“I miss you terribly sometimes, but in general I go on living with all the energy I can muster. Just as you take care of the birds and the fields every morning, every morning I wind my own spring.” — Haruki Murakami
It’s probably selfish, the way I keep coming back to the drawer of the past—where memories are archived, tidy and well-preserved. I often say to others, “what’s in the past stays in the past.” Pretty words. Lip service. Easier said than lived.
I still don’t understand why I haven’t been able to defy the gravity of yesterday. Maybe it’s because I once mistook that sweet, dizzying ecstasy for something lasting—something that felt like true happiness.
I met him last week—for a good reason.
To say goodbye.
To see him one last time.
To let him go.
To let myself move on.
He still wore the same fragrance. Spoke in the same tone. Carried the same gentle mannerisms that once left me enchanted. And just like always, the universe conspired to keep my words lodged in my throat. My eyes, though, betrayed me—radiant with a mix of joy and longing.
He’s always had that effect on me.
The kind of person who lifts me up, draws out my better self.
The one who saw me when I felt invisible.
“One year ago, right around this time, we met for the first time,” he said.
I chuckled. “And you were so dead nervous on our first date because your colleague was sitting just a table behind us.”
He smiled, a little shy. “I haven’t been with anyone after you, if you were wondering. I’ve just been working. A lot. And spending time with my parents.”
I told him I was seeing someone new. And somehow, that truth pulled us into a spiral of old memories—both the sweet and the wrecked. I was stunned when he asked to keep my necklace. My favorite one.
He remembered everything.
Plaza Senayan—the park where we broke up and made up.
The Ju-On movie. That empty, top-rated Bengawan Solo restaurant.
Trashy San Andreas and Terminator.
The skybar. Mama Rosy. The senator we used to mock.
The books he recommended on YouTube.
And countless little things that made my tears fall—quiet and sudden.
“I love Jakarta and Indonesia,” he said. “This city has a beautiful intersection of East and West. And this whole city reminds me of you.”
“I miss you too,” he said. “I miss you whenever I go to the cinema. When I walk past Senayan. I miss your voice, your face, everything.”
I wanted to ask him, Do you still remember the day you said, ‘One day I want to marry someone like you’?
But I never got the chance to tell him that I was thinking the same thing.
He was someone I saw as kind, humble, and deeply caring.
Someone who inspired me—and the people I love.
Someone who showed me that humility and tolerance are the highest forms of intelligence.
Someone I genuinely wanted to love and give to, not because I had to, but because his happiness mattered to me more than mine.
I think there’s a core of every relationship we all long for—genuine sacrifice, mutual respect, and a shared desire to make the other person feel safe and happy. I thought we had that.
But sometimes, love isn’t enough.
There are things stronger than feeling—distance, culture, religion. Maybe not now, but eventually, even age and mindset.
He had distanced himself once before, believing that no matter how much we tried, reality would catch up with us. And the best way to heal was not to fight it—but to surrender.
“We’re like the wound and the bandage,” he said. “The longer the bandage stays on the skin, the more painful it becomes. It’s better to remove it, let the wound breathe—even if it hurts at first. So it is with us. The more we hold on, the more we hurt.”
I’ve never really understood how the universe works. How one person can enter your life, lift you up, show you glimpses of the ninth cloud—and then vanish. Maybe it’s to remind us what deep love tastes like. Or maybe it’s to teach us to let go of something precious, gracefully.
Maybe nothing is perfect.
Maybe even the most beautiful fairy tales are meant to stay unfinished—to leave us with just enough longing to grow from the ache.
I still don’t know why this chapter had to happen the way it did.
But maybe one day, when I understand why, I’ll be able to smile at it fully.
And maybe—just maybe—everything will be okay.
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