A variation from When Love Arrives
Back in 2003, I was a scrawny kid in Bondowoso, fifteen, and I thought love was her—W, the girl who ruled the high school academic war. Ska was everywhere, Tipe-X’s Genit blaring from my battered cassette player. She wore a long skirt, always had the same bob haircut, and smiled like a rainy dawn—cold and calm. She never liked ska. Her brilliant mind shut down the most arrogant kids in our class.
Love was her getting embarrassed over a perfect math score, walking alone on the pavement after class. I’d spot her while she waited for her dad. Her tough face was a little intimidating, and I swore—if I could just borrow my brother’s motorbike, catch up to her, and drive her home, I’d be the happiest kid in town. I never did. Love sped off, ska faded, and W moved to Leeds with her family.
In 2005, I landed in Jember for college, and love was different—her name was T, all edges and gloom. Linkin Park’s Numb thumped through my expensive USB headset. She was there, reading Development as Freedom by Amartya Sen on the campus stairs. Love had purple-framed glasses, wore an oversized My Chemical Romance tee, and scribbled “life sucks” on my sociology notes. She hated the heat, cursed the rich, but leaned into me on the rooftop, muttering about her dad’s gambling addiction.
When I tried to kiss her, she flinched—then laughed, dry and bitter. Love was her dragging me to a dingy café, screaming Crawling lyrics over burnt coffee. But T dropped out midterm, left a crumpled note—“Aku ikut Mama, sorry”—and love vanished into the rain.
By 2010, I was in Jogja, twenty-three, chasing a degree and something bigger. Love was D, a girl from the Communication major—soft-spoken, sharp. American Football’s The Summer Ends played on my cracked laptop, and she’d hum along, barefoot, sipping artisan tea from a Snoopy mug. She wore a faded kebaya, smelled like jasmine and freshly picked mint. She’d sketch Malioboro in her notebook, call me Mas with a smirk, and wait with me at the Togamas bookstore, never minding the late rides.
Love was her reading my palm under a streetlamp, saying, “You’re going far.” But she stayed—married a local artist—and love slipped away like a missed train, quiet, leaving me with her last sketch.
Now it’s 2020. I’m thirty-two, in Jakarta, and love’s someone new—M, a woman I met at work. The city’s a grind, all traffic and haze, but she’s here, playlist stuck on some lo-fi cover of Hallelujah by Jeff Buckley. Love wears blazers over band tees, smells like espresso, cigarettes, and Dior. Her sneakers look so damn comfy.
She’s got a scar from an ex, a laugh that cuts like a horror movie, and a habit of stealing my fries at what used to be McD (fuck them now). Love’s her texting capek banget with a crying emoji—then showing up anyway, sprawled on my couch. When I lean in, she kisses back—messy, real.
Love has flaws—snaps about my clutter, having different gods to worship—but stays, tracing my hair, saying, “Kamu pinter, tau?” But then leave me after years of begging me to get help. It was too late, I was deep in therapy, but then got better. M was nowhere to find and I don't blame her.
Love shifts with every city, every girl. In Bondowoso, love danced to ska and never looked back. In Jember, love smoked and screamed, then broke. In Jogja, love was gentle, a slow fade. In Jakarta, love is loud, chaotic.
Each one’s a piece, but none fit the universal dream I had as a kabupaten kid, staring at Bondowoso’s stars, imagining love as a straight road to somewhere huge. Maybe it’s not. Maybe love is just these people, these moments, scattered across Java like Logawa routes.
Love rolls in when it wants, leaves when it must. And when love walks out, I leave the door cracked, kill the music, hear the city’s hum, and sleep alone.