21st May, 2025

The room was dark, save for the faint glow of Samudra’s phone screen. He lay curled under his blanket, eyes puffy and red from a night of relentless tears. The café had been left under Nikolas’ care—his longtime friend who didn’t ask questions, just quietly took over. Samudra needed space. Silence.

Solitude.

Under the covers, his thumb lazily scrolled through the gallery on his phone, traveling back in time. High school. The first time he met Abraham. A quiet boy, sharp eyes, who sat by the window and never looked up unless he was spoken to. They became friends—awkwardly, hesitantly. Then things shifted. Longing glances, hands brushing under the desk, late night texts that made no sense but felt like everything.

Then came 2016. The year everything bloomed. They were inseparable—holding hands under school desks, sneaking kisses in empty stairwells, exchanging notes disguised as study guides. They made memories out of everything: shared drinks, shared playlists, shared dreams. Firsts. Love, in all its terrifying, brilliant forms.

That’s why it hurts now. Why Samudra feels like the floor was pulled out from under him. Abraham left. No final fight, no big argument. Just distance that grew like a wall, then silence.

He saw it coming—he did. But nothing prepared him for the why.

And now, Samudra hated himself. Hated that he still loved someone who didn’t choose him. That even in the loneliness, in the confusion, his heart still beat with his name. But he didn’t want to turn love into hate. That wasn’t who he was. He wasn’t built for resentment.

So he cried. Quietly. Fully. Letting each tear be a goodbye. Maybe it was time to finally let go.

Maybe.

22nd May, 2025

A loud ping!

Samudra blinked at the notification and froze.

“…No.”

He scrambled up and ran into the café kitchen.

“Oi. Lock the doors. Now.”

“Hah? Pak, it's not even lunch yet, what are you—?”