The next morning in Jakarta was dim and gray, clouds covering most of the sky as if the world itself had fallen into a quiet mood.
Evan found himself walking the streets near the old café they used to virtually visit together. It was the same little shop he once showed Luna through a video call—a quiet place with rustic chairs, yellow lighting, and the scent of cinnamon lingering in the air.
Back then, Luna had laughed, saying, "One day, we'll sit there together. You'll order your bitter coffee, and I'll steal all the sugar packets."
That memory played like an old film in his head as he sat by the window. The coffee tasted just the same, but everything else felt... different.
Empty.
Incomplete.
Across the table, no one sat. Just his phone, screen dark. He didn't want to text. He didn't want to talk. He just wanted her there.
He leaned back in the chair, watching the rain begin to fall outside. Drops tapped against the glass like a soft rhythm—like time itself ticking away.
He wondered what Luna was doing right now.
Maybe walking home from class in Yogyakarta, earphones in, hoodie up, like she always did. Or maybe curled up in her dorm room, notebook open but thoughts far away.
Their lives ran parallel, always just a few hours apart. But even when hearts are aligned, distance can echo louder than silence.
Evan took a photo of the view outside and sent it to her without a caption.
A few minutes later, she replied with a photo of her own—a narrow street lined with trees, golden with afternoon light. It looked warm.
His chest ached.
Still together, he thought, even when apart.
No dramatic words. No promises. Just quiet reminders that they still shared something real.
Even when the world felt unfamiliar—she didn't.