RETROUVAILLES

Seperti hujan, aku ingin mengutukmu dengan seluruh. Dengan mendung yang menyelimuti tiap sudut hatimu yang gelisah. Serupa rapalan jampi para ahli tenung yang melayang dekat, tak terlihat, basah, dan seringkali membuatmu gelisah.

Seperti langit, aku ingin membencimu dengan kesombongan. Dengan jarak yang demikian ganjil, disela awan-awa putih yang membuatmu takut akan ketinggian. Serupa bisik-bisik angin pada sela pohon cemara yang menciptakan bunyi parau.

Seperti malam, aku ingin memelihara duka dan amarah. Tentang hal yang tak bisa kutuliskan tanpa air mata. Serupa temaram suasana kota jelang pagi, dikelilingi gelap malam dan kerlip lampu lima watt yang menciptakan pilu bayang-bayang.

Seperti pasar, ketika subuh tiba, kantuk yang tertahan, lelah yang dibiarkan, aku ingin segalanya selesai. Merajut duka dengan ingatan dan luka, sekotor comberan, jaring laba-laba, cicit tikus di antara busuk sayur dan buah. Segala hal yang kamu benci hari ini dan kemarin.

Back in 2003, I was a scrawny kid in Bondowoso, fifteen, and I thought love was her—W, the girl who ruled the high school academic war. Ska was everywhere, Tipe-X’s Genit blaring from my battered cassette player. She wore a long skirt, always had the same bob haircut, and smiled like a rainy dawn—cold and calm. She never liked ska. Her brilliant mind shut down the most arrogant kids in our class.

Love was her getting embarrassed over a perfect math score, walking alone on the pavement after class. I’d spot her while she waited for her dad. Her tough face was a little intimidating, and I swore—if I could just borrow my brother’s motorbike, catch up to her, and drive her home, I’d be the happiest kid in town. I never did. Love sped off, ska faded, and W moved to Leeds with her family.

In 2005, I landed in Jember for college, and love was different—her name was T, all edges and gloom. Linkin Park’s Numb thumped through my expensive USB headset. She was there, reading Development as Freedom by Amartya Sen on the campus stairs. Love had purple-framed glasses, wore an oversized My Chemical Romance tee, and scribbled “life sucks” on my sociology notes. She hated the heat, cursed the rich, but leaned into me on the rooftop, muttering about her dad’s gambling addiction.

When I tried to kiss her, she flinched—then laughed, dry and bitter. Love was her dragging me to a dingy café, screaming Crawling lyrics over burnt coffee. But T dropped out midterm, left a crumpled note—“Aku ikut Mama, sorry”—and love vanished into the rain.

By 2010, I was in Jogja, twenty-three, chasing a degree and something bigger. Love was D, a girl from the Communication major—soft-spoken, sharp. American Football’s The Summer Ends played on my cracked laptop, and she’d hum along, barefoot, sipping artisan tea from a Snoopy mug. She wore a faded kebaya, smelled like jasmine and freshly picked mint. She’d sketch Malioboro in her notebook, call me Mas with a smirk, and wait with me at the Togamas bookstore, never minding the late rides.

Love was her reading my palm under a streetlamp, saying, “You’re going far.” But she stayed—married a local artist—and love slipped away like a missed train, quiet, leaving me with her last sketch.

Now it’s 2020. I’m thirty-two, in Jakarta, and love’s someone new—M, a woman I met at work. The city’s a grind, all traffic and haze, but she’s here, playlist stuck on some lo-fi cover of Hallelujah by Jeff Buckley. Love wears blazers over band tees, smells like espresso, cigarettes, and Dior. Her sneakers look so damn comfy.

She’s got a scar from an ex, a laugh that cuts like a horror movie, and a habit of stealing my fries at what used to be McD (fuck them now). Love’s her texting capek banget with a crying emoji—then showing up anyway, sprawled on my couch. When I lean in, she kisses back—messy, real.

Love has flaws—snaps about my clutter, having different gods to worship—but stays, tracing my hair, saying, “Kamu pinter, tau?” But then leave me after years of begging me to get help. It was too late, I was deep in therapy, but then got better. M was nowhere to find and I don't blame her.

Love shifts with every city, every girl. In Bondowoso, love danced to ska and never looked back. In Jember, love smoked and screamed, then broke. In Jogja, love was gentle, a slow fade. In Jakarta, love is loud, chaotic.

Each one’s a piece, but none fit the universal dream I had as a kabupaten kid, staring at Bondowoso’s stars, imagining love as a straight road to somewhere huge. Maybe it’s not. Maybe love is just these people, these moments, scattered across Java like Logawa routes.

Somehow, we became a story neither of us wanted to write. A tale told in whispers of lilac and mimosa, of perfumed days now ghosted by time. You and I—two petals on the same stem—once inseparable, now carried by winds that promised destinations neither of us could map.

The room was alive with laughter and light, but here we stood in its shadows, a quiet corner of a crowded party. You looked at me, the same way you used to in those forgotten summers.

"I didn’t think you’d come tonight," you said softly, the warmth in your voice clashing with the distance in your eyes.

"I almost didn’t," I replied, my lips curving into a faint, bitter smile. "But then, I thought of how you always loved the sound of laughter at parties."

"And you always loved the quiet corners," you said, your voice tinged with a familiarity that made my chest tighten.

"Some things don’t change."

"No," you murmured, "but most things do."

I wanted to laugh, to cry, to ask if you remembered how we swore we’d never fade. Yet, here we were—shadows of a love that once bloomed with reckless color. Words fell between us like dying leaves, brittle and hollow, carrying no weight.

"You still tilt your head when you’re lost in thought," you said, smiling gently. "And you still smile the same way... like we’re back in that café on the Blok M."

"You remembered that?"

"I remember everything," you whispered. "The smell of lilacs in your hair. The way your fingers danced on the rim of your glass. The way you said my name, like a secret only we shared."

I looked away, the lump in my throat growing unbearable. "It felt like a dream then. It feels like a dream now. But dreams fade."

"Do they?" you asked, your voice quieter now. "Or do we bury them under the weight of time and call it moving on?"

I closed my eyes, the ache spreading through my chest. "You always had a way with words. But words can’t rebuild what’s been lost."

We stood there, the air between us heavy with things left unsaid. The scent of lilac and mimosa lingered faintly, pulling me back to a garden where we once laughed, once planned a life together. It was cruel, the way memory could trap you in its perfume, in the ghost of what could have been.

I wanted to tell you everything—that my heart still remembers the shape of yours, that some mornings I wake up and wonder if I’ll ever forget the way you held me. But I didn’t. Because I knew you weren’t holding on anymore.

Instead, I smiled, a stranger’s smile, and stepped away.

It was at a party, of all places, that I realized how much of you was still a ghost in my life. The room was warm, crowded, pulsing with laughter I didn’t care to join. And then, as I reached for a glass of lemonade, it hit me—the faintest trace of tea and oud in the air, curling around me like a forgotten promise.

Dear Me,

There are moments when silence is all that remains between two people. I’ve stood in that space—where words no longer fit and feelings no longer flow in both directions. I used to believe that love had its own gravity, pulling us together no matter what. But now, I understand that sometimes love travels in one direction and ends up lost.

In the beginning, I gave everything, thinking that eventually, my heart would be met with the same warmth. But the reality was simpler, colder. You had made your choice, and it was not me. I kept holding on, hoping you might turn back, but love cannot grow where it isn’t nurtured.

There’s a strange kind of peace that comes when you finally let go of the expectation that love will return. I realize now that unreciprocated love is not a failure—it’s just love. It doesn't need to be returned to be real, to be felt deeply, or to have meaning. It simply is.

Your choice was never mine to control. The freedom of your heart belongs to you alone. And while it hurt to watch you leave, I can accept it now. There is grace in knowing that love isn't something to be won or bargained for. It’s something to be given freely, without expectation.

So, I release the weight of unspoken words and unanswered questions. I release the version of us that I built in my mind. I hold no resentment for the path you’ve taken, only a quiet gratitude for what I have learned along the way.

Dear You,

Over the past few months, I've been dreaming about you. Sometimes it’s once a week, but lately, it’s been almost every day. It surprises me because I thought I’d moved past the pain. Yet, my heart still feels it—lingering, haunting, like a sharp needle piercing through my chest.

How have you been? Are you still in Jakarta, somewhere under the amber skies at dawn, heading home on the train, listening to your favorite songs on repeat? Maybe with a book in hand, like always. I hope good things are happening to you. Of all the memories, prayers, and moments we shared, it was always yours that felt the most meaningful.

It was you who reminded me of all the forgotten longings buried deep within me. I realize that my love for you still lingers somewhere in my heart, amidst rivers of sorrow and the twilight of regret. When the rains come, they create a new landscape, one that makes me feel blessed, for once, we loved each other.

I'm writing this from Sleman, where golden sunlight races across the rice fields, casting its glow on the streets that seem to dance in response. The light shimmers on the banana trees, glistens in the spray of a fountain, and blends with the purple clouds.

Perhaps you could visit Jogja sometime, even just for a few days to let yourself unwind. You could try the many coffee shops scattered around the city, wander down the narrow streets of Bantul, and watch as the golden evening light deepens into amber, bathing everything in warmth. Maybe it could give you a moment to pause from the relentless march of life.

I’ll always think of you as the sweet girl I once loved. Sometimes I still picture the light flickering, gently tracing the soft waves of your hair as it sways in the breeze. And beneath your hair, the subtle gleam of your glasses—not too bright, not too dazzling, but just enough to capture a fleeting beauty, like happiness itself.

Even with my weak heart and the lost hopes I once held, I want you to know I’m happy, and I hope you are too. The weight of regrets, the mistakes I made, the pain I caused—I hope you’ve healed from all of it. I wish for you the serenity to accept what cannot be changed, the courage to change what can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

I’ll carry this cross of remorse for a long time. I know we may never be together again, and maybe we won’t even meet in this life. But for all that is sacred, for all the tears shed by mothers, for everything pure, I hope you survive the struggles you’ve kept to yourself. I hope you can move beyond the grief you silently bear.

I wish I had been there when your father passed away. I wish I could have been your friend in those moments, to console your pain, regret, grief, and loneliness. After all, what is mourning if not the heart’s way of holding on to love when everything else slips away?

Though I struggle to let you go, I know we’ve grown apart. We’ve moved past our relationship, found new values, and are becoming the best versions of ourselves. I will never be able to hate you. There will always be a time, a place, a scent, or a moment that reminds me of you. I hope, one day, I’ll learn to see those memories as small blessings—little reminders of what needed to be.

When I dream of meeting you again, perhaps it will be beneath the twilight sky, reflecting on car windows and shop displays. Streetlights flicker to life, the wind grows stronger, and the evening dances over rooftops, tiles, and leaves, settling softly onto the streets. And in the stillness of the gutters, where the stagnant water reflects the playful sky, I will remember you as my friend.

Seperti mendung, beberapa duka tak akan abadi, ia sementara. Akan lewat dan meninggalkan jejak, tapi hidup memang seperti itu. Tak selamanya terang dan tak selamanya juga basah. Kita hanya sepi yang terombang-ambing di antara dua sunyi yang berbunyi

Seperti malam, beberapa kebahagiaan memberikan pelukan, ia melegakan. Akan terus memberimu rasa nyaman, tapi hidup memang kadang seperti itu. Tak selamanya harus bekerja di bawah terik, beradu nasib dengan sempit jalan di antara kemacetan.

Seperti juga terminal, beberapa pertemuan hanyalah sementara, ia fana. Akan membawamu pada perpisahan, pada satu rasa sakit yang nyeri, tapi hidup memang seperti itu. Kamu akan berada dalam keadaan yang menyakitkan, hingga kamu bertemu lagi dengan orang yang kamu sayang.

Seperti gema, beberapa perpisahan adalah pantulan dari suara kita, ia keinginan yang disembunyikan. Akan terus ada sampai kamu diam, akan terus keluar hingga kamu benar-benar mengakui apa yang salah, apa yang tak seharusnya terjadi, dan menyesalinya.

Seperti gunung, beberapa tekad terus ada sekeras batu, ia menjadi tempatmu bersandar. Akan membawa kepada hal yang terjal, tajam, dan seringkali miring. Tapi bukankah itu yang membuat hidup layak dijalani? Yang membuatmu menyadari tak segalanya berjalan datar.

Seperti awan, beberapa cinta akan hilang dihembus angin, ia terbang. Akan membuatmu menunggu pada yang tak pasti. Membuatmu kecewa dan berdebar, membuatmu ragu dan ditipu. Hingga pada akhirnya kamu, aku dan kita, dibuat percaya bahwa cinta sejati adalah pada diri sendiri.

Seperti cheese cake, cinta semestinya lembut, manis, sesekali asam gurih, membuatmu gembira, tersenyum lega dan membahagiakan. Bukan yang perih, yang pahit, yang membuatmu berpikir apakah saat ini sedang jadi prioritas atau satu dari banyak pilihan. Membuatmu ragu pada diri sendiri, membuatmu lelah, ketakutan dan tak berdaya.

Seperti pagi, cinta semestinya sejuk, haru, sesekali berkabut, membuatmu tenang, merasa tenteram dan melenakan. Bukan yang terik, yang panas, yang membuatmu merasa tak nyaman, membuatmu harus berpikir dan bersiasat, agar tetap sejuk, tetap dingin, dan tak kesakitan.

Seperti rindang pohon, cinta semestinya teduh, segar, membuatmu nyaman, merasa dijaga dan diberi perlindungan. Bukan yang kering, gersang, yang membuatmu harus berusaha keras menjaga apa yang nyaman, hingga pada akhirnya memaksamu untuk mencari yang lebih baik, mencari yang lebih pasti dan akhirnya kecewa.

Seperti pantai, cinta semestinya membuatmu basah, membuatmu merasakan suka cita, membawa kepada langit biru di pagi hari, di ujung horizon dimana samudera dan langit beririsan. Hingga kamu kemudian merasakan sunyi subuh yang perlahan diisi suara kicau camar, debur ombak, gesekan pinus, dan segala yang membuatmu terlena.

Seperti mawar mekar, cinta semestinya indah, warna merah terang, dan memancarkan aroma manis. Cinta seharusnya seperti pesona taman bunga yang memikat hati dan mengajakmu untuk piknik dan makan enak. Bukan yang layu, yang pudar, yang membuatmu merasa terpinggirkan dan tak dihargai. 

Seperti secangkir kopi, cinta seharusnya memberimu kehangatan, getir yang nikmat, dan aroma yang membuatmu bersemangat. Bukan yang encer, yang terasa seperti pasir, yang mengecewakanmu. Atau seperti gula yang manis dan pelan-pelan membunuhmu. Mengintai dari tempat yang tak pernah kamu bayangkan sebelumnya. 

Aku merasa sedih. Dadaku sesak dengan pertanyaan dan penyesalan. Apakah semua yang terjadi, perpisahan ini, memang benar salahku? Apakah kulakukan demikian keji sehingga harus ditinggalkan? Apakah semua yang kurasakan ini layak dialami?

Pertanyaan-pertanyaan itu membuatku sulit bernafas. Aku merasa ingin mengeluarkan semua isinya. Tapi di sisi lain aku merasa dadaku demikian kopong, demikian kosong, demikian sunyi dan sepi, seperti tak ada lagi isi di dalamya. Bisakah kamu merasa kosong dan penuh sekaligus?

Dulu aku pernah membaca, apa yang tidak kamu sampaikan berakhir jadi perang di kepalamu. Apa yang kamu simpan untuk dirimu sendiri akan membuatmu berpikir dan terus menerus menderita karena pertanyaan. Tapi mengapa aku susah sekali menuliskan apa yang aku rasakan? Apakah yang aku rasakan ini wajar?

And you know you're never sure But you're sure you could be right If you held yourself up to the light

Aku berharap diberikan kekuatan. Aku berharap diberikan jawaban. Lebih dari itu semua, aku berharap, tak lagi mengalami ini. Mereka selalu bilang, penderitaan yang kamu alami akan membuatmu jadi lebih bijak, jadi lebih kuat, jadi lebih waskita. Aku tak mau itu semua, aku hanya ingin dicintai dan bahagia.

Apa yang membuatku layak diperlakukan seperti ini? Ditinggalkan begitu saja seperti tidak berharga. Jika kamu mencintai seseorang, kamu akan mencari jalan keluar, bukan lari menjauh dan pergi begitu saja. Aku berharap ada jalan keluar, aku berharap semuanya selsai, dan apa yang jadi derita selesai.

Aulia menunggu dengan sabar pria itu bicara dengan kepala tegak. Di hadapannya, seorang monster yang saban hari memaki dan memukulnya, tengah membela diri dan memohon agar tidak ditinggalkan. Tapi Aulia tahu, ia lebih berharga daripada rengekan dan bujukan.

Bertahun lalu ketika Aulia menemukan pria itu, mereka adalah mahasiswa yang tengah berjuang menyelesaikan kuliah. Aulia di jurusan Teknik Nuklir dan pria itu jurusan Filsafat. Ada yang menarik dari pria-pria tak berguna yang memiliki masa depan suram, Aulia selalu ingin menolong mereka.

Kemudian di hadapan nasib, dengan rayuan dari puisi-puisi cabul, serta beberapa ikat bunga murah, Aulia tunduk dirayu pria itu. Kemudian setelah menikah, watak asli bromocorah pria itu muncul. Ia manusia kerdil yang hanya hendak berkuasa, mengendalikan, serta menundukkan, sepanjang delapan tahun, Aulia menerima segala perlakuan kasar.

Putranya, Tegar Perkasa Bumi, adalah jangkar akal sehat dari kemarahan-kemarahan atas nasib pria itu. Aulia memberikan apapun yang bisa disediakan ibu kepada anaknya. Kasih sayang, ilmu, adab, serta keprihatinan yang membuatnya serupa karang di tengah badai. Ia bertahan karena merasa Tegar berhak punya Ayah.

Titik balik Aulia ingin berpisah adalah ketika ia pulang bekerja (pria pengangguran itu tak juga bekerja setelah pandemi) dan melihat tubuh lebam Tegar. Aulia bersumpah dengan segala yang ia miliki, memanggil nama tuhan dan para rasul, bahwa si pria itu boleh memukul dan memakinya, tapi tidak tegar.