Arga didn’t reply right away.
He only stared at his phone screen, as though if he read the sentence long enough, the words would change into something that made more sense.
I’m coming home.
Two simple words. No name. No explanation. No sign that the sender realized how strange the sentence was for someone receiving it shortly after midnight on his birthday.
Arga opened the conversation from the beginning.
The first message had come in at 12:07 a.m.
Happy birthday, Arga.
Then, one minute later:
I hope you’re not alone this year.
Arga replied with a single question.
Who?
There was no answer.
A few minutes later, the sender sent another message.
You still have our photo, right?
And only after Arga asked for the second time did the final sentence appear.
I’m coming home.
Arga looked at the sender’s number. No name appeared because he had never saved the number in his phone. He tapped the profile, hoping to find at least a photo or some other information that might provide a clue, but there was nothing. Only a string of numbers he didn’t recognize at all.
Maybe someone was playing a joke.
Maybe it was an old friend whose number he no longer had saved.
Maybe someone had gotten his phone number from somebody else and decided to surprise him with an unfunny birthday prank.
There were plenty of possibilities, and Arga tried to hold on to the simple ones.
But there was one part he couldn’t ignore.
Our photo.
Arga turned toward the desk in the corner of the living room.
The black box was still inside the drawer.
The photo the sender meant was still in there.
Arga was sure no one knew he still kept it.
Even Maya had never seen it.
He got out of bed and walked into the living room. He didn’t turn on the lights. The light from the bedroom was still enough to help him find the desk. He opened the drawer and took out the black box he had found again a few hours earlier, after years of not touching it.
The box was small and plain. Its corners had grown somewhat dull with age.
Arga carried it to the sofa.
He sat down, then opened the lid.
The old things were still in their places. A few business cards, a train ticket, a flash drive that probably no longer worked, a small key he no longer remembered the door to, and several photographs whose colors had begun to fade.
Arga picked up the top photo.
The same photo.
Himself, Raka, Dito, and Nara.
They were all still young.
None of them looked like people keeping secrets. None looked like someone who would, a few years later, become part of a past too heavy to talk about.
Nara stood on the right side of the photo.
The wind blew through her hair. She was wearing a blue jacket over a white T-shirt. Her eyes were narrowed against the light, but her smile was still clear.
Arga stared at that face for a long time.
Eleven years.
It felt strange to realize that for eleven years, a face could remain unchanged in someone’s memory while the person remembering it had changed over and over again.
He turned the photo over.
A date was written on the back in black ink.
July 17, 2015.
Arga rubbed the writing with his thumb.
That date shouldn’t have meant anything.
And yet that night, for the first time in a long while, he felt that the date held something he could no longer remember.
He tried to force his mind to work.
July 17, 2015.
What happened that day?
He remembered Bandung.
He remembered college.
He remembered Nara.
But the sequence of events felt like the pages of a book that had once been soaked and then dried again. The writing was still there, but some parts were difficult to read.
Arga placed the photo on the table.
Then he picked up his phone.
He opened the conversation with the unknown number.
His fingers moved over the keyboard.
Who are you?
He deleted it.
He typed again.
Who gave you my number?
He deleted that too.
In the end, he typed only:
If you know me, tell me who you are.
The message was sent.
Arga waited.
There was no reply.
He waited a few more minutes before finally setting his phone on the table.
Maybe it really was a joke.
Maybe everything would seem ridiculous tomorrow.
He had almost convinced himself when his phone began vibrating again.
New message.
Don’t involve anyone else.
Arga picked it up.
For several seconds, he only stared at the sentence.
Then he typed:
If you know me, why don’t you tell me who you are?
The reply came a little while later.
You don’t need to know.
Arga frowned.
Then what do you want?
There was no reply.
He waited long enough for his phone screen to go dark again.
Arga took a breath, then, without really thinking about the consequences, typed a single name.
Nara?
The message was sent.
This time, there was no reply at all.
Arga stared at the screen until his eyes began to ache. There was no sign that the sender was typing. No new message.
At last, he put down his phone.
“Impossible,” he muttered.
He didn’t even know who he was saying it to.
Maybe the unknown number.
Maybe himself.