"Are you… alright?"
Ammar's voice came softly from behind the bathroom door. Not loud. Not urgent. Just careful—like everything he did lately.
"I'm fine," I replied, hugging my arms. "Hurry up."
The sound of running water stopped a moment later.
When he stepped out, his hair was still damp, droplets clinging to the edge of his collar. The plain white T-shirt hung loosely on his body, revealing how much weight he had lost—how much of himself he had quietly given up over the past weeks.
"You look exhausted," he said.
"So do you," I answered.
We stood there, facing each other.
Too close.
Not because of touch—but because of everything we were holding back.
"If you're going home tonight," Ammar said after a pause, "I'll go with you."
I shook my head slowly. "Not yet. Things aren't… stable."
He let out a small, humorless breath. "Since when has my life ever been stable?"
The words weren't bitter.
They were honest.
Before I could respond, a knock echoed from downstairs.
"Mas Al, Mbak Silvi," the house assistant called, "dinner is ready."
The moment broke.
Distance returned.
And I hated myself for how relieved I felt.
Not long after, my phone vibrated.
"Fan?"
Irfan's voice was tight. "Mbak, Ilham came earlier. He was drunk. But it's handled. I've sent him away. The house is safe now."
My shoulders sagged as I exhaled. "Thank you."
Ammar watched me closely.
"What happened?" he asked.
"It's done," I said. "I should go home."
"I'll take you," he replied immediately—too quickly.
Before I could argue, his phone rang.
He glanced at the screen.
Something in his expression shifted—not fear, not anger. Recognition.
"Papa," he said quietly.
I only caught fragments.
"Yes…
I understand…
No, I'm not alone…
Yes. Tonight."
When the call ended, Ammar didn't move right away.
"He's waiting," he said finally. "Tonight."
Silence stretched between us.
Not empty.
Heavy.
"I don't want you to go like this," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
"I know," he replied. "But if I don't go now, things will only get worse."
I nodded.
Because for the first time, I understood that stopping him wouldn't be love—it would be another form of fear.
At the front door, Mrs. Sofie stood waiting.
She looked at us—really looked.
And she didn't ask anything.
"Al," she said gently, "be calm. We'll talk."
Ammar turned to me.
"I didn't plan for this," he said. "But I don't want to disappear without saying anything."
I took a slow breath.
"Go," I said softly. "Do what you need to do."
His eyes searched my face—as if trying to memorize it. Not for romance. For survival.
"I'll find my way back," he said quietly. "Not tonight. But someday."
I nodded.
Not because I was certain.
But because holding him back would have broken us faster.
I watched as he got into the car with his mother.
The door closed.
The engine started.
And the car moved away.
No shouting.
No struggle.
No violence.
Just distance—placed carefully between two people who cared too much to turn love into a battlefield.
I went inside my house.
Locked the door.
Sat down on the floor, my back against the wall.
I didn't cry immediately.
Because something inside me had finally settled.
Love is not always taken by force.
Sometimes, it is taken in silence— by responsibility,
by fear of consequences,
by choices made to prevent deeper damage.
That night, I lost someone I loved.
Not because he was stolen away.
But because we both chose not to destroy each other trying to hold on.
And that—
was the heaviest kind of loss.