It's 10:50 PM now, and there she is—standing before me in the middle of the garden, as if the night itself had brought her here. The light from the streetlamp glows softly around her, catching her hair and smoothing out the edges of everything. She doesn't say anything right away, and neither do I. But her eyes meet mine with a familiar look—one that demands something, and not just the surface of it, but the truth beneath it. There's something unspoken hanging in the air, something that makes the world feel a little heavier than it did just a second ago. I didn't expect to see her here—not this late, not like this—but now that she's here, it feels like a weight has been added to my chest.
She steps a little closer—not too much, just... enough. As if she knows this isn't the night for big gestures, only presence. And somehow, that means even more. The silence between us is a bit awkward. I'm still thinking about what happened yesterday, and I think she is too. I don't ask why she's here. Maybe she doesn't know either. Maybe she just followed a feeling. Whatever it is, I'm honestly glad she did. Even though it's heavy, seeing her somehow makes me smile.
"Hi," she greeted softly.
"Hello," I replied.
"Do you have time?" she asked, her voice slightly trembling.
I looked at her—standing there with her right hand clutching her left arm tightly, trying to look composed, but her eyes told a different story. They were red and puffy, the kind of swollen that only comes from silently crying for far too long—like she didn't want anyone to know she was hurting. And for a moment, I said nothing. Not because I didn't know how to answer her question, but because seeing her like that stopped me in my tracks. She didn't need to explain. Not right away. I could feel it in the way she looked at me: she wanted an answer, hoping I would stay. So I did.
"Yes," I replied simply.
When she heard my answer, I saw a small, relieved smile form on her face. Did she think I was going to turn her down? Well, honestly, no matter the situation, I could never refuse her—even if we were in the middle of a fight. I admired her so deeply that even if she became my enemy, I'd still care. But I don't think she knows that—at least not yet. And I hope she never finds out. I don't want to be seen as strange.
"Then… would you like to sit down?" she asked kindly.
I nodded.
We sat together on the park bench I had just left earlier. We sat side by side, the air a little cooler than expected, though I doubt either of us noticed in that moment.
"Um," she murmured, trying to break the silence.
"Yes?" I responded gently, turning to look at her.
She looked like she was battling her thoughts. Her expression tried to smile, but her eyes betrayed a deep sadness. After a pause, she began to speak.
"You know… There once was a girl who didn't trust others at all. She was always cautious—like you could see invisible walls rise around her whenever someone got too close. She wasn't angry, or cold—just distant. As if she'd learned early on that getting close meant getting hurt. She never said what had happened, but you could tell from the way she laughed without letting it reach her eyes, or how quickly she'd brush off help with an 'I'm fine.' Trust didn't come easily to her. In fact, it didn't come at all. She moved through the world like it was something to survive, not something to live in. Most people didn't stick around long enough to prove her wrong."
She paused and glanced at me, checking if I was still listening. I met her eyes with a serious, listening gaze, and she continued, looking out at the empty path ahead.
"But then, she met someone—someone patient, kind in a quiet, steady way. He didn't force his way in. He just stayed. And little by little, she began to change. At first, it was small—shared secrets, real smiles, moments where she stopped pretending she didn't feel anything. Somehow, that one person opened something inside her. He showed her that not everyone leaves. Not everyone lies. After that, something softened. She began to trust her friends more, to let them see parts of her she used to hide. It wasn't like flipping a switch—it was slower, more fragile than that. But now… she laughs out loud. She asks for help. She trusts again. And honestly, watching that change—it was one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen."
She let out a long sigh, then drew a deep breath before continuing.
"But sometime in the future, the one who helped her change—the one who meant everything—suddenly… changed. Not in personality or appearance. His face was the same. His voice, his habits, even the way he thought—were identical. But from the moment she saw him again, something felt off. Something told her… he wasn't the same person. The person who laughed with her just days before, who helped her grow… was gone. Driven by that fear, she gathered the courage to confront him, hoping to confirm if the person she cherished still existed—or had truly been replaced."
Her voice began to tremble, barely above a whisper now. I could feel the weight in her words pressing into me as she continued.
"And when the time came, when he finally told her the truth, it hit her like a nightmare. Her fears were real. The person she'd walked home with just the day before, the one she loved… was truly gone. Gone, without a trace. And worst of all, he was replaced by someone exactly the same—in every visible and invisible way. She wasn't angry that he lied. She wasn't mad that he tried to protect her by hiding the truth. She was heartbroken. Frustrated. Because the one she cared for most vanished before she could thank him, before she could tell him what he meant to her. And without realizing it, she lashed out—rejecting the one who stood in his place. After that, she tried to carry on… but little by little, the walls she had once broken down began to rebuild themselves. She wasn't just frustrated anymore. She was afraid. Afraid she would hurt her friends. Afraid she'd lose the person she'd become because of him. Until eventually… she broke down."
She turned to face me then, eyes glistening, cheeks wet with everything she had been holding back—and somehow, she smiled. It wasn't a happy smile. It was fragile, painful… like someone trying to hold themselves together in the middle of falling apart. Her voice trembled as she asked:
"Tell me, Sahabi… what should she do? What should she do so she doesn't fall?"
Her voice wavered on the edge of breaking. At first, I almost couldn't even hear the words, because all I could focus on was her expression—like I was the only thing keeping her from falling apart. The mix of pain and hope in her eyes hit me harder than any scream could have. And in that moment, I knew—the question didn't matter.
Without thinking, I pulled her into a hug, wrapping my arms around her like I could shield her from all the pain tangled inside. She melted into me instantly, like she'd been waiting for someone to catch her. And right then, nothing else mattered—not the question, not the silence that followed—only the feeling that she wasn't alone.
She sobbed into my chest, openly, her body shaking with the weight of it all—as if something inside her had finally cracked open. Her tears soaked my shoulder, and all I could do was hold her, steady and present, as she cried for someone she might never see again. It was a grief beyond words—a raw truth pouring out between her shaky breaths and the quiet collapse of her world. And I knew… There was nothing I could say to fix it. But I hoped that my arms were enough to remind her: she didn't have to go through it alone.
Because I had felt that pain before—losing someone you cared about, even after laughing and eating with them the day before.
Bit by bit, I felt her begin to calm in my embrace—the trembling in her shoulders slowing, her grip loosening as the storm inside began to settle. Her breathing was still uneven, but it wasn't panicked anymore. It was the kind of breath you take after finally letting go. She didn't pull away. She just rested her head against me in that heavy silence that comes after crying. I didn't say anything—I didn't need to. And in that silence, I knew she was starting to feel okay again—not whole, not yet, but safe.
I loosened my arms slowly—not all at once—just enough to give her space, to let her decide when she was ready to fully let go. She didn't say a word, just took a small breath—the kind you take after letting everything out.
We locked eyes briefly, searching for whatever was still left unsaid. But then she gave me a small nod—tired, grateful, and enough. So I let her go, gently, like setting something fragile down, knowing even if I wasn't holding her anymore… she knew I would if she ever needed me again.
"Thank you… And I'm sorry, Sahabi. I came here to talk, but I ended up crying instead," she said, wiping her tear-streaked face with a sheepish smile.
"It's okay," I said softly, still concerned.
Honestly, I didn't know what to say in that moment. But there was one thing I knew I needed to tell her.
"Betania… about your question," I began seriously.
"Yes?" she replied, turning back to me.
"I think… she should keep believing in him," I answered.
"Believe?"
"Yes. No matter what happens, trust him. That he'll come back. Don't lose hope."
Hearing that, Betania smiled—a small, warm laugh escaping her lips.
That was all I wanted to say for now. According to Ardianto, once my role at this time is complete, I'll return to the future. So when that happens, my past self's awareness should return.
I glanced back at her—she looked more at peace now.
"Betania, is there anything else you want to say or share?"
"I think that's enough," she replied.
"It's getting close to midnight… I think we should head back to the dorm."
"Yeah. Thank you again, Sahabi. Thank you for listening," she said, sounding relieved.
We got up and walked back toward the dorm together. Along the way, I thought about everything Betania had said—about feelings left unsaid because someone disappeared too soon. I know exactly what that feels like… and I never want to feel it again.
We reached the dorm building and stepped into the lobby. The girls' wing was in the opposite direction from the boys'.
"See you later, Sahabi," Betania said with a wave.
"Yeah. See you," I replied, waving back.
I watched her as she walked away toward the girls' side of the dorm. I'd made up my mind—no more regrets.
"Betania," I called out.
"Yes?" she answered, turning around.
"This might sound strange, but I want you to know—you're someone incredibly important to me. In this time, in the future, and in every timeline. I'll make sure I don't fail to protect you again," I said, my voice steady.
Her eyes shimmered again with tears. I thought she might cry, but she held it back and instead gave me the biggest, most heartfelt smile.
I smiled back.
Then she turned and walked away.