The Girl Who Hated Strangers

Cindy had always hated talking to strangers.

Not hated in the rude, dramatic way people said they hated things they secretly enjoyed complaining about. She truly disliked it. She disliked the small humiliations of introduction, the polite lies people exchanged before deciding whether the other person was worth remembering, the way strangers asked questions too casually and received answers too carelessly. She did not like explaining herself from the beginning. She did not like being reduced to a name, an age, a job, a city, a religion, a status.

She preferred people who already knew where not to touch.

People who knew she drank water slowly when she was nervous. People who knew she laughed louder when she was trying not to cry. People who knew she said “gapapa” when something was very much not gapapa. People who had earned the right to stand close to her silence.

That was why, when Dimas saw her phone light up on the table with an anonymous chat notification, his eyebrows rose before he could stop them.

Cindy noticed.

She always noticed.

They were sitting in the back corner of a Japanese restaurant that was too bright for evening and too crowded for comfort. Steam rose from bowls of ramen at the next table. Someone’s toddler kept dropping a spoon and then looking amazed each time gravity performed as promised. The air smelled of soy sauce, fried garlic, wet umbrellas, and the faint sourness of rain-damp clothes drying under air-conditioning.

Outside, Jakarta had turned silver under rain. Motorcycles slid between cars with suicidal confidence. The glass windows were fogged at the edges, blurring the traffic lights into soft red and green wounds.

Cindy reached for her phone and flipped it face down.

Too late.

Dimas leaned back in his chair, chopsticks still in his hand. He had known her for seven years, which meant he knew exactly when not to ask something and exactly how to fail at not asking.

“What was that?” he said.

Cindy stirred her iced tea with the straw. The ice cubes clicked against the glass, small and sharp.

“Nothing.” / “Nggak ada.”

Dimas looked at her over the rim of his glasses. “That was a notification.”

“Congratulations. You can read symbols now.” / “Selamat. Kamu sekarang bisa baca simbol.”

“I mean, from what app?”

“A normal app.” / “Aplikasi biasa.”

“Your definition of normal is suspicious.”

Cindy gave him a look. “Eat your ramen, Dim.”

He smiled, but it did not stay. Dimas was not the sort of friend who enjoyed pushing wounds open for sport. He could be annoying, yes. Too perceptive when she wanted him stupid. Too gentle when she needed him to pretend. But his concern had always arrived carefully, like someone entering a room where another person might be asleep.

Across from them, Lia and Kevin were arguing about whether a person could still call themselves a coffee lover if they drank caramel macchiato with extra syrup. The argument had been going on for ten minutes and had somehow become personal. Lia, who worked in branding and believed everything revealed personality, claimed Kevin liked the idea of coffee more than coffee itself. Kevin, who worked in finance and believed suffering made things authentic, said Lia’s matcha obsession disqualified her from judging anyone.

Cindy let their voices move around her. She was grateful for the noise. It kept attention from settling too long.

Her phone buzzed again.

Dimas’s eyes flicked down.

Cindy did not touch it.

“You can check,” he said quietly.

“It’s not important.”

“Then why are you acting like it’s a bomb?”

She looked at him. He looked back, expression carefully neutral.

Lia interrupted before Cindy had to answer.

“Cin, kamu setuju kan?” / “Cin, you agree, right?”

Cindy blinked. “Setuju apa?” / “Agree with what?”

“That Kevin is fake coffee people.”

Kevin groaned. “Fake coffee people? That’s not even grammar.”

“It’s emotionally accurate grammar.”

Cindy wrapped both hands around her glass. The cold had already numbed her fingertips. “I think people should drink whatever makes them happy.” / “Menurutku orang minum aja apa yang bikin mereka senang.”

Lia pointed at her triumphantly. “See? That means she agrees with me.”

“That means nothing,” Kevin said.

“It means Cindy is diplomatic.”

Dimas muttered, “Cindy is avoiding.”

Cindy kicked him lightly under the table.

He winced, but his mouth twitched.

For a moment, it almost felt like an ordinary dinner. Four friends hiding from rain, arguing about drinks nobody cared about, pretending adulthood was not mostly exhaustion with better shoes. Cindy smiled when she was supposed to. She laughed when Kevin accidentally dropped an egg into his lap. She scolded Lia for trying to steal her gyoza. She performed okayness with enough skill that someone less familiar might have believed it.

But Dimas did not.

That was the problem with old friends. They remembered your original shape.

The waiter came to clear empty plates. Lia ordered dessert. Kevin complained and then ordered some too. Cindy said she was full, which was true in the sense that her chest had no room left for anything.

The phone stayed face down.

She knew what the notification was. Not a person she knew. Not anyone important. Just another random message from an app she had downloaded three nights ago and already regretted. The kind of app full of people who did not know her, would not ask why her voice changed at certain names, and would disappear the moment she pressed leave.

There was a cruel comfort in that.

Strangers could not abandon you. They could only fail to become anything.

---

The first time Cindy had told Farid she hated strangers, they had been waiting outside a pharmacy at eleven at night because Bunda needed cough syrup and Farid refused to let Cindy go home alone in the rain.

The pharmacy had one flickering sign, one tired cashier, and one security guard who kept trying to talk to everyone who passed. Farid had answered the guard politely, then somehow ended up discussing football, parking fees, and the price of eggs.

Cindy had stood under the awning with her arms folded, watching rain stitch silver lines through the streetlight.

When Farid came back to her, holding the cough syrup in a small plastic bag, she had stared at him in disbelief.

“Kamu kenal dia?” / “Do you know him?”

Farid looked back at the guard. “No.”

“Then why were you talking like he’s your uncle?”

Farid laughed. “He was friendly.”

“He was a stranger.”

“And now he’s slightly less stranger.”

Cindy had rolled her eyes, but Farid only smiled wider, that gentle, infuriating smile that made people feel forgiven before they had apologized.

“You’re impossible,” she had said.

“No. You’re just suspicious.”

“I’m realistic.”

“You’re scared of small talk.”

“I’m allergic to pointless conversation.”

Farid had tilted his head, studying her the way he did when he wanted to remember the exact shape of her mood. “Not everything has to have a point, Cin.”

“Spoken like someone who once talked to an elevator technician for twenty minutes.”

“He had a very interesting life.”

“He fixed elevators.”

“Exactly. Vertical drama every day.”

Cindy had laughed then, even though she tried not to. Farid had looked absurdly pleased with himself. Rainwater clung to his lashes. The plastic bag swung between them. She remembered thinking, with a sudden dangerous softness, that maybe being known by him would not feel like being trapped.

Later, much later, after everything became difficult, she would replay that night and wonder how a person could once make strangers feel harmless and then become someone she had to remove from every doorway of her life.

The memory arrived during dinner without warning.

Cindy lowered her eyes to her tea.

Dimas saw that too.

---

Dessert came with too many spoons.

Lia took pictures from three angles before allowing anyone to eat. Kevin complained about influencer culture while leaning in to check whether his side profile looked good in the shot. Dimas stole the first bite because he had no respect for ceremonies. Cindy watched the steam rise from the matcha lava cake, thick and green and sweet enough to make her teeth ache.

“Eh,” Lia said suddenly, scrolling through her phone. “Do you guys remember that café near Blok M? The one with the terrible parking but really good croffles?”

Kevin groaned. “Don’t tell me you want to go after this.”

“No, no. I just saw someone post there.” Lia turned the screen toward Cindy without thinking. “Wasn’t this the place you and—”

She stopped.

Not fast enough.

Farid’s name never appeared in the air, but the shape of it did. Everyone at the table felt it arrive.

Cindy looked at the photo.

It was just a café. Warm lights. Wooden tables. A hand holding iced coffee. No Farid. No old date stamped visibly in the corner. Nothing that should have mattered. But Cindy knew exactly which table she and Farid had liked, the one near the wall where the air-conditioning did not blow directly onto the food. She knew the cashier used to recognize him because he always asked for less ice. She knew Farid had once spent fifteen minutes helping a schoolboy pick up spilled coins near the entrance while Cindy pretended to be annoyed and secretly took a picture.

The old life rose so vividly she almost smelled butter and rain.

Lia lowered the phone.

“Sorry,” she said softly.

Cindy picked up her spoon. “For what?” / “Untuk apa?”

No one answered.

She took a bite of cake. It was too sweet, too rich. She swallowed anyway.

Kevin, bless him, attempted rescue with the clumsiness of a man walking through a room full of glass.

“Anyway, the parking there really is bad.”

Lia glared at him.

“What? I’m changing the topic.”

“That’s your topic?”

“It’s neutral.”

Dimas rubbed his forehead.

Cindy almost laughed. The almost hurt more than crying would have.

“It’s okay,” she said. “Beneran.” / “Really.”

Lia’s expression folded with guilt. “Cin—”

“I said it’s okay.”

Her voice came out gentle, but the finality in it made Lia stop.

Dimas did not speak. He only watched Cindy’s hand. Her fingers had tightened around the spoon until her knuckles paled.

She noticed and let go.

The spoon clinked against the plate.

Nobody mentioned Farid again.

That, somehow, was worse.

---

When dinner ended, the rain had eased into a mist that blurred the streetlamps. The four of them stood outside the restaurant entrance, half-sheltered beneath a narrow awning, while Kevin tried to book a ride and Lia complained that her hair had become “emotionally damaged” by humidity.

Cindy hugged Lia goodbye. Lia held on longer than usual.

“You sure you’re okay?” Lia whispered.

Cindy smiled into her friend’s shoulder. “I’m okay.” / “Aku baik-baik aja.”

The lie was old enough to sound natural.

Kevin waved his phone. “My driver is two minutes away. Dimas, you going where?”

“Same direction as Cindy,” Dimas said.

Cindy looked at him. “I can go home alone.”

“I know.”

“I’m not fragile.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“Then why?”

Dimas shrugged and opened his umbrella. “Because my place is also that direction.”

“It’s not.”

“Tonight it is.”

Cindy was too tired to argue properly. She said goodbye to Lia and Kevin, then stepped under Dimas’s umbrella. It was black, wide, and slightly bent on one side. Rain tapped against it in uneven rhythms as they walked toward the main road.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

The city moved around them in wet fragments: headlights sliding across puddles, food delivery riders hunched over their handlebars, cigarette smoke dissolving under shop awnings, the metallic groan of a bus braking at the intersection. Cindy kept her hands in the pockets of her cardigan. Her phone weighed against her palm like a secret.

Dimas adjusted the umbrella higher so it covered her better. His shoulder was getting wet.

“You’re doing that annoying caring thing again,” Cindy said.

He glanced down at her. “I have many annoying caring things. Be specific.”

“You’re pretending not to ask.”

“I am not pretending. I am heroically restraining myself.”

“That’s worse.”

“I know.”

They reached a quieter stretch of pavement where closed shops reflected themselves in rainwater. A bakery sign flickered. Somewhere nearby, someone was frying something with garlic; the smell cut through the damp air and made Cindy suddenly aware she had barely eaten.

Dimas slowed.

“Cin.”

She kept walking.

He matched her pace. “About earlier.”

“I know Lia didn’t mean it.”

“I wasn’t talking about Lia.”

Cindy stopped beneath the weak glow of a streetlamp. Water dripped from the umbrella’s edge, falling in small bright beads beside her sleeve.

Dimas faced her carefully.

She hated that. The carefulness. The way everyone who knew about Farid now treated his name like a glass cup balanced at the edge of a table.

“What?” she asked.

Dimas pushed his glasses up with one finger, a gesture he used when buying himself time. “Are you really using random chat apps now?”

Cindy laughed once, short and unbelieving. “That’s what you want to ask?”

“It’s safer than the other thing.”

“The other thing has a name.”

“I know.”

“Then say it.”

Dimas looked away first.

The rain filled the silence.

Cindy’s throat tightened, but anger came easier than grief, so she reached for it. “Everyone acts like if they say his name, I’ll break. I’m not made of paper.”

“No,” Dimas said quietly. “You’re not. But you’re also not made of stone.”

She looked at the road. A motorcycle passed too close to a puddle, sending dirty water over the curb. Dimas shifted the umbrella without thinking, blocking the splash from her shoes.

The gesture irritated her because it was kind.

“I blocked him,” she said.

Dimas did not answer.

“I did it. Me. Aku yang block semua.” / “I was the one who blocked everything.”

“I know.”

“So why does everyone look at me like I’m the one who got abandoned?”

Dimas’s face tightened. Not with judgment. With the strain of deciding whether honesty would be mercy or damage.

“Because leaving hurts too,” he said at last.

Cindy looked up at him.

The streetlamp made his glasses flash white, hiding his eyes for a second.

“You can make the decision and still be destroyed by it,” Dimas continued. “Those two things can exist together.”

Her mouth opened, but no words came.

She hated him a little then. Not because he was wrong, but because he had placed the truth too plainly between them, and she had nowhere to look where it did not follow.

The phone in her pocket buzzed again.

Dimas heard it. Of course he did.

Cindy pulled it out, more to escape his gaze than to check. The notification sat on the lock screen.

Unknown user from anonymous chat app.

Stranger: can’t sleep too?

Dimas read enough before she tilted the screen away.

His expression shifted. Concern, confusion, then something like sadness.

“This is very not you,” he said.

The words struck with such familiar force that Cindy nearly flinched.

That is so not you.

Farid would say it someday. Not now, of course. Maybe never. But if he saw her like this, scrolling through strangers at midnight, letting people with empty usernames ask whether she was asleep, he would tilt his head and look at her with gentle disbelief.

Cindy locked the phone.

“Well,” she said, voice thinner than she wanted, “maybe that’s the point.” / “Mungkin itu memang tujuannya.”

Dimas watched her.

She stepped out from under the umbrella and into the mist before he could respond. The rain was light enough not to matter and cold enough to wake her skin.

“Cin.”

“I need to change, Dim.” / “Aku harus berubah, Dim.”

“Changing doesn’t mean becoming lonely in a new way.”

That hurt.

She turned back to him. “What do you want me to do? Stay exactly the same? Keep every habit that reminds me of him? Keep every account open so I can accidentally see him? Keep all the places, all the songs, all the inside jokes, all the—”

Her voice caught. She stopped before it broke.

A passing car washed them in white light, then left them dim again.

Dimas did not move closer. He knew better than to corner her with comfort.

Cindy pressed her lips together and breathed through her nose.

“All the versions of me that only made sense because he was there?” she finished quietly. / “Semua versi diriku yang cuma masuk akal karena dia ada?”

Dimas lowered the umbrella slightly. Rain dotted his hair.

“No,” he said. “I don’t want that.”

“Then what?”

“I want you to not punish yourself for missing him.”

Cindy looked at him, and for one terrible second she wanted to say it. Everything. That she missed Farid in stupid ways. In the pepper level of soup. In orange cats on the internet. In the empty second after good news when her thumb still moved toward his chat. That sometimes she prayed for peace and then cried because peace sounded too much like forgetting. That she had blocked him not because she loved him less, but because she loved him with a stubbornness that frightened her.

Instead, she looked away.

“I’m not punishing myself.”

Dimas gave her a tired smile. “You’re talking to strangers online at midnight.”

“People do that.”

“You don’t.”

“Maybe now I do.”

He sighed. Not heavily. Not like a man defeated by argument. More like someone who understood the locked door in front of him and would not break it down.

“Okay,” he said.

The softness of his surrender made her feel worse.

He lifted the umbrella over her again. This time, she did not step away.

They walked the rest of the way to the ride pickup point in silence.

When her car arrived, Cindy paused with one hand on the door handle.

Dimas stood on the curb, rain gathering at the edges of his sleeves.

“Did he ask about me?” she said before she could stop herself.

The question fell out small. Ashamed. Human.

Dimas did not pretend not to understand.

His face changed, and that was answer enough.

Cindy’s heart made one painful movement.

He looked down at the wet pavement. “He doesn’t ask directly.”

She nodded, hating herself for wanting more.

“But,” Dimas added carefully, “he listens when your name comes up.”

Cindy closed her eyes for half a second.

The driver shifted impatiently inside the car.

“Is he okay?” she asked.

Dimas hesitated.

That hesitation stayed with her longer than any answer could have.

“He’s trying,” he said. / “Dia sedang berusaha.”

Cindy nodded again.

Trying.

That sounded like Farid. Doing good would be for other people. Fine would be for text messages. Trying was the honest version.

“Don’t tell him I asked,” she said.

“I won’t.”

“Promise.”

“I promise.”

She got into the car before she could ask anything else.

As the vehicle pulled away, she looked through the rain-streaked window and saw Dimas still standing under his bent umbrella, watching her leave with the exhausted loyalty of someone who had no idea how to save either of them.

---

Cindy’s apartment was quiet when she returned.

Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that made every object look like it had been waiting to ask where she had been. Her shoes by the door. The unopened mail on the small console table. The umbrella stand with two umbrellas even though she lived alone. The framed print on the wall that her mother said looked “too sad” but Cindy liked because the woman in it was walking away from the sea without turning back.

She turned on only the kitchen light.

The apartment filled with a soft yellow glow that made the corners remain dark. Rain traced delicate lines down the balcony glass. Beyond it, the city lights trembled in the wet night, countless windows belonging to countless people who were probably better at sleeping than she was.

Cindy placed her bag on a chair and removed her cardigan. The restaurant smell clung to it: broth, fried garlic, smoke. She draped it over the back of the chair instead of hanging it properly.

Her phone buzzed again.

She ignored it while washing her hands. Then ignored it while changing into an old oversized T-shirt. Then ignored it while making chamomile tea she did not want.

The buzzing stopped.

That should have been relief.

Instead, the silence sharpened.

Cindy stood at the kitchen counter, watching steam curl from the mug.

She remembered Farid saying chamomile tasted like “flower water pretending to be medicine.” She had defended it passionately even though she agreed. Later, during one of his bad work weeks, she had bought him a box and written instructions on a sticky note.

Drink this before sleep. Jangan ngeyel. / Don’t be stubborn.

He had sent her a photo that night: the mug beside his laptop, Momo’s face blurred in the corner.

Farid: Bossy.

Cindy: Loved.

The memory struck so suddenly she had to grip the counter.

Loved.

Not love.

Loved.

Past tense had become a country she was forced to live in.

Cindy carried the tea to her small desk by the window. Her laptop sat closed, reflecting a dim oval of her face. She lowered herself into the chair and stared at it.

She could sleep.

She should sleep.

Instead, she opened the laptop.

The screen lit up too brightly, making her squint. The anonymous chat app was still open in one tab from the previous night. A list of recent conversations sat on the left, none of them named in any meaningful way. BlueRiver. sleepless99. Guest4321. Someone who had asked her favorite movie and then disconnected before she could answer. Someone who told her they hated their job. Someone in another city who said they were scared of getting married. Someone who said nothing at all for five minutes and then typed:

Stranger: sometimes it’s easier when the other person doesn’t know you

Cindy had stared at that message for a long time.

Tonight, the newest message waited.

Stranger: can’t sleep too?

She clicked into the chat.

The cursor blinked.

She imagined typing: No.

Then: Yes.

Then: I don’t know.

Instead, she closed the chat window.

Her reflection remained on the dark edge of the screen. Long hair slightly frizzy from rain. Tired eyes. Mouth set too firmly, as if she were constantly holding back words with her teeth. She looked like someone who had made a correct decision and had not yet forgiven herself for it.

The engagement brochures sat in a neat folder beside her laptop.

She had not opened them tonight, but their presence pulled at her vision. Venue options. Dress references. Guest estimates. A future arranged in tasteful PDFs and polite deadlines. The man she was supposed to marry was kind. That mattered. It mattered more than the ache. He did not rush her. He did not demand explanations for every quiet mood. He treated her gently, with a steadiness that should have made everything easier.

And in many ways, it did.

That was the guilt.

Her phone lit up on the desk.

A message from her mother.

Mama: Jangan tidur terlalu malam. Besok jangan lupa appointment jam 11. Don’t sleep too late. Don’t forget tomorrow’s appointment at 11.

Cindy typed back quickly.

Cindy: Iya Ma. Aku tidur bentar lagi. Yes, Mom. I’ll sleep soon.

A lie. A small one. The kind families survived on.

She placed the phone down.

Then, before she could think better of it, she opened a different tab.

Omegle.

The page loaded with its plain, ugly simplicity. No warmth. No design pretending to understand her. Just a blank invitation to begin and a warning about strangers that felt almost comedic given the state of her life.

Cindy had not used it before. Not properly. She had opened it once in university because Lia dared her, and then closed it immediately when the first stranger appeared shirtless and too close to the camera. She had declared the whole thing a digital haunted house and refused to try again.

Farid had laughed when she told him.

“Digital haunted house?” / “Rumah hantu digital?”

“Yes.”

“Dramatic.”

“Accurate.”

He had grinned. “One day you’ll talk to strangers and realize not everyone is scary.”

“Why would I need strangers when I already have you annoying me?”

He had looked at her then, soft and amused. “Fair.”

Cindy shut her eyes.

That was the problem. Memory did not arrive only in tragic places. It hid inside jokes. It sat inside ordinary words. It waited in the smallest proof that a life had once been shared.

She opened her eyes again.

The blue button waited.

Start.

Her hand moved to the trackpad.

Stopped.

She could hear Dimas’s voice in her head.

Changing doesn’t mean becoming lonely in a new way.

Cindy leaned back, rubbing both hands over her face. The apartment smelled faintly of chamomile and rain. Somewhere outside, a car alarm chirped once and went silent. A neighbor above her dropped something heavy, cursed, then laughed. Life continued around her in fragments, unbothered.

Her phone screen had gone dark. The folder of wedding brochures sat perfectly aligned beside her mug.

Cindy looked at the Omegle button.

She was not looking for love. She told herself that firmly. She was not looking for comfort either, or danger, or attention, or some ridiculous sign from the universe. She wanted only a voice that did not already know her. A face she could leave without guilt. A conversation with no history and no future. A few minutes where she could exist without being Cindy-who-left-Farid, Cindy-who-was-getting-married, Cindy-who-was-fine.

Just Cindy.

Maybe not even that.

Maybe a stranger was easier because a stranger did not require the truth.

She clicked Start.

The camera permission box appeared.

Her heart suddenly beat too fast.

“No,” she whispered to herself, almost laughing. “No, this is stupid.”

She moved the cursor to cancel.

Then stopped.

On the dark part of the screen, she caught her reflection again. There she was: the girl who hated strangers, sitting alone after midnight, afraid of being known and afraid of not being known at all.

Her throat tightened.

She clicked Allow.

For one second, the screen showed only herself. Cindy flinched at the sight. She adjusted the laptop angle, then felt foolish for adjusting it. Who cared how she looked? The whole point was that no one mattered.

A stranger appeared.

A teenage boy with headphones stared blankly at her. He said something in a language she did not understand, then disconnected.

The screen reset.

Cindy sat very still.

Another stranger. A dark room. No face. Only breathing. She clicked Next immediately.

Another. A woman applying eyeliner in front of her camera. She glanced at Cindy, said, “Hi,” then laughed at someone offscreen and disappeared.

Next.

A man eating cereal.

Next.

Two girls sharing one chair, waving too energetically.

Next.

A ceiling fan.

Next.

Cindy began to laugh.

It came from nowhere, small and breathless, rising in the quiet apartment like something she had forgotten how to make. Not because any of it was funny enough. Because it was absurd. Because it was two in the morning and she was sitting in front of strangers after years of insisting strangers were exhausting. Because Farid would have looked at her like she had grown a second head.

That is so not you.

Her laughter faded.

The next stranger appeared: an older woman in a dim kitchen, holding a cigarette near an open window. She looked at Cindy with tired eyes and said, “You sad?”

Cindy froze.

The woman waited.

Cindy’s hand hovered over Next.

She should skip. She did not owe this woman anything. Strangers were supposed to be easy precisely because they did not get to ask real questions.

But the woman’s face held no curiosity. No hunger for gossip. Only recognition, blunt and weary.

Cindy swallowed.

“A little,” she said.

The woman nodded as if this was the most ordinary answer in the world.

“Boy?”

Cindy looked down.

The woman exhaled smoke toward the window. “Always boy.”

Despite herself, Cindy smiled.

“It’s complicated,” she said.

The woman made a dismissive sound. “Always complicated.”

The connection froze, then returned. The woman leaned closer to the camera. “You sleep. Cry tomorrow.”

Cindy blinked.

“What?”

“Young people always cry at night. Makes morning ugly.” The woman tapped ash somewhere offscreen. “Cry tomorrow. Better lighting.”

Cindy stared at her.

Then she laughed again, unexpectedly, a real laugh this time. The woman smiled as if satisfied.

The screen disconnected a second later.

Cindy sat back slowly.

The apartment did not feel less lonely. Not exactly. But the loneliness had shifted shape, becoming strange enough that she could breathe around it.

She closed the Omegle tab.

Not because she was healed. Not because Dimas was right. Not because strangers had saved her from anything.

Because one was enough for tonight.

Her tea had gone lukewarm. She drank it anyway, grimaced, and whispered into the empty room, “Flower water pretending to be medicine.”

The words hurt.

But they also made her smile.

Before sleeping, Cindy opened her blocked contacts list.

She did not unblock Farid.

She only looked at his name.

Farid.

No photo. No chat. No permission to return.

Her thumb hovered there for a long moment.

Then she locked the phone and placed it face down on the desk.

Outside, rain gathered again on the window, turning the city into streaks of light that almost touched but never fully met. Cindy rested her forehead against the cool glass and closed her eyes.

“I hope you’re trying too,” she whispered. / “Aku harap kamu juga sedang berusaha.”

The room gave no answer.

After a while, she went to bed, leaving the laptop open on the desk. The screen dimmed slowly, the blank Omegle page still waiting beneath the closed tab, patient as a door she had not yet decided whether to enter again.