The night before I left, Raka held my hand like I was already slipping away.
The café was almost empty, the soft hum of traffic outside blending with the low music playing from old speakers. It was the same place where we had first confessed our feelings two years ago. Back then, we were just two university students with shared notes and shared dreams.
Now we were two people sitting on opposite sides of something bigger than a table.
"You're really going," he said, not as a question.
I smiled. "It's just for my master's degree. Two years."
"Two years is long."
"It's not forever."
He looked at me the way he always did when he was trying not to argue — jaw slightly tight, fingers tapping once against the table before going still. I knew that look. It meant he disagreed, but he didn't want to be the bad guy.
"I just don't like the idea of you being there alone," he continued. "New country. New people."
"I won't be alone," I laughed lightly. "I'll be busy."
"That's what I'm worried about."
I didn't understand what he meant. Or maybe I did — I just didn't want to.
He reached across the table and intertwined our fingers. His grip was warm. Firm. Almost too firm.
"You'll call me every day, right?"
"Of course."
"Video call."
"Yes."
"And if something feels weird… if someone makes you uncomfortable… you tell me immediately."
"Raka," I smiled, "I can handle myself."
"I know," he said quickly. "I just… I need to know you're okay."
Need.
That word sounded like love at the time.
The airport felt colder than usual.
My parents were busy reminding me to eat properly, to sleep enough, to call home. My mother hugged me twice. My father squeezed my shoulder and said he was proud.
Raka stood slightly apart.
When I walked toward him, he didn't say anything at first. He just pulled me into his chest.
"Don't change," he whispered into my hair.
"I won't."
"Promise?"
I pulled back slightly to look at him. "I'm still me."
"People change when they leave."
"I'm not leaving you."
He searched my face like he was trying to memorize it. Like he was already preparing for loss.
"Two years," he said again.
"Two years."
We sealed it with a kiss that tasted like fear disguised as faith.
The first week abroad was chaos wrapped in excitement.
New apartment. New campus. New accent everywhere. Even the air felt different — crisp, unfamiliar.
I sent him photos of everything.
My small dorm room.
The messy unpacked suitcase.
The cafeteria food.
The street outside glowing at night.
He replied instantly at first.
"You look tired."
"Who took that photo?"
"That guy in the background — your classmate?"
The questions were harmless. Curious. Protective.
I liked that he cared.
We set a routine.
7 a.m. my time — good morning text.
9 p.m. his time — video call.
If I didn't answer within ten minutes, he'd send:
"You there?"
"Hello?"
"Why aren't you replying?"
I thought it was cute.
"Sorry, I was showering."
"You could've told me first."
"It was spontaneous."
"Still."
Still.
That word started appearing more often.
One afternoon after orientation, a few classmates invited me for coffee. There were four of us — two girls, two guys. We talked about assignments, professors, the difficulty of adjusting.
I laughed more than I had in days.
When I got back to my dorm, my phone showed 12 missed messages.
Raka:
"Where are you?"
"It's been two hours."
"Why aren't you replying?"
"Are you with someone?"
"Alya?"
I immediately called him.
"Hey, sorry! I was with some classmates."
"Classmates?" His voice was calm. Too calm.
"Yeah, just coffee after orientation."
"Who?"
"Just people from my program."
"Guys?"
"There were two guys, but—"
"So you're hanging out with guys now?"
"It wasn't like that. It was a group."
"You didn't tell me."
"It was spontaneous."
Silence.
"I don't like it," he said.
"Like what?"
"You going out with guys."
"They're my classmates."
"I don't care. You're in a different country. I'm not there."
His breathing changed slightly — sharper, heavier.
"I just want respect, Alya."
Respect.
Another word that sounded like love.
"I respect you."
"Then don't do things that make me uncomfortable."
Something inside me tightened.
"I can't avoid half my classmates."
"You can choose who you spend time with."
The conversation ended softer than it began. He said he was just worried. I said I understood.
And I did understand.
I just didn't notice that understanding was slowly becoming surrender.
Days turned into a rhythm of lectures and late-night calls.
Sometimes I would be exhausted, barely able to keep my eyes open, but he would still want to talk.
"You sound different," he'd say.
"I'm just tired."
"You're laughing differently."
"What?"
"With them."
"With who?"
"Your friends."
He started asking for photos more often.
"Send me a selfie."
"Right now."
"Show me your room."
"Turn the camera around."
I laughed the first time he asked me to rotate the camera during a video call.
"Why?"
"Just want to see."
"See what?"
"Who's there."
"No one's here."
"Then show me."
It felt silly not to.
So I did.
He relaxed after that.
"Okay. I trust you."
Trust.
It began to feel conditional.
One night, I missed our scheduled call.
Not intentionally.
My phone died while I was at the library finishing a group project. When I turned it back on, there were 27 missed calls.
My stomach dropped.
I called him immediately.
He didn't answer.
I tried again.
And again.
Finally, he picked up.
His voice was cold.
"So you're busy."
"I'm so sorry. My phone died. I was at the library."
"With who?"
"My group."
"Names."
"Raka—"
"Names."
I listed them.
Silence.
"You think I'm stupid?"
"What?"
"You expect me to believe your phone just died?"
"It did."
"Convenient."
Tears stung my eyes, but I swallowed them.
"Why would I lie?"
"Because you're changing."
There it was.
"You're changing, Alya."
Three months ago, he used to say I was growing.
Now he said I was changing.
And somehow, it sounded like betrayal.
That night, after we hung up, I sat on my bed staring at the city lights outside my window.
The skyline was beautiful. Alive. Endless.
I should have felt proud. Independent. Brave.
Instead, I felt guilty.
For laughing too loud.
For replying too slow.
For existing in a place he couldn't control.
But I loved him.
And love means compromise, right?
That's what I told myself as I typed:
"I'll be more careful."
He replied almost instantly.
"Thank you. I just don't want to lose you."
I stared at the message for a long time.
Somewhere deep inside, a quiet voice whispered:
What if you're the one disappearing?
(End of Chapter 1 – Part 1)
Author's NoteSome stories are not written to blame someone.
Some stories are written to understand why we stayed longer than we should have.
This is not a story about a villain.
This is a story about love that slowly changed shape.
About distance that didn't only separate cities, but also hearts.
About late-night calls that felt like oxygen.
About "Where are you?" slowly turning into "Why are you there?"
About "I miss you" becoming "You're changing."
And about the quiet moment when you realize —
loving someone should not mean losing yourself.
If you have ever waited for a message longer than you waited for sleep,
if you have ever explained yourself more than you expressed yourself,
if you have ever stayed because you believed love could fix control —
this story is for you.