The alarm vibrated softly beside the pillow.
Arga opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling of his apartment.
White. Flat. A small stain in the corner—something he always noticed, yet never bothered to clean.
The screen of his phone lit up. 08:12.
"Still safe," he muttered.
He sat on the edge of the bed longer than necessary. Not because he was lazy—more like he was hesitant to start the day. Then he stood and walked toward the balcony, sliding the glass door open.
Morning air brushed his face. Warm. Slightly suffocating. Jakarta had already woken up.
Below, the streets moved nonstop. Motorcycles, cars, people heading somewhere with purpose. No one stopped just to think.
Arga leaned against the railing, his gaze empty for a few seconds.
"Feels like I'm the only one who overthinks everything," he said quietly.
He took a breath and went back inside. No drama. No hesitation.
The shower water ran cold at first, then settled. Arga showered quickly, changed into his work shirt, and stood in front of the mirror.
Neat. Normal.
He looked like someone ready to go to work.
Even though his mind was still somewhere else.
His phone vibrated.
Just a regular notification.
He glanced at it briefly, then slipped the phone into his pocket.
"Let's go," he said to his reflection. "Work."
The commute felt like a routine he had repeated too many times. Arga stood among people glued to their screens. No conversations. No lingering looks.
He unlocked his phone.
Her name was still there in his chat list.
Offline.
No sign of anything.
Arga locked the screen again.
"Focus," he said under his breath.
The office felt cold from the air conditioner and quiet from concentration. Arga sat at his desk, turned on his computer, and opened the project.
An empty timeline.
A blinking cursor.
He started working.
Cut. Slide. Adjust the tempo.
His hands moved automatically, like his body knew what to do even if his mind wasn't fully present.
Minutes passed. Then he stopped.
Arga stared at the screen without really seeing it.
"Why do unfinished things always feel heavier," he thought, "even when they haven't ended yet?"
He let out a small, deep breath.
"Work," he whispered.
The mouse moved again.
Lunchtime arrived without warning. Arga bought food, returned to his desk, and ate while keeping his laptop open. Not rushing. Not enjoying it either.
His phone vibrated.
One message.
From her.
"Sorry I couldn't reply this morning. Today's really packed."
Arga read it twice. Not because it was complicated—because it was too simple.
He typed a reply.
Deleted it.
Typed again.
"It's okay. Hang in there."
Sent.
Short. Safe. No pressure.
Still, his chest felt slightly tight.
By late afternoon, the final file was sent. The computer shut down. Arga stood there, staring at the dark screen a few seconds longer than usual.
"One day done," he muttered.
On the way home, the sky changed colors. A thin orange glow slipped between tall buildings. Not beautiful, but noticeable.
His apartment welcomed him in silence. Arga dropped his bag, didn't turn on the lights, and opened the balcony door again.
The evening breeze touched his face. More honest than the morning.
City lights turned on one by one.
Arga sat on the small chair, quiet.
"We're still together," he said softly.
"But it feels like I'm walking alone."
He wasn't overly sad. Not angry either.
Just tired—of a feeling he couldn't put a name to.
He finally turned on the lights and closed the balcony door.
The day was over.
The relationship wasn't.
And somehow, that unfinished part hurt the most.