“And maybe in another life we fight all day, kiss all night.” niki — lose

https://open.spotify.com/track/530l1XggFTVKZIM3khE10r?si=aSSsfTLtRa-IDg5o5ambow

I can tell you million lovely things about her.

She can’t drive. Well, she actually can; but once that proximity sensors start blaring she’ll get all panicky and will quickly give up—when in fact it’s actually not that close and the world isn’t ending now. But I don’t mind, coz I like it when she depends on me. I like waiting on the parking lot, and as I catch her little figure is on her way out of the building and into my car—sometimes with lit up face, but mostly she’s tired and beaten-up—I look forward to her stories. If it’s one of those days she will immediately fall asleep the moment we hit the road; some other days she will tell me everything about her days.

She has this weird obsession towards a certain part in a song—so no matter what happens, whether in the middle of a fight or laughter, she will tell me to shut up so she can listen to her favorite part with no disturbance. Of course—my one and only job is to annoy her, so I’d just either turn off the speaker or speak in uppercase letters because somehow, she’s prettier when she’s mad. That one time she bit my shoulder and left a mark there—but that didn’t stop me.

She is very mindful of others—too mindful, sometimes, that she often forgets herself. She will tiptoe around the house when someone’s sleeping. She will turn down the volume of her speaker when someone is speaking. She always lets others eat first, and makes sure everyone has ordered drinks. Even tho she loves to sit by the window, she will give it up to someone else who asks for it. “My room had a big-ass window and I can see the sky everyday from inside my bedroom; but not everyone has window in their room, Miles. Maybe for some it’s just a window—but for others, it could be so much more.”

I can write a book full of her likes and dislikes—and the more I write, the more I feel undeserving of her. I’ve not always been this insecure about myself—of course not, especially having a modelling career as a living. I’ve always been the brave kid. I’ve always been sure of what I want, and how to have it. But everything’s ruined the day I saw my father in some other woman’s arms, someone who wasn’t my Mom. My father is the person I look up to, someone I’ve build my identity upon, someone I called a muse.

I’ve never been myself since that day.

Cea, Padre, and Madre had been my rock ever since. They took me in as their own—and believe me, everytime I’m inside their house, I forget the world. I always think it’s what should have been. I used to have that too, without having to experience the secondhand version of it through Cea’s parents. Sometimes when I watch them, I feel like a mere spectator to a well-lit movie, and it’s an escapism I could only experience for no more than three hours.

I’ve been thinking for a million times to tell Cea how I feel. And I’ve been wanting to know what she feels about me for the longest time. She always treated me the way she treats me so in all honesty—I have zero idea how she will act when she’s in love. She dated when she was in Paris, so I didn’t know much of it. When she’s back in Indo, she never told me about her love conquest—she’s always been so focused in her career, even when she had to stay in Sydney for a while to chase her dream.

Dammit, we’ve been through so much and yet I’m still a shitty coward throughout. My muse failed me, how do I continue to live?

My wandering thoughts are interrupted by the sound of the door, and before I fully bring back myself to earth, I see Cea walks in with two big grocery bags. I stand up to help—but she hisses at me like my cat. “Udah elu duduk, anjir. Berhenti berfungsi bentar aja bisa kali.”

“Kok gak kesini abis dinner aja? Abis ini pergi lagi dong, Ce?”

“Engga kok, Antares dinner sama ortunya.”

My heart stings at the domestic tone in her voice when she mentions that name. “Ah, I see.”

“Gue tadi sempet meal-prep beberapa makanan simple buat elu biar bisa langsung mix and reheat aja, tanpa perlu ngerepotin Mama. Gue taruh sini, ya.” She opens the fridge and starts filling it with all the groceries she just bought. “Mama dimana?”

“Lagi di kamar… Kayaknya beliau lagi butuh sendirian.”

“You okay?”

She looks at me anxiously, and I need to restrain myself from pulling her in into big hugs. “I’m okay. Why do you ask?”

“Bruh… You just went through something I would categorize as traumatizing. Of course it’s just normal I’m asking you if you’re okay.”