That afternoon at Warung Kopi '92 near Depok Station, the air felt heavier than usual—thicker, almost suffocating, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. The place hadn't changed much since the last time I sat here, but everything felt different now. The low ceiling, the worn wooden tables scratched with years of careless carvings, the dim yellow light bulbs flickering lazily—it all felt like a stage waiting for something inevitable to unfold.
The rumble of passing trains cut through the background every few minutes, replacing the calm silence of the campus garden from yesterday. Each vibration seemed to travel through the floor, through the table, into my fingertips. The noise wasn't just sound—it was pressure. A reminder that time kept moving forward, whether I was ready or not.
The thick aroma of robusta coffee mixed with clove cigarette smoke hung in the air like a stubborn fog. It clung to my clothes, my skin, even the inside of my throat. Normally, it was comforting. Familiar. A smell tied to late-night conversations, laughter, and simpler problems.
Today, it felt suffocating.
I sat by the window, my usual spot, but nothing about it felt usual anymore. My fingers tapped against the cold wooden surface in an uneven rhythm, betraying what I tried to keep controlled. The glass of black coffee in front of me was already half empty, the surface rippling slightly each time a train passed.
I didn't remember drinking it.
I didn't taste it.
The only thing I felt was my heartbeat—loud, relentless, pounding like a diesel truck hauling an overload of sand uphill. Heavy. Strained. Unforgiving.
Outside, through the slightly fogged-up window, I could see Cantika.
She sat across the street at the bus stop bench, her posture composed, a book open in her hands. From a distance, she looked calm. Focused. Like someone simply waiting for a ride.
But I knew better.
Every few seconds, her eyes flicked toward the café. Quick. Subtle. Careful not to be obvious. But enough.
She was watching.
Waiting.
Holding her ground, just like she said she would.
Earlier, I had sent her a short message.
Already inside. You okay out there?
Her reply came almost instantly.
Yeah. Relax. Gas! You got this.
I almost smiled at that.
Almost.
"Randi?"
The voice snapped me back.
I flinched slightly before I could stop myself, drawing in a slow breath as I looked up.
Akmal stood beside the table.
For a brief moment, I didn't recognize him—not because he looked different, but because something about him felt… off.
He looked thinner. Sharper around the edges. Dark circles carved shadows under his eyes, like he hadn't slept properly in days. His hair was messier than usual, not in a careless way, but in the way of someone who didn't care enough to fix it.
But his eyes—
His eyes were the same.
Sharp. Watchful. Guarded.
And underneath all that… something else.
Not just anger.
Something deeper.
Something unresolved.
"You're here?" he said flatly.
"Yeah," I replied, keeping my tone steady. Neutral. Controlled. "Sit, Mal. Thanks for coming."
He didn't respond verbally. Just pulled out the chair across from me and sat down, his movements stiff, deliberate. He didn't call the waiter. Didn't order anything. Just crossed his arms over his chest like armor.
Defensive.
Closed.
The air between us tightened instantly.
It felt like stepping into a boxing ring before the bell rang—no movement yet, but tension already at its peak. Every word from here on would matter.
"You asked to meet," he said. "Talk."
No greetings. No small talk. Straight to it.
I nodded slowly, inhaling deeply.
This was it.
No more delays. No more avoiding.
"I read your letter," I said. "The one you gave Cantika through Dea."
A flicker crossed his face—brief, but noticeable. Surprise, maybe. Or discomfort.
"So?" he said after a second. "She gave it to you? Good. Then you know what you are."
There it was.
Same narrative.
Same accusation.
Still alive.
"Mal," I said, leaning forward slightly, lowering my voice to keep it contained, "about Rara—"
"Don't say her name!" he snapped, cutting me off sharply.
A few heads turned.
I didn't react outwardly, but inside, something tightened.
"I have to," I said firmly. Not louder. Just firmer. "Because that's where all of this started. And you got it wrong."
He didn't respond.
But he didn't interrupt again either.
So I continued.
"You asked me to help you back then. Remember?" I said, keeping eye contact. "You wanted me to be the bridge between you and Rara. I agreed. Because you were my best friend."
His jaw tightened slightly.
"I talked to her. About you. I told her you were a good guy. Funny. Loyal. Worth knowing." I paused. "But she told me something you never wanted to hear."
A beat.
"She was uncomfortable, Mal."
That landed.
I saw it in his eyes—the flicker. The resistance.
"You called her too often. You waited outside her class. You pushed too hard, too fast. She didn't know how to say no without hurting you." I exhaled slowly. "So she asked me what to do."
"And what did you do?" he asked quietly, his voice no longer sharp—but tense.
"I tried to protect both of you," I said. "I told her to be honest, but gently. I told you to slow down, but you didn't listen. And when you saw me talking to her…" I shook my head slightly. "You made your own conclusion."
His gaze dropped to the table.
"You decided I was stealing her," I continued. "Without asking me. Without listening. Without giving me a chance to explain."
Silence.
Thick.
Uncomfortable.
"I never had feelings for Rara, Mal," I said, more quietly now. "Not once."
That part needed to be clear.
Absolute.
"Never."
He didn't respond immediately.
But his shoulders… they shifted.
Just slightly.
Less rigid.
Less defensive.
"Then… Vina?" he muttered, almost to himself.
I frowned. "What about Vina?"
He looked up, confusion now replacing most of the anger. "You… you didn't—?"
"I don't even know her," I cut in. "Not properly. Never talked to her beyond basic stuff. You're the one approaching her. That's your thing, not mine."
That clearly wasn't what he expected.
"I never went after Vina," I continued. "Never tried to get close. Never interfered. You can ask anyone."
He leaned back slightly, his arms loosening.
"But Cantika…" he said, softer now.
I nodded slowly.
"This is where you messed up again, Mal," I said, not harshly—but directly. "You think this is the same situation as Rara."
"Isn't it?" he asked, but there was no bite in it anymore.
"No," I said firmly. "Not even close."
I leaned forward again.
"I got to know Cantika because I was her orientation mentor. That's it. At first." I paused. "Then we started studying together. Helping each other. Talking. That's how it grew."
He watched me closely.
"I didn't plan it," I added. "And I didn't want to hurt you. That's why I kept my distance at the beginning. You had feelings for her—I knew that."
That part hit him.
I could see it.
"You can ask her," I continued. "Before all this exploded… did I ever flirt with her? Did I ever try anything?"
He stayed silent.
Because he knew the answer.
"No," I said for him. "I didn't."
Another pause.
"But after everything happened…" I exhaled. "We got closer. Naturally. And I couldn't stop how I felt anymore."
I met his eyes.
"My feelings for her are real."
No hesitation.
No apology.
Just truth.
"And what hurts the most," I added, my voice tightening slightly, "is that you didn't just misunderstand me. You tried to destroy me."
That landed harder.
"You spread rumors. On campus. In front of lecturers. You used something from the past—something you never understood—to attack my reputation."
He looked away.
For the first time since sitting down.
"My letter…" he muttered.
"Was too much," I said. "You crossed the line."
Silence again.
But different now.
Not explosive.
Not tense.
Heavy.
Processing.
"I thought…" he started, then stopped.
I didn't interrupt.
"I saw you with her. Again and again," he continued slowly. "Library. Cafeteria. That night… the satay stall." His voice dipped. "The garden."
His hands clenched slightly.
"It looked the same," he said. "Exactly the same as before."
There it was.
The pattern.
The loop in his head.
"You never left that moment, Mal," I said quietly.
He didn't argue.
"Rara rejecting you wasn't because of me," I continued. "And Cantika choosing to be close to me… isn't because I'm taking something from you."
I paused.
"She's not something to take."
That sentence hung in the air.
Heavy.
Important.
"You always jump to conclusions," I added, not harshly, but firmly. "Without checking. Without listening. Without giving me space to explain."
He stared at the table again.
Longer this time.
The tension in his body slowly drained, like air leaking from something overinflated.
"The rumors…" he said after a while. "About you and Vina…"
I waited.
"They… might not have come from me directly," he admitted. "My friends… they saw her crying. They assumed things."
"Of course they did," I said. "Because you didn't correct them."
He flinched slightly.
"And during that fight," I continued, "she literally said you were paranoid about me."
His silence was answer enough.
The truth was there.
Clear.
Undeniable.
For the first time since we sat down, Akmal didn't look like an enemy.
He looked like someone tired.
Confused.
And maybe—finally—starting to see things differently.
Outside, through the window, I caught a glimpse of Cantika again.
Still sitting there.
Still waiting.
Still steady.
And for the first time since this whole mess started—
I felt like maybe…
Just maybe…
This conversation wouldn't end in a fight.