Pretty Bird - Chapter 2
After college ended, my life felt like a blank page—well, not blank like a broke wallet at the end of the month, more like... an Excel sheet without any formulas. I moved back into the house my parents gave me. A "graduation gift," they said. But deep down I think it was just a nice way of saying, "Please stop bothering us at home." Thanks, Mom and Dad... I guess?
The house was decent. Not big, but cozy. Probably felt cozier because I was living alone. I'd actually been staying there since graduating high school. At first, I acted all independent and grown-up, but a week in, I was already calling Mom asking for money like, "Hehe... Mom, the electricity ran out, hehe..."
That's when I started learning about trading. From scratch. I literally knew nothing besides the mythical "buy low, sell high," which turned out to be more like "buy low, get wrecked lower." I read books, binged YouTube, and stalked trading forums full of candlestick charts that looked like abstract art. Eventually, I opened a demo account on this yellow-themed broker app that promised "user friendly" but felt more like "user suffering."
Two weeks in, I was feeling like Bekasi's version of Warren Buffet. 80% win rate, confidence through the roof, convinced I had some natural-born talent. So yeah, I went for a real account. Deposited two million rupiah—my food money.
Two days later... it was gone. Burned. Obliterated. I didn't go broke because of the market—I went broke because I thought I was a genius. No money management, just vibes. All I had left was rice with salt and barely enough electricity to charge my phone. But hey, that's when I realized: "Okay, time to actually learn and stop pretending to be a big shot."
A few weeks after that two-million tragedy, I got a notification.
"I saw you at the warung earlier. You live around the complex, don't you?"
The name on the screen: Ell.
I was shocked. Not because he messaged me, but because—I thought he'd disappeared off the face of the Earth after we graduated. I replied:
"Yeah, how'd you know?"
"I live around here too. Can I come over to your place?"
My brain was spinning: "He's a guy... yeah, he's a guy, so it's fine, right? I mean, it's fine. Right?"
I sent my address. Fifteen minutes later, I heard the knock on my old squeaky gate. I opened the door and—
There he was. Standing there with a bag of almonds and a one-liter bottle of water. Like he was going camping... but forgot the tent.
He came in and sat in the living room. And said nothing. Literally sat there like a statue. I opened my laptop and pretended to be busy, but my ears were laser-focused on the sound of him crunching almonds. Awkward didn't even begin to describe it.
"Wanna share some almonds?" he asked.
"No, I'm good."
"..."
And then he just kept crunching away. Silence. Almonds. Crickets.
After a few minutes, out of nowhere, he said:
"Can I see your room?"
Me: "Uh... sure." Internally: "Bro what are you even doing."
He walked in and looked around like a real estate agent. Checked out each corner like he was evaluating the place. I swear, it felt like he was about to buy the house.
The next day, he texted again.
"Can I come over again?"
Me: "Sure."
And from that day on, he came over a lot. At first, he still knocked politely. But later? Sometimes he'd show up without texting first. Sometimes he even stayed the night. His reason?
"There's no one at my house. I don't like being alone."
Well... since he's a guy (again—right?), I figured it was no big deal. I mean, I'd shared rooms with guy friends during internships before. But this time... it was different.
Because this guy? He wasn't just any guy.
He was pretty. With a soft voice, a face like polished glass straight from heaven's factory, short hair, around 160 cm tall—basically, my ideal type.
At night, he'd be in my room, doing skincare at 8 PM, and passed out by 9. I'd still be working. And sometimes, just hearing him breathe made me think, "Dude... what's your deal? Why are you this pretty?"
I once asked, "Don't your parents worry about you?"
He just said, "They're busy with work."
That's it. Flat. No drama. No elaboration.
I felt... comfortable. Really comfortable. Like I had a friend. But also... more than that. But I didn't know how to make sense of it. I was a guy. He was a guy. And yet... I wanted these moments to last forever.
Sometimes I'd watch him sleep and wonder, "What even are you? A secret agent? A girl in disguise? An alien? A magical bird turned into a human?"
One time, I even asked him while he was lying down, snacking on almonds in my room:
"Are you actually a girl pretending to be a guy?"
He smiled faintly and said:
"If you don't believe me, wanna check?"
I went silent. Got up. Walked out. Half disappointed... and half laughing. I thought, "Why the hell did I ask that. His ID clearly says he's a guy, bro."
But really, up to that point, I still couldn't figure out what my feelings for him were.
Love? Comfort? Or just a desperate craving for companionship when my life was falling apart?
I don't know. All I know is:
Every time he stayed over and said, "I don't want to be alone..."
…I could never say no.