The sun was a low amber glow, spilling over the city like molten gold. Graduation banners fluttered in the gentle wind, tassels swaying as students milled through the courtyard, voices echoing, laughter punctuating the warm air. The school smelled of fresh paper, sunscreen, and something faintly sweet, cotton candy from the festival stall that had been set up weeks ago.
Arka stood at the rooftop edge, hands gripping the cold metal railing, the wind tugging at his hair, tugging at the edges of his thoughts. He could hear the distant hum of celebration, see clusters of students tossing their caps, hear the clatter of cameras, the squeals of friends commemorating the end of a chapter. Yet all of it felt muffled, distant, as if the world were a stage just beyond a thick veil, and he stood there, suspended, watching it without truly being part of it.
Bayu appeared on the rooftop stairs, hesitating. He hadn't expected Arka to be here. The afternoon sunlight caught his hair, turning it a muted bronze, highlighting the subtle tension in his shoulders. He paused for a breath, hands buried in his pockets, eyes tracing Arka's silhouette against the sky.
"Hey," Bayu said softly, the word simple, almost a whisper, but somehow carrying years of shared moments, quiet laughter, and battles fought together, both literal and emotional.
Arka didn't turn immediately. He only let out a light hum, acknowledging Bayu's presence without acknowledging his own heartbeat, which thudded in a way that made him feel oddly fragile. "Hey," he finally replied, voice careful, almost practiced, but the tremor at the edge of it betrayed everything he had tried to mask for months.
They stood in silence. The wind tugged at Arka's jacket, and Bayu shuffled slightly, unsure whether to bridge the space or preserve it. The rooftop was empty, quiet except for the distant festival noises, the occasional flap of a bird's wing, the hum of the city below.
Arka's gaze swept across the horizon before returning to Bayu. "Every story I write," he began, words slow, measured, as if choosing them from a faraway place inside himself, "ends the same way. With two people who never quite get there. Because… I can't finish them. I can't finish them, like ours."
Bayu's chest tightened. He wanted to say something, anything, to bridge the gap that Arka's words opened wider instead of closing. But his voice faltered, caught in a tangle of memories, rainy rooftops, small stolen glances, the way Arka had laughed while poking him relentlessly, the way Bayu had felt something he hadn't known how to name until it had become too late.
Arka turned to face him fully now. His eyes, usually bright, teasing, and mischievous, were calm, serious, and for the first time, there was no shield. "I used to think if I made jokes, if I made noise, people would stick around. That if I wrote stories loud enough, I could protect the ones I cared about… But the truth is," he said, letting the words spill like confessions into the wind, "the stories can't be finished without you. And even now, we… we can't rewrite them."
Bayu swallowed, feeling the weight of those words press against his ribs. He opened his mouth, then closed it. He wanted to argue, to deny, to reach out, but he knew, deep down, that Arka was right. There were no rewrites. No miraculous endings. Only this, this rooftop, this fading light, this unspoken truth between them.
Arka stepped closer, close enough that Bayu could feel the warmth radiating off him despite the chill in the evening air. "I'm not asking for forgiveness," Arka said softly, "or even for understanding. Just… remember me."
Bayu blinked, voice finally catching. "…I will."
For a long moment, they simply stood there, two silhouettes against the horizon, the sky bleeding from gold to pink to indigo. The wind teased at their hair, pulled at their jackets, but neither moved away. They didn't need words; they didn't need explanations. Every memory, every shared joke, every quiet conversation in the dark, every fight and reconciliation, hung in the air between them like fragile glass, shimmering with what could have been.
Arka finally smiled, not the forced, bright grin he wore for others, but a small, sad smile, private, intimate. "I guess… this is our ending," he said. "Not the one we wanted, maybe. But still… ours."
Bayu met that smile, felt the pull of all the years they had shared, and for a heartbeat, everything else fell away. He wanted to speak, to reach out, to bridge the impossible distance, but instead he simply nodded, lips tight, eyes glimmering with unshed emotion. "Yeah," he whispered, "ours."
Arka stepped back, just slightly, letting the space return between them. He tilted his head toward the horizon, toward the city, toward the fading light. "Promise me," he said quietly, "you'll live well. Even if I'm not in the story anymore."
Bayu nodded again. "I… I'll try. For you."
They lingered a moment longer, absorbing the rooftop air, the glow of the setting sun, the impossibility of their shared history. Then, slowly, Bayu turned and walked toward the stairs, the faintest trace of a smile lingering on his lips. Arka watched him go, feeling the weight of everything and nothing at once, the ache of absence, the beauty of memories, the bittersweet taste of a story left unfinished.
Arka exhaled, shoulders loosening. He pulled his notebook from his bag, flipped it open to a blank page, and began to write, not the story of them, not the ending he had wanted, but the story of himself, finally, fully, with all the cracks, all the pain, all the laughter.
And as the sun dipped below the horizon, the city stretched into darkness, but the rooftop held their silhouettes in memory, two figures forever etched into the same moment, forever apart, forever lingering on the cusp of what could have been.
The wind whispered through the banners. Arka smiled faintly, pen moving across the paper. Bayu's footsteps echoed faintly down the stairs. And somewhere between what was said and what was left unsaid, the weight of possibility remained, suspended in time, impossibly beautiful, impossibly theirs.