Someone Kind

Adrian was kind in ways that made it difficult for Cindy to be unfair to him.

That was what frightened her most.

Cruel men made clean stories. They gave women something to escape from, something to explain to friends over coffee with shaking hands and righteous anger. Selfish men turned leaving into survival. Careless men made memory easier to edit. A person could point to the wound and say, there, that is why I could not stay.

But Adrian never raised his voice.

He did not mock the small rituals that made Cindy feel safe. He noticed when she spoke less at dinners and guided conversations away from her without announcing that he was doing it. He remembered that she hated being rushed in the morning, that she drank warm water after spicy food, that she became quiet when too many people asked too many questions too quickly. He never demanded passwords, never made jokes about trust that were not really jokes, never used affection as a leash.

When he opened car doors, he did it without waiting to be praised. When her mother called, he lowered the television volume. When Cindy said she was tired, he believed her.

It would have been easier if he were a little worse.

Saturday came washed in pale heat after days of rain, the kind of Jakarta morning that steamed the sidewalks and made every tree look newly burdened. Cindy sat in the passenger seat of Adrian’s car, watching sunlight break against the wet windshield as he drove them toward the bridal gallery her mother had recommended three times in two days.

The air-conditioning blew softly against her knees. A paper bag of pastries sat between them, warm from the bakery because Adrian had insisted she would forget breakfast if left to her own habits. He was right, which irritated her gently. The car smelled of butter, coffee, leather seats, and the faint clean scent of his cologne.

Adrian drove with one hand on the steering wheel, relaxed but attentive, the way he did most things. He wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled once at the wrists, a watch Cindy’s father had complimented at dinner, and a calm expression that belonged to men who had not spent the morning negotiating with ghosts.

He glanced at her.

“You haven’t eaten.” / “Kamu belum makan.”

Cindy looked down at the pastry bag as if surprised to find evidence. “I’m not hungry.” / “Aku nggak lapar.”

“You said that last time and almost fainted during the appointment.”

“I did not almost faint.”

“You went very quiet and stared at a wall for three minutes.”

“That was contemplation.”

“That was low blood sugar.”

Cindy tried not to smile. Failed a little.

Adrian reached into the paper bag at a red light and handed her a croissant wrapped in tissue. “Eat half.” / “Makan setengah.”

“Bossy.”

“Responsible.”

She took it because refusing would require more energy than eating. The pastry flaked against her fingers, leaving butter on her thumb. She bit into it carefully. It was still warm inside.

Adrian smiled without looking too pleased with himself.

That was another thing. He did not collect victories. He simply noticed what needed doing and did it, then returned the moment to her as if it had always belonged there.

Cindy chewed slowly and looked out the window.

The city slipped past in pieces: a flower seller arranging buckets of yellow chrysanthemums beneath a blue tarp, a schoolboy dragging one shoe through a puddle, a woman balancing a toddler on her hip while bargaining with a vegetable vendor. At a traffic light, a motorcyclist in a rain poncho waited beside them though the sky was perfectly clear, the poncho flapping faintly like a defeated flag.

Her phone buzzed in her lap.

She wiped her fingers, unlocked it, and saw a message from Mama.

Mama: Jangan lupa tanya soal paket dekorasi sekalian. Kalau bisa yang sudah include lighting. Don’t forget to ask about the decoration package too. Preferably one that already includes lighting.

Another message followed immediately.

Mama: Dan jangan pilih warna terlalu gelap. Wedding itu harus cerah. And don’t choose colors that are too dark. A wedding should be bright.

Cindy stared at the second message longer than necessary.

A wedding should be bright.

People kept saying that in different ways. Bright colors. Bright smiles. Bright photos. Bright future. As if marriage were a room where nobody should be allowed to bring shadows.

Adrian glanced at her again. “Your mom?”

“Lighting package.” / “Paket lighting.”

“Ah. Critical national issue.”

“She also said no dark colors.”

Adrian nodded solemnly. “Then we must inform the Ministry of Wedding Brightness.”

Cindy laughed through her nose.

He looked pleased then, but quietly. “There it is.”

“What?”

“You laughed.”

“I laugh.”

“Sometimes.”

She turned toward him. “Are you keeping statistics?”

“Only unofficially.”

The light turned green. The car moved forward.

Cindy looked back at her phone and typed a reply.

Cindy: Iya Ma, nanti aku tanya. Yes, Mom, I’ll ask later.

She did not answer the part about dark colors.

A few seconds later, Mama sent a heart emoji, then a photo of a centerpiece with too many white roses.

Cindy locked the phone.

The croissant sat half-finished in her hand. She was no longer hungry, but she took another bite anyway because Adrian would not say anything if she stopped. His not saying anything would somehow make her feel worse.

At the next turn, they passed a small pet supply shop with a cartoon cat painted on the window.

Cindy’s eyes caught on it before her mind could look away.

Orange cat. Round cheeks. Ridiculous expression.

Momo.

The memory did not arrive dramatically. It slipped in through the side door, carrying the smell of Farid’s living room after rain and Bunda’s pepper soup and the scratch-scratch-scratch of claws against sofa fabric. Cindy could see Momo younger, smaller, attacking the toy mouse she had bought him only after pretending to ignore it for two weeks. She could hear Farid saying, “He is not spoiled,” while Bunda fed the cat tiny pieces of chicken under the table as if conducting a secret religious ceremony.

Her grip tightened around the pastry.

Adrian noticed the movement, not the cause.

“You okay?” / “Kamu baik-baik aja?”

Cindy forced her gaze back to the road. “Yeah. Just thinking.” / “Iya. Cuma mikir.”

“About lighting packages?”

“About whether the Ministry of Wedding Brightness accepts complaints.”

He smiled, but did not laugh loudly enough to break the space she had created. Another kindness. Another reason she could not turn him into an enemy.

---

The bridal gallery occupied the second floor of a narrow building above a café that smelled of burnt espresso and vanilla syrup. A gold sign near the stairs announced the name in looping letters Cindy found too romantic to trust. Inside, the air was cold, perfumed, and aggressively soft. White curtains fell from ceiling to floor. Racks of dresses stood in quiet rows, each protected by plastic, each carrying the strange authority of fabric waiting to become a decision.

A consultant named Melissa greeted them with both hands folded over a tablet.

“Cindy, Adrian, welcome. Selamat datang.” / “Cindy, Adrian, welcome.”

Her smile was professional, bright but not false. She wore a beige blazer and moved through the gallery with the calm of someone who had witnessed every possible form of pre-wedding panic and survived.

Cindy shook her hand. Adrian did the same.

“Would you like coffee? Tea? Water?” Melissa asked.

“Water is fine,” Cindy said.

Adrian added, “Warm water, please.” / “Air hangat, ya.”

Cindy looked at him.

He only smiled, as if remembering details were no event.

Melissa led them to a seating area near a long mirror framed by soft bulbs. The couch was pale grey and spotless, the sort of couch Momo would have considered a personal challenge. Cindy sat carefully, suddenly aware of her posture, her hands, her face, the fact that she was supposed to look like a woman entering the happiest season of her life.

Adrian sat beside her, close enough to be present but not so close that she felt observed.

Melissa placed the tablet on the coffee table. “So today we can look at gown references, discuss color palette, decoration, invitation wording, and photography package. No need to decide everything now.” / “Hari ini kita bisa lihat referensi gaun, diskusi palet warna, dekorasi, wording undangan, dan paket foto. Tidak perlu putuskan semuanya sekarang.”

Cindy nodded.

No need to decide everything now.

The irony almost made her laugh. Everyone said that about wedding details, but not about the wedding itself. The decision that mattered most had already been placed at the center, and now all the smaller choices orbited it: lace or satin, cream or ivory, roses or orchids, buffet or plated dinner, names arranged in gold foil.

Melissa turned the tablet toward them. “Do you already have a theme in mind?”

Cindy opened her mouth.

Nothing came out.

Adrian waited. He did not rescue her too quickly. That was one of the first things she had noticed about him. He did not mistake silence for helplessness. He gave her time to find her own voice.

Cindy looked at the sample mood boards. Bright garden. Classic ballroom. Rustic elegance. Modern white. Soft champagne. Blush romance. Each one seemed to belong to another woman, someone who had a Pinterest board and a clear heart.

“Something simple,” Cindy said at last. “Not too grand.” / “Yang simple aja. Nggak terlalu megah.”

Melissa nodded, tapping notes into the tablet. “Elegant minimalist?”

“Maybe.”

Adrian leaned forward slightly. “She likes warm lighting. Nothing too cold. And not too many flowers around the aisle.” / “Dia suka lighting yang warm. Jangan terlalu dingin. Dan jangan terlalu banyak bunga di sepanjang aisle.”

Cindy turned to him again.

He caught her look. “What?”

“I didn’t know you noticed that.”

“You said it after Lia’s cousin’s wedding.”

“That was months ago.”

“You were very passionate about the aisle looking like a forest accident.”

Melissa laughed politely.

Cindy covered her face with one hand. “I said that?”

“You whispered it during the vows.”

“I’m awful.”

“You were accurate.”

Melissa looked between them, amused. “Good. So warm lighting, not forest accident.” / “Baik. Jadi lighting hangat, bukan kecelakaan hutan.”

Cindy laughed, and for one delicate moment, she could almost see the shape of an easy life. This was how it might be with Adrian: calm jokes, remembered preferences, no need to fight for every inch of tenderness. He would stand beside her in rooms full of people. He would answer questions without flinching. Their families would sit at the same table without translating the future into sacrifice. There would be no hidden anxiety under every festive meal, no conversations that ended in “we’ll figure it out later” when both of them knew later was becoming a cliff.

She should have felt only gratitude.

She did feel gratitude.

That was the trouble with guilt; it did not erase the good. It sat beside it.

Melissa swiped to invitation samples.

“Have you started the guest list?” / “Sudah mulai susun daftar tamu?”

Adrian looked at Cindy. “A little.”

Cindy’s hands went still in her lap.

Guest list.

The words had a way of sounding administrative until a missing name began breathing inside them.

Melissa continued, unaware. “No need for final number yet. But we should estimate so we can advise venue and package. Any must-invite friends? College, work, family friends?”

Cindy nodded automatically. “Yes. We have a draft.”

“Great. Later you can send it to us.”

Adrian glanced at her again, and this time his gaze lingered. Not suspicious. Attentive. He saw something shift in her. He did not know what it was, but he saw the shadow.

Melissa handed Cindy a booklet of invitation designs. Thick paper. Cream covers. Gold initials. Soft embossed borders. Cindy flipped through them and tried to keep her breathing normal.

Farid’s name appeared in her mind with cruel clarity.

Not written anywhere. Not spoken by anyone. Still there.

Farid Abdullah.

She imagined typing it into the list. She imagined the invitation reaching him, maybe through Dimas, maybe through some old address she still knew but should not. She imagined him holding the envelope with both hands, his face becoming calm in that awful way he became calm when something hurt too much. She imagined Bunda seeing it on the table. She imagined Momo batting at the ribbon.

Her throat tightened.

No.

An invitation would not be kindness. It would be a wound with expensive paper.

“Cindy?” Melissa asked gently.

She blinked. “Sorry?”

“Do you prefer formal wording or more personal?”

Cindy looked down at the booklet. The letters blurred for half a second.

“Formal,” she said. “Simple.” / “Formal. Simple.”

Adrian’s hand moved slightly beside her, not touching yet. Asking without asking.

Cindy kept her eyes on the booklet.

---

The dress section came after the invitations.

Cindy had thought the dresses would be the easiest part because clothes were only clothes until women and mothers and consultants gathered around them and began using words like destiny. But the moment Melissa drew open the curtain to reveal the fitting area, Cindy felt her body resist.

Three gowns waited on a rack.

One satin. One lace. One with delicate sleeves and a narrow waist that made Melissa say, “This one is very graceful.”

Graceful.

Cindy had never known what to do with words people gave to women before weddings. Graceful. Radiant. Pure. Glowing. As if she were expected to become a softer species for the camera.

She changed behind a curtain while Melissa waited outside. The first dress was ivory satin with a square neckline and buttons down the back. It was beautiful in a clean, quiet way. When Cindy stepped onto the small platform in front of the mirror, Adrian rose from the couch without speaking.

That made her nervous.

Melissa adjusted the hem, then stepped aside. “Take your time.”

Cindy looked at herself.

The woman in the mirror looked almost like her. Same face, same tired eyes, same mouth trying to arrange itself into certainty. But the dress transformed the surrounding story. It asked the room to believe in completion. It said bride. It said chosen. It said future. It said everything had led here and everything after would make sense.

Adrian stood a few steps behind her, visible in the mirror. His expression was open in a way that made Cindy’s chest hurt.

“You look beautiful,” he said quietly. / “Kamu cantik.”

Not too loud. Not performed for Melissa. Not hungry. Just true, offered gently.

Cindy swallowed.

“Thank you.” / “Makasih.”

Her eyes moved away from her own reflection and accidentally caught his. He smiled, but not as if he owned her beauty. As if he was grateful to witness it.

A familiar ache stirred in Cindy, because once, in another life, Farid had looked at her like that too.

Not the same. Never the same.

Farid’s way had been softer around the edges, sometimes shy, sometimes disbelieving, like he was constantly surprised she existed near him. He did not praise easily when it mattered; he became careful instead, as if compliments were fragile things that might break if thrown too quickly. The first time he had seen her dressed for a formal dinner, he had gone quiet so long Cindy became self-conscious.

“What?” she had asked.

Farid had shaken his head.

“Nothing.”

“Rid.”

He had looked at her then, helplessly honest. “I’m trying to say something normal.”

“And?”

“And failing.”

She had laughed, embarrassed and pleased, and he had looked down as if the floor might rescue him. Later, when they were walking to the car, he had said under his breath, “You look really beautiful, Cin.” The compliment had been small enough for privacy and sincere enough to stay with her for years.

In the bridal gallery mirror, Cindy’s eyes brightened suddenly.

She blinked before tears could gather.

Adrian noticed.

Of course he noticed.

Melissa, discreet and experienced, pretended to examine the dress hem.

Adrian stepped closer, but still did not touch. “Too tight?” / “Terlalu ketat?”

Cindy shook her head.

“Too much?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

The question was quiet enough that Melissa could pretend not to hear.

Cindy looked at the mirror. At the dress. At Adrian’s face behind her. At the version of herself who should have been able to stand here without carrying anyone else into the reflection.

“It’s just...” She inhaled carefully. “Big.” / “Ini cuma... terasa besar.”

Adrian nodded. He did not smile. He did not say weddings were supposed to feel big, or that everything would be fine, or that she was overthinking. He simply nodded like her fear had a right to exist.

“It is big,” he said. / “Memang besar.”

The honesty loosened something in her.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know.” / “Aku nggak tahu.”

Adrian’s expression softened.

He waited until Melissa moved to bring another veil from the rack. Then he said, very softly, “You don’t have to apologize every time you feel something complicated.”

Cindy looked at him.

There it was again. Kindness. Not dramatic. Not rescuing. Only steady. It came toward her without forcing entry.

She wanted to deserve it cleanly.

“I know,” she said.

But she did not know. Not fully.

---

After the appointment, Adrian suggested lunch somewhere quiet. Cindy expected him to choose one of the cafés near the gallery, bright and expensive, but he drove fifteen minutes to a small restaurant tucked behind an office building. It served rice, soup, grilled chicken, and tea in plain glasses. No floral walls. No engagement-worthy lighting. No waiters calling them “the bride and groom.”

Cindy felt herself relax the moment they sat down.

Adrian handed her the menu. “This place is less stressful.” / “Tempat ini lebih nggak bikin stres.”

“You planned this?”

“I suspected emergency rice might be needed.”

“Emergency rice?”

“Yes. For emotional support.”

She looked at him over the menu. “You make everything sound like a medical condition.”

“Wedding planning is a medical condition.”

Cindy laughed.

The restaurant was half-empty. A fan turned lazily near the ceiling, stirring the smell of sambal, fried shallots, and grilled meat. A family ate near the window, the father deboning fish for a small child with the concentration of a surgeon. Two office workers in loosened ties argued quietly over spreadsheets on a laptop. Outside, the sun struck puddles left by morning rain until they shone white.

Their food arrived quickly.

Cindy ate more than she expected. Adrian did not comment, which was perfect. He only pushed the sambal slightly closer when she reached for it, then refilled her water after the first few bites.

The spice warmed her tongue.

Not pepper soup. Not Bunda’s kitchen. Not Farid across the table pretending not to watch her cry from heat.

Just lunch.

She held onto that.

Halfway through the meal, Adrian set down his spoon.

“Can I ask something?” / “Aku boleh tanya sesuatu?”

Cindy’s fingers tightened around her glass.

He saw it and immediately added, “Not a scary thing.”

“That’s exactly what people say before scary things.”

“Fair.”

She placed the glass down. “Ask.”

Adrian looked at his plate for a moment, choosing words. That alone made her nervous. Adrian was fluent in gentleness, but she had learned that gentleness could still lead somewhere painful.

“When Melissa asked about the guest list earlier,” he said, “you looked like you wanted to disappear.”

Cindy’s stomach dropped.

She reached for water, then stopped because the motion would admit too much.

Adrian did not lean forward. Did not trap her with intensity. He stayed where he was, hands resting loosely near his plate.

“I’m not asking for details you don’t want to give,” he said. “I just want to know if there is someone you feel pressured to invite. Or not invite.”

Cindy looked at him.

The fan hummed above them. At the next table, the small child dropped a spoon and giggled.

There were many ways to answer. Some clean. Some partial. Some dishonest enough to keep the afternoon intact.

She chose the partial truth because Adrian deserved more than a lie, but perhaps not the entire wound.

“There’s someone from my past,” she said quietly. / “Ada seseorang dari masa laluku.”

Adrian’s expression did not change much. Only his eyes grew more attentive.

“Someone important?”

Cindy looked down at her hands.

“Yes.” / “Iya.”

The word entered the space between them and stayed there.

Adrian nodded slowly.

He knew some of it. Of course he did. Not everything, but enough. Cindy had told him before they became serious that there had been someone, that it had ended painfully, that she no longer had contact with him. Adrian had listened without turning her honesty into competition. He had not asked whether she still loved Farid. Perhaps because he was wise enough to know that the question was too small for the answer.

Now, in the small restaurant, he asked something else.

“Would inviting him help you?” / “Apakah mengundang dia akan membantu kamu?”

Cindy looked up, startled.

Not bother me. Not make me uncomfortable. Not do I need to worry.

Help you.

Her eyes stung.

“No,” she said. The answer came faster than expected because she had been carrying it for weeks. “No. I think it would hurt him.” / “Nggak. Menurutku itu akan menyakiti dia.”

Adrian absorbed that.

“And you?” he asked.

Cindy’s mouth tightened.

“It would hurt me too.” / “Aku juga akan sakit.”

The honesty sat bare on the table beside the sambal and rice and half-empty glasses.

Adrian nodded again.

“Then don’t invite him.”

Something in Cindy loosened and broke at the same time.

She gave a small laugh, but it was too thin. “Everyone says wedding invitations are political.”

“They are.”

“That’s your answer?”

“Yes. They are political. Family politics, friendship politics, seating politics.” He picked up his spoon, then placed it down again. “But not every door needs to be opened just because people expect a door.”

Cindy stared at him.

He looked almost embarrassed by the seriousness of what he had said.

“If not inviting him is kinder,” Adrian continued, “then let it be kinder.”

Kinder.

The same word she had used alone in her room. The same defense she had built and questioned and rebuilt.

An invitation would not be kindness. It would be a wound with expensive paper.

She looked away before her face gave too much.

“Thank you,” she said.

Adrian smiled faintly. “For agreeing with you?”

“For not making me explain more.”

The smile faded into something softer.

“You can explain more one day,” he said. “Or not. I just don’t want you to feel like you have to erase your past to be here.”

Cindy closed her eyes briefly.

That was the cruelest kindness yet.

Because part of her had hoped marriage would require erasure. Not because she wanted to betray memory, but because carrying it honorably was so tiring. If someone ordered her to forget, perhaps she could hate the order and obey it. But Adrian offered room instead. Room was harder. Room meant responsibility. Room meant she had to decide what to do with the part of her that still whispered Farid’s name in places where no one had spoken it.

She opened her eyes.

“I’m trying,” she said. / “Aku sedang berusaha.”

“I know.”

“You say that like you really do.”

“I do.”

“You don’t know everything.”

“No.” Adrian’s voice remained calm. “But I know trying when I see it.”

Cindy looked at him for a long moment.

Then she nodded and returned to her food because if she kept looking at him, gratitude might become tears, and she was tired of crying in public places.

---

That evening, Adrian dropped her home before sunset.

He parked beneath her apartment building where the pavement still held shallow puddles. The lobby lights had just come on, glowing yellow against the damp concrete. Cindy unbuckled her seatbelt, but did not open the door immediately.

Adrian turned off the engine.

The sudden quiet filled the car.

For a moment, they sat side by side without speaking. Cindy could hear distant traffic, the soft tick of cooling metal under the hood, someone laughing near the entrance.

Adrian looked ahead through the windshield. “I know today was a lot.”

Cindy’s hands rested in her lap. “It was okay.”

“Cindy.”

She smiled faintly. “Fine. It was a lot.”

He nodded.

She expected him to say something reassuring. That the wedding would be beautiful. That she should not worry. That every bride felt overwhelmed. Instead, he reached into the back seat and handed her the remaining pastry bag from the morning.

“You forgot this.”

She took it and looked inside. Half a croissant, slightly crushed.

A laugh escaped her. “This is your emotional support pastry?”

“For later. Emergency dessert.”

“It's stale now.”

“Still supportive.”

She laughed again, and this time it did not hurt as much.

Adrian watched her with warmth, then grew quiet. His hand rested near the gear shift, not reaching for hers. Cindy noticed the restraint. The patience. The way he never assumed access just because they were engaged.

“You can call me tonight,” he said. “Or not. No pressure.”

“I might sleep early.”

“Good.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“I believe in possibilities.”

She tilted her head. “That means no.”

“That means I am hopeful but realistic.”

Cindy shook her head, smiling.

Then the smile faded.

“Adrian.”

He turned slightly. “Yeah?”

She looked at the pastry bag, then at him. “You treat me very well.” / “Kamu memperlakukan aku dengan sangat baik.”

His expression shifted, touched by the seriousness in her voice.

“I hope so.”

“No. You do.”

A small silence passed.

She wanted to say more. That she saw it. That she was not taking his kindness for granted. That if some part of her still ached for someone else, it did not mean Adrian was lacking. That love was not always a clean replacement, not always one door closing and another opening in a way families could photograph.

But the words felt dangerous, and Adrian deserved tenderness not wrapped in confession.

So she said only, “Thank you.”

He studied her face, then nodded as if accepting both what she said and what she could not.

“You don’t have to thank me for treating you properly.”

Cindy looked away.

That sentence should have been simple too.

She reached for the door handle.

“Rest,” he said.

“I will.”

“Cindy.”

She looked back.

He smiled. “Try.”

Her throat tightened unexpectedly.

“I will try.” / “Aku akan coba.”

She stepped out of the car. Adrian waited until she reached the lobby before driving off. He always did. Not performatively. Not dramatically. Just there, headlights soft behind her, making sure she entered safely.

Cindy stood under the lobby awning and watched his car disappear into evening traffic.

Someone kind, she thought.

The words did not comfort her as much as they should have.

---

Her apartment was dim when she entered.

She left the pastry bag on the kitchen counter, placed the wedding booklets beside it, and stood for a moment in the middle of the room without turning on more lights. The sky outside had bruised purple. A single airplane blinked above the buildings, moving steadily away from somewhere toward somewhere else.

Cindy removed her earrings, set them in a small dish, and changed into a loose shirt.

The quiet returned quickly.

It always did.

During the day, other people made life feel structured. Appointments, conversations, menus, traffic, voices. At night, the structure thinned. Her thoughts moved into the open, barefoot and uninvited.

She made tea, then forgot to drink it.

The wedding folder lay on the desk. She opened it because ignoring it felt childish. Inside were brochures, fabric samples, budget notes, and a printed guest list draft her mother had insisted was easier to “review properly” on paper.

Cindy sat down.

The list was divided into categories.

Family. Extended family. Church friends. College. Work. Adrian’s side. Cindy’s side. Mutual.

Names filled the page in neat black lines.

She picked up a pen.

For twenty minutes, she worked. Added one aunt. Crossed out a duplicate cousin. Questioned whether Kevin should get a plus-one given his romantic life was more theory than evidence. Wrote Lia’s name with a small star because Lia would sulk if seated too far from the dessert table.

Then her pen stopped.

There was an empty line under “College / Close Friends.”

Not literally meant for Farid. Not placed there by fate. Just an empty line because formatting required space.

Still, her heart recognized it.

She stared.

Farid Abdullah.

She did not write it.

She imagined his name there anyway, dark ink on white paper. So ordinary. So impossible.

Cindy put the pen down.

Her phone lay beside the papers. She unlocked it, opened her contacts, and searched even though she already knew what she would find.

Farid’s name still existed in her phone, hidden beneath the blocked list. No picture. No recent messages visible. Just a name and a number she knew too well for someone she was not supposed to know anymore.

Her thumb hovered over it.

Not to unblock. She told herself that. Not to call. Not to message.

Only to look.

The screen glowed against her face.

She wondered if Bunda still used the same blue-lidded container. She wondered whether Momo still scratched the sofa. She wondered whether Farid had replaced the cover or left the damage visible. She wondered whether he slept better now. Whether he still worked too late. Whether he still said “I’m fine” in that calm voice that meant nothing of the sort.

She wondered whether he knew.

About the wedding. About Adrian. About the end of the year.

Dimas probably had told him.

The thought made her stomach twist.

She did not know which hurt more: imagining Farid not knowing, or imagining the exact moment he found out.

Cindy locked the phone and pressed it face down against the desk.

“No,” she whispered.

The apartment gave no reply.

She picked up the pen again. Her hand trembled slightly.

Under “College / Close Friends,” she wrote someone else’s name. A woman she had not seen in eight months but who would expect an invitation.

The empty line disappeared.

Nothing improved.

A small sound escaped Cindy’s throat, almost a laugh, almost not. She leaned back in the chair and covered her eyes with one hand.

She was not choosing between Farid and Adrian. That was the part no one understood because it sounded too convenient, too gentle, too easy to excuse. Farid was not an option waiting in the wings. Adrian was not a consolation prize. Life had moved, painfully and practically, past the shape of that question.

She was choosing how to honor what had been without letting it ruin what could be.

That was harder.

Her phone buzzed.

Cindy lowered her hand.

A message from Adrian.

Adrian: Don’t forget to eat the emergency pastry before it becomes emotionally unavailable.

Despite everything, she smiled.

Another message arrived.

Adrian: Also, you don’t need to finish the guest list tonight. One page is enough. Sleep early if you can.

Cindy stared at the second message.

If you can.

He always left room.

She typed back:

Cindy: The pastry is already emotionally unavailable. But thank you.

Then, after a pause:

Cindy: I’ll stop after this page.

Adrian replied with a thumbs-up and no additional pressure.

Cindy placed the phone down again, but this time she left it facing up.

She returned to the guest list.

One page, she told herself.

Just one page.

But after finishing it, she remained seated, looking at the neat columns of names that would gather under warm lights to witness her future. People would come dressed beautifully. They would smile and bless and eat and take photos. They would say she looked radiant. They would ask where the honeymoon would be. They would tell Adrian to take care of her, as if he had not already been doing that in every quiet way.

No one would mention Farid.

That was right.

That was best.

Cindy repeated those words silently until they stopped sounding like words and became only breath.

Then, without planning to, she opened her browser.

The anonymous chat page from the other night sat in her history.

She did not click it yet.

Outside, rain began again, soft and sudden, touching the window with careful fingers.

Cindy looked at the dark glass and saw her reflection layered over the city. For a moment, the woman in the reflection looked like the woman in the bridal mirror: almost herself, but arranged for someone else’s certainty.

She reached for her tea. It had gone lukewarm.

“Flower water pretending to be medicine,” she murmured.

This time, the memory did not break her.

It only stayed.

She closed the browser without opening the chat page.

Then she gathered the guest list, placed it back inside the folder, and tucked the folder into the drawer.

Before sleeping, she stood at the window for a long while.

Somewhere across the city, or perhaps farther, Farid was living his own evening. Maybe eating with Bunda. Maybe scolding Momo. Maybe working too late. Maybe doing good. Maybe trying.

Cindy pressed her fingertips lightly to the glass.

“Semoga kamu dijaga,” she whispered. / “May you be protected.”

It was not a message. Not a prayer she knew how to categorize. Not a promise. Just a small blessing released into rain.

Then she turned off the light and went to bed, leaving the room dark except for her phone on the desk, glowing once with another message she did not see until morning.

Adrian: Sleep well, Cindy. Tomorrow is lighter. Tidur yang nyenyak, Cindy. Besok lebih ringan.