The sky over Bandung was gray again—soft clouds drifting lazily like they had nothing better to do. Evan sat on the small balcony of his rented room, watching the weather shift without urgency.
He checked his phone for the fifth time that hour.
> Still no reply.
It had been 18 hours.
And even though he knew Lia was probably busy with school, maybe a quiz, or out with friends, his chest still felt heavier than it should.
He scrolled back up the chat.
> Evan (yesterday, 8:44 PM):
"I had nasi goreng today. Still tastes bland without your voice in my ear."
Seen? No. Delivered? Yes.
No reply.
---
He had promised himself he wouldn't overthink.
That he'd let her have space. That love wasn't supposed to be clingy or panicked.
But knowing something and feeling it were two different things.
He opened her Instagram, then closed it.
Opened her profile picture.
Closed it again.
Typed a new message.
Erased it.
Typed again.
> "Are you okay?"
Then he deleted it entirely.
---
Evan stood up and went inside. The room was dim. A half-full mug of coffee from last night still sat on the desk. Cold.
His laptop was open, a blank Google Doc blinking.
He was supposed to be writing a short story for a freelance gig. Deadline in 12 hours.
Instead, his mind was full of scenes that wouldn't sell:
Lia's sleepy voice at 3 AM.
The way she'd bite her lip when nervous.
The way she used to reply within seconds, even during her classes.
> "She's just busy."
"She's just tired."
"She still loves you."
He repeated those lines like mantras.
---
To distract himself, he cooked.
Instant noodles. Egg. Chili. Sausage.
He plated it like it mattered, took a photo, and stared at it for too long.
> "Should I send this to her?"
No. It would look needy.
He posted it on his story instead.
Maybe she'd see it.
Maybe she wouldn't.
---
He tried working again.
Words didn't come.
His hand hovered over his phone. Then, without thinking, he opened the chat and pressed the microphone button.
His voice came out shaky, even though he hadn't meant it to.
> "Hey... it's nothing urgent. Just wanted to hear your voice today. No pressure. I miss you. That's all."
He sent the voice note, then locked his phone and threw it on the bed like it had burned him.
---
As the sun dipped low behind the rooftops, turning the sky gold and tired, Evan sat back on his floor, head resting against the wall.
He thought about the first time Lia said I love you.
It wasn't during a dramatic moment.
It wasn't even during a video call.
She had sent it in lowercase, at the end of a long paragraph where she was venting about stress, exams, and missing home.
> "...anyway, I don't even know what I'm saying anymore. I'm just tired. I love you."
And Evan had stared at that message for ten minutes, trying to stop his hands from shaking.
> "I love you too."
That was two years ago.
And now?
Now, he was still here—same room, same phone, same heart—still waiting.
Still hoping.
Still typing messages into the void.
---
At 9:23 PM, his phone buzzed.
He snatched it up.
It wasn't Lia.
Just a promo notification from a food delivery app.
He exhaled hard and turned the screen off.
> "Don't be dramatic," he muttered to himself.
"One day of silence doesn't mean she's gone."
But even as he said it, his hands gripped his knees too tight.
---
He didn't send any more messages that night.
He just lay in bed, eyes on the ceiling, thoughts tangled.
Because sometimes, the hardest part of loving someone far away…
…was not knowing how to help when they go quiet.