“Please come home now. Your dad and mom faced a misfortune.”

My heart stopped. This is the moment every child living far from home fears the most: the call that asks you to come back, but not from the voices of your parents. The call that shatters the illusion that there will always be more time.

I rushed home in tears, my hands trembling as I clutched my ticket, my breath uneven as I boarded the train. The journey stretched endlessly, each mile carrying me closer to a reality I could not bear to face. I pressed my forehead against the cold window, silently pleading: please, let this be a mistake. Please Ya Allah, I beg you.

But it wasn’t.

I arrived home to find two lifeless bodies lying in the living room. My parents—who once filled this home with laughter, with warmth—were now covered in white shrouds.

Time stopped. My world stopped. I wanted to wake up, but this nightmare was infuriatingly real. As I walked closer to their corpses, these thoughts ran in my mind: How am I supposed to continue life without their voices calling my name? Without their prayers into every step I take? Without their hands, once so strong, now forever still?

I tried to console myself with words meant to offer comfort:

“Someone’s fate, including their death, is already decided 50.000 years before the world was created. Please accept it.”

“Your parents were taken in such a beautiful way, you couldn’t ask for better. You should be patient.”

“No matter how much you cry, they will not come back. Please be strong.”

“Hold yourself together. Your younger brother needs you to be someone to comfort him.”

But nothing could reach me. Nothing could make this hurt less. All I thought was: I am supposed to continue life after this? Isn’t it too impossible with the heart that will carry great pain all my life? Also how? Someone should tell me how to continue life after something so heartbreaking like this.

I thought, maybe with time, the pain would dull. That grief would grow tired of tormenting me. But days passed, and I remained numb. I still cried even when I told myself to let it go because there was nothing I can’t do any more to bring them back. I moved through life as if in a fog, my body present but my soul somewhere else—somewhere still clinging to the past, still reaching for hands that would never again hold mine.

As I couldn’t rewind time, I would try to do everything I could do, including saying the words I never said. Here are the words I’ve been wanting to tell you both, Mom and Dad. I regret that I couldn’t say them while staring at your eyes:

Mom and Dad, even if I could choose my fate, I would still choose to be your daughter a thousand times over. I asked Allah to make me yours not once, but twice: here in this world and in the hereafter. Forgive me for every time I failed you, for every hardship I unknowingly caused. Forgive me for being difficult when all you ever gave me was love. I regret every unspoken thank you, every moment I took for granted, every time I thought we had more time. Thank you for raising me, for giving me all that you had, for being my home. I witnessed that you two had done your best. I pray you both have a beautiful life there.  

Until we meet again in the hereafter. 

Love,

iim

I watch him the way one watches the sea—awed, yet knowing that they can never be part of its vastness. He moves through the world like sunlight breaking through leaves, warm and kind, never failing to bring light to those around him. Even in his quiet moments, I can see it: the way his life must be filled with calm laughter, effortless joy, with a world that welcomes him with open arms. I imagine his path, lined with flowers, that he could carry himself with ease.

I have spent years wondering what it would feel like to belong in his world. To hear his stories, not as an insignificant outsider, but as someone he chooses. However, as someone with a cloud hanging over her head, I have always known that I do not belong there. I know that he deserves a woman with light in her eyes, someone who mirrors the beauty he carries. He deserves someone whose voice sparkles with optimism when she speaks of dreams. He should be with someone whose steps match his own—someone who walks beside him on a path just as beautiful as his.

He deserves a love that is radiant, uncomplicated, and full of life—everything I am not.

But if I can erase the stark contrast, I want to be someone he dearly calls home. I hope he will be looking forward to coming home because I am his safe space. I want to be the person he turns to when the world feels too heavy. How I wish coming home for him meant meeting someone who understands even the things he does not say. How I yearn that, when the day fades, he would find solace in sharing what happened with me over an afternoon tea. How I wish that even on his toughest days, he would smile at the thought of the deep conversations we would have after long hours of exhaustion.

But I know he wouldn’t want to come home to someone whose life is complicated like me. I am sure he doesn't want to spend his lively life with someone whose life is as dull as mine. 

Therefore, I will keep my distance so I don’t burden him. Instead, I will silently pray for him, asking for nothing in return. I hope he will spend his life with someone as bright as he is. I hope that person gives him a life as beautiful as the one he deserves. And when that day comes, when I see him happy, I will smile. Even as my heart breaks, I will definitely be pleased. Because if he is happy, then that is enough. That is also a sort of happy ending for me.

--------

The title is inspired by a letter in the Thai drama "My Cherie Amour". In the letter, the main character wrote, "I'm not sure if you would want to spend your exciting and joyful life with such a boring person like me,". 

(As always, it's labeled fiction because it is fiction)

Malam itu, jemariku berkelana di antara kumpulan catatan di ponsel. Di antaranya, aku menemukan secarik tulisan yang kubuat tepat di hari pertama tahun ini. Biasanya, aku menuliskan beberapa target di awal tahun, tetapi kali ini hanya ada satu kalimat:

"Berikan waktu kepada Sang Pemilik Waktu."

Jari-jariku yang semula lincah terhenti. Apa yang terjadi saat aku menuliskan kalimat itu? Apakah aku sedang bersedih atau justru berbahagia? Aku mencoba mengingat kembali momen itu. Tak lama kemudian, aku tersenyum. Aku teringat rasa lega dan hangat yang memenuhi hati mengetik kalimat itu.

****

Di suatu subuh di bulan Maret 2024, aku tersentak oleh sensasi dunia berputar begitu cepat. Sejak saat itu, keseimbanganku seolah menghilang. Saat berjalan, aku merasa hendak terjatuh. Saat berdiam, aku merasa badanku berguncang. Setiap pagi, aku terbangun dengan kelelahan yang mendera dan kekhawatiran yang tak kunjung reda. Hari-hari berlalu dalam tatapan kosong, seolah dunia yang kupijak sedang menelantarkanku.

Lambat laun, aku mulai lelah menunggu pemulihan.

"Apakah ada kemungkinan jika saya tidak akan pernah sembuh, Dok?" tanyaku suatu sore, di kunjungan yang kesekian, dengan suara yang lemah.

Dokter itu mengerutkan kening, mencoba memahami arah pertanyaanku.

"Jika memang demikian, saya ingin belajar menerima vertigo ini sebagai bagian permanen dalam hidup saya." Aku bahkan tak tahu berapa banyak energi yang telah kuhabiskan hanya untuk bisa mengucapkan kalimat itu dengan tenang.

Tatapan dokter yang biasanya lembut kini semakin melunak. Ia menepuk pundakku perlahan dan berujar, "Kamu pasti sembuh. Percaya bahwa kamu pasti bisa sembuh. InsyaAllah."

Namun, entah mengapa, kata-kata yang seharusnya menggelar harapan itu terdengar seperti penghiburan semata. Aku tersenyum pahit. Setelah berbulan-bulan berada dalam lorong panjang yang gelap, aku tak lagi bisa melihat di mana ujungnya. Aku mulai kehilangan kepercayaan bahwa aku ditakdirkan untuk pulih—tidak bahkan setelah waktu yang panjang berlalu.

Sebagai seseorang yang kerap merasa waktu membiarkannya terbengkalai, aku mulai terbiasa tidak berharap banyak. Setelah lebih dari satu dekade dipenuhi pertanyaan tentang kapan masa-masa yang kuharapkan tiba, kini aku hanya ingin berdamai. Hati yang dulu dipenuhi keraguan—"Pasti datangkah semua yang ditunggu?" seperti dalam puisi Sapardi Djoko Damono, kini tak lagi terlalu menunggu. Batin yang dulu resah—"I used to think that I couldn't find it for my entire life. The world is very big and I walked it slowly," seperti ujar Bolin Shijiang, kini tak lagi begitu mencari.

Aku tersadar bahwa menanti dengan harapan jauh lebih berat ketimbang tanpa berharap. Maka, aku berhenti bertanya dan memilih menerima bahwa mungkin, tak semua orang mendapatkan apa yang mereka perjuangkan. Aku mulai berbisik pada diriku sendiri, "Mungkin memang begini hidupku selamanya.".

Sampai akhirnya, di suatu hari di bulan November 2024, aku mencoba bersujud—sesuatu yang berbulan-bulan tak bisa kulakukan tanpa dunia terasa berputar begitu kencang. Aku bisa melakukannya. BPPV (Benign Paroxysmal Positional Vertigo) yang sekian lama menggelayuti langkahku perlahan mulai membaik. Air mata jatuh tanpa bisa kutahan. Aku menyadari bahwa Sang Pemilik Waktu hanya meminta hatiku lebih berlapang sebelum akhirnya disembuhkan.

"Beri waktu kepada Sang Pemilik Waktu," kalimat yang melintas di pikiran.

****

Setelah kejadian itu, aku tak lagi berlari ke segala penjuru, mencari jawaban. Aku berhenti tergesa-gesa menuntut kepastian dari waktu. Aku memilih untuk berdoa dalam senyap lalu percaya.

Percaya bahwa waktu memiliki caranya sendiri. Percaya bahwa Sang Pemilik Waktu tahu kapan saat yang tepat untuk menghadirkan apa yang kubutuhkan. Percaya bahwa badai, sebesar apapun, akan berlalu. Percaya bahwa Dia sedang merangkai setiap potongan hidupku dengan baik meski saat ini aku belum bisa melihatnya.

Tahun ini, aku hanya ingin berkata pada diriku sendiri:

"Kamu sudah berusaha dengan baik, Nur Imroatun Sholihat. Tetapi untuk perkara waktu, mulai sekarang, berikanlah kepada Sang Pemilik Waktu. Dia tidak akan menelantarkanmu". 

Love, 

iim

I sit across from him, the world humming softly in the background. The clatter of dishes and the conversation from nearby tables— all of it fades beneath his voice. He’s telling me about his past few days: work, silly annoyances, and random moments of joy. It never truly registers just how many years we’ve spent like this, having our regular conversations stretching for hours. We don’t flood each other’s inboxes with daily updates, nor do we call just to fill the gap between our Fridays. Instead, we patiently wait for the weekly after-hours catch-up in some Japanese restaurant.

He rolls up his sleeve so the food won’t stain his white shirt. It’s a small gesture that feels so familiar. I’ve seen him do it a hundred times before, and yet, I still find myself watching. He smiles while his eyes light up as his favorite ramen is placed in front of him. Just a moment ago, he told me he was feeling low. And yet, here he is, looking at the meal like it’s the one thing that can make the day a little better.

The sadness hasn’t entirely left his eyes. I can still see its traces, lingering in the quiet corners of his expression. But now that he’s smiling, I’m reminded once again that this delicate balance, this ability to acknowledge his own emotions yet carry them with such calm optimism—that’s what makes him him. And I think I could watch him like this forever.

“This week, I got a demanding task, so I bought a lemon cheesecake and finished it myself,” he says, laughing. His eyes curve into crescent moons.

And just like that, my heart stumbles. I can picture it: him, sitting alone on a gloomy day, in front of his computer, eating his favorite Japanese lemon cheesecake as if it were a small act of opposition against the weight of the world. 

Can I tell the whole room that I really like someone who laughs so innocently when talking about cheesecake? I want to turn to every stranger here and say: look at him. Look at this man who finds joy in the smallest of things. Look at this person who carries his burdens lightly, who never lets the weight of the world steal his laughter. Take a proper look at him because I believe there is something so joyful about being in his presence.

“What was the task?” I ask.

“Creating a project dashboard. I had to learn Power BI for it.” He furrows his brows slightly, thinking.

“That must’ve been tough. But we learned Tableau back in campus, so it shouldn’t be that difficult, right?” I say, recalling the memory of studying in Japan which made us best friends.

“Yeah. But Power BI isn’t as user-friendly or intuitive, I think,”. He starts explaining the dashboard he built, detailing how Power BI compares to Tableau.

At that moment, I realized that I never planned on falling for a tech geek yet enjoying a conversation like this. Also, I never thought love would feel like this—soft, unhurried, and soundless. It happened somewhere between these easy conversations and bursts of laughter over tech memes. Somewhere in the way his voice softens when he speaks just low enough for only me to hear. Somewhere in the way his jokes always work because I know almost all the inside stories. Somewhere in the way the world feels a little lighter whenever he’s near. 

And now, I can’t help but be curious: Am I the only woman who gets to see this storyteller side of him? People say that if the long-time person was meant to win, they would have won already. And yet, here I am, wondering if I was never meant to win his heart at all. What if someone new comes and instantly becomes his favorite person to tell stories to?

I want to stay still, and yet I want to tell the world. I want to write his name in my SNS, in the sand, in the lines of every application he has built, in the pages of every book he has ever loved, so that no matter where he goes, he will finally see. I want people to stop and ask, Who is it that makes you smile like this? Maybe then it would be easier for me to tell them about him.

But instead, I keep it a secret—not because I am afraid or unsure. I just want him to navigate his feelings freely, even if that means he will fall for someone else. When that day comes, I hope he tells me about the person who makes his soft eyes even softer. Tell me about the one who makes you tell stories even more frequently than you do with me, my heart hopes.

But until then, take a proper look at the way I always listen just a little more intently when you speak. Notice how I memorize your stories, even the ones you'll forget later. See how I treasure each of these moments, knowing that you might never see me the way I see you. And maybe, one day, you will look at me and see all the love I’ve carried so gently, so patiently. And if that day ever comes, please don’t hesitate to come closer.

As we part ways, he waves a hand. “I’m afraid tonight you won’t check your SNS. Don’t forget to check it after this because I posted something.”. SNS (Social Network Service), that’s what the Japanese call platforms like Instagram. We share the habit of rarely updating ours, so I can’t help but wonder: what could he have possibly posted?

I open his Instagram story, which features a picture of ramen and the caption ”#好きなんだ”, which is read as “#sukinanda” in Japanese — a casual way of saying "I like it". I call his name just before he walks too far from the restaurant. He turns around.

“You meant you like the ramen?” I ask. "We can visit this place often if you want,"

He smiles, slowly shaking his head. “Take a better look.”

I glance at the photo again. There, reflected on the table near his ramen bowl, is my faint shadow.

"See you next Friday,” he says, waving once more.

And I am left standing there—heart pounding, breath caught between realization and hope.

--------------------

image source: Wiktoria Labudzinska via artstation.com

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Background story: When I opened YouTube, a video of JKT48’s #kusangatsuka MV appeared on my recommendations. I randomly played the song and thought about how cute the lyrics were. Then, I searched for the original version performed by AKB48. The energetic and playful melody perfectly captured the feeling of young, reckless love—the kind where you secretly, but not-so-secretly, adore someone. The lyrics tell the story of a girl who posts #sukinanda (I like it) along with a picture of food, with the subtle shadow of the person she loves in it. They hang out together with their friends on the beach, playing the watermelon-smashing game.

The song ends on a happy note with these lyrics: "He replied to my post with a picture of me trying to smash the watermelon, captioned ‘with someone I love.’"

I wanted to write a story inspired by that lovely song but with a more mature, quiet kind of love. As always, this story is labeled as fiction because it is fiction :)