There was something here; it’s gone now.

I stood in the same spot you once stood, staring at the door that you went through to leave that one evening; just like what I used to do during the cold and empty nights that followed.

Even the lights in this room have dimmed down. One of the lightbulbs have stopped working since months ago, but I also have stopped caring.



The clouds gathered above.

I couldn’t bring myself to speak. What string of words I have in mind vanished into thin air, evaporating into the grey clouds above our heads.

Your gaze pierced right through me. A whole sea of green, speck of blue, speck of yellow. Bright, bright as ever. Stealing words right out of my mouth as usual, my dear.

And there it goes, again; your thin lips curved into a smile, inviting mine to do the same. What are we smiling for? Even when the sun shined as bright as ever, will it not rain above our heads? Will the storm not rage on in this small space we share, will the thunder not continue to sound?

We continue to smile, but are we not weary? The countless battles we have started since the first moment we crossed paths will rage on. These sparks we have ignited will spread like wildfire. Everything we build will always be burned down to ashes. Our shoulders heavy, our backs bent down. We will never win, my dear.

But still our heads are thrown back in laughter. Still our fingers intertwine. It matters not whether the next morning the war will continue to rage on, whether we will return to rain hellfire against one another as usual. 

We were fire, my dear; but your eyes are the ocean.


Air, air dimana-mana. Seperti dirimu, terlintas di pikiranku. Hanya saja, kamu tidak benar-benar ada di dekatku; namun pada tetesan air yang jatuh dari tepi payung merah yang kupakai, dari ujung-ujung daun jarum pepohonan yang meneduhi jalan setapak yang kulewati, dan…

Genangan air. Aku mengutuk sesaat; airnya masuk melalui celah celah yang ada di sepatuku. Harusnya aku lebih memperhatikan langkah kakiku tadi. Pikiran macam apa pula yang terlintas tadi? Seperti roman picisan saja. Sok puitis kamu.

Tidak dapat kupungkiri, sayangnya, bahwa hujan selalu membawa melankoli.

Langkahku terhenti di depan gate masuk stasiun kereta, dengan lantai keramik putihnya yang terlihat kusam dipenuhi jejak kaki berlapis tanah dan air yang tergenang.

Di belakangku, hujan masih turun deras; dengan suara rintiknya yang terdengar begitu familiar di telinga. Seperti sebuah melodi.

Di depanku, kereta berhenti dan menghalangi penumpang yang akan menyebrang, dan juga rintik hujan. Langkah kakiku pun lebih hati-hati saat menyebrangi lintasan kereta tersebut, agar tidak terpeleset; sepatuku memang telah beberapa kali mengkhianati pemakainya.

Stasiun sialan ini lagi. Kereta sialan itu lagi. Aku menundukkan kepalaku, masih berteduh di bawah payung merah yang kubawa, sementara hujan turun semakin deras.

Ini bukan tulisan-tulisanku, aku tertegun diam. Kakiku masih terus bergerak pelan-pelan menapaki air yang menggenang di lantai stasiun yang memang berkontur tidak rata, berhati-hati agar tidak membasahi sepatuku lagi; namun pikiranku membeku.

Ini bukan tulisan-tulisanku, ini kehidupan nyata.

Rasanya aku ingin tertawa. Tentu saja. Aku sudah terlalu lama tenggelam dalam fiksi. Mudah saja mengarang akhir cerita yang bahagia.

Jika ini salah satu karanganku, mungkin di hari yang dipenuhi oleh hujan ini, kita sudah bertemu kembali; secara kebetulan, tentunya, karena kebetulan bukan lagi merupakan hal yang jarang dalam fiksi. Lalu mungkin agar tidak kebasahan, aku akan meminjamkan payungku padamu. Mungkin kita dapat berteduh di bawah payung yang sama.

Dalam karanganku, aku akan memiliki kesempatan untuk menanyakan siapa namamu. Mungkin kita akan mengobrol, berbagi cerita, tertawa bersama.

Bukan hanya dua orang yang tidak mengenal satu sama lain yang bertemu secara tidak sengaja di kereta. Kamu bukan lagi “laki-laki baik yang memberikan tempat duduknya untukku di kereta”. Aku bukan lagi “perempuan kurang ajar yang tidak mengatakan terima kasih setelah aku berdiri dan memberikan tempat dudukku untuknya”.

Namun ini bukan salah satu dari tulisanku.

Pintu kereta di depanku terbuka, langit sudah kembali cerah.

Pikiranku, sayangnya, tetap mendung.


(Written about two months ago, have finally had the chance to finish this today.)


Macchiato (English): espresso topped with steamed milk

Her cup of macchiato has gone cold. On the table next to hers, 3 different groups of people have come and go; the once pristine table stained with coffee rings. She gazed at the cup of macchiato in front of her, and next at the plate of club sandwich and a cup of americano next to it that she ordered nearly five hours ago.

She took the teaspoon next to her cup, gently stirring her coffee. No one knows how long she has been doing the same thing, over and over again. A few patrons have passed by her table during the last three hours, some checking whether she’s alright or not.

“Still waiting for your friend?”


Her cellphone buzzed a few times, from the messages that she has been receiving, and one final long buzz from a phone call, eventually joining the list as one of the many phone calls she has ignored since this morning. Yet she did not budge. She took her spoon out of the cup, tapping it gently on the edge of her cup to rid it of the drink before setting it back down.

“I’ve heard the news about the car accident. Is he okay?”

“Is he still in the emergency room? I’d like to visit.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“At what time are you coming to the hospital?”

“Stay strong, dear. I’m sorry for your loss.”

She took the cup of coffee from its saucer, finally taking a sip after the five hours she left it on the table, even though it has gone cold. Her gaze was empty.


Can we still gaze at the same moon when we’re so far apart?

I’d tell you I’d paint whole constellations for you, with shades of purple and blue and dot all the thousands of stars in them and paint galaxies too, with even smaller dots for the planets somewhere millions of miles away from the stars.

Maybe I wouldn’t feel so lonely anymore. I’d realize that we’re still in the same one tiny dot, floating in a place too massive for us to comprehend.

At the very least, even though we cannot gaze at the moon at the same time anymore, we’d still be looking up at the same sky.

But any distance far enough to keep our hands from reaching for one another is still too far for me.

A Girl Who Loved The Moon

She once loved the moon.

Every night when all the candles have been blown out and everyone has fallen asleep, she would sneak outside to the small balcony and watch the sky, counting the stars with all of her fingers until her eyes grow tired.

But what she loved the most is the crescent moon. No matter how terrible her day had gone, she’d wipe away no matter how many tears she had shed, and smile. And she would sit there, with the gentle night breeze on her skin and her feet dangling over the edge of the balcony, soaring miles and miles above the ground, between the clouds.

Her father found her lying on the exact same spot she has been the whole night, eyes closed.

She would still love the moon, if she could still see it.



Today on my way home, I saw the evening sky turning into an indigo hue, with shades of purple and yellow.

It reminded me of a halfway done watercolor painting spread across a canvas, and droplets of multicolored ink diffusing in water,

but most importantly,

it reminded me of you.