In the dim glow of a warung kopi (traditional coffee shop in Indonesia) in Surabaya, where the air is thick with cloves and fried tempeh, a conversation lingers over black coffee. Outside, motorbikes roar, vendors shout, dangdut (Indonesian folk music) blares from a passing angkot (share taxi). But here, in this pocket of stillness, Dimas sits across from Yusuf, his childhood friend, searching for words left unspoken for over a decade.
In Indonesia, some words carry the weight of culture, faith, and family honor. Some are never meant to be spoken at all.
Dimas had always known. Since the days the boys huddled over a single keyboard in an internet café, playing Counter-Strike, shoulders brushing. But Yusuf was different. He followed the rules. Prayed five times a day. Smiled when friends teased him about girls. He fit in effortlessly. Or so Dimas thought.
Then, in 2011, everything cracked open.
Dimas and Yusuf were walking home from school, taking the long way through damp alleys thick with the scent of grilled satay. Yusuf was quiet, his steps restless. Then, suddenly:
“I’m tired, Dim.”
“Tired of what?”
Yusuf swallowed hard. “Have you ever felt like you wanted to be someone else?”
For Dimas, the words hit like a fist to the ribs.
Dimas forced a laugh. “We all want to be someone else. But we can’t.”
But that wasn’t what Yusuf meant. And deep down, Dimas knew it.
That was the last day they spoke about it.
Years passed. Dimas moved to Jakarta for university, drowning in blueprints and late-night kopi tubruk (Indonesian-style coffee). Yusuf stayed in Surabaya, married a neighborhood girl, had two kids, ran a calligraphy business. From the outside, everything looked as it should. But in the quiet moments—between classes, in the back of a Gojek (ride-hailing service in Indonesia), staring at city lights—Dimas wondered about his friend.
Then, a text message out of nowhere: “Do you still remember me, Dim?”
And now, years later, here they are, sitting at a warung kopi once again. Older, but still abiding by the same silence. The same rules.
“You happy?” Dimas finally asks.
Yusuf stirs his coffee. “Have you ever heard about the man from my village who suddenly disappeared?”
Dimas frowns. “Who?”
Yusuf exhales, a hollow chuckle escaping. “The man who was caught being different.”
The words hang heavy between them.
It’s the kind of story that never makes the news but spreads in whispers—men disappearing, families vanishing out of shame. No laws are needed when the rules are written in glances, in unspoken warnings.
Dimas tightens his grip on his cup. “So?”
Yusuf looks up, something raw in his eyes. “I can’t disappear, Dim. I have children.”
And just like that, Dimas understands.
This isn’t a confession. This isn’t regret. This is just another unwritten rule.
Outside, the warung kopi hums with life. The scent of fried snacks mingles with exhaust fumes. Students laugh at the next table, a vendor calls out for bakso (Indonesian meatballs). Life moves forward, indifferent to the storm in the silence between them.
Dimas watches the dark liquid swirl in his cup. It tastes like regret, like all the words that were never spoken.
“So, what do you want?”
Yusuf exhales. “I don’t know.”
And maybe that’s the most honest thing he’s ever said.
For years, Dimas imagined this conversation differently. A desperate confession. A plea for help. A plan to escape. Something dramatic, something meaningful.
But instead, they are just two men, sipping coffee, trapped by their own realities.
Dimas lets out a bitter laugh. “I thought you reached out to talk. But you don’t even know what you want.”
Yusuf’s jaw tightens. “I reached out because you’re the only one who knows, Dim.”
The only one who knows.
Dimas scans the warung (roadside stall)—men in peci (cap widely worn in Indonesia) discussing politics, a woman adjusting her hijab, an old vendor counting change. This city, this air, they all enforce the same law. Be normal. Be invisible. Do not disturb the balance.
“How does it feel?”
Yusuf smiles, but it never reaches his eyes. “Like standing at the edge of a cliff, every day.”
Dimas looks down at his coffee, watching the ripples settle. There is nothing he can say to that.
Dimas wants to tell Yusuf that things are different now. That in Jakarta, he’s met people who live freely, who have carved out spaces where they can exist without fear. But what good are those words here, in this warung, in this city where a single rumor can erase a man’s existence?
“Have you ever tried to… leave?”
Yusuf’s fingers tighten around his cup. “Leave what? My family? My children?”
Dimas stays quiet.
“You think I haven’t thought about it?” Yusuf’s voice is barely a whisper. “Every single day. But I’m not you.”
Not you. The words sting. Dimas knows what he means. He is the one who got away. But it doesn’t feel like freedom. Not when he’s sitting here, listening to Yusuf’s voice crack under the weight of his own reality.
For the first time, Yusuf has said it out loud. For the first time, the silence between them is broken.
Yusuf’s confession lingers between them like burnt coffee—bitter, unshakable. The warung is still alive with conversation, but Dimas no longer hears it. His mind is fixed on the man across from him.
“So, what do you want me to say?”
Yusuf exhales sharply. “I don’t know what to do, Dim.”
Frustration swells in Dimas. He leans forward. “Which answer do you want, Yus? The one that sounds good, or the one that’s true?”
Yusuf looks at him, and Dimas knows he understands. The truth is cruel. Yusuf already made his choice. He chose when he married, when he stayed, when he woke up each day and played his role. And yet…
“If I could redo everything… If I could go back to when we were in college…”
Dimas closes his eyes. He shouldn’t ask, but he does anyway.
“Would you have chosen me?”
A long silence. Then, barely above a whisper: “Yes.”
It’s the answer Dimas has wanted for years. But now, it feels hollow.
Because “yes” doesn’t change anything. “Yes” is just a ghost of a life they never had.
Dimas laughs bitterly. “Funny, isn’t it?”
Yusuf shakes his head. “There’s nothing funny about it.”
Dimas wants to argue, but what’s the point? They were once two boys who swore they’d never let the world change them. And yet, here they are—one pretending, the other still lost.
“Sometimes I see you in the news, on discussion panels,” Yusuf says. “And I think, that could have been me.”
Dimas clenches his fists. “You can. You just don’t want to pay the price.”
Yusuf flinches. “Easy for you to say.”
Dimas shakes his head. “No, Yus. It’s not easy. I know the price. And I pay it every day.”
The warung is quieter now, the air thick with everything they cannot say.
“So, what do you think I should do?”
Dimas stares at him for a long time. Then, softly, says: “Live.”
The word hangs between them, heavier than anything else.
Because in the end, that’s the only answer.
For a moment, Yusuf doesn’t respond. The weight of the conversation settles deep in his bones. The warung feels emptier now. Someone outside lights a cigarette, the match flickering.
“Sometimes I feel like my life is just a waiting room,” Yusuf murmurs.
Dimas frowns. “What do you mean?”
“Like I’m sitting somewhere, waiting for something that will never come.”
Dimas exhales. “And now?”
Yusuf chuckles mirthlessly. “Now I realize, I’ll never get that answer.”
Dimas grips the table. He wants to say it’s not too late.
But it is. They both know it.
“Sometimes I dream about you,” Yusuf says suddenly. “We’re back in the past. Riding a motorbike, eating meatballs by the street. Just talking about the future.” He smiles, but it’s tinged with sadness. “In those dreams… you’re always there.”
Dimas swallows. “Me too.”
It’s the closest they’ll ever come to admitting what they’ve lost.
Yusuf leans back. “I should go home.”
The words land heavy, final.
Dimas nods. “You’ve made your choice?”
A bitter smile. “I made my choice a long time ago, Dim.”
They step outside, the city buzzing around them. Shadows stretch across the pavement, long and unspoken.
Yusuf lights a cigarette. Then, quietly, “If you ever need me, you know how to find me.”
Dimas doesn’t answer— just watches— as Yusuf walks away, disappearing into the night. Only when he’s gone does Dimas pull out his phone. His fingers hover over the screen, over Yusuf’s contact.
Then, after a moment, he locks the phone, shoves it back into his pocket, and walks in the opposite direction. Because some stories don’t get a happy ending. Some stories just end.
*The author’s name has been changed to protect his privacy.
Fendy Satria Tulodo (Malang, Indonesia) trades daylight for fiction and nightfall for Nep Kid’s electronic haze. His life hums between scribbled paragraphs and distorted synths—stories carved in silence, songs forged in the dark.
