You, the Whisper Across Lifetime

Chapter 7: Before the Borders Close

A few days passed. While I started to get news from friends abroad about a new strain of coronavirus, Kaelen called and asked if I wanted to meet.

Of course, I agreed unconditionally.

I had a foreboding feeling.

We met and ate in silence. It wasn't the silence of distance—we'd been chatting often these past few days. This kind of silence had only one meaning: we just wanted to be together. To savor the presence.

"I need to ask your opinion," he said after a while.

"I think you need to go back to your country," I replied softly.

He looked deep into my eyes.

"Honestly, I can't bear to see you leaving," I continued. "You know I'd rather have you here above anything. But I think you'd be safer there, since you're not a local. I know your embassy is already calling all citizens to return. The border will be closed in about a week."

I knew he was hesitating.

There were still projects left unfinished. He had built a rhythm here, a good connection with the people he worked with. He told me once that working with colleagues in Jakarta gave him a rare sense of ease—less bureaucracy, more directness. And he wasn't going to be stranded if he chose to stay. Not with his connections and his resourcefulness.

But my fear—my gnawing, twisting fear—at the thought of him staying here was enormous.

And he saw it in my face.

"Okay," he said quietly, a resigned breath escaping his chest. "I'll head back home."

I nodded, almost numb. We both knew he couldn't fly straight back—his country had banned direct flights from Jakarta. He would have to take a detour, maybe transit somewhere for a night or two, face quarantine, more paperwork. More isolation.

I wished I could cry, but I couldn't.

Damn it, why couldn't I?

Why couldn't I cry like the women in movies do—like normal people do when they're about to lose someone?

I just stood there, stiff, watching him.

Damn this cold demeanor. Damn this practiced composure I've worn all my life.

Why couldn't I be like others? Why couldn't I show it?

We said our goodbyes, standing close in that quiet moment that felt too short, and yet too long.

He pulled me into his arms and held me tight. Then, with his fingers beneath my chin, he tilted my face up and kissed me. Deeply. Slowly. Like he wanted to say everything we couldn't put into words. Like he needed me to feel it—every part of it. Like we forgot we were still in public, on the sidewalk, near the hotel entrance, people passing by, cars honking in the background.

I clung to his waist, buried my face in his chest, breathing in his scent one last time. His body, warm and solid, was something I wanted to memorize.

We walked together to the hotel entrance. I turned and gave him a small kiss on the cheek, then a soft one on the lips.

He smiled.

Only this time... it was a bit different.

A little sad. A little bitter.

I held his waist, pulled him closer.

Pressed my nose against his chest and breathed in the scent I loved so much.

His warmth. His cologne. The comfort of him.

Everything in me wanted to scream, "Stay."

But I didn't.

Instead, I clung to the illusion of being rational. Practical. Mature.

When the taxi pulled in, he helped open the door for me.

I turned back and stood on my toes and again give him a soft peck on his cheek—then one more, this time on his lips. I said nothing, but smile.

He also smiled at me.

Only this time, it wasn't his usual teasing smile.

It was a quiet, bittersweet smile. The kind that hurts more than tears.

Like he didn't want me to see how much it hurt.

Like he was holding back, just like I was.

I sat inside the taxi. He didn't wave.

He just stood there, hands in his pockets, watching as the door closed and the car pulled away.

And in that moment, I felt something heavy settle in my chest.

Chapter 7 Quarantine

Those two weeks flew by like feverish nightmares.

Every day brought more restrictions. More fear. More silence from the outside world.

But strangely, during those two weeks, I had never felt closer to Kaelen.

Our chats were lively, constant, like we were trying to keep each other grounded. His quarantine back home felt like a strange version of house arrest. Meanwhile, I had taken my little family—my sons and I—back to my parents' village just outside Jakarta. The restrictions were a bit loose here.

The government had banned most travel. Permitted travel with safety health precautions like masks and steriliser were mandatory. Schools and workplaces moved online. Cities emptied.

It was chaos and stillness, all at once.

And yet... it felt almost like a retreat.

For the first time in a long while, I had space to just be. To breathe. I spent time tending to my parents, slipping into a quiet rhythm—preparing meals, listening to the birds, watching the sun rise in the misty morning hills. The air was different there. Clean. Timeless.

At night, the stillness wrapped around me like a blanket.

But that stillness also stirred things within me.

As I deepened into my meditation practice, I found myself slipping further inward. Sometimes it was just emotions surfacing—grief, longing, tenderness. But sometimes... it was more.

The visions began.

At first, they came in fragments. Like scattered photos from a forgotten memory. Brief flashes of a place I couldn't name, of eyes I had seen before, of chains holding me in a different time.

But soon, those fragments deepened.

The visions began to play like a film, uninterrupted.

Scenes unfolded like chapters of a book I hadn't read yet—but somehow already knew.