The rain had stopped that afternoon.But the sky hadn't fully recovered from its shade of gray.
Like a heart once broken—Wounds may dry, But the ache does not vanish with the sun.
Andini sat in a large, silent living room.A gray sofa. A wool rug worth more than comfort.Paintings framed in wood, lined neatly against the wall.
Yet it didn't feel like home.More like the lobby of a luxury hotel: pristine, expensive, cold.Empty.
Her mother sat nearby, lost in her laptop.Her father had just ended a Zoom call, disappearing upstairs.
Even breakfast this morning had been quiet.Just the soft clinking of silverware,No conversation to fill the space.
Andini held her phone.A message for Fani was typed, but unsent.
"Have you ever felt alone... even in your own home?"
She deleted it.Not out of fear of saying the wrong thing—But because the words were too true.
"Meeting early tomorrow. Don't forget to eat," her mother said, eyes still on the screen.
"Okay, Mom," Andini whispered.
That was it.No questions.No hugs.No stories.
***
Across town, Fani wheeled herself out of her room.
Her chair moved gently past the living room, Where her two older brothers laughed at a show.
Their laughter quieted when they saw her.One stood up to fetch her a glass of water—A reflex long practiced.But it wasn't care.It was obligation.
"Fan, Mom said don't sit too long outside. You'll get stiff," said the eldest.
"I just wanted to watch a little," Fani murmured.
"You've got a TV in your room, right?"The other one, half smile, half small talk.
Fani didn't answer.Some wounds didn't need a reply.
That night, in her little journal, she wrote:
"The deepest pain isn't being left behind. It's being seen as a burden... in the one place that should've been safe."
***
Sunday afternoon.
They met again.In a quiet library corner that had started to feel like their own.
No plans were made, but the universe seemed to know—These two hearts needed each other.
Fani arrived first.Opened a poetry book. Marked a page. Waited.Andini came later, her face worn.She sat without a word.
"What's wrong?" Fani asked softly.
"At home... it feels like no one's there.Even though everyone is."
Fani nodded.
"I get it. My home feels the same. Like being a guest no one invited."
They laughed. Not from humor,But because laughter was sometimes the only way not to fall apart.
"Maybe we're strange to the world," Andini said."But we understand each other. That's enough."
"We're not from the same home," Fani replied."But maybe... we can be home to each other."
***
That night, Andini's house felt oddly full.
Her father had just returned from a business trip.Her mother, for once, wasn't in a meeting.
The dining table was set. Plates laid out. Cutlery gently chiming.
But no one spoke.
Her father scrolled through notifications.Her mother cut the chicken precisely,Placed a piece on Andini's plate without looking up.
"Did you check the tryout schedule?" her mother asked, eyes still on her rice.
"Yes."
"Don't miss it. You'll regret it if your grades slip."
Her father nodded, not looking.
"You should also start thinking about internships."
Andini looked at them.
It felt like watching a silent film.There were voices. Movements.But no feeling.
She wanted to say she had won a small essay competition at university.
But the words stuck.Caught in her throat.Falling softly—Like rain beyond the window.
No one asked how her day was.No one noticed the subtle light in her eyes.
***
At Fani's house, the TV blared from the living room.
Her brothers played video games on the floor,Joking and laughing loudly.
Fani sat in her room, door half-open.
At a creaky little desk, She had just printed one of Andini's old stories—Quietly transformed into a poem.And submitted it to an online competition.No one knew.She doubted her mother would even understand what it meant to write that way.
"Fan! Get me some water!" a voice yelled from outside.
She turned.A smile flickered—not happiness, But a habit formed from a lifetime of being unheard.
"Fan, you listening or what?!"
She rolled her chair out of the room.
Picked up a glass.Filled it.
"Say something next time," her sister said.
Fani didn't reply.Just returned to her room, Closed the door gently—As if retreating from a worldThat kept telling herShe wasn't enough.
Behind the door, On her laptop screen, One name made her feel whole:
Andini.
***
Sunday. Overcast skies. No rain.
Fani arrived first at the library.Carrying two books and a white envelope.
Soon, Andini appeared. Her bag slightly unzipped. Her face tired.
"My night was weird," she said quietly.
"Mine too," Fani smiled.
They sat in their usual spot—A wooden table by the wide window,Now quietly witnessing something tender unfold.
"Sometimes I wonder," Andini whispered,"what's the point of going home…if I still feel like a stranger there?"
"I wonder that too," Fani said."My house...It's just a place to sleep, sometimes."
Andini nodded slowly.
"You're lucky you can still talk to your mom."
"Not always," Fani looked out the window."That's why I write. It's the only way I feel... heard."
Andini looked at her for a long moment.
Something warm stirred.Not pity—But recognition.
Their wounds were different,But they understood each other.
"If you're tired of being alone," Fani said,"You can always sit here."
Andini smiled.
"And if you ever feel like you're not enough…""I see you. And I'm not going anywhere."
That afternoon, they sat side by side.Not much was said. But the silence no longer felt like loneliness.
***
A week later. Late afternoon.Golden light spilled across the campus courtyard.
Students prepared for Literature Day.
Andini and Fani sat on an old bench beneath the ketapang tree.
They had just finished reading poetry by other students.
Andini opened her bag.Pulled out a sheet of paper.
"I wrote something. I don't know if it's any good," she said shyly.She handed it to Fani.
Fani read it.Quiet.The words felt familiar.
Like hearing her own voice rewritten by someone else.
"This is about me, isn't it?" she whispered.
"Yes. But more than that. It's about us. About how you made me believe... that home can have another shape."
Fani looked down. Her eyes welled.Then she reached into a plastic folder on her lap.
A letter.From the national writing competition committee.
"That story you showed me…" she said softly,"I sent it. In secret."
Andini froze.Her mouth opened. No words came.
"They announced it today," Fani continued."And you won second place."
Andini covered her mouth with her hands. Tears brimmed.
"I don't even… know what to say."
"You don't have to," Fani smiled."Just feel it. Because you deserve it, Din. Out of everything I've read… Your words are the most alive."
Andini took a deep breath.Then pulled Fani into a hug.Tight.
In that embrace,There was no longer Andini—the quiet girl from a busy home,Or Fani—the unheard girl in a wheelchair.
There were just two hearts—healing each other.
Beneath a ketapang tree. Beneath the same sky.
Two friends patching up the world's wounds—With words.
And for a moment,The world didn't feel so lonely anymore.