Nine in the morning.
Silvi's stomach ached—not from illness, but from neglect. Since last night, nothing had entered her body. It hadn't been intentional. Hunger simply felt unimportant compared to the weight sitting quietly in her chest.
She sat alone at the dining table.
A cup of black coffee steamed in front of her. No sugar. She used to drink coffee rarely—once a week, if that. Now it had become a quiet ritual. Bitter. Grounding. Honest.
Not comfort.
Not escape.
Just something real.
She checked her phone.
Her online shop orders had increased steadily over the past weeks. Work had become her anchor—not something she used to run away, but something she held onto so she wouldn't drift too far inward.
Knock. Knock.
"Assalamu'alaikum."
Her body stiffened before she even stood.
"Wa'alaikumsalam," she replied, forcing her voice steady.
A young man stood outside, about the same age as her cousins. Polite. Careful.
"Mbak Silvi?"
"Yes."
"I'm Daryo. Mrs. Sofie asked me to pick you up."
Her chest tightened—not with fear, but with recognition. This moment had been approaching quietly for days.
"Please wait a moment."
Inside her room, she changed into simple clothes. She tied her hair neatly. Applied a thin layer of nude lipstick—not to look beautiful, but to hide how pale and exhausted she felt.
The drive felt longer than it should have.
She watched the road without really seeing it, her thoughts moving faster than the car.
"We've arrived, Mbak."
Silvi looked up, startled.
The moment she stepped out, Mrs. Sofie pulled her into an embrace—tight, trembling, desperate.
"Forgive me, my dear… forgive me," the older woman whispered. "I don't know how to help Al anymore."
Silvi's breath caught.
"What's wrong with him, Ma'am?" she asked softly.
"He's been distant," Mrs. Sofie said. "Zoning out. Calling your name without realizing it."
She swallowed hard.
"The doctor said it's emotional exhaustion. For days now, he barely eats."
Silvi's eyes burned. She didn't wipe the tears away.
"Please," Mrs. Sofie added, almost pleading. "Just see him."
The stairs felt heavier with every step—as if each one carried a question she had been avoiding.
She stopped in front of the bedroom door.
Inhaled.
Knock. Knock.
"Assalamu'alaikum."
Silence.
She pushed the door open slowly.
The room was dim. Curtains drawn tight. The air stale with loneliness that had been sealed inside for too long.
Ammar lay curled beneath the blanket.
"Al…" she whispered. "It's me."
"Don't turn on the light!"
His voice was hoarse. Raw.
"Go away! Mbak Silvi doesn't care anymore!"
A tray slid off the bedside table, shattering against the floor.
"I'm scared of being alone…"
The words were quieter than the sound of breaking glass—and far more dangerous.
Silvi stepped forward carefully, avoiding the shards.
"I'm here," she said gently. "I didn't leave to abandon you."
The body beneath the blanket shifted.
"Is it really you?" he whispered. "I'm not imagining this?"
"Turn on the light," he begged. "If it's really you… please."
She did.
Ammar looked thinner. Paler. His exhaustion wasn't just physical—it was as if something inside him had been slowly hollowed out.
He stood too quickly.
"Slowly," Silvi said firmly.
He winced as his foot brushed against broken glass.
She caught his arm instinctively.
"Sit down. Please."
He froze.
Then obeyed.
His hands shook as he clung to her briefly—not possessive, not demanding. Just someone trying to stay upright.
"Thank you for coming," he whispered. "I lost my direction."
Silvi rested her hands on his shoulders—not pulling him closer, not pushing him away.
"You're not alone," she said calmly. "But you also need to stand on your own."
He looked at her—really looked.
Then nodded.
With Mrs. Sofie's help, the small wound was cleaned. Ammar finally agreed to eat—just a few spoonfuls. Slowly. Carefully.
Not because he was told to.
Because he chose to try.
At the doorway, Mrs. Sofie cried silently.
"I missed you," Ammar said, holding Silvi's hand without pulling.
"I'm here right now," Silvi replied.
"But I don't want you to depend on me just to breathe."
"I'll try," he said quietly. "Step by step."
Silvi nodded.
She knew this love was real.
But love that is healthy does not replace a person's strength.
That night, she stayed—not as a savior, not as an answer.
But as someone choosing presence with awareness.
Because the true test of love
is not how long we endure,
but how bravely we protect it
from becoming pain.