Bandung.

The scent of damp grass lingered in the air, fresh from the evening rain. Somewhere beyond the trees, the hum of the city felt distant, softened by the quiet of this hidden corner. The world had slowed, or maybe it had always been moving too fast.

There was a time when hours disappeared without notice—spent wandering through narrow streets, sitting on the steps of an old bookstore, watching faded curtains rise in a near-empty theater. The stories on the screen never mattered as much as the silence in between, the quiet understanding in shared glances when the credits rolled.

Now, the night stretched between them like a memory unfolding. The scent of earth, the hush of the wind through the leaves, the distant flicker of neon signs—it all felt like something meant to last, yet fragile in a way that couldn't be held for long.

Words finally came, soft and uncertain, carrying the weight of moments left unsaid. The air between them was filled with everything that had been missed, everything that had been known all along.