The glass broke like a scream in the dark.
Bawang Putih sat up in bed, heart racing. He didn't speak. He didn't breathe. For a long moment, he just listened.
Silence. Then… a creak.
He reached out, fumbling for the lamp. The sudden burst of light stung his eyes. He blinked, the room slowly coming into focus.
3:17 AM.
He swung his legs over the bed. The chill hit him instantly. The air smelled like damp plaster.
"Jahe?" he called out.
No answer.
He moved through the hallway quietly, barefoot on cool floor tiles. The living room light was off, but moonlight spilled through the open curtains.
And there he was.
Jahe stood by the window. Still. Unmoving. One hand gripped the fabric like he was afraid it might float away.
"There was someone," Jahe said, voice barely audible. "Right outside. Watching us."
Putih approached carefully. He'd seen this before. The vacant stare. The twitching hands. The tension in Jahe's shoulders, like a man being hunted by air.
"It's okay," Putih whispered. "Come on. Let's get some water."
The kitchen was darker than he remembered.
Putih filled a glass, eyes never leaving Jahe's reflection in the window. His friend's silhouette was trembling. One knee bounced like a ticking clock.
"You didn't take them again, did you?" he asked quietly.
"I can't," Jahe muttered. "They make everything… slow. Like I'm inside someone else's dream."
"But without them?"
"I see everything. Even the things that shouldn't be there."
Putih set the glass down. Didn't speak.
He was tired of arguing.
The sound came again.
This time, from upstairs. A soft groan of wood under weight.
They both froze.
Jahe turned to him, eyes wide. "Did you—"
Putih didn't answer. He was already pulling him toward the front door.
"Keys. Jacket. Let's go."
Rain had come and gone, leaving the streets slick and shining.
Putih drove fast, his hands gripping the wheel tightly. Every few seconds, he checked the rearview mirror.
Nothing followed. But he kept checking.
Jahe sat in silence. He stared out the window, watching the world blur past.
At a red light, he spoke.
"I think I'm getting worse."
Putih said nothing.
Dr. Surya's office was too white. Too clean. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like mosquitoes.
"He's improving," the doctor said, flipping through papers. "These things take time."
Putih's fingers curled into fists. He thought of the broken glass. The shadow at the window. The shaking hands.
Improving?
He looked at Jahe beside him. The ghost of a man trying to hold himself together.
On the way back, the city felt like it was asleep with one eye open.
"I'll take the meds," Jahe said suddenly.
Putih glanced over.
"I don't want to be your burden."
For the first time, Putih didn't reply.
The house was quiet.
Then he saw the door.
Slightly open.
Jahe stepped forward. Too fast.
"Wait—"
But he was already inside