Loving someone does not erase their flaws.
It only makes you see them more clearly.
"You're going to lose people if you keep doing that."
Gilang looked up from his laptop, brows slightly furrowed. "Doing what?"
"Always needing to be right," I said, leaning against the edge of the table. "Not listening. Not trying to understand."
He exhaled slowly, closing the screen halfway. "You're starting early today."
"I'm serious."
"I know you are."
"Then take it seriously."
We were sitting in one of the quieter corners of campus, far from the usual noise. Papers were scattered between us. Mine were nearly complete. His were still… uncertain.
That difference sat between us more often than we talked about.
"You think I don't care about people?" he asked.
"I think you forget to show that you do."
"That's not the same thing."
"It becomes the same thing if people stop staying long enough to understand you."
He didn't respond immediately.
And for once, I didn't push him.
"I'm trying," he said finally.
"I know," I replied, softer now. "But trying also means changing some things."
"Like what?"
"Like not turning everything into a debate. Like learning when to listen instead of defend."
He leaned back slightly, arms crossed. "You make it sound easy."
"It's not," I admitted. "But it's necessary."
"For you?"
"For everyone," I said. Then after a pause, "Including me."
The conversation drifted after that.
Not resolved.
Just… paused.
Like most things between us.
A few days later, the topic shifted.
From us.
To something just as heavy.
"I still don't have a title."
I glanced at him, confused. "For your thesis?"
He nodded, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "Every time I submit one, it gets rejected. They say it's too similar to previous research."
"That's normal," I said. "You just have to refine it."
"I've been refining it for months."
"Then maybe you need a different angle."
He let out a short breath. "Easy for you to say. You're almost done."
I stayed quiet for a moment.
Because he wasn't wrong.
My own thesis was nearing completion. Just a few revisions left before everything would be submitted
And yet, here he was.
Still stuck at the beginning.
"Do you want help?" I asked carefully.
He looked at me. "Would you?"
"I can try."
He nodded, a little too quickly. "Yeah. I need that."
That should have felt simple.
Helping someone you care about.
But something about it unsettled me.
Not because I didn't want to.
But because I knew him.
"You can't depend on me for everything," I said gently.
"I'm not."
"You are," I replied. "At least right now."
He frowned. "So you're saying I shouldn't ask for help?"
"I'm saying you shouldn't rely on it too much."
"That's different."
"It's not."
He leaned forward slightly, his tone sharpening. "I just need a starting point."
"And I can give you that," I said. "But you have to build the rest yourself."
"I will."
"You say that now."
"And you don't believe me?"
I hesitated.
That was enough of an answer.
"I don't want you to become someone who always needs someone else to fix things for you," I said quietly.
"I'm not like that."
"Then prove it."
The words hung heavier than I intended.
For a moment, I thought he would argue.
Push back.
Defend himself the way he always did.
But he didn't.
Instead, he looked away.
"I just… don't want to fall behind," he said.
His voice was quieter now.
Less guarded.
"I feel like everyone else is moving forward, and I'm still stuck in the same place."
That caught me off guard.
Because for once, Gilang didn't sound stubborn.
He sounded… tired.
"You're not stuck," I said softly.
"It feels like it."
"Then move," I replied. "Even if it's slow."
He let out a quiet breath, nodding once.
"Help me this time," he said. "Just this once."
I studied him for a moment.
Then nodded.
"Okay."
That night, as I worked through potential thesis ideas for him, my thoughts drifted elsewhere.
To things I rarely let myself revisit.
"I was born in Tasikmalaya," I said suddenly, my voice breaking the quiet between us.
He looked up from his notes. "Yeah?"
"December sixth. Nineteen ninety-seven."
"Why are you telling me this?"
I gave a small smile. "Because you don't know that much about me."
"I know enough."
"You don't."
He closed his notebook slowly. "Then tell me."
I hesitated.
Not because I didn't want to.
But because some memories still felt… fragile.
"I had an older brother," I said quietly.
His expression softened slightly. "Had?"
I nodded.
"He used to stay up with me when I couldn't sleep," I continued. "I was scared of the dark. Of things I couldn't see."
"What kind of things?"
"Everything," I said with a small, almost embarrassed laugh. "Ghosts. Shadows. Silence."
He didn't interrupt.
Just listened.
"He would tell me stories," I went on. "Not the kind that makes you feel safe. The opposite."
Gilang raised an eyebrow. "That doesn't sound helpful."
"It wasn't," I admitted. "But somehow, it made the fear feel… shared."
I paused, my fingers tightening slightly around the edge of my notebook.
"There were nights I had to walk to the bathroom alone," I said. "Everyone else already asleep. The house completely quiet."
"And you still went?"
"I had to."
"Weren't you scared?"
"I was," I said softly. "But I didn't wake him up."
"Why not?"
I looked down for a moment.
"Because I didn't want to bother him."
The words lingered.
Longer than I expected.
Gilang watched me carefully now.
"You do that a lot," he said.
"Do what?"
"Handle things on your own. Even when you don't have to."
I didn't answer.
Because he was right.
"I got used to it," I said after a moment. "Not asking. Not needing too much."
"And now?"
I looked at him.
Really looked at him.
"I don't know," I admitted.
The silence that followed felt different.
Not heavy.
Not empty.
Just… honest.
"You can ask," he said quietly.
"For what?"
"For anything."
I let out a small breath, something between a laugh and something softer.
"You say that now."
"I mean it."
"I know."
But knowing and believing were two different things.
I closed my notebook slowly, leaning back in my chair.
"Let's just focus on your thesis for now."
He nodded, but his gaze lingered on me a second longer than usual.
Like he was trying to understand something he hadn't noticed before.
And somehow, that made everything feel a little more complicated.
Because for the first time, it wasn't just about understanding him.
It was about him starting to understand me.
And I wasn't sure if I was ready for that.
Fear has a way of teaching you things no one else can.
Sometimes gently.
Sometimes by leaving you alone in the dark.
"I'm not a child anymore."
I whispered it to myself like a promise as I stood outside the bathroom door, my hand resting on the handle.
The house was quiet.
Too quiet.
It was the kind of silence that made every small sound feel louder than it should. The ticking clock in the living room. The faint rustle of curtains brushing against the wall. Even my own breathing felt unfamiliar, like it didn't belong to me.
"It's just the bathroom," I murmured, forcing a small laugh. "Nothing's going to happen."
I pushed the door open.
The light flickered once before settling.
For a second, my chest tightened.
Then nothing.
No shadows moving. No strange sounds. No presence waiting in the corner like my imagination used to insist.
Just a small, ordinary room.
"You see?" I whispered to myself. "You're fine."
I locked the door and stepped inside.
Every movement felt deliberate. Careful. Like I was proving something to someone who wasn't even there.
Or maybe… to the version of me who used to be.
When I finally stepped out minutes later, relief washed over me faster than I expected.
"I did it," I exhaled softly, leaning against the wall for a second.
No one followed me.
No unseen presence lingered behind my back.
No sudden crash from the kitchen.
Nothing.
That should have been the end of it.
A small victory.
A quiet moment of growing up.
But as I lay back on my bed, pulling the blanket up to my chest, the thoughts came anyway.
They always did.
"What if they just didn't show up tonight?"
I stared at the ceiling, my mind drifting back to all the nights I used to dread.
Midnight.
That exact hour when everything felt different.
When the air grew heavier. When the silence wasn't just silence anymore.
I used to believe that was when they appeared.
Uninvited.
Unseen.
But always… there.
I let out a soft breath, shaking my head.
"That was a long time ago."
The memories felt distant now.
Almost unreal.
Like something that belonged to another life.
Back then, I was five.
Small enough to believe everything I imagined.
Old enough to feel fear as something real.
And my brother…
He was always there.
"He used to make it worse, you know," I said quietly, a faint smile touching my lips as I stared into the darkness.
Gilang, who was sitting on the floor beside my bed, glanced up. "Worse?"
"He told me horror stories."
"At night?"
"Yes."
"That's not helping."
"I know," I laughed softly. "But somehow, it did."
He leaned back against the wall, arms resting loosely on his knees.
"How?"
"Because I wasn't scared alone," I said. "If he was there, then the fear didn't feel… empty."
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
The room was dim, lit only by a small lamp near the corner.
Quiet.
But not uncomfortable.
"He sounds like someone you really trusted," Gilang said.
"I did," I replied.
Past tense.
He noticed.
Of course he did.
"What happened?" he asked carefully.
I hesitated.
Not because I didn't want to answer.
But because some things, once spoken out loud, felt too real.
"He's gone."
The words came out softer than I expected.
Simpler too.
Like reducing something enormous into something small enough to hold.
Gilang didn't interrupt.
Didn't ask how.
Didn't ask why.
He just stayed there.
And for once, that was enough.
"He was twenty-two," I continued after a moment. "And I was still a kid who couldn't even walk to the bathroom alone."
A quiet laugh escaped me, though it didn't quite reach my chest.
"He used to understand everything I wanted before I even said it," I added. "Even things I didn't realize I wanted."
I pulled the blanket closer, my fingers tightening slightly.
"It's strange," I said. "How someone can be that present in your life… and then just… not anymore."
Gilang shifted slightly, his voice lower now.
"That kind of loss doesn't really go away."
"No," I agreed. "It just changes shape."
The silence that followed felt heavier.
But not suffocating.
Just… honest.
"I think that's why I'm like this," I said suddenly.
"Like what?"
"Careful. Selective. Always thinking twice before letting someone in."
I looked at him.
"Because I already know what it feels like to lose someone who matters."
He held my gaze, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.
"And yet," he said, "you still let me in."
I smiled faintly.
"Barely."
That made him huff a quiet laugh.
"But it's true," I continued. "I don't want to repeat the same mistakes."
"What mistakes?"
"Trusting too easily. Ignoring things I shouldn't ignore. Staying when I should walk away."
He didn't respond immediately.
And when he did, his voice was quieter than before.
"Are you saying I'm one of those mistakes?"
The question caught me off guard.
I shook my head. "No."
"Then what am I?"
I looked at him for a long moment.
Trying to find the right answer.
Or maybe just an honest one.
"You're someone I'm still trying to understand," I said.
That seemed to settle something in him.
Or maybe unsettle it.
I couldn't tell.
Outside, the wind brushed softly against the windows.
The house felt still again.
But not the same kind of stillness from before.
This one felt… shared.
"I used to think I saw things," I said quietly.
"What kind of things?"
"Shadows moving. Objects falling when no one touched them."
"Did they actually happen?"
"I don't know," I admitted. "Maybe they did. Maybe they didn't."
I let out a small breath.
"Either way, I learned something."
"What?"
I looked at him, my expression softer now.
"That fear doesn't disappear just because you ignore it."
He nodded slowly.
"Then how does it disappear?"
I thought about it for a moment.
About the little girl standing in front of a bathroom door, too afraid to turn the handle.
About the quiet nights that felt too loud.
About the absence that never really left.
"It doesn't," I said finally.
"You just learn to walk through it anyway."
The words settled between us.
Simple.
But heavier than they sounded.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
And for once, the silence didn't feel like something to fill.
Then, suddenly, his phone vibrated.
Once.
Sharp.
Out of place.
Gilang glanced at the screen.
And everything about him changed.
"What is it?" I asked.
He didn't answer.
His jaw tightened slightly, his eyes fixed on whatever he was reading.
"Gilang?"
A beat of silence.
Then he stood up abruptly.
"I have to go."
My chest tightened.
"Now?"
He nodded, already reaching for his bag.
"Something came up."
The words felt familiar.
Too familiar.
"Is it about the key?" I asked before I could stop myself.
He froze.
Just for a second.
But that second was enough.
He looked at me.
And for the first time that night, I saw it again.
That distance.
That part of him I still couldn't reach.
"Don't wait up," he said quietly.
And then he left.
The door closed.
Soft.
Final.
I sat there, staring at the empty space he left behind.
My heart beating slower now.
Heavier.
And somehow, without needing any explanation at all…
I knew.
Whatever he hadn't told me yet…was about to change everything.