An Envelope and a Stranger's Name
My name is Damar Baskoro, a sixth-semester graphic design student at a campus in West Java. Six cream-colored envelopes sit stacked on my boarding-room desk.
The building's mailbox turns out to be more consistent with its "updates" than the academic system—every two weeks, without fail, something shows up. Neat handwriting. No return address. Only one initial: R.
Later I find out the boarding house mailbox still uses the previous tenant's name—Alia—and the manager never got around to changing it. At first I ignored the letters. Until that night, curiosity won. I opened one.
The contents made me freeze.
"Alia, do you still remember our last afternoon at the bus stop? You laughed even as the rain poured hard onto the earth, and you said, 'Love is sometimes like heavy rain in a city—messing up the heart, yet nourishing something unseen.'"
I shut it fast. My heartbeat sounded like a sudden deadline chasing me down. Who was Alia? And why had these love letters landed in my life—a life that didn't even have a crush to begin with?
I stormed into the next room where my best friend, Jaka, was playing Valorant with a headset the size of a satellite dish.
"Jak, I need your brain for a second."
"Bro, it's late. I'm about to clutch."
"Clutch what—read this first."
I handed him the letter. Jaka read while chewing chips. His eyes widened, then he burst out laughing.
"Whoa. Who wrote this? This is poetic as hell. Look at you—secret admirer vibes."
"It's not for me, idiot. It's for someone named Alia. I don't even know her."
"Then why are you panicking?"
"Because it's sad, Jak. Imagine sending love letters over and over and never getting a reply. That kind of pain beats getting rejected by a loan app."
Jaka set the letter down and patted my shoulder.
"Bro. If you really care, we find the person. At least reply so they don't feel ghosted by the air."
I exhaled.
"How? The number in the letter is dead. No sender address."
Jaka grinned.
"Relax. I'm a certified extrovert. I've got a campus gossip network—neighbors, classmates, even the instant-noodle guy in front of this place. We're gonna find out who this R is."
I stared at the remaining five sealed envelopes on my desk.
For some reason, my chest thumped hard—like I was walking into a drama that didn't belong to me, yet suddenly demanded I play a part.
***
From Secret Admirer to Campus Gossip Celebrity
After I opened the first letter, my hands felt itchy—restless with curiosity. I started digging into the others and turning the lines into typography designs. Just messing around. Just creating.
First post: a sentence from the second letter. Neon blue. Night-sky background. A silly caption:
"Sometimes love comes without a clear address. Don't look for it—it'll find you."
Normal response. A handful of likes. The only comment was from Jaka:
"cringe as hell, Dam."
Two weeks later, I posted again. This time I actually tried.
Second post: a quote from the fourth letter, styled like a retro poster. Caption:
"When rain bows dust, memories bow the chest—we sink without a sound."
Better results. Hundreds of likes. Comments popped up:
"okay indie vibes."
"when's the book dropping, bro?"
A girl from campus even DM'd:
"Dam, did you write this? It's so poetic."
I stared at the screen.
Me? I design while living on instant noodles three times a week. Since when did I become Rumi?
Then came the third post.
Letter number six. The line that hit the hardest. Minimal white typography on a plain black background. And I wrote the caption in my own voice—so nobody would mistake me for a poet again:
"If all these letters are from a guy, then fine. Love is just an address problem. Sometimes it gets lost. Sometimes it does it on purpose."
And boom.
Thousands of likes. The comments flooded in. My Instagram timeline—usually as quiet as a library at 7 a.m.—suddenly turned into a Saturday-night town square.
The effect snowballed.
Girls started tagging me on their stories:
"Damar, stay strong."
"So cute—poetic but tragic."
Every time I read it, I could only grin stiffly.
"Strong for what, sis? I don't even have context."
But on the other side…The guys began avoiding me.In the design studio, I set my laptop down and they literally slid their chairs away.
"Bro, why are you acting like you're dodging me?" I asked.
They exchanged looks. Then someone murmured,
"It's okay, Dam… love is love. We support you."
I went silent.
"Are you kidding me—this misunderstanding is already this far?!"
Jaka laughed like he'd found oxygen after drowning.
"Bro, do you realize you're a campus celebrity now? This is more dramatic than an Indosiar soap opera."
I looked at the seven envelopes on my desk—one had arrived earlier today. It was absurd. From anonymous letters to trending campus topic.
But beneath the comedy, something bitter sat in my chest. If the sender kept writing every two weeks, it meant they were serious.
And me… for reasons I couldn't explain, I started feeling responsible.
***
A New Address for an Old Love
At lunchtime, I was stirring my iced orange drink in the cafeteria, waiting—half-jokingly—for the letter sender to appear, while checking notifications. My account was exploding. Not likes this time. DMs.
So many DMs.
And the content?
"Bro, if you really like guys, I support you."
"I'm struggling too—can I talk to you?"
"Hey handsome, wanna DM?"
I gaped.
"JAKAAA!!! What is this??!"
Jaka, chewing batagor beside me, laughed so hard he started coughing.
"Bro, you're a cross-gender influencer now. Accept it. That's DM income."
I wanted to throw a spoon at his face. Then a soft voice came from the table next to us.
"Excuse me… are you Damar?"
I turned. A girl stood there awkwardly—eyes tired but warm. A female friend stood beside her, like she'd come from out of town.
I stood up automatically.
"Yes. I am. Are you… R?"
She nodded slightly.
"Risa. Alia's best friend."
The cafeteria went quiet. Even Jaka stopped chewing.
"I thought she still lived at that address," Risa said softly.Her voice trembled.
"Turns out… she's gone. I only found out from your posts."
My throat tightened.
"Risa, I'm sorry. I never meant—"
Risa shook her head.
"If someone else reads my letters, maybe Alia can still exist here… even if I was too late to learn the truth."
Her tears fell. But her smile was small—almost relieved. Of course, Jaka couldn't stay silent during a serious moment.
"Okay but wow—writing love letters for ages, and the one who opens them is my bro. Life is absurd. Like turning on the AC and still sweating. By the way, Damar's single, you know—"
I shot him a look sharp enough to cut.
"Jak. Can you be serious for once?"
He just grinned.
"Serious, Dam. Love is hilarious. Even getting lost can make you trend."
I sat down again, staring at the folder of letters. For the first time, I understood:I wasn't the victim of gossip. I was just… the messenger.
That night, I posted one last design. Simple typography on a white screen—no neon, no retro filters. Caption:
"Sometimes love never reaches the person it was meant for.But it always finds another address—so it can stay alive in someone's heart."
Notifications exploded again.This time, I didn't care.Because I knew: those letters had finally found their home.
—End—