Dimas Told Me

Farid knew before Dimas said anything.

There were ways people carried news they did not want to deliver. It showed in their hands first, in how they rearranged harmless objects to give themselves something to do. It showed in their eyes, which looked everywhere except the place where the truth was waiting. It showed in the carefulness of their greetings, the extra politeness, the false casualness that made every ordinary word heavier than it should have been.

Dimas arrived at the café seven minutes early and still looked late to his own courage.

Farid watched him through the glass from across the street.

The café was not the one near Blok M. That had been Farid’s one request, and Dimas had obeyed without comment. This place sat on the ground floor of an office building Farid rarely visited, wedged between a pharmacy and a shop selling phone accessories. It was too clean, too bright, too new to have memories. The wooden tables had no scratches yet. The baristas called everyone “Kak” with the practiced cheerfulness of people paid to be warm. The menu was printed in a font so modern it seemed embarrassed by vowels.

Good.

Farid needed a place that did not know him.

Rain had threatened all afternoon but had not committed. The sky hung low and grey, pressing heat against the pavement until the air smelled of dust, exhaust, and coming water. Office workers moved past Farid in quick tired streams, their ID lanyards swinging, their phones glowing in their hands. A man beside the pedestrian crossing argued into his headset. A woman under a yellow umbrella held it open despite the absence of rain, prepared for betrayal.

Farid stood beneath the narrow shade of a bus stop and watched Dimas choose a table by the window.

Dimas removed his glasses, cleaned them with the edge of his shirt, put them back on, checked his phone, locked it, unlocked it again, then placed it face down on the table.

There it was.

News.

Farid’s own phone buzzed.

Dimas: I’m inside.

Farid looked through the glass at him.

Dimas, unaware he was being watched, stared at his phone with the defeated patience of a man who had texted someone standing fifteen meters away.

Farid typed back:

Farid: Coming.

Then he crossed the street.

The first drop of rain struck his wrist before he reached the café door.

---

Cold air rushed over him the moment he stepped inside.

The café smelled of espresso, warm milk, and new varnish. A soft indie song played from hidden speakers, the kind of song that sounded emotional without saying anything specific. Farid wiped a rain spot from his wrist and walked toward the window.

Dimas rose halfway when he saw him, then seemed to realize they were not at a business meeting and sat back down.

“Bro,” Dimas said.

“Dim.”

They exchanged the brief awkward handshake-hug that men performed when they cared about each other but had not been trained to make tenderness look natural.

Farid sat opposite him.

For a few seconds, both of them examined the menu with unnecessary seriousness. The table between them was small and circular, barely large enough for two drinks, a napkin holder, and all the things they were not yet saying.

Dimas cleared his throat. “Thanks for coming.” / “Makasih udah datang.”

Farid looked up.

That sentence confirmed it. Nobody thanked a friend for coffee unless the coffee was a disguise.

“Of course.”

“You came from work?”

“Yeah.”

“Tired?”

“Normal tired.”

Dimas nodded. “Work okay?”

“Normal okay.”

A faint smile moved across Dimas’s face, then disappeared. “You’re very committed to giving useless answers.”

“I’m making you work for the emotional ones.”

“That is cruel.”

“That is friendship.”

Dimas breathed out a laugh, grateful for the small landing. Farid felt the same gratitude and resented it. Humor could delay pain, but it could not cancel the appointment.

A waiter came to take their orders. Dimas ordered iced black coffee though he usually regretted it. Farid ordered hot tea because caffeine after seven had betrayed him too many times. The waiter repeated the order, smiled, and left them with a silence that neither menu nor service could protect anymore.

Outside, rain began properly.

It fell in sudden silver lines, striking the glass with tiny frantic sounds. People on the sidewalk hurried under awnings. Motorcycles blurred into wet color. The city, moments ago undecided, surrendered all at once.

Dimas watched the rain.

Farid watched Dimas.

“Dim.”

Dimas did not turn immediately.

Farid rested both hands on the table. “What is it?”

The question was gentle, but it cut through the last layer of pretending.

Dimas’s shoulders lowered.

“Let the drinks come first,” he said.

“No.”

Dimas looked at him then.

Farid kept his voice quiet. “If it’s bad, waiting won’t make it better. If it’s not bad, you’re making it look bad.”

“It’s not bad.”

Farid said nothing.

Dimas looked down at his hands. His fingers were linked together too tightly.

“It’s not bad,” he repeated, less convincingly. “It’s just... news.”

News.

A clean word. Cowardly because of how clean it was.

Farid leaned back slowly. He could feel the chair beneath him, the cool air against his face, the dampness near his collar where rain had touched him before he entered. He noticed every small thing with unreasonable clarity. A crack in the sugar jar lid. Dimas’s left shoelace slightly loose. The reflection of passing headlights sliding across the café window. His own heartbeat, too calm, as if it had gone ahead of him and accepted what his mind had not yet heard.

“About Cindy,” Farid said.

Dimas closed his eyes briefly.

That was answer enough.

Farid looked toward the window.

The rain distorted the street until everything outside looked softened, mercifully unclear. If only truth could be blurred the same way. If only a person could look at something painful through water and decide it had no sharp edges.

The waiter arrived with their drinks at precisely the wrong time.

He placed the iced coffee in front of Dimas, the tea in front of Farid, arranged two paper napkins, and asked whether they needed anything else. Farid said no. Dimas said thank you too late. The waiter left.

Steam rose from Farid’s tea.

He did not touch it.

Dimas wrapped both hands around his iced coffee though it must have been cold enough to hurt.

“Dimas.”

“I know.” Dimas exhaled. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For being the person who tells you.”

Farid almost smiled, but it did not form properly.

“Someone had to.”

“No,” Dimas said quietly. “Not necessarily.”

Farid looked at him.

Dimas swallowed. “I could have kept quiet.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

Outside, rain hammered the pavement. Inside, the café continued as if nothing important were happening. A couple near the counter argued softly over cake choices. Someone typed rapidly on a laptop. A barista laughed at something another barista whispered. Life was very rude that way, continuing publicly while private worlds rearranged themselves.

Dimas picked up his glass, then set it down without drinking.

“She’s getting married,” he said.

The sentence arrived without drama.

That made it worse.

Farid had imagined this moment in many forms despite trying not to. He imagined hearing it accidentally from a social media post he was not supposed to see. He imagined Bunda telling him after someone told someone. He imagined Cindy herself, impossible and gentle, saying it with tears in her eyes. He imagined anger. Collapse. A strange cinematic ringing in his ears.

Instead, there was only Dimas, rain, coffee, and five words that made the future official.

Farid looked at the steam rising from his tea.

It curled upward, twisted once, and vanished.

“When?” he asked.

His voice sounded almost normal.

Dimas looked pained by that.

“Akhir tahun ini.” / “At the end of this year.”

End of this year.

A calendar turned into a knife quietly.

Farid nodded.

It was ridiculous, the things the mind did first. He thought of months. Counted them automatically. Thought of weather. Would it be rainy season? Would guests complain about traffic? Would Cindy choose warm lighting because she hated cold white light in photos? Would there be too many flowers? Would she laugh at something during the reception and then look down quickly, embarrassed by attention?

He hated himself for knowing how she might move through a day he would not see.

Dimas waited.

Farid reached for his tea. The cup was too hot. He held it anyway.

“She told you?” / “Dia yang cerita?”

“No. Not directly.” Dimas hesitated. “Lia mentioned wedding prep in the group, then panicked. Cindy didn’t say much after that. Later, I asked her if she was okay.”

Farid looked up sharply despite himself.

Dimas lifted one hand. “I didn’t push.”

“Did she ask about me?”

The question escaped before Farid could dress it in pride.

Dimas’s face changed.

Farid hated that too. Hated the gentleness. The answer before the answer.

“She asked if you were okay,” Dimas said.

Farid looked down.

The café blurred at the edges for half a second.

He took a breath through his nose, slow and careful. He had asked for pain. It was childish to flinch when it arrived.

“What did you say?”

“That you’re trying.”

Farid let out something between a laugh and a sigh. “Accurate.”

“I didn’t know what else to say.”

“That’s good.”

Dimas studied him. “Is it?”

Farid lifted the cup, blew once over the tea, and drank. It burned the roof of his mouth. He welcomed the clean physical pain.

“Yes,” he said. “Trying is better than good.”

Dimas looked away.

For a while, neither spoke.

The rain filled the window. Water slid down the glass in uneven paths, gathering, separating, rejoining below. Farid watched two droplets move near each other without touching, parallel for several inches before one disappeared into the frame.

Of course.

Even rain had jokes.

Dimas finally drank his coffee and grimaced.

“You hate black coffee,” Farid said.

“I thought today needed maturity.”

“And bitterness?”

“Apparently.”

Farid almost laughed.

Then he asked the question that had been sitting behind his teeth since Dimas said wedding.

“Is she happy?” / “Dia bahagia?”

Dimas’s grip tightened around the glass.

There it was: the only question that mattered and the one no one could answer without lying a little.

“I think...” Dimas paused. “I think she’s trying too.”

Farid absorbed that.

Trying.

A small mercy. A small wound.

He wanted to ask more. Does she still stay up too late? Does she still drink chamomile tea even though it tastes like flower water pretending to be medicine? Does she mention Bunda? Does she remember Momo? Did she look relieved when she said yes to him, or afraid, or both? Does she ever regret blocking me? Does she hate me for not fighting harder? Does she understand that I didn’t fight because she asked me not to?

Instead, he looked at his tea.

“Who is he?” / “Siapa dia?”

Dimas seemed prepared for this. “His name is Adrian.”

Farid nodded, though the name entered him strangely. Adrian. A real name. Not “someone.” Not “her fiancé.” A man with a name, a face, a family, a place beside Cindy in rooms Farid no longer entered.

“How did they meet?”

“Through family friends, I think. Church circle also, maybe. I’m not fully sure.”

Of course.

Farid looked toward the rain again.

That road would be easier. Not easy, perhaps. No life was easy just because people shared labels. But easier in the ways that had exhausted him and Cindy the most. Families would understand the shape of it. Ceremonies would not require translation. No one would lower their voice when asking about children. No one would pretend not to worry while worrying loudly in every other way.

He should have felt only relief.

He felt some.

That was what made the rest harder to forgive.

“Is he good to her?” Farid asked.

Dimas leaned back. He looked tired suddenly, older than thirty. “From what I’ve seen? Yes.”

Farid closed his eyes briefly.

Good.

Good.

The word had no mercy.

“He seems patient,” Dimas continued. “Kind. Not showy. He listens to her.”

Farid nodded again.

Something in his chest loosened and collapsed at the same time.

“Good,” he said.

Dimas looked at him with open concern now.

Farid kept his eyes on the cup. “That’s good.”

“Rid.”

“It is.”

“I know it is. But you don’t have to make your face do that.”

Farid touched his own jaw, surprised to find tension there. “Do what?”

“Pretend it’s easy.”

Farid lowered his hand.

The café noise swelled gently around them: cups placed on saucers, rain against glass, a chair scraping back, the machine hissing milk into foam. Dimas waited, but he did not lean in. He had learned, perhaps from years of watching both Farid and Cindy damage themselves politely, that closeness sometimes needed distance to become safe.

Farid looked at his friend.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked. Not angry. Not accusing. Just tired. “Cry here?”

Dimas’s expression tightened. “No.”

“Then?”

“I don’t know.”

That made Farid’s mouth curve faintly. “Finally. An honest answer.”

Dimas rubbed both hands over his face. “I’m not good at this.”

“No one is good at this.”

“You always say things like that when you’re trying to make other people feel less guilty.”

“I’m thoughtful.”

“You’re evasive.”

“Both can be true.”

Dimas smiled despite himself, but the smile did not survive long.

“I almost didn’t tell you,” he said.

Farid looked at him.

“I thought maybe it would be kinder if you heard later. Or never. Since you’re blocked everywhere and all.”

Farid’s fingers tightened around the cup.

Dimas noticed and winced. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not. I shouldn’t have said it like that.”

“But it’s true.”

Dimas said nothing.

Farid placed the cup down carefully. The tea rippled once.

“She blocked me because she had to,” he said.

“Do you believe that?”

“Yes.”

“Always?”

Farid looked at him.

Dimas held his gaze. Not challenging. Asking.

Farid leaned back. “No.”

The honesty came quietly.

Dimas nodded.

“Sometimes,” Farid continued, “I think she did it too easily. Then I hate myself because I know she didn’t.”

Dimas’s eyes softened.

“Sometimes I think if she could cut me off that completely, maybe I mattered less than I thought. Then I remember Cindy doesn’t do anything halfway when she’s scared.”

A faint, sad smile touched Dimas’s mouth.

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s her.”

“Yeah.”

Farid looked at the table. A ring of water had formed beneath Dimas’s glass. The napkin was already soaked through, collapsing under the slow leak of condensation.

“I didn’t chase her,” Farid said.

Dimas became still.

Farid had not planned to say it. The sentence arrived from somewhere old.

“I wanted to. After the last call. After she blocked me. I thought about emailing her. Calling from another number. Asking Lia. Asking you.” He swallowed. “I typed messages.”

Dimas listened without interruption.

“I never sent them.”

“Because she asked you not to?”

Farid nodded.

“And because...” He exhaled. “Because I was afraid if I begged, she would stay out of guilt.”

Dimas looked down.

“That would be worse,” Farid said. “Right?”

Dimas did not answer quickly.

Then: “Yes.”

Farid smiled without humor. “You hesitated.”

“Because worse doesn’t mean painless.”

“No. It doesn’t.”

The rain outside softened for a moment, then strengthened again, as if the sky had remembered what it came to do.

Dimas pushed his wet napkin aside.

“She asked me not to tell you she asked,” he said.

Farid’s eyes lifted.

“About you being okay.”

Farid looked at him for a long moment.

Then he nodded. “Of course she did.”

“I’m sorry. I know I just broke that promise.”

“Why?”

Dimas rubbed the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. “Because both of you keep caring in secret and pretending that makes it less sad.”

Farid almost laughed, but there was no breath for it.

Dimas looked at him directly now. “I’m not trying to bring you back together. I’m not stupid.”

“Debatable.”

“Fine. I’m not that stupid.”

Farid’s mouth twitched.

“I know it’s over,” Dimas said. “I think she knows too. I think you know. But maybe... I don’t know. Maybe you should at least know you weren’t erased because you meant nothing.”

The words struck harder than Farid expected.

He looked away.

Outside, a woman ran past the window with a folder held over her head. Papers threatened to escape from beneath her arm. A stranger under the awning shifted and made room for her. She smiled gratefully, breathless and wet.

Small mercies everywhere. None of them enough to change the weather.

Farid blinked slowly.

“I know,” he said.

Dimas said nothing.

Farid’s voice lowered. “I know I wasn’t nothing.”

The sentence felt important, and also not enough.

He turned the cup in his hands. “That’s the problem.”

---

They stayed until the rain slowed.

The conversation moved elsewhere because it had to. Work. Mutual friends. Dimas’s ongoing war with his landlord. A new restaurant Lia insisted everyone should try though she had described it as “expensive but emotionally worth it.” Kevin’s failed attempt at dating someone who did not believe in replying to messages within the same calendar month.

Farid laughed in the right places.

Sometimes the laughter was real.

That surprised him.

Pain did not occupy every second evenly. It came like rain through a damaged ceiling: sudden, specific, dripping exactly where a person hoped to sit. Between drops, there was still coffee, still jokes, still Dimas complaining that maturity tasted like burnt regret.

When they finally stood, the café had emptied into evening. The rain outside had thinned to a fine mist that made the streetlights glow soft and uncertain.

Dimas hesitated near the door.

Farid noticed. “What now?”

“I have one more thing.”

“Dim.”

“It’s not bad.”

“You said that earlier.”

“This one is actually not bad.”

Farid waited.

Dimas looked uncomfortable all over again. “The invitation.”

Farid’s chest tightened.

“She hasn’t said anything final,” Dimas added quickly. “Not to me. But from what I understand...” He stopped, searching for a way to make mercy sound less cruel. “I don’t think she’ll send one.”

Farid looked through the glass door at the wet pavement outside.

The information should have been simple. Expected. Even hoped for. And yet some small, humiliated part of him still absorbed it as exclusion.

No cream envelope. No gold letters. No proof that his absence had been deliberately chosen.

Good, he told himself.

Good.

Dimas said, “I think she’s trying not to hurt you.”

Farid let out a quiet breath.

“That sounds like her.”

“Are you angry?”

Farid considered lying.

Then he shook his head.

“No.”

Dimas searched his face. “Sad?”

Farid gave him a tired look.

“Stupid question,” Dimas admitted.

“A little.”

“Only a little?”

“Very stupid question.”

Dimas smiled faintly.

Farid pushed open the café door. Humid air wrapped around them immediately, warmer and dirtier than inside. The city smelled alive again: rainwater, frying oil from a street cart, wet asphalt, cigarette smoke, jasmine from somewhere unseen.

They stood under the awning.

For a while, neither moved.

Dimas looked at him. “You going straight home?”

“Need to buy cat food first.”

“Momo?”

“No, for myself.”

Dimas snorted.

Farid smiled properly this time, though it faded when he glanced at the rain.

“Dim.”

“Yeah?”

“If she asks again...”

Dimas’s face became careful.

Farid looked ahead, not at him. “Tell her I’m doing good.”

Dimas was quiet.

Farid added, softer, “No. Tell her I’m trying. That’s better.”

Dimas nodded.

“And if she asks whether I know?”

“About the wedding?”

Farid swallowed.

“Yes.”

“What should I say?”

Farid watched a raindrop fall from the edge of the awning and burst against the pavement.

“Say I said congratulations.” / “Bilang aku ucapkan selamat.”

Dimas’s throat moved.

“Okay.”

“And...” Farid stopped.

The rest rose too quickly.

Tell her Bunda still asks.

Tell her Momo is fat.

Tell her I hope she sleeps.

Tell her I still know how she takes tea.

Tell her I am not angry enough to survive this cleanly.

Tell her I understand.

He pressed his lips together.

Dimas waited.

Farid shook his head. “That’s all.”

Dimas did not argue.

They separated at the curb. Dimas went left toward the train entrance. Farid went right toward the pet supply shop three blocks away.

The rain followed both of them softly.

---

The pet shop was too cheerful.

Bright lights. Colorful bags stacked to the ceiling. Cartoon animals smiling from every shelf with the unbearable optimism of packaging. A bell chimed when Farid entered. Somewhere near the back, a small dog barked twice and then seemed to forget why.

Farid stood in front of the cat food section and stared.

Momo’s usual brand had changed its packaging.

Or maybe Farid was standing in the wrong aisle.

He picked up one bag, read it, put it back. Picked up another. Chicken and tuna. Hairball control. Indoor adult. Sterilised. Grain-free. Persian formula, despite Momo having no relationship with Persia except the attitude of a sultan.

His mind refused to focus.

End of this year.

Adrian.

He treats her well.

She asked if you were okay.

No invitation.

Farid picked up a large bag because the cat on the front was orange.

That seemed logical enough.

At the cashier, a young woman scanned it and said, “This one is kitten food.”

Farid blinked. “Sorry?”

“For kittens.” She pointed helpfully at the tiny label. “Anak kucing.” / “Kittens.”

Momo was almost nine kilos and spiritually middle-aged.

“Right,” Farid said. “Sorry.”

He carried the bag back to the shelf and stood there for another full minute, absurdly close to laughing.

A person could receive life-altering emotional information, bless the woman he loved toward marriage with another man, and still be defeated by cat food labels.

Maybe this was mercy too.

He found the correct bag eventually. Indoor adult, salmon flavor, the one Bunda insisted Momo preferred though Momo would eat dust if placed in a decorative bowl. He paid, declined the membership promotion with more gravity than necessary, and stepped back into the wet evening carrying five kilograms of cat food against his chest like a child.

His phone buzzed halfway home.

Bunda.

Bunda: Jangan lupa makanan Momo. Don’t forget Momo’s food.

Farid looked at the bag in his arms.

Then another message arrived.

Bunda: And buy bread if the shop is still open. Beli roti juga kalau toko masih buka.

He stared at the screen, then laughed quietly on the sidewalk.

A man passing by glanced at him. Farid pretended to cough.

He typed with one thumb:

Farid: Cat food secured. Forgot bread. I’ll buy.

Bunda replied with a thumbs-up emoji, followed by a cat emoji, followed by a bread emoji, as if the order of operations required visual confirmation.

Farid put the phone away and walked to the bakery beside the minimart.

Inside, he bought bread, then added a small banana cake without thinking.

The cashier packed it in a paper bag.

Farid looked at it only after stepping outside.

Banana cake.

He almost went back in to return it.

Then he remembered Cindy’s cake in Bunda’s blue-lidded container. Remembered Bunda pretending it was too sweet. Remembered Cindy watching her anxiously, waiting to know if she had done something right.

Farid stood under the bakery awning with rain misting his sleeves.

Then he kept the cake.

---

Bunda knew as soon as he came home.

She did not ask immediately. That was how he knew she knew. She took the bread, complained that he bought the expensive brand, accepted the banana cake with one raised eyebrow, and poured him water without making eye contact for too long.

Momo, meanwhile, attempted to inspect the cat food bag by biting the corner.

“No,” Farid said.

Momo bit harder.

“Momo.”

The cat looked him dead in the eye and continued.

Bunda took the bag away with the authority of a woman who had raised both a son and an animal with selective morality.

“Wash up,” she said. “Then eat.”

“I already had tea.”

“Tea is not dinner.”

“It can be.”

“Not in this house.”

Farid obeyed.

When he returned from his room, Bunda had reheated rice and soup. The banana cake sat on a plate in the center of the table, sliced into neat pieces. Two plates, two bowls. No third one tonight.

Farid noticed.

Bunda noticed him noticing.

Neither said anything.

They ate quietly.

Halfway through dinner, she asked, “Dimas okay?” / “Dimas baik-baik aja?”

Farid stirred his soup.

“Yes.”

“And you?”

There was no escape in the gentleness.

Farid placed his spoon down.

Bunda waited.

“She’s getting married,” he said.

The sentence sounded different in his own house. Less like news. More like weather entering through a closed window.

Bunda’s face did not change much. A small tightening near the mouth. A slow breath.

“When?” / “Kapan?”

“End of the year.” / “Akhir tahun.”

She nodded.

For a few moments, only Momo made sound, crunching loudly from his bowl in the kitchen as if grief were an inappropriate interruption to dinner.

Bunda looked down at her hands.

“Is he good?” / “Dia baik?”

Farid’s throat tightened because of course that was her first question too.

“Dimas said yes.”

Bunda nodded again. “Alhamdulillah.” / “Praise be to God.”

Farid looked at her.

She met his gaze steadily.

“What?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

“You think I shouldn’t say that?”

“No.”

“If he is good to her, that is good.”

“I know.”

Bunda’s voice softened. “Knowing and feeling are not always neighbors.”

Farid smiled faintly. “You’ve been saving that line?”

“I have many lines.”

“I noticed.”

She reached for the banana cake and placed a slice on his plate.

He looked at it.

“I bought that by accident,” he said.

“No, you didn’t.”

He huffed a laugh. “Can you let me have one lie?”

“No.”

Farid picked up the cake with his fingers. It was soft, slightly sticky, and smelled of ripe banana and butter. He took a bite.

Too sweet.

He closed his eyes briefly.

Bunda took a piece too.

“Too sweet,” she said.

“You always say that.”

“It is always true.”

“You’ll eat three slices.”

“I might.”

They ate the cake in silence.

Farid looked at the table, at the two bowls, at Bunda’s tired hands, at the chair by the window that was empty but no longer set for anyone. The pain in him was large, but it had changed shape since the café. It was not a blade now. It was weight. Something he could not remove but might learn to carry with better posture.

“Bun.”

She looked up.

“If she’s happy, I want to be happy for her.”

Bunda’s eyes softened.

“But?” she asked.

Farid laughed quietly. “But I am not that holy yet.”

A sad smile touched her face. “No one asked you to be holy tonight.”

He looked down at his plate.

“Just don’t become cruel,” she said.

The words entered him quietly.

He nodded.

“I won’t.”

Bunda reached across the table and touched his hand once. Brief, warm, then gone. Farid stared at the place her fingers had been.

From the kitchen, Momo made a dramatic coughing sound, then resumed eating as if nothing had happened.

Farid frowned. “Did he just choke and continue?”

“He is committed.”

“He has no survival instinct.”

“He has confidence.”

Farid laughed, softer this time.

After dinner, he fed Momo again by accident.

Bunda caught him pouring a second serving into the bowl and made a scandalized sound from the doorway.

“Farid!”

He looked down at the bowl.

Momo, already halfway through the first serving, looked up with bright opportunistic eyes.

Farid closed the food container slowly.

“Oops.”

“Oops? He is not a heartbreak storage unit.” / “Dia bukan tempat simpan patah hati.”

Farid froze.

Then he looked at his mother.

Bunda looked back, entirely serious for one second.

Then her mouth twitched.

Farid laughed so hard he had to lean against the counter.

Momo meowed indignantly, denied both emotional symbolism and extra dinner.

Bunda took the scoop from Farid’s hand.

“Go sit,” she said. “Before you feed him until he becomes furniture.”

Farid wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand. The laughter left him lighter and then, as laughter sometimes did, hollowed him slightly afterward. He went to the living room and sat on the sofa.

The new cover had already collected orange fur.

Momo joined him after finishing his sanctioned portion, jumping up with the heaviness of a creature who had never doubted his welcome. He pressed his body against Farid’s thigh and began to purr.

Farid rested a hand on his back.

The apartment was quiet except for Bunda washing dishes and rain ticking softly against the balcony door.

His phone lay on the coffee table.

For once, he did not reach for it.

He thought of Cindy in warm lighting. Cindy holding a bouquet. Cindy smiling at a man who treated her well. Cindy seated beside someone whose life aligned with hers in ways Farid’s had not. He imagined the invitation that would not come, and though it hurt, he understood.

Understanding did not make him noble. It only made him tired.

Momo shifted closer, his fur warm beneath Farid’s palm.

Farid looked at the rain-blurred balcony glass. His reflection stared back faintly: a man on a scarred sofa beneath a new cover, holding a cat who kept damaging what people tried to protect.

“Good,” he whispered.

The word barely made sound.

Momo’s ear twitched.

Farid breathed in.

Then he said it again, because sometimes a blessing had to be practiced before it became sincere.

“Good.”

Outside, the rain kept falling, soft and steady, carrying the city toward morning whether anyone was ready or not.