Final exams passed like a brief storm. The question papers we had faced with anxiety were now just piles of memories. For my friends, the end of exams was a gateway to freedom—farewell parties, holiday plans, and the euphoria of welcoming a future that stretched out like an endless highway. For me, it was an hourglass whose last grains were flowing with terrifying speed.
The days leading up to Keyla's departure felt strange. We spent every second we could together, but there was a thin veil between us, an awareness that our time was almost up. We were mostly silent, as if words were no longer enough to contain everything we felt. We communicated through tighter hand squeezes, longer gazes, and the heavier weight of her head on my shoulder.
"I'll call often," she said one afternoon, as we sat on the same park bench where she first asked about Plato. "And we can video call every day. Distance won't be a problem, Yasa. Not anymore."
She said it with such strong conviction, trying to convince herself as much as she was trying to convince me. She didn't know she was arguing with the wrong enemy. Our problem was no longer continental distance. Our problem was the distance between this breath and the next.
"I know," I replied, forcing a smile. I looked at her, trying to etch every detail of her face into my memory: the way a strand of her hair fell on her cheek, the small mole above her lip, and the light of hope in her eyes as she gazed far towards Leiden.
Her departure day arrived accompanied by a gloomy sky. Gray clouds hung low over Yogyakarta since morning, as if sharing the burden in my heart. Rain began to fall as we drove to the airport, not a furious downpour, but a relentless drizzle that painted sad lines on the car window. This time, I was in that black sedan again, sitting beside her. Her mother sat in front, occasionally turning back with a forced smile. Her father wasn't with us, tied down by an important meeting he couldn't miss—a reminder of another world that was always a part of Keyla's life.
Adisutjipto Airport was busy as usual, but for us, the commotion vanished. It was just the two of us in our fragile bubble. We stood in front of the departure gate, time seeming to move cruelly.
"Take good care of yourself there," I said, my voice hoarse.
"You too," she replied, her eyes beginning to well up. "Don't stay up too late drawing. And don't forget to eat."
Simple advice that felt like daggers.
The announcement for the flight to Jakarta—her first transit before continuing to Amsterdam—sounded through the loudspeakers. This was it.
Keyla hugged me tightly, so tightly I could feel her rapid heartbeat. I buried my face in her hair, inhaling her scent for the last time. The scent of baby powder and gentle shampoo, a scent that would haunt me for the rest of my life.
"I love you, Yasa," she whispered in my ear.
The three words I wanted most and that hurt the most. I wanted to reply with all the honesty in my heart. I wanted to scream that I loved her more than life itself, that I would trade all my remaining time for just one more day with her.
But all that came out of my mouth was, "I love you too, Key. Study hard. Make everyone proud."
We released the embrace. Her face was wet with tears. I wiped them with my thumb, my hand trembling.
"I'll wait for you," she said. "I'll wait for you in Leiden. You promised."
"I promise," I repeated, a final lie that felt like the heaviest sin.
She turned, walking through the departure gate without looking back. Perhaps because she couldn't bear to, or perhaps because her mother gently guided her. I watched her until her slender figure was swallowed by the crowd.
I didn't leave immediately. I stood there, behind the large glass wall overlooking the runway. The rain was still falling, blurring the view outside. I waited, like a prisoner awaiting his execution.
Then I saw it. The white plane moved slowly, gliding over the wet asphalt. It turned, then sped up, steadily gaining momentum before gracefully lifting off the earth.
I kept staring at it, the white dot carrying my heart away. The dot grew smaller, piercing through the gray clouds and rain, until it finally vanished completely.
She was gone.
The distance between us was no longer just kilometers. That distance was rain, clouds, and an unreachable sky. That distance was a promise I could never keep. That distance was time.
I turned and walked out of the airport, heedless of people's stares. I stepped into the cooling rain, letting the drizzle soak my face and uniform. For the first time, I didn't try to hide my tears. Let them merge with the rain. Because in this world that had just lost its color, there was nothing left for me to hide.
That chapter had ended. Our book in Yogyakarta had closed. And all that was left for me was an epilogue I had to write alone.