still hitting his knee on the same corner.

Below them was his reply.

Farid: I could never hate you.

Farid: Take care, Cin.

There should have been more. At the time, he had wanted to send paragraphs. He had wanted to ask her to wait, to reconsider, to be selfish with him for once. He had wanted to promise things he did not know how to promise. He had wanted to tell her Bunda would miss her, Momo would miss her, the sofa would remain ugly without her laughing at it.

But Cindy had asked him not to make it harder.

So he had not.

The kindness still felt like cowardice on bad nights.

Farid scrolled upward. Not far. He knew better. Old chats were dangerous because they did not remain old when opened. They breathed. They reached.

A photo appeared.

Momo, younger and much smaller, asleep across Farid’s laptop keyboard. Cindy’s hand was in the corner of the frame, one finger pointing accusingly at the cat. The caption she had sent beneath it made his chest ache.

Cindy: Dia bukan kucing. Dia manager kamu. / He’s not a cat. He’s your manager.

Farid smiled despite himself.

Another message, from a night when he had stayed too late at work:

Cindy: Jangan lupa makan. Aku tahu kamu bakal bilang “nanti” terus lupa. / Don’t forget to eat. I know you’ll say “later” and then forget.

And his answer:

Farid: Yes, boss.

And Cindy:

Cindy: Good. Boss kamu sayang kamu. / Good. Your boss loves you.

Farid stopped scrolling.

The room blurred slightly. He blinked once, annoyed, and locked the phone.

But the chat remained in his mind, glowing behind his eyes.

Momo jumped onto the sofa beside him with the graceless heaviness of a much larger animal. Farid shifted to make space. The cat turned in three tight circles, stepped directly on Farid’s thigh, and settled against him as if granting forgiveness for all human weakness.

“You’re almost nine kilos because Bunda spoils you,” Farid whispered.

Momo purred.

Farid rested a hand on the cat’s back. The vibration travelled through his palm, small and steady. Life insisted on continuing in these ridiculous ways. Cats got fatter. Mothers asked questions. Work emails arrived. Rain stopped eventually. People who thought they would die from missing someone woke up the next morning anyway, hungry or late or both.

His phone buzzed once.

For a foolish second, his heart moved before his mind could stop it.

It was only Dimas.

Dimas: Bro, sorry if earlier was awkward. Didn’t mean to bring her up like that.

Farid stared at the message.

The reply box waited.

He typed:

Farid: It’s okay.

Then stopped.

The words looked too small, though they were probably true. He deleted them. Typed again.

Farid: No worries. I’m fine.

That was worse.

He deleted that too and placed the phone face down on the sofa.

Momo opened one eye, unimpressed.

“What?” Farid murmured. “You reply then.”

Momo closed his eye again.

Farid leaned back and let his head sink into the cushion. The scratched fabric brushed the side of his arm. He ran his fingers over the damaged threads, feeling the roughness, the small raised edges where Momo had pulled the weave apart. Cindy used to say they should keep the sofa forever, even if it became ugly, because it had “character.” Bunda had said character was expensive to repair.

He wondered if Cindy still remembered the sofa.

He hated that he wondered.

The kitchen clock ticked toward one in the morning. Farid closed his eyes. He tried to picture the week ahead instead of the past. Monday meeting. Tuesday report. Wednesday dinner with Bunda’s cousin if he could not escape. Bills. Laundry. Groceries. Prayer. Sleep. Wake. Repeat.

A life.

A good life, even.

Just not the one he had imagined when Cindy laughed in this living room and called his cat a manager.

His phone buzzed again.

He ignored it.

Then again.

With a sigh, he picked it up, expecting Dimas to be over-apologizing.

But no new message showed. Only a notification from the app store, some pointless reminder about storage. Farid swiped it away. His thumb moved out of habit, opened WhatsApp again, and there was Cindy’s chat.

He stared at it for a long moment.

Then, before he could think better of it, he tapped the message box.

The keyboard appeared.

His reflection hovered faintly in the black parts of the screen. Tired. Older than he felt. Younger than he should have been. A man lit by a conversation that no longer had anyone on the other side.

He typed slowly.

Are you okay?

Three words.

No greeting. No explanation. No accusation. Just the question he had swallowed for months because care had nowhere to go after goodbye.

He looked at it.

His thumb hovered over send.

The message sat there, fragile and dangerous.

Are you okay?

He imagined it leaving. Imagined one grey tick, or none at all. Imagined Cindy seeing it despite the block somehow, maybe through some miracle of poor boundaries and worse timing. Imagined her face tightening. Imagined her fiancé, whoever he was, sitting beside her. Imagined Cindy having to become cruel again just to protect them both.

Farid’s chest tightened.

Bunda’s words returned, simple and merciless.

Sometimes good people still cannot stay.

Momo stretched beside him, claws catching lightly in the sofa. Farid glanced down.

“Don’t,” he whispered.

The cat scratched once anyway.

Farid laughed under his breath, but the sound broke before it became whole.

He looked back at the message.

For several seconds, he let himself pretend there was still a world where he could send it. A world where Cindy answered. A world where concern did not reopen wounds. A world where love could be clean just because it was sincere.

Then he held down the delete key.

The words disappeared one letter at a time.

Okay?

you

Are

The message box emptied.

Farid locked the phone and placed it on the coffee table, farther away this time.

The rain thinned outside, softening into mist against the window. In the glass, he could see the living room reflected faintly: the muted television, the scarred sofa, the orange cat, himself sitting in the dark with one hand resting on a love he was not allowed to reach for anymore.

From Bunda’s room came a small cough, then silence.

Farid stayed where he was until the kitchen light flickered once. Then he rose, carried his empty glass to the sink, and turned off the lamp.

In the dark, Momo scratched the sofa again.

Farid did not scold him.

He only stood there for a moment, listening to the small stubborn sound, and thought of Cindy laughing with her whole face, as if some things, once damaged, could still be loved exactly as they were.

Then he went to bed without his phone.