Naura: Three Loves, One Heart

Hesitant Steps, A House That No Longer Feels Like Home

Today, school felt fun with Raka and Fera around. Time passed so quickly. The scent of the afternoon air began to fill the air, signaling the end of the school day. After saying goodbye to Fera at the school gate, I continued my journey alone, weaving through the increasingly crowded city streets filled with rushing vehicles.

But the closer I got to home, the heavier my steps felt. I found myself slowing down my motorbike, stalling for time before I had to reach my destination. Anxiety and fear crept back in—just like always. My mind replayed images of my father’s temper, his sharp tone, his habit of slamming objects in frustration. These thoughts swirled inside my head as I reached the last red light before home. My breathing felt heavier, and my fingers gripped the handlebars tighter.

Beep!

The sharp sound of a car horn startled me from my thoughts. I turned to the side, and there—on his Vespa—Raka was smiling at me. There was something calming about that smile.

He nudged his bike forward until he was right beside me. "You take this route home too?" he asked.

I nodded. "You too?"

Raka held up a thumbs-up in confirmation.

Then, without warning, he asked again, "You okay? You look like you’ve got something on your mind."

His question caught me off guard. I quickly shook my head and forced a smile. "I’m fine, Ka."

Raka didn’t respond right away. His gaze lingered for a moment longer, as if he were trying to read something in my eyes. I felt trapped under that gaze—warm yet piercing. But before I could say anything, the traffic light turned green. The roar of engines behind us forced me to move forward. I took a deep breath and twisted the throttle, leaving the bustling intersection behind.

On the way, I found myself glancing at my rearview mirror from time to time. Raka was still there, keeping pace behind me. When I finally reached the entrance of Perumahan Asri—my residential complex—I slowed down and pulled over. Raka did the same, stopping right beside me.

I turned to him, a bit hesitant. "What is it, Ka? You need something?" I asked, feeling slightly wary. Because honestly, if he had been following me without a reason, that would be a little creepy.

But Raka just chuckled. "Nah, Ra. My house is in Perumahan Griya, right next to your complex."

I blinked in surprise. "Wait, seriously?"

Raka laughed at my reaction. "What, did you think I was some creep stalking you?"

I scoffed and let out a small laugh. "You weren’t too far off, Ka."

Raka burst into laughter, this time louder. His voice was rich, and for some reason, there was something about it that made me feel lighter. As if the storm cloud hovering over my head had started to fade.

"Guess that means we can go home together often now," Raka said after catching his breath.

I looked at him. "Are you gonna keep following behind me like that?"

"Or do you want me to give you a ride?" he offered casually.

I chuckled. Raka really is something else. He could be a support system without even trying. There was something effortless about his presence, his way of speaking. And somehow, being around him made me feel a little more at ease.

I took a deep breath and smiled. "I’ll go ahead, Ka. It’s getting dark."

Raka nodded. "Take care, Ra."

I slowly rode my bike forward, but when I checked my mirror, I realized something. Raka was still there. He hadn’t left. He just stood there for a few more minutes, as if making sure I got into my complex safely.

And finally, as I turned the corner, he disappeared from my sight.

────୨ৎ────

The house was dark. Again. Dad hadn’t bothered turning on the lights. This wasn’t new to me. Ever since Mom passed away, the house had felt emptier, and Dad stopped caring about little things like this. Maybe he didn’t like bright lights, or maybe he was just too exhausted to care. I wasn’t sure. What I did know was that I’d gotten used to walking through the darkness, feeling my way along the walls until I reached the light switch.

I pressed the switch, and the room lit up instantly. The warm glow of the lights revealed the mess inside—Dad’s clothes carelessly thrown over the sofa and floor, dirty dishes piling up on the dining table, and even more waiting in the sink, untouched.

I let out a quiet sigh. Not because I was tired of cleaning up, but because I knew this cycle would repeat itself tomorrow. And the next day. And the day after that. I always came home to the same house, the same mess, the same feeling of exhaustion.

I took off my school bag and placed it on the worn-out couch. The fabric was faded, and the corners had started to tear. Mom used to patch it up carefully, making sure our home always looked neat and cozy. But after she was gone, no one really cared about those little details anymore. Dad was too busy with his own world, and I… I was too busy pretending I was fine.

I started tidying up. Gathering Dad’s clothes, rearranging the scattered items, washing the dirty dishes in the sink. My hands moved automatically, as if my body had memorized this routine. Meanwhile, my mind wandered, tracing the once-familiar warmth of this house that now felt foreign.

I was the youngest of five siblings. This house used to be filled with laughter, loud voices, and playful fights over the TV remote. But now, my siblings were all married, living their own lives elsewhere. I was the only one left. Alone with Dad, who was growing older and harder to understand.

I didn’t blame my siblings. They had their own responsibilities. But sometimes, I wondered—if they were still here, would this house feel warmer? Would I feel like I had someone to share my thoughts with?

Dad was sick, and we took turns taking care of him. But on regular days, it was always me who was here with him. I might not always be the one taking him to the hospital, but I made sure he ate on time, took his medication, had everything he needed. Every morning before school, I prepared his breakfast. Every night, I made sure he had dinner. Every day felt like a cycle that never changed.

But what hurt the most wasn’t the routine. What hurt the most was the distance between me and my father. We never talked about personal things. We never shared stories about our days. We never asked each other if we were okay. Our conversations were always short and stiff—just about meals and medicine. Even when we sat together at the dining table, silence filled the space between us.

Dad didn’t like it when things didn’t go his way. If the food I cooked wasn’t to his taste, he wouldn’t hesitate to throw it out—or worse, toss it aside in front of me. I’d grown used to it. Not because it didn’t hurt, but because I knew there was nothing I could do.

Dad never really cared about my feelings.But at the same time, I knew—I was the only one he had left. If not me, then who else would take care of him? I didn’t hate my father. I could never bring myself to hate him. But I hated the gap between us. I hated that I grew up never truly knowing him, never feeling heard or understood. I hated the emptiness that surrounded us whenever we sat together, yet felt like strangers at the same table.

I wanted to be strong. I wanted to be the kind of daughter Dad expected—tough, unshaken, never complaining.

But the more I tried, the lonelier I felt.

As soon as I stepped into my room, my chest tightened. The air felt heavier, as if everything I’d been holding in all day had finally caught up to me. Tears slipped down my cheeks before I even realized it.

I sat at the edge of my bed, eyes locked onto the framed photo of Mom on my desk. Her face was warm, gentle, filled with love—just like I remembered.

"Mom…" my voice trembled. "Please… teach me how to be strong like you."

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to hold back the sobs. "Just once more, Mom… make me strong."

I didn’t know if she could hear me. I didn’t know if my prayers would ever reach her.

But tonight, just like every night before, I could only hope.