Arga woke up because his phone vibrated.
He grabbed it right away.
Not an alarm. Not a message.
A shopping app notification.
"…seriously?"
He lay back down, staring at the screen for a second before locking it. It was almost seven. Around this time, there was usually a message. Sometimes just a "morning." Sometimes a random sticker. Today—nothing.
He unlocked his phone again and opened Alina's chat.
Still quiet.
The last message was his.
Arga: Sorry. I'm exhausted. Tomorrow, okay?
He read it once.
Then again.
It felt different reading it now.
"Tomorrow… yeah, right," he muttered.
He got up, went to the bathroom, splashed water on his face. The cold helped a bit, but his thoughts stayed stuck. While drying his face, he almost sent a message. His fingers were already hovering over the keyboard.
He stopped.
The phone went back down.
On the bus, Arga sat by the window. Jakarta was already loud—cars, motorcycles, people rushing everywhere. He put his earphones in, but the music barely registered.
He opened his phone. Closed it.
Opened it again. Closed it again.
She's busy, he told himself.
She's always busy.
But before, she still checked in. Even briefly.
Now? Nothing.
At work, he spent too long on a video that should've been done already. He replayed the same part again and again, even though nothing was wrong.
"Dude," his coworker said from behind, "that's already fine."
"Oh."
Arga nodded. "Yeah."
He saved the file anyway, still unsure why he felt stuck.
The day passed without him noticing. No messages. He didn't open the chat again—not because he didn't want to, but because he was tired of staring at an empty screen.
That night, it rained.
Arga sat in his small room, the light on, his jacket still on his shoulders. His phone was in his hand, spinning between his fingers.
"Just pick up," he said quietly, before calling.
The ringtone played.
One…
two…
three…
No answer.
He hung up, waited a moment, then tried again.
Same result.
"…damn."
He exhaled sharply. Not angry. Just disappointed in a way he didn't want to admit.
He typed.
I just want to hear your voice for a bit.
Sent.
Two check marks.
He waited, phone still in his hand, eyes glued to the screen—until he realized how stupid he probably looked.
He put the phone on the bed, stood up, took two steps, then came back and sat down again.
The phone vibrated.
Alina: Sorry, I'm really tired today. Tomorrow, okay?
Arga read it slowly.
Nothing was wrong with the sentence.
But somehow, his chest felt hollow.
He typed his reply.
Yeah. Get some rest.
Sent.
That was it.
He lay down, staring at the ceiling. The rain outside grew heavier. Usually, the sound helped him relax. Tonight, it didn't.
It wasn't that he was afraid of breaking up.
And it wasn't anger either.
It was the thought he'd been avoiding since yesterday:
What if I'm the only one still waiting?
Arga closed his eyes.
"When we finally meet," he whispered,
"will there still be something worth holding on to?"
No answer.
The night kept moving forward,
and quietly,
their relationship felt like it was cracking little by little—
not broken yet,
but no longer solid.