The next morning arrived in a blur. Alec drove her to the airport, music low in the car, both of them unwilling to break the silence with anything too heavy. At the drop-off, they hugged tightly, too tightly for a pair used to seeing each other every day.
"Take care of yourself for me," Kara whispered into his shoulder.
Alec's voice was rough when he replied, "Only if you promise to take care of yourself."
She forced a small smile before slipping through the security line.
Inside, she found a seat near her gate, facing a wide glass window that gave her a view of the runway. She watched planes lift into the sky, silver wings cutting through the clouds, while her own gate remained empty. One hour felt like ten minutes, her mind drowning in thoughts she couldn't silence.
She knew what her mother expected: a good university degree. Only then could she inherit one of her mother's companies, a responsibility her family had already laid on her shoulders long before she was old enough to understand what it meant. Yes, she was rich, but wealth came with invisible chains. Rich people had their own struggles, the kind no one could imagine unless they lived it.
Kara feared the worst, that she would fail, that she would inherit and ruin, that she would be the reason her mother's empire cracked. Gideon had already taken on a company two years ago and was thriving. The comparison was unavoidable. Every success of his pressed down on her like another brick in her burden.
When her boarding call finally came, she shuffled onto the plane and slid into her seat by the window. She set her handbag gently on her lap, her legs tapping restlessly against the floor. The runway stretched beside her like an endless road, and she found herself staring at it with a hollow focus.
And then the thought came.
Not gentle, not fleeting, but sharp. An intrusive idea whispering that there was only one way out, the way out of her brother's shadow, her parents' expectations. One way to escape the suffocating demand to be perfect for everyone but herself.
But then her chest tightened. That would mean leaving Alva behind, the only one who ever understood her, the one who was only a year apart and tied to her like a second heartbeat. But perhaps it was the only way her mind and soul could heal.
Kara turned her face to the window, hiding behind the glass, and let the thought linger in silence.
When Kara's plane touched down in Jakarta, the air felt heavier than she remembered. The city that once held her laughter, her childhood streets, her family dinners, it didn't feel warm anymore.
Her mother was the first to remind her why. Almost every conversation spiraled back to Kara's future, her responsibilities. "One day you'll take over one of my companies," her mom repeated, like it was already written in stone. But in the same breath, she'd argue with Kara's father, belittling him until silence filled the house. Watching her mother underestimate her father again and again made Kara ache.
Dean, her older brother, was buried in wedding preparations. The house buzzed with fittings, calls, and guest lists, leaving little space for Kara to breathe. Alva, her younger brother, was the only one who offered her comfort & hanging out with her when the noise of expectations got too loud.
One night they sat at their favorite late-night noodle stall, Alva slurping from his bowl while Kara absentmindedly stirred hers.
"You're quiet," Alva said gently, leaning back in his chair. His eyes studied her face, not prying, just noticing.
"I'm just tired," Kara replied, forcing a small smile.
Alva tilted his head. "Tired, or… thinking too much again?"
Kara let out a small laugh, the kind that tried to dodge the truth. "Maybe both."
He didn't push. That was the thing about Alva, he never forced her to speak. He just nodded, picked up a piece of fried dumpling, and dropped it into her bowl. "Then eat. Thinking works better with food in your stomach."
Her chest warmed at his quiet support. She didn't say it, but she was grateful he didn't demand answers she wasn't ready to share.
But later that night, when she locked herself in her room, she couldn't hide from herself anymore. She turned to her piano, letting soft notes fill the silence, then strummed her guitar until her fingertips ached. The music couldn't drown out the thought: Bali.
She opened her laptop. Her heart raced as she typed, filling out the application form for the university in Bali. Every click felt like rebellion, every word like a step away from everything holding her back. She stared at the screen when it was done, finger hovering—then she pressed send.
Relief flooded her body. She lay back on her bed, staring at the ceiling, imagining the ocean air of Bali, the freedom of a place where no one knew her name. For a while, she felt giddy. But soon, the weight of reality pressed in. How would she tell her family? And Willow, her girlfriend of two and a half years, her first everything, the one she'd begged to come back after every mistake?