Two in the morning. The Jakarta sky was a deep purple, choked by pollution and heavy clouds. They looked ready to rain but never did.
Dave’s Honda Jazz rolled to a gentle stop right in front of the black iron gate of my boarding house. The engine was still running, letting out a low hum that vibrated through the floor mats. The AC vents pushed out cold air, a sharp contrast to the humid, sticky night waiting outside the windows. The soft jazz from our drive in Kemang faded away. Now, a sad pop song played quietly, almost like a whisper.
I should have opened the door. I should have unbuckled my seatbelt, said "thank you" for the dim sum and the thesis help, then walked into my room. There, I could dream about a future that finally seemed bright again.
But my body felt nailed to the passe
