Where The Horses Stopped Running

Trying Again

For a little while, it almost felt possible.

Not easy.

Never easy.

But possible.

That alone felt miraculous after everything they had survived separately.

The morning after Fabrizio stayed at Arka’s apartment, rain still covered Surabaya in a gray haze. Traffic crawled slowly beneath wet skies while steam rose from roadside food carts and crowded sidewalks glistened beneath neon reflections fading into daylight.

Fabrizio woke first.

For several seconds he forgot where he was.

Then he felt warmth beside him.

Arka.

Sleeping quietly with one arm still draped loosely across Fabrizio’s waist like his body remembered the habit automatically.

The sight nearly hurt.

Because beneath all the tattoos, scars, exhaustion, and fear, Fabrizio could still see traces of the boy from the countryside.

The boy who used to fall asleep beside him in barns while storms rolled overhead.

For one dangerous moment, hope entered his chest again.

Tiny.

Fragile.

But alive.

Arka stirred awake slowly afterward and immediately looked startled seeing Fabrizio still there.

Not upset.

Just surprised.

Like some part of him expected the night to disappear by morning.

“You stayed,” Arka murmured sleepily.

Fabrizio laughed softly.

“You sound shocked.”

“A little.”

The honesty in that answer made Fabrizio smile weakly.

Then Arka reached out instinctively and brushed messy hair away from Fabrizio’s forehead.

Such a small gesture.

But after years without tenderness, it nearly shattered him emotionally.

They spent that day together quietly.

Not dramatically romantic.

Not cinematic.

Just human.

They bought coffee from a roadside vendor while rain dripped from tarp-covered stalls. Shared cigarettes beneath awnings while waiting out storms. Walked crowded city streets shoulder-to-shoulder without speaking much.

And somehow the normalcy felt stranger than heartbreak ever did.

Because they had spent so long imagining each other as ghosts that being real together again almost seemed impossible.

That night Arka cooked instant noodles badly inside the apartment while Fabrizio sat on the kitchen counter watching him.

“You still can’t cook,” Fabrizio muttered.

Arka rolled his eyes.

“You still criticize everything.”

“You burned water once.”

“That happened ONE time.”

“Twice.”

Arka laughed despite himself.

God.

That sound.

Fabrizio forgot how much life returned to rooms whenever Arka laughed genuinely.

For a few beautiful minutes, they almost looked ordinary again.

Just two young men cooking dinner together while rain tapped softly against windows.

Not addicts.

Not survivors.

Not damaged people dragging trauma through neon cities.

Just them.

After dinner, reality returned harder.

Arka noticed Fabrizio shaking slightly while washing dishes.

Withdrawal.

Fabrizio hated how obvious it had become now.

Arka leaned quietly against the counter behind him.

“When was the last time you used?”

Fabrizio stayed silent too long.

“That bad?”

“Yesterday morning.”

Arka rubbed tired hands across his face.

“You need to slow down.”

“I know.”

“No,” Arka said softly. “You need to stop before this kills you.”

The sentence hung heavily between them.

Because both understood it wasn’t dramatic exaggeration anymore.

It was truth.

Fabrizio dried his hands slowly.

“I don’t know how.”

The vulnerability in his voice hurt to hear.

Arka stepped closer carefully.

“Then we figure it out.”

We.

That word alone nearly made Fabrizio cry.

Nobody had said we to him in years.

Not sincerely.

The next few weeks became something dangerously close to healing.

Not full recovery.

Not redemption.

But movement.

Forward movement.

Arka started letting Fabrizio stay at the apartment more often. Sometimes several nights in a row. The place slowly began looking lived in instead of abandoned emotionally. Fabrizio left cigarettes beside the bed. Jackets over chairs. Boots near the doorway.

Tiny signs of shared existence.

And slowly, they began trying to build routines again.

Morning coffee together.

Late-night conversations by the windows.

Walking through crowded markets.

Watching storms from the apartment roof while smoking side-by-side beneath endless city lights.

The intimacy felt almost unbearable sometimes because it reminded Fabrizio what normal happiness used to feel like.

One night they climbed onto the apartment rooftop during a thunderstorm rolling across Surabaya.

Rain fell lightly while distant lightning illuminated skyscrapers and crowded streets below.

Arka sat cross-legged near the edge smoking quietly while Fabrizio leaned beside him.

“You remember the hill?” Arka asked suddenly.

Fabrizio smiled faintly.

“The one where you kept talking about dying dramatically?”

Arka laughed softly.

“I was poetic.”

“You were annoying.”

“Same thing.”

The laughter faded gently afterward.

Then Arka looked out toward the city skyline.

“I used to think if we ever found each other again, everything would magically feel okay.”

Fabrizio stayed quiet.

“Doesn’t work like that though.”

“No,” Fabrizio admitted softly. “It doesn’t.”

Because trauma survived reunion.

Addiction survived love.

Fear survived distance.

They still carried damage inside themselves that neither kisses nor closeness could erase.

But they kept trying anyway.

And maybe trying mattered.

Fabrizio even reduced his drug use slightly during that period.

Not completely.

Not clean.

But less.

Arka monitored him carefully without becoming controlling. He’d sit beside Fabrizio during withdrawals rubbing circles against his back while nausea and shaking tore through him. Sometimes Fabrizio screamed from frustration. Sometimes he cried. Sometimes he begged for drugs just to stop feeling sick.

Arka stayed anyway.

That mattered more than Fabrizio knew how to explain.

One particularly brutal night, Fabrizio sat trembling on the bathroom floor drenched in sweat while rain hammered against apartment windows outside.

“I can’t do this,” he whispered shakily.

Arka crouched beside him immediately.

“Yes you can.”

“No,” Fabrizio gasped. “I actually can’t.”

His entire body hurt violently. Muscles cramped. His stomach twisted endlessly. Anxiety crawled beneath his skin like insects trapped inside veins.

Arka soaked a cloth with cold water and pressed it gently against Fabrizio’s neck.

“Look at me.”

Fabrizio’s eyes struggled focusing.

“Breathe.”

“I hate this.”

“I know.”

“I hate myself.”

That sentence slipped out broken.

Raw.

Arka’s expression changed instantly hearing it.

He grabbed Fabrizio’s face carefully forcing eye contact.

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.”

“No,” Arka whispered fiercely. “It’s not.”

Fabrizio laughed weakly through tears.

“You don’t even recognize me anymore.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“I used to ride horses and wake up before sunrise and actually care about life.”

Arka stared at him silently.

Then softly said:

“You still exist in there.”

That sentence stayed with Fabrizio afterward.

Because deep down, he wasn’t sure it was true anymore.

Still, for the first time in years, he wanted it to be true.

That was new.

Before reconnecting with Arka, Fabrizio honestly didn’t care whether addiction killed him eventually.

Now he did.

Not because life suddenly became easy.

Because somebody still loved him enough to imagine a future for him.

And hope is dangerous for addicts.

Because once hope returns, losing it again becomes unbearable.

Some nights they talked about leaving the city entirely.

Starting over somewhere quieter.

Maybe Bali.

Maybe another country eventually.

Arka even started sketching little ranch ideas again in notebooks during calmer evenings.

Tiny houses.

Horse stables.

Open land.

Fabrizio caught him drawing one afternoon at the kitchen table.

“You still think about horses that much?”

Arka smiled softly without looking up.

“They remind me of before.”

Before.

Such a simple word for something impossible to return to.

Still, Fabrizio sat beside him watching pencil lines form across paper while rain whispered outside.

And for one impossible moment, peace existed.

Real peace.

Not chemical numbness.

Not artificial silence.

Actual peace.

Fabrizio realized then how long it had been since he felt safe sitting beside another human being.

He missed safety more than drugs sometimes.

One evening Arka even convinced him to visit the countryside outside Surabaya where small horse ranches still operated.

The second Fabrizio smelled dirt, hay, and rain-soaked grass again, something inside him physically reacted.

Memory flooded through him violently.

The farm.

His father.

Sunrise rides through endless green fields.

For a second he looked overwhelmed enough that Arka quietly touched his shoulder.

“You okay?”

Fabrizio nodded too quickly.

But later, while brushing one of the horses gently beneath cloudy skies, tears slipped silently down his face anyway.

Arka noticed.

Didn’t mention it.

Just stood beside him quietly while wind moved through the ranch around them.

“I miss who we used to be,” Fabrizio admitted finally.

Arka looked down at the muddy ground.

“Me too.”

Then after a long silence:

“But maybe we don’t have to stay who we became either.”

That sentence planted something fragile inside Fabrizio’s chest.

Possibility.

Not certainty.

Not healing.

Just possibility.

And for a while, that felt enough.

But addiction is patient.

Trauma is patient too.

And no matter how beautiful temporary peace becomes, darkness rarely disappears quietly once it learns your name.