A few days had passed.
It started quietly. A few headlines here and there. Then came the messages from friends abroad—an urgent whisper turning into a wave. A new virus. A looming lockdown. And right in the middle of it all, Kaelen asked if I wanted to meet.
Of course, I said yes. No questions asked. But something in me felt off—like this wouldn't be an ordinary meeting.
There was a strange stillness in the air. Not ominous. Just… heavy.
We met and ate in silence.
Not the silence of awkwardness—we'd been chatting like usual these past few days. No dry spells, no weird pauses.
This was the kind of silence that said, Let's not waste time with words. Let's just be here.
After a while, Kaelen looked up. "I need to ask your opinion."
His hands found mine, warm and steady. A squeeze—firm but gentle.
"I think..." I started, already knowing where he was headed, "you need to go back to your country."
He didn't flinch. Just held my gaze, calm and searching.
"Honestly, I can't bear to see you leave," I said. "If it were up to me, I'd chain your suitcase to the floor and keep you here. But I think you'd be safer there. You're not a local. Your embassy's calling everyone back. The borders might close in less than a week."
I could see the hesitation in his face.
He still had projects unfinished. He had found rhythm here—comfort even. He'd once told me that working with his Jakarta team felt easier than anywhere else: fewer layers of red tape, more direct communication. He wouldn't be stranded if he stayed—he had resources, connections, options.
But my fear—raw and relentless—had begun to show.
He saw it in my eyes.
"Okay," he said, finally.
A resigned breath left his chest. "I'll head back home."
I nodded, feeling strangely numb.
We both knew he couldn't fly straight back. His country had banned direct flights from Jakarta. He'd have to detour, maybe transit somewhere for a night or two. Quarantine. Paperwork. Isolation.
I wished I could cry.
Why couldn't I cry? Sob, like women do in the movies—when they're about to lose someone? Why did I just stand there, frozen? Damn this cold demeanor. It was always easier to look composed than to fall apart.
Why couldn't I just show it?
We said our goodbyes standing close, in a moment that felt both too short and too long.
He pulled me into his arms and held me tight. Then, with a gentle touch beneath my chin, he tilted my face up and kissed me. Deeply. Slowly. Like he was saying everything he couldn't put into words. Like he needed me to feel what he felt. All of it. Like the rest of the world—this public sidewalk, the passing cars, the people—had faded away.
We walked together to the hotel entrance.
I wrapped my arms around his waist, pressed my nose to his chest, and breathed in the comfort of him—his warmth, his woody scent, his everything.
Inside, everything in me was screaming, Stay.
But I didn't say it.
Instead, I clung to the illusion of being rational. Practical. Mature.
When the taxi arrived, he opened the door for me.
I turned back, stood on my toes, and gave him one last kiss—first on the cheek, then again on the lips. I didn't say anything. I just smiled.
He smiled too.
But not his usual teasing grin.
It was quiet. Bittersweet. And his eyes... his eyes weren't smiling.
That hurt more than tears ever could.
Like he didn't want me to see how much this hurt.
Like he was holding back, just like I was.
I slid into the backseat. The door closed. He didn't wave.
He just stood there—hands in his pockets—watching as the taxi pulled away.
And in that moment, something heavy settled in my chest.