Mornings at the shophouse had become a comforting ritual, but today felt different. Not dramatically so—just quieter. The kind of quiet that sits between words, in the space between things spoken and unspoken.
Phuby stood by the storefront window, wiping the glass even though it was already clean. Outside, the sun peeked through a tangle of power lines, casting a gold hue over the row of nearby kiosks still slowly stirring to life. It was almost 7 AM, but Hana hadn't come down yet.
He knew better than to worry—she wasn't a morning person—but still, he kept glancing at the stairs.
Mrs. Wulan appeared beside him with two mugs of kopi tubruk. She handed one to Phuby without a word.
"She's still asleep?" she finally asked.
"Probably," Phuby replied, cradling the warm mug. "She was up late editing the stream footage for that montage thing she's making."
Wulan gave a small smile. "She works hard."
"So do you."
She waved him off with a flick of her flour-dusted hand. "I've been working since before you had teeth."
They stood side by side in silence for a few moments, sipping coffee and watching the street slowly come alive.
Then, softly, Wulan added, "She's good for you, Phub."
Phuby nodded, not looking at her. "I know."
---
Upstairs
Hana lay awake in the guest room, eyes on the ceiling. She had been awake for nearly an hour, but the energy to move hadn't yet come. The room was still, painted with gentle morning light, and the hum of the city filtered in through the cracked-open window.
She thought about her family in Sapporo. About how they'd reacted when she told them she was traveling to Indonesia to meet a boy she'd met online.
Her mother had been cautious, but not unsupportive. Her father, predictably, had withdrawn, barely speaking during the days leading up to her flight. Her older cousin had texted her a dozen times after she arrived, asking: "Are you safe?", "Is it weird?", "Do you regret it?"
The answers to all of those questions were complicated.
She turned to look at the little shelf where she had placed her few personal things: a framed photo of her late brother, her Japanese-English pocket dictionary, a keychain from the Ghibli Museum, and a new addition—a small, handwritten note from Phuby that had been left with a cup of Milo on her second morning in the shophouse.
> "Hope you're sleeping better today. I'm glad you're here. —P"
She smiled faintly at the memory.
There was no denying how real it all felt now. And that made it scarier somehow.
---
Later That Afternoon
The bakery closed early that day. Business had been steady, and Mrs. Wulan had wanted a chance to rest before the evening rush began. Hana volunteered to clean the baking trays while Phuby and Om Luky disassembled an old shelf in the back that had finally collapsed.
As she worked, Hana hummed to herself—an old Japanese nursery tune. She hadn't thought about it in years. The rhythm of cleaning soothed her. The warm water, the clink of pans, the smell of flour still lingering in the air—it all felt far away from the sterile, hurried life she'd lived in Japan.
And yet, part of her still wondered: How long can this last?
It wasn't about visas or money or streams. It was about belonging.
Did she belong here? Or was she simply borrowing time?
---
An Evening Walk
Later, as the sun dipped low and the storefront lights flicked on, Phuby suggested they take a walk.
Not far—just around the neighborhood. He needed a break from screens, and Hana needed fresh air.
They walked without much direction, letting their feet carry them past shuttered shops, small warungs preparing for buka puasa, and children chasing each other barefoot through alleyways.
They ended up sitting on a low stone wall beside a narrow canal.
"It's peaceful," Hana said, hugging her knees.
"Yeah."
A long silence followed.
Then, Hana spoke. "I've been thinking... about the future."
Phuby looked at her carefully. "Okay."
"I don't know what happens next. Part of me wants to stay longer. Another part feels guilty. Like I'm... avoiding something."
"You're not avoiding anything," Phuby said quickly. "You're living. Here. With us."
She nodded slowly. "I know. But sometimes I feel like I'm in a bubble. A beautiful one. But I'm scared of what happens when it pops."
Phuby took a breath. "That's fair. I think about that too."
"You do?"
He chuckled bitterly. "Of course. You think I'm not scared you'll wake up one day and realize this was just a fun detour?"
She looked at him, eyes soft. "Phub…"
"But I don't want to ruin it by worrying. I want to just… keep building whatever this is. Slowly. One livestream, one pastry, one walk at a time."
Hana reached for his hand. "Me too."
---
Back Home
That night, after they returned, Mrs. Wulan was setting out plates of warm roti tawar and margarine. She didn't say anything when she saw the way they walked in—quiet, contemplative, fingers gently linked.
She simply smiled and added an extra spoonful of sweetened condensed milk to Hana's plate.
---
Upstairs
Hana stayed up late journaling. She hadn't done it since before leaving Japan. The words came slowly, in soft hiragana and messy kanji.
> "Today was quiet. But good. I felt a shift in the air. Like something honest passed between us. It's strange to feel safe in a place so far from home. But maybe... maybe I'm not that far after all."
She closed the journal and looked out the window at the rooftop, still faintly illuminated by the leftover glow of the city.
For the first time in weeks, the question of "what's next" didn't feel as heavy.
---