A Tale of Three Heartbeats
A Tale of Three Heartbeats
a novella to in lieu of sorrow, november goes painfully sweet
You are about to be carried into the
tale of three heartbeats: out of sync. Naivety hums the tune, stupidity dances
to it, and sentiment kicked out in the end. The silent wars are fought with
trembling hands, and every vulnerability is a weapon turned inward.
Before you cross into that
realm, meet this girl first: she is neither a blazing flame nor a firecracker
bursting with deafening noise.
She sews her lips closed,
her chest struck repeatedly like a percussionist’s drum, her heart twisted to
the brink of madness.
Cannot rage with roaring
fury; she weeps quietly. Her anger blooms softly, wrapped in aching wounds.
Even to herself, this weariness feels endless.
So,
tread lightly—not all storms come with thunder. Some arrive as a girl who can’t
even scream.
੩
September 29, ‘23
"Do you recognize this guy?" I zoomed in on the picture. "I swear I never saw him during PKKMB. Is he in the evening class?"
You squinted at the screen, then shook your head. "Nope, never. But if he posted the twibbon, doesn't that mean he should've attended?" Your eyebrows shot up. "Why ask?"
"He followed me last night. Like, all my accounts. Even the stupid one I only use for my cat pictures."
"AAAAH! CRUSH ALERT!" you squealed.
I hid my burning face in her blanket. The floral detergent smell did nothing to calm my heartbeat. This wasn't even a big deal. So what if some random guy—
"Wait ... he watched and liked your only video? Bestie. He's so obvious."
Your laughter bouncing off the dorm walls. Outside, cicadas hummed in the dark, but our room buzzed with something far more electric—that giddy, terrifying thrill of a maybe-crush unfolding in real time.
੩
October, November, December ‘23
The lobby tiles were still warm from the afternoon sun. You spun to face me, sandals squeaking. "Thank you!" you beamed, cheeks dimpling. "I can’t wait for you to meet him—and for you to tell me your story too!"
Your voice dropped to a whisper, "I’m rooting for you both."
I smiled so wide then.
...
October 2nd—
first day as a college student
National Batik’s Day, 8 AM,
there he was,
navy shirt against the classroom corner.
...
The campus gate creaked as I met you there, your backpack still dusty from the Bandung train. "Welcome again.”
Our dorm room—usually crowded with nine roommates—felt cavernous with just us two. You flopped onto your bed, still in your day clothes, scrolled through the new group chat.
"My friend just added me to his team, for the PA subject, and—" Your voice cracked. "He is in this group.”
“Wow. You both are gonna make an acquaintance soon, then.”
"Aha! How about you ask him about this scholarship matter we’re currently dealing with?"
"No way. I'll ask literally anyone else."
You grabbed my shoulders and shook me. "This is a SIGN. A HOLY DM OPPORTUNITY. He hasn’t texted you again since the first time last week, right?" Your grin turned devilish. "Or should I text him myself?"
"FINE." I typed with exaggerated slowness, my thumbs suddenly stupid.
The next ten minutes were agony.
Then—ding.
I screamed. "I WAS SCROLLING UP THROUGH OUR OLD CHATS WHEN HE REPLIED. What if he saw his message is instantly read by me?”
You howled, so amused. "ROMANTIC COMEDY PROTOCOL ACTIVATED."
We laughed in unison.
And in that moment, I remembered: It had been so long since a crush felt this light, this fun—just two friends giggling, turning small moments into something electric.
...
The day after tomorrow, I turned at the bottom of the stairs when I spotted him—long-sleeved brown batik, pen on paper, completely focused.
What's he writing?
So funny how I actually backpedaled to avoid being caught staring from afar.
Oh right, you were beside me too, we’re on our way to the dorm. You looked utterly confused when I suddenly retreated back. The moment you followed my gaze though—
"Ooooooo!"
Cue the relentless teasing.
"Where? Show me!" It’s your first time seeing him. “So that’s what he looks like!”
God, having a crush again is exhilarating.
...
"So Mom, I asked him last night about the scholarship matter ... turns out he's a ..."
"Some houseparent—spiritual mentor in a certain boarding school?"
"Why, yes! How did you know?"
"I guessed the moment you said he was a teacher earlier. Don't ask me how—mother's intuition."
"He's just so incredible. How can someone be that admirable? The thing he chose to do for a living! I will always respect someone for doing good things for others, moreover making it a daily routine. An identity."
That afternoon in a gazebo, I called my mom to update her that the scholarship matter was settled, and you and I would soon be roommates.
Then, completely unprepared, right as I was giggling into the phone about how wonderfully decent, modest, and interesting he was, he walked past me with a friend ... let’s just call him The Leaky Umbrella. Both of them on their way to the mushola.
I instantly became a human furnace.
Please let him not have heard anything.
Our eyes met, but we haven’t greeted each other properly on campus, so we just smiled awkwardly.
...
4 PM on campus, you called me.
"Hey, remember when you offered to help me yesterday and I said I didn’t need anything? Well … I changed my mind. Can I claim it now?"
Huh? Was that really how you wanted to phrase it?
I mean—was that necessary? If you need help, just ask. No disclaimers needed.
Why did you ask for help like it’s a negotiation, not a connection?
“Of course. What do you need?”
That moment taught me something. People like you wear pride like armor.
Vulnerability? Enemy number one.
Even saying the simplest magic words must feel like surrender.
...
Days after, we’re roommates. The living room fluorescents buzz as you sprawl beside me, scrolling the group chat. Suddenly you snort—a full, undignified sound.
"’Easy peasy lemon squeezy’" you read aloud, then dissolve into laughter so loud. "This guy! Who even says that in a group chat?!"
I start giggling too, but halfway through, I pause. This is new: your head thrown back, throat exposed, the way your laughter felt so unchained.
Your elbow knocks into mine as you catch your breath. "What?" you grin.
"Nothing," I say.
...
We’re on our way home, ride past this food spot near campus when you suddenly stopped, making me confused as hell.
“What is it?”
“THAT’S HIM. Did you see it? The one who wears black t-shirt. In the gazebo. Omg.”
“I didn’t. I only spotted The Leaky Umbrella.”
“That is definitely him. No. Doubt. Ah! I have an idea. We won’t cook lunch today. Let’s just eat there, pretending we haven’t seen them, and then—Oh, hey! What a coincidence—what do you think?”
I laughed, “Of course, let’s go.”
“But I didn’t bring my wallet, we’ll go home first to fetch it.”
You were so energetic, and I’m so happy but also nervous to think I’ll meet him after this.
“You must know one thing about me too. Since middle school, I always root for my friends so they can be close to their crush. It just makes me excited, this whole girly-things. That is why I act like your cheerleader right now, haha.”
“I know right! You are the best.”
...
I secretly prayed for his name to be chosen—and when it actually happened, I was so happy beyond words I wanted to do a celebration. I turned to you and casually said, "Okay, I'll bring you along too since Neon Sign said we can have two people from the Library team."
"Bet! Let's go," you replied instantly, already grinning like you knew exactly why my ears were burning.
...
This afternoon was the first time we actually spoke to each other—our very first literacy discussion meeting.
I. Was. Thrilled.
...
I'm so incredibly grateful to be paired with you—someone who has a motorcycle! We get to go on adventures all the time. Thank you! Like today, when we went to a bookstore.
Having a friend who shares the same hobbies is just so much fun, you know?
"He changed his mind," you announced, locking your phone with a click. "Wants to buy it himself."
“Ok.” I am busy tracing the spine of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein—until your gasp shattered the quiet. Your grip on my elbow was vice-tight.
"Third floor. Cashier line. Brown sweater. TELL ME THAT’S NOT—" The world narrowed to the figure one floor below: shoulders hunched over a purchase.
Him. My lungs forgot their function.
You were already strategizing like a rom-com sidekick. "Go, go, go! Downstairs! Wait, should we say hi? Or just pretend we didn’t see him? Okay, okay, let’s act casual—like we’re just walking, then ‘accidentally’ bump into him."
"Or," I grinned so wide my cheeks hurt, "we could not humiliate ourselves?"
You rolled your eyes.
I was so entertained by your chaotic energy in that moment, mixed with my own giddiness at seeing him outside campus. At my favorite place—this exact bookstore. I still remember, a year ago, when I had no idea I’d even be in Yogyakarta: my friend sent me a video from this place, saying, "I hope you can come here someday! The building is so cool and unique."
Then—eye contact.
He looked up after payment. My "Hi!" came out strangled; his "Oh—hey!" tinged with genuine surprise. You’d vanished behind a display.
Later, wedged between Self-Help and Poetry for our mirror selfie, you complained: "How are you so chill right now? Meeting your crush and you’re not even freaking out? You look so calm and cool. Meanwhile, I’m over here losing it for you."
I showed you my trembling hands. "Trust me— I’m so happy right now my whole body feels like it’s glitching."
Your Instagram story that night—"This Swiftie is feeling happy right now~"—got reposted before we even kicked the motorcycle stand up. The wind stole our laughter all the way home.
...
Your prayer scarf still tangled on our shared desk, my coffee stain on your Qur’an case.
That one night after jamaah prayer, you’d said, “I can see it clearly now; you totally fell in love with him, right?"
I am.
...
He said it so casually on his chair, "My elementary school best friend won't speak to me anymore. I don't even know why.
“Honestly? Broken friendships hurt worse than those broken hearts caused by love."
The room hummed in agreement. We laughed like people who thought we were immune.
Three weeks later, I’d choke on the irony.
The universe had been whispering a warning that day. I just didn’t speak its language yet.
...
One night while I was washing the dishes, I was startled by your loud gasp, the sound of a table being slammed, and your angry shouting that followed. What was going on? You were furious, your emotions completely out of control—maybe the monthly hormones had something to do with it.
When I checked the living room, I saw Lori cowering in a corner and you shielding your laptop from the water he’d spilled. Okay, even without you explaining, I could see what the problem was. But seriously? You yelled at my cat and slammed my table that hard? You ungrateful, impudent kid.
Can’t you be a bit more mature? Your emotional intelligence is seriously lacking. I honestly feel sorry for you.
...
He posted a status—a montage of himself set to certain song, all smirks and exaggerated poses. You lost it, wheezing into your pillow like he’d uploaded comedy gold. Then came your retaliation: the same song, captioned "Typical narcissist."
I showed it to you from my phone (you still hadn’t saved his number), laughing along but quietly dissecting: Why does this amuse her so much?
The way your eyes crinkled, the extra half-second you spent replaying his video—tiny tells I cataloged without meaning to.
Don’t forget: I’m the observer here. The one who notices how your laughter tastes different when it’s about him.
...
The call from Neon Sign came just as I was sinking into my bed. "We're at a cafe—you should come!" I almost said no. My pillow was calling my name, and the thought of socializing felt exhausting.
But then I remembered he would be there. So I went.
The four of us talked for hours, the kind of easy conversation that flows without thinking. I sat across from him, stealing glances between sips of iced coffee. You were beside me, your knee occasionally bumping mine under the table.
And it hit me then—how heavy this crush had become. The constant overthinking, the stolen looks, the way my heart raced at the sound of his voice. It was exhausting. But even so—I liked it. I liked him.
So I let myself sink into the weight of it, laughing at his jokes a little too loudly, catching his eye a little too often.
Because some burdens are worth carrying.
...
The night air was thick as we headed home from the cafe. You, usually so loud and sure, were quiet—shoulders slumped, fingers worrying the strap of your bag.
"I see the difference now," you said, voice fragile. "He treats you like some delicate princess. But me? Just random. Like I'm some sounding board for whatever thought pops into his head."
I blinked. Why does this matter?
Later, your teasing jab—"All our guy friends would be heartbroken if they knew you like him!"—made even less sense. For the second time (and certainly not the last), I couldn't grasp why you cared so much about perceptions I never even considered.
The truth sat heavy in my throat: You wanted his careful attention.
...
Every Friday after the weekly meeting, you transform into The Most Confusing Person Alive™—without fail.
It’s the second meeting, and fate has officially assigned you two as editors.
The bulletin. Together.
...
We aren’t just sharing a room. We’re sharing hungers—you for your sunshine boy, me for my complicated maybe-love, both of us for these moments where joy spills over like overturned syrup.
...
"Wanna come? I've got tutoring first, then meeting him to work on the bulletin. Probably at a cafe."
You were checking your reflection in my mirror, adjusting your hijab for the nth time while I sat curled with a book in my lap. When I looked up, I saw it immediately: that careful preparation, the barely-contained anticipation thrumming through your fingers. You were radiant.
"Nah, I'll just stay in tonight," I said through a laugh, turning a page, I wasn't reading.
"Okay then~" You were out the door by 4 PM, unusually put-together, that telltale spring in your step.
The kind reserved for someone special.
I knew. Knew this evening would become a checkpoint in some story—though whose, I couldn't say. The certainty sat heavy in my stomach as I declined, clinging to some foolish optimism that he was different.
(That he wouldn't eventually turn to look at you the way I feared).
By 11 PM, I'd fallen asleep. Outside, the motorcycle parking space remained conspicuously empty.
...
I woke up to find you sitting in the middle of the room, grinning. "Wanna hear everything I talked about with him last night? You have to listen, because there is so much about you and it'll make you so happy!"
"Of course I want to hear! Hehe." I immediately sat up, excited, not even having washed my face or done my usual morning routine yet.
"So, yeah, we met up at Chartise—it’s close to my tutoring place. He was supposed to come with his friend, he even said so in text, but when I got there and asked, ‘Where’s your friend?’ he just said, ‘Oh, he didn’t come.’ So then it was just the two of us editing and chatting. When the place was about to close, we moved to a cafe—the one the four of us went to before. We finished around midnight. He started the topic; ‘Hey, did you know that she is basically every guy’s crush in our class?’
‘Oh, obviously. And not just in our class.’
‘Even more?’
‘Hmm, yeah, but I can’t say more.’
‘I mean, her face is just … you know …’
‘Just say it—pretty.’
Awkward laugh. ’Yeah, yeah. Exactly. What good deeds does she even do to have such a glowing face? Does she pray Tahajjud every night?’
‘Uh … not sure. Maybe?’
‘And she’s really close with her mom, right?’
‘Yup! Not just her mom, though. Her whole family is super close. Really healthy relationships. And also, one afternoon, we were eating at warmindo near campus when we saw a cat get hit by a car. It is already twitching and bouncing on the road. I was shocked when she just got up without hesitation, ran into the street, stopped traffic, and picked up the cat— which, she told me later, had its eyeballs coming out—and moved it to the side of the road. It was like something out of a movie! No hesitation, just pure instinct. I was so impressed!’
‘Wow. Angel material, huh?’
‘Yeah! She was like an angel at that moment. Super cool.’”
You said to me now, "Honestly, I made sure our whole conversation was just hyping you up!"
It felt like a weight lifted off my shoulders listening to you. I was so happy I didn’t even know how to respond—happy you shared this, happy hearing his words, happy you were so supportive.
All my suspicion about the two of you just vanished, shattered by how brightly you smiled while telling me all this, clearly happy to see me happy.
Ah, I just wanted to hug you right then!
"Oh, and when I went to take the mouse from him, he was so careful not to let our hands touch.
I was also surprised when he asked, ‘How was your writing competition? What do you even write about?’
I answered ‘Just check my blog, the link’s in my Instagram bio’.
‘Already did’. His answer was so confident and firm! Kinda scary, honestly."
"Oh, really?"
I was blissfully spun I even treated you to an iced coffee later, haha.
...
I keep brushing off these suspicions—because you couldn't possibly be what I fear, right?
And him? That's just how he is. Naturally fun. Effortlessly kind. The type who remembers baristas' names and holds elevator doors for strangers.
Isn't it admirable? How evenly does he distribute that sunshine?
(Isn't it exhausting? How I keep pretending not to notice who gets to bask in it longest).
...
“So funny. He said in the group that he was in a tournament, right? He even posted about it too. Guess what kind of tournament it was?"
"Futsal?"
"That’s what I thought too. But nope—turns out it wasn’t that. This guy’s hilarious. He joined a gaming tournament at the mall. And he said, 'all the opponents are pros' hahaha.”
No need to ask how you knew. He messaged you privately, didn’t he?
...
You two are practically the same person—
The way your humor lands in identical deadpan beats. How you both tilt your heads left when dissecting an argument. Even your speech patterns sync—that habit of trailing off like twin radio signals fading out.
It should comfort me. Instead, I keep catching myself holding my breath when you mirror each other, waiting for the moment your reflections fully merge and I'm left staring at a closed loop.
...
He explained some business strategies, presenting them as exclusive knowledge he was sharing for free.
After he finished, I thought, Huh, isn’t this just common knowledge, though? I’m pretty sure I learned this back in middle school. Why was he making such a big deal about it?
"And you know what? It’s easy to talk openly in front of a bunch of strangers. That’s true. The lack of familiarity makes us feel safe. The less they know you, the safer you feel—no worrying about judgment."
Well … yeah, I already know that too. I realized the same thing back when I was at SMKN 2 in my hometown, and that was like four years ago.
Is he really this basic?
…
"Wait, the university asked you to teach too?"
"Oh, nope. I run my own tutoring class."
"WOW. Your own tutoring class! That's amazing. What do you teach, if I may ask?"
"Thanks! English, of course—not math. Otherwise the kids would end up teaching me instead, haha. Oh, and I also joined TPA in mushola near here."
"Respect! Barakallahu feeki." He sent a sticker.
"Hehe."
I was so happy I could do a backflip then!
I was so happy but also still confused that when it comes about any updates of him, I would never share anything with you again.
...
"I need to tell you something. It's ... weird. Been weighing on me for a while."
My grip tightened on my phone. Oh. I know where this is going.
I already taste blood. My molars have ground my tongue to pulp before we reach the bakso stall.
You stabbed your phone screen with a chopstick: "See? Doesn't this text seem off to you?" The chatroom glowed between us.
The hilarity was almost poetic. He probably thought your ridiculousness was amusing and cute.
“You realize that right now I treat you because I feel something off and feel guilty for you?”
My laughter comes out scalding. "Yeah, super weird!" The words carve tunnels through my diaphragm. Across the table, you beam, mistaking my agony for agreement.
I was so cool for pretending that everything was okay.
Midnight.
The printer screeches like a dying animal.
I feed paper into the machine with mechanical precision, each sheet a fresh chance to pretend:
1. That I don't recognize the exact lilt of his voice when he's interested.
2. That your texts aren't already ten times longer than ours ever were.
3. That I won’t dissolve mid-sentence, still smiling, still saying it’s nothing just to keep the peace between us.
The staples go in crooked.
...
"I'm also really happy and grateful to meet a friend who can be discussed seriously and critically like you on campus. But I really don't have anything in mind. I want to focus on my studies first."
Hypocrisy—or naivety at its finest.
...
Who’s handing him the bulletins? Me? Seriously? Oh, okay.
Midterms loom, our classrooms are adjacent. There he stands in the corridor—white shirt, all careless posture and borrowed sunlight—while I clutch the stack like it’s evidence of a crime.
I handed him the papers with all the grace of a disgruntled mailman. "Here."
It's a bit dry, isn't it? I'm sorry, I don't know why. Seeing you guys just makes everything worse.
It’s petty. It’s pathetic.
It's my escape, maybe because I'm not good at expressing myself and being honest with everyone.
(It’s the only way I know how to say I see you choosing her without crumbling).
...
This week’s meeting was emptier without you—just me, him, and Neon Sign holding the fort. The air felt lighter, looser, like a held breath finally exhaled.
"She’s at a wedding, right? How old are the couple?" he asked, flipping through the bulletin draft.
"Hmm … the groom’s 20, bride’s 19."
"Wow. Young." His eyebrows shot up, but not in judgment—in something closer to awe.
I frowned, "You must be used to this, though?"
"Yeah, but it’s not about the age," he clarified, suddenly animated. "It’s their readiness that’s impressive. I’d love to marry young too, honestly. Just … don’t think I’m ready yet."
(Months later, I’d remember this moment and laugh until my stomach hurts. Boys will be boys.)
"Hey, are you the one who’ll take notes today? Since she usually does it," he interjected, was so ready to text you, so happy to has an excuse to start a chat with you. “Or should I text her right now?”
"Huh, no need to bother her," I said quickly, waving his hands. "I’ll do it. Let her enjoy the wedding."
“Haha, relax, I was kidding."
But I saw it—the way his face lit up at the mere mention of you, like a kid spotting firework. They say men revert to little boys when they’re in love. In that moment, he was proof: grinning at his phone, tripping over excuses to disturb you, radiating a giddiness that had no business being so obvious.
And I? I took the notes silently, etching every detail into paper like a stenographer at my own heart’s trial.
...
I finished a tea time with Radio Gal at the gazebo, and concluded that he is secretly arrogant, unwilling to lose at every argument, has zero empathy, and is narcissistic.
Wow, his red flag side has begun to be revealed a little bit, here.
I lowkey glad.
...
We were tidying up our kost together—you took the bedroom, I took the living room.
When I reached out my hand to take the broom from you, you slammed it to the floor.
Slammed. It. To. The. Floor!
So hard—its sound drowned out the pounding of my startled heart.
Not by accident—but deliberately. And I was the one who had to pick it up—the broom.
What the hell?
Honestly, it was impressive. You managed to be that rude without even blinking.
What’s the reason? Are you tired of my wavering? I think hard before I decide, weighing even what’s best for you—for heaven’s sake.
As always, I said nothing—for the sake of keeping the peace. With you, who didn’t even notice
you had just planted another wound in me.
You have no right to demand truth and sincerity from me, when you’ve proven unworthy of either.
...
The mushola tiles were still cool under my bare feet when you both arrived—you shaking water from your wudu, him slipping in with that familiar rustle of his white-orange-colored shoes.
"You’re the only male here," you teased him. He pointed at my shoes. "What's that then?"
"Pfft—those are obviously her’s." You chin-pointed at me.
I handed you my prayer veil. He moved to lead the jamaah prayer while I stepped into the sunlight, but not before catching the scene: you smoothing your hijab with nervous fingers, him adjusting his stance like he owned the space.
A snapshot of some future I wasn't meant to see yet.
On the walk back, we met The Leaky Umbrella. "Hey, buddy, go keep him company," you said, jerking your chin toward the mushola. "Dude's alone in there."
The Leaky Umbrella’s eyebrows danced. "You go. Pretty sure he'd prefer that."
The glance you exchanged was a vault clicking shut. Your forced laugh? The sound of me being locked out.
I'd been the one to greet The Leaky Umbrella first—a quiet "Hey" lost in the corridor chatter. No response. Maybe my voice was too soft.
Or maybe some stories only get told when I'm not around to hear them.
...
I came home early, only to find you sitting cross-legged in front of our front door.
"I’m home. What are you doing?"
You startled—I’d come in through the backyard—and your body language shifted instantly, like a kid caught sneaking cookies. "Oh! Just ... waiting for him!"
"Oooo." The sound left my mouth before I could process what I felt.
"Wait, you didn’t have BEM today? I thought you’d be back late." You laughed, but it was too high- pitched.
"Meeting got postponed."
I wanted to ask—Why are you waiting for him? What’s going on?—but my pride clamped my teeth shut. So I said nothing, swallowed the questions piling up in my throat, and went to pray Dhuhr.
From our bedroom window—wide enough to frame heartbreaks—I watched you take a plastic bag from him. When you came back, you tossed it onto your bed, onto my side, without a word and disappeared into the bathroom.
Two bags of cassava chips. One yellow, one pink. We didn’t speak about them. Not that day.
...
The classroom clock ticks louder than the lecturer’s voice. Your profile—half-lit by afternoon sun—keeps pulling my gaze like a scab I can’t stop picking. We were just debating, you in your ignorance in saying anything you want without thinking about other’s feeling, armed with careless words, and me with the bruises they left behind, learning how heavy silence can be.
I raise my hand. "May I go to the restroom?"
The hallway tiles are cold under my palms as I brace against the sink.
What is this feeling?
Not jealousy.
But confusion. And it’s sickening.
Because you sit there every day—chattering about assignments, ignoring my silence, issuing demands like a king amused by his own decree, frowning at my thinking—like nothing’s changed. Like you haven’t become the curator of secrets I’m not allowed to decipher.
Lord. The disrespect. The silent laugh.
Worst part? You’re good at it. The way you smile, tight-lipped and practiced—a performance so polished.
I splash water on my face.
It drips like accusations.
...
If bluntness and logic is all you have, then I hope you never crave kindness.
...
“He’s annoying! What even was that he said last night? We were debating and then he threw in some absurd comment that pissed me off—so I blocked his number!”
I nearly choked on my laugh.
God help me, the two of you are unbelievable. So immature, so ridiculous, so made for each other. I started questioning if I’d accidentally befriended a pair of middle schoolers—babysitting two theatrical ten-year-olds.
Blocking a number? So childish, I got hit with secondhand embarrassment, cringed on your behalf.
...
We were four that night—at the food spot near campus. He’d come all the way from the other side of district.
"Why’d you even bother coming?" The question burned my tongue in the conversation in my head. "It’s late. And far."
"Good discussion. Worth it."
Is it, though?
You poor, pathetic liar.
His eyes kept darting to where you were playing guitar, your laughter bouncing off the wood chair.
Later, when the hangout is done and we’re all home, he updates on Instagram; "Goodnight, earthling" with Elijah Wood’s song.
Oh.
Oh.
Somewhere across the city, late at midnight, alone on his motorcycle, a boy was staring at the night sky with a wide smile on his face, falling in love so loudly even the algorithms could hear it.
...
"Don't you want these? I thought you liked snacks," You nudged the packet of cassava chips toward me without looking up from your laptop.
"No thanks. My throat is sore."
Lie.
I wouldn't touch them even if you paid me.
"Okay, I'll leave them here for you then. There's two packs anyway." Your fingers drummed the desk. "When he gave them to me, he literally said to share these with you.'"
My head snapped up. "He said that?"
"Yeah, haha."
The room tilted.
Then why on earth didn't you mention it that afternoon? Why let them sit on your bed like some shameful secret?
The chips stared at me from your desk—one yellow, one pink—like mismatched eyes judging how long I'd keep swallowing my own voice.
...
I stared at the groupchat, fingers hovering over my keyboard.
"What does Neon Sign mean by 'yesterday at Basa-Basi'?" I asked you, feigning casual confusion.
"Oh, it's a cafe name." You replied without looking up from your phone.
"Oh, a cafe."
The silence stretched. You didn't elaborate. I didn't press further.
Somewhere between your clipped answer and my stubborn pride, another piece of the puzzle slipped away—another inside joke, another shared moment I wasn't part of.
I locked my phone screen.
Some questions are better left unanswered.
...
"I’ll have Iced Tea. What about you?"
"Hmm ... one Thai Tea, please, Ma’am.”
The seller nodded and got to work.
Twenty seconds later, I changed my mind.
"Wait—actually, Lemon Squash instead. Sorry, Ma’am."
I grinned at you.
You raised a brow, "The importance of thinking before speaking :)"
Well—
Have you really never changed your mind that fast before? Guess you’re just perfect all the time, huh?
...
The five of us gathered ostensibly to create social media content, but really just another excuse to stretch the day a little longer.
We camped at a cafe first. And in the bookstore, he became our impromptu photographer.
I watched when it was your turn—how you two were having fun together.
Later, by the fiction aisle;
"Oh, Laut Bercerita! This one’s so good."
"You own it?"
"Yeah, already finished it."
"Can I borrow?"
"Sure, but it's at home. Let me ask my brother."
I kept my eyes glued to the books in front of me, suddenly fascinated by a "50 Desserts You Must Try Before You Die" cookbook.
Ah, and also, it turned out you both share the same MBTI. No surprise.
At the noodle restaurant afterward—his treat—we discovered another coincidence: he can't handle spice either. That’s … pathetically adorable.
...
Looking at our group photo selfie, I laughed to myself, “Look. We're all wearing masks. And these two right here is also wearing horns on their head.”
...
You flopped onto your bed with a dramatic groan. "Ugh, I'm so annoyed! My brother donated some of my novels without asking. Including Laut Bercerita. Why does he never discuss everything with me first?"
The frustration on your face was real—brows furrowed, lips pursed.
This wasn't about your brother's carelessness.
I bit my tongue.
Some losses are quieter than others.
...
The sizzle of onions filled our tiny kitchen as you stirred the pan. “Can you grab a spatula from the under-seat storage on my motorcycle? The keys are on the table.”
"Sure thing, bestie," I chimed, already reaching for the keys.
When I returned with the wood spatula, I paused. "Wait, when did you buy this? Didn't you strongly refuse when I suggested us buying cooking tools last month?"
You froze mid-stir. Two seconds stretched between us like taffy before you answered, shoulders tensing in that same awkward hitch I'd seen by the doorway weeks prior: "Oh! This is from him. Forgot to mention ... he gave it to me when the five of us gathered at the cafe yesterday."
My laugh came out tinny. "Oh really?"
"Yeah! When you were at the cashier, I think? Days before, he actually went home to get it—said my fried rice was too salty last time because we didn't have proper tools." You brandished the spatula like Exhibit A, cheeks pink from the stove's heat. "So, now we're spatula owners!"
“Yeay.”
...
I'm fed up. Not at you, but at him.
But then I realized, you guys are no different. Both a grinning devils.
...
He makes it very much easy to lose respect for him.
His habit of posting sarcastic remarks and spreading negativity on social media is anything but amusing—in fact, it's downright repulsive. Yikes.
...
I feel like an idiot. I've been one since yesterday.
When it comes to you two, I always end up playing the fool.
Why did it take me this long to see it?
...
Mom said it over the phone tonight; "He likes her."
I already knew.
It’s me who’s here, after all.
What neither of us understands is why you keep pretending not to see what we all know—why you disregard my feelings, acting like your behavior is completely normal instead of painfully obvious?
Oh blast. I'll keep silent about this.
Been silent about it for long, long days, and many more to come.
੩
January, February, April ‘24
At this point, I'd be a fool to continue denying the obvious.
...
One afternoon, when you’re not in town, I had lunch at that food spot near campus and ran into two of his classmates, who also happen to be our friends.
Truthfully, I wasn't comfortable sitting with male classmates. But for the sake of politeness, I endured, at least until I finished my meal so I could leave immediately.
They steered the conversation toward you two.
"Yeah, from what I've seen, he definitely likes her. Deeper than that; he totally admires her. I mean, I'm her roommate. If anyone would know about this gossip first, it will be me." I answered their questions.
They rambled on with stories I'd never heard before. His perspective of things.
After leaving the food spot, I walked home alone.
… when are you coming back? I have so many questions for you. Too many piled up over these past three months, all swallowed with all my might.
I arrived home, locked the door, sat down, and hugged Lori while he slept.
Soon, I fell asleep beside him.
...
You're finally back! Hooray. Just in time for our final exams. Our room feels alive again with your presence. We settle back into our daily routines.
After the exams, the holiday came and I immediately returned to Karawang.
...
I replayed it all like a bad film: you two as the main lead, me as the audience member who arrived halfway through and never quite caught the plot.
...
February 22nd. I wrote an open letter.
And trilogy poems.
...
The day after Eid al-Fitr, you messaged me:
"That person you said liked me from our class ... is it him?"
Wow. Are we finally having this conversation? Okay, I'm ready.
"Yup."
What followed was an outpouring; your shock at this revelation, your discomfort about your debate partner catching feelings, and endless confirmations from me.
Everything was addressed ... except for one thing. We never circled to that territory. Fine, I wouldn't tread there either.
"So you knew already? That he liked me? Should've guessed, you're always observing. Didn't have to 'analyze' us though!" You laughed nervously. "But I guess that's just your INFP nature, being this perceptive."
Seriously? Is that what you have in mind?
Basically, you rambled. I matched your energy with balanced responses, carefully calming you down, suggesting you go easy on him.
Your stories surprised me even. “He did that? Said those things?”
"Yes! And it’s just that … I'm just ... disappointed. Feels like betrayal. I thought he was different, that he wouldn't get feelings this easily."
A betrayal, you said?
"Yeah, we both overestimated him."
Is that really true? I whispered to myself. Isn’t this just human’s heart vulnerability, as you said before? Is liking someone truly such a downgrade? I pushed the thought away.
Our talk concluded with your decision to give him the "just friends" signal.
Poor him. That’s definitely going to hurt so bad.
...
The conversation continued the next afternoon. “Eventually, I'm certain everyone already knew. You were the only one oblivious.
“That's what makes this so painfully ironic: the person who talks with him most is you, yet you're the last to realize. (Or the last to admit to realize?)
“You should've been more cautious, especially after your experience with your previous guy friend. You must know by now—boys don’t see you as ordinary. You’re stunning, and incredibly smart.
“And someone as decent as him? However cool he seems, he's still human. Moreover, a man. Did you truly believe his admiration would remain purely platonic? That your dynamic wouldn't eventually lead exactly where you feared? Not to mention, he’s probably unfamiliar with girls, given his all-boys school background and lack of female siblings.
“You should've set boundaries sooner. Control your responses.
“In other words, it would've been kinder to be cruel early on. To ignore that sense of obligation to keep debating with him. Because look at you now, paralyzed with pity and disappointment when you can't reciprocate.”
Your reply arrived, peeling away layers of fruit long ripened, cracking the egg we'd so carefully kept from touching all this time.
"I feel guilty towards you too. You liked him. From the very beginning. And no doubt he too interested in you first." Your voice cracks slightly. "I don't know if you noticed, but every time we talked about him, I always felt ... wrong."
Oh.
Wow.
The eggshells we've been tiptoeing around finally shatter. I didn't expect us to go here. I'd long since stopped expecting you to steer conversations that way.
Dearest friend of mine, I've become that detached. These two days of talking, none of that initial disgust or resentment remains.
Just quiet amusement and mountains of empathy for you both.
What even are you two? Clearly into each other.
Why keep lying to yourselves?
Coward.
I was surprised you remembered, though. Of course you did. Who instantly forgets a fact delivered straight to their face? So all this time, you remember.
"That's a different story." I wave it off. "Ancient history. Honestly, I lost respect for him ages ago. Let's just focus on your situation, yeah?"
My trilogy poems remain unreleased, cause
April 18th hasn't arrived yet.
...
Back to our regular college routine. Tonight, we're lounging in a beef restaurant. Over the bowls and iced coffee, the conversation takes an awkward turn: my trilogy poems video.
"Wait, you watched it?" I laughed nervously.
"How could I not?" At first, I was just curious what you'd made. Didn't expect ... that."
I opened and closed my mouth several times. When I finally met your gaze, all left is just awkwardness. Any anger? Honestly, I'd digested and written out those emotions months ago.
You're visibly unraveling—face flushed, fingers fidgeting. "What even is my role here? The villain in your story? Why didn't you just talk to me? I genuinely feel terrible about this! Not to mention, he has no idea about any of this. And I know if he realized you liked him, he wouldn't react badly."
I burst out laughing. "I don't even care about that anymore. Whether he knows or not is irrelevant."
We spoke about everything that night. Hidden stories. Buried feelings. Unexpected revelations.
The good news? We still talk amicably after that, and even until now. That phrase rings true; we'll end up cordially greeting each other anyways.
Though to this day, I don't recall ever hearing "sorry" from you.
੩
May, June, July ‘24
After all the hurt, this truth remains: I fucking care about you. Those endless late-night talks were real. The light jokes, the borrowed clothes, the unspoken understandings—all real.
Despite everything, I am fond of you.
You were my first friend here, my roommate through it all. Every shared moment between us? Sincere. Always been. Our friendship was woven with gratitude and authenticity. I'd like to believe—I need to believe— you've felt the same way all along.
...
So, the moral of the story, don't fall in love.
That shit just make you a fool. Stupid, very stupid.
...
This afternoon's meeting only sharpened the contrast between him and me, and how radiant you are in his eyes.
I surrender. I'm exhausted by all this....
I'm genuinely happy to hear your good news! Having witnessed your daily struggles, I can proudly say: you're incredible, and absolutely deserve this.
Congratulations!
...
Today he gave you a shoutout during his class presentation—in front of all our friends, right beside the lecturer.
The same lecturer who adores you the same, just as he does.I shift in my seat, unsure why.
...
You showed me his message, ‘Sorry, I can’t attend. But honestly, just seeing you get what you truly deserve, and watching all your hard work finally pay off—that alone already makes me really happy.”
And you show me this now because?
...
He really loves you, doesn't he?
੩
September, October, November ‘24
I'm still writing poems about him. What exactly am I writing?
...
This is bad.
I was busy with my snack boxes when he sat beside me this morning, in front of the classroom. Why did I instantly text my mom, “WE’RE TALKING RIGHT NOOWW” followed by wide-eyed smile emojis?
Welcome to the tale of a girl who—once again—fails at moving on, only to realize she still hopelessly likes the same boy she’d sworn wasn’t worthy of her admiration.
...
"Could we ride home together? You're leaving later anyway, right? Just follow behind me—it's dark out and kinda scary alone." You turn to me and nod, “It’s okay if you want to leave right now. All settled!”
...
“What’s she majoring in there?”
“Literature.”
“Oh. That sounds exhausting. Honestly, it just feels like self-inflicted struggle. I don’t see the point—it all seems so abstract.”
I was still annoyed because of you—you really are careless in treating other's feelings, not even willing to change to be good—but hearing my friend say that didn’t make me feel any better. If anything, it annoyed me even more. Still, I stayed quiet—no point in stirring up something bigger.
But then she said something else.
Something that made me furious.
Something that crossed a line.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. The implication in her words! So careless, so condescending—it lit a fire in me.
“Please,” I told her, shook my head. “Be more thoughtful with your words next time. You don’t get to judge her like that. She’s smart. She’s capable. And I truly wish her all the success. I genuinely support her, and I mean that with all my heart. So really—what gives you the right to say something like that?”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
...
I was confronted with the worst possibility—that you could be the most manipulative person imaginable. And the terrifying part? My mind knew you were capable of it.
The thought struck without warning. A spontaneous, icy realization that left me stunned. In that moment, all the confusion and hurt you’ve caused over the past year crystallized into something darker: fear. This venom in my veins, this quiet fury that startles even me.
I never knew I could hate like this.
What even am I to you? A rival, or something? Do you see me as a threat—ever since the dormitory? The realization hits you hard—it tore down your confidence, strips away your dignity. ‘Quite embarrassing,’ you said. All that celebrity-me nonsense was! It’s ridiculous.
An attention-seeker of the lecturers? Those negative thoughts born from envy and shame? How dare you? Was it easier to call it justification than to admit it unsettles you?
All of it turns my stomach while crushing me with disappointment and rage. Did I even bat my lashes, flip my hair, or what? No, right?
To think that all I did was walk the halls in quiet dedication, fame the furthest thing from my mind ...
Then, like a child who hasn’t yet developed a sense of ownership, you snatched like a jester who knows the joke will draw blood. That precious thing I held so close—reduced to a toy in your hands. Something to mess with, to laugh at. Because deep down, you couldn’t stand seeing me happy … could you?
Don’t try to deny it with that pathetic look of disbelief, acting all shocked and innocent.
And I’m not even talking about him only. Dear God, he’s the least of my concerns, if that even counts anymore. This isn’t just about him.
You and I see the color of people differently. I can't even begin to grasp how you think, and what you value.
You name your crown 'pride'; I name it cowardice—your stubborn rejection of growth, of compassion. And you are pitiful—and I don’t even say that to be cruel.
I scare myself. So I’m choosing distance. After months of bending, of twisting myself into knots to justify your half-truths, I’m finally still. And in this stillness, I choose myself—fully, unapologetically, without compromise.
...
"Well, what do you even want after this? After you’ve learned the truth? Dating is forbidden, right? You know that too. My advice? For now, just ignore them."
Huh? Is that what he has in mind?
"Thanks for the advice, I really appreciate it. Though if I may defend myself—do I really seem like that person who will do … what was it? Dating? Gosh, so you actually think that of me. I mean—wow. If that was my goal, I wouldn’t have chosen him as the person I like in the first place, would I?
“That’s the whole point. If a relationship was all I seek, I could’ve just picked someone else to admire. Do you get what I mean?”
…
Stop clinging to maybes.
Learn to embrace the obvious truth— fully, sincerely, without flinching.
...
There is this guyKind, and honest
Someone who, at their core,
reflects who I am
We clicked—effortlessly
And it’s clear:
this is unfolding
into something deeper
Yet tonight, after talking
to that person,
I press my forehead
against the wall, eyes shut,
chest tight—realizing with a start:
I miss myself before this
This new infatuation?
It’s foreign. Deadly
Like sucking on a lollipop
and finding a razor blade inside
This fresh start?
Feels like stomping in
mud puddles as a child,
but the rain is gone,
and my socks are wet for no reason
I miss when it felt good
When I adored myself
When nothing was unfamiliar—
that instant certainty
the first time we locked eyes
When it was simple, and right
੩
Thinkers hide, feelers endure
Between thinkers and feelers, who suffers the most? Or, who loves themselves more?
There are silent wars within these two souls. The thinker builds their image with precision, a sculpture of logic and charm, while beneath the surface, fractures run deep. They do not weep, do not waver, yet in silence, I hear the war they refuse to name.
The feelers, do not have such luxury. They do not sculpt, do not mask. Wounds are stitched in daylight, doubts spoken aloud. They are told self-love is a trial for people like them, that it will be a struggle to embrace themselves. And yet, when they meet their own gaze in the mirror, they do not flinch. The world may call them fragile, but they endure. The thinker, so relentless in logic, stands in their reflection like a stranger.
The mirror does not lie—but it does not tell the same truth to both of them.
To feelers, it is a reflection, raw and unfiltered, a testament to every ache, every triumph. To thinkers, it is a test, an audience, a performance in which they must always be composed.
Perhaps that is the irony. The one expected to struggle carries themself lightly, while the one admired for their strength bear a weight they cannot name.
੩
No room for three in this kind of story
This is the difference between me and you two;
I always approach everything with kindness.
You want the grace of innocence, but not the weight of consequence.
I sometimes assume your sharpness is just sadness in disguise.
I saw the knife in your hands but still offered you a seat at my table.
I treat cruelty like it just needs a little warmth to soften.
You flare up when touched by criticism, when met something inconvenience.
You twist the truth until others forget it ever belonged to them—spin guilt into silk and drape it over others’ shoulders.
You wear charm, smile, like a mask—your most elegant, most brutal lie.You, the grinning devils, gaze stops at the surface; never dared to look deeper.
It’s awful—how I still pause to wonder if telling the truth might wound you?
Even now, I weigh my words twice, afraid they’ll cut too deep.
I gave you the softest parts of me—you called it weakness.
I gave you the softest parts of me—you called it weakness.
੩
“You are in love”
We’re all villains in our own stories.
We’re all just falling in love,
what’s so wrong about that?
੩
We can always start again from the beginning
If there are several things that I've learned in the past four years; one of them is that we can always start again from the beginning. And there will always be first time moments in our life.
We can start to color the coloring book again, and that can be our first time. We can always wear purple again in our 30s, and that too can be our first time. We can sip tea, laugh with friends, greet each other cordially, feed animals, go buy cakes, cook and everything, and that also can be our first time.
Because beginnings aren’t about age, timelines, or some grand reset. They’re just us, deciding today feels fresh enough to call it ‘the first time’ anyway.
So, paint over the old numbers, stamp the page with a new date, and let us whisper:
‘Oh? You again?
Hell yeah, let’s go.’
A Tale of Three Heartbeats by nurrida shafa
(original title: Diary of long, long days)
finished on December 2024
All rights reserved.
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