I didn't sleep.
The clock blinked 3:42 AM. Then 4:03. Then 5:17.
My face was sticky from the dried tears I never remembered shedding. My throat ached, not from crying, but from holding too much in.
I kept replaying it—my father's rage, my mother's desperation, and that soft knock from someone who didn't owe me anything but still showed up.
I wondered if Alifah knew.
No—she couldn't. She was quiet, yes, but not cruel. If she knew, she wouldn't have looked at me the same.
But still. That knock. That timing. The way she slipped the paper through the door like she'd been doing it forever, like she belonged in moments just before someone broke.
I didn't open the notes.
They were still there, on the floor, crumpled slightly from the edge of the door.
I heard soft murmuring outside.
It was morning already. The sun was filtering through the lace curtains in my room, but it didn't feel warm.
Mom was whispering something to Dad in the kitchen.
"I don't want to push her," she said, barely audible. "But we have to know."
"She's just a kid," Dad muttered back. "She shouldn't be the one carrying the shame."
"Then who should?"
A pause.
"…Should we call the police?"
"I don't know," Dad whispered. "I just—God, I just want to know who did this to her."
They didn't knock this time.
They entered.
Mom sat at the edge of my bed, her hands trembling in her lap.
"Winda," she said quietly. "Please… we're not trying to be your enemies. We just want the truth."
Dad stood behind her, arms crossed again, but the fire in his eyes was gone. Only ash remained.
"Tell us," he said. "Who was it?"
I stared at them both. My throat closed.
I wanted to scream Reza's name.
I wanted to tell them everything—how I loved him, how he promised me warmth in a world full of cold rules, how his hands had made me feel seen.
But all that shattered when he asked, "What are you going to do about it?"
As if it wasn't his too.
"I… don't know," I said, finally.
"We're not angry," Mom whispered.
"I don't want to say," I said, eyes downcast. "I can't."
A pause.
Then—
"You knew, didn't you?"
The voice came from the doorway.
Alifah.
Still in her uniform, unbothered by the awkward scene she'd walked into. A hint of cigarette on her collar. Her bag slung lazily over one shoulder like she'd only stopped by on her way to nowhere.
Dad turned. "Who are you?"
"She's my classmate," I murmured.
Alifah didn't answer. She just looked at me. Her eyes were unreadable. Not pitying. Not accusing.
Just... still.
And then she said, quietly, "Sorry. Forgot something."
She stepped in, reached into her bag, and took out a folded note. Not the same ones as before. This one was thicker. No textbook print. Just handwriting—hers.
She placed it gently on the floor just inside the door.
Then she turned and left. No goodbye. No explanations.
Just like a breeze leaving a window open behind it.
I sat alone with the letter for ten minutes before opening it.
The paper smelled faintly of smoke and something else—maybe dry leaves, maybe loneliness.
Her handwriting was small, careful. Not pretty. Not rushed either.
I'm not going to pretend I understand everything you're going through. I don't.
But I've seen your face before it all started. And I've seen it after. It's different now. You smile, but not from your heart. You look around like you're waiting for something bad to happen.
I don't need to know who did it to you. I can guess. But that's not the point of this.
The point is—this isn't going away. You can stay in your room forever, but it'll still be there. And it'll eat you up if you let it.
You don't have to tell your parents everything. You don't even have to tell me.
But you do need to talk to him. The father. Because hiding like this won't fix anything. And because you matter too, not just the baby, not just your family's name, or what people will think. You matter.
You deserve to be angry. To be scared. To feel everything you're feeling right now.
But don't let it shut you down. You're still here, and that means you can still choose what happens next.
One step is enough. Even if it's small.
Take it.
—Alifah
I cried.
Not the loud kind. Not the messy kind.
Just that soft, pathetic kind of crying you do when someone puts into words the things you didn't even realize were eating you alive.
I folded the letter again. Slipped it under my pillow.
Then I walked to the bathroom, washed my face, and stepped out into the living room.
My parents turned.
"I'm ready to talk," I said.
—Some storms come not to drown you—but to wash off everything that shouldn't have stuck in the first place.