2 a.m. Revan's suitcase was half-packed. Clothes, a watch, books. On top lay a brown envelope. Nadia's handwriting read: `If you're leaving tomorrow, don't come back.`
Revan sat on the floor. He didn't open the envelope. His hands trembled.
In the next room, Nadia wasn't asleep either. She'd written the letter three hours ago. Cried. Written. Torn it up. Written again. That last sentence hurt the most, but it was the most honest.
When morning came, Alya woke up first. She saw the suitcase. "Are you going home, Mas?" she asked in her usual gentle voice.
Revan nodded. "Today. Work's piled up."
"Oh..." Her eyes flicked toward the envelope. "What's that?"
"A letter. From Nadia." Revan answered shortly, without expression.
Alya asked, "What's in it?"
"I haven't read it. And I won't." Revan put it in his bag. "Let it stay a secret."
That morning, the dining room was wrapped in silence. There was none of the small talk they'd shared the day before, and Alya, who had so many questions, couldn't bring herself to ask any of them.
Nadia cooked but didn't eat. She only fed her child. Her eyes never met Revan's all day.
**** That afternoon, Revan said goodbye to everyone. He hugged the children and shook hands with Nadia's husband. When he reached Nadia, he stopped.
"Thank you, Nadia. Sorry for putting you out," he said wearily.
"Yeah," Nadia replied. Her voice was flat. "Be careful on the way."
There was no hug. No wave. The car drove away. All that remained was the dust.
Before she knew it, three days had passed. The house was quiet again. It was so quiet that she felt sleepy all day. Still, to shake off her sluggishness, Nadia tidied the guest room. She changed the sheets and put the pillows out to dry.
Under one of the pillows was a small piece of paper, neatly folded. It was the letter Revan had left in a hurry earlier.
`Nadia, I read your letter through the envelope. I know it tells me to leave. And I left. But you're wrong. I won't come back here again. I'll come back to you. I don't know when or how. But I'll never stop. —V`
Nadia crumpled the paper. Her chest tightened. "How dare he lie like this," she whispered. "It's nothing but empty words."
That night, her husband asked, "What's wrong? You've barely said a word for three days." Nadia gave a faint smile. "I'm just tired, Mas. It's nothing."
Nadia began to feel guilty toward Bayu. He knew nothing, yet she had been ignoring him. She couldn't understand how she had managed to keep such a huge problem bottled up inside.
What would Bayu do if he found out? Nadia's thoughts drifted far away.
"If you're tired, get some rest. I'm sorry Revan and his girlfriend stayed so long. It just gave you more work to do." Bayu wrapped his arms around Nadia warmly.
**** Since the day Revan and Alya left, time had flown by before they even realized it.
Today marked exactly seven days, and there was a large family gathering. Alya and Revan came to keep in touch with the family.
Nadia wore her best outfit to the gathering. Her broadest smile showed how happy she was that day. Revan, meanwhile, came alone. He approached Nadia and Bayu. Nadia was startled when she saw that Revan looked slightly pale, with somewhat dark, sunken eyes. He was clearly much thinner than the last time they'd seen each other.
They shook hands. Nothing unusual. Like strangers.
"Where's your fiancée?" an aunt asked.
"Still in Jakarta," Revan replied. "She's busy with work."
Nadia simply lowered her head, unwilling to learn anything more about Revan. She focused on feeding her child.
When the gathering ended, it started raining again. Revan waited on the front porch. Alone. Nadia came out with an umbrella.
They walked beneath the same umbrella. Close, but never touching. "The letter," Revan said softly. "I burned it." Nadia stopped. "Good." "I memorized what's in it," Revan continued. "You told me to leave. And I obeyed."
Nadia turned to him. "And then?" "Then I regretted it," Revan said. "I shouldn't have obeyed."
The rain grew heavier. Nadia held the umbrella out to Revan. "Go home. You'll get wet." She ran inside without waiting for his answer.
In her room, Nadia locked the door. She opened a drawer. Inside was a small wooden box. The paper she'd crumpled earlier had been ironed smooth. Neat. And beside it lay an old Polaroid. `11:17 a.m. — Fourth bowl of instant noodles.`
Nadia whispered, "I regret it too, Van. I regret telling you to leave."