The Midnight Shuttle

Chapter 5 : Alya

The university's archery range was unusually quiet that morning.

Only the rhythmic sound of bowstrings echoed across the field, followed by the dull thud of arrows striking their targets. A cool breeze carried the scent of freshly cut grass through the open training ground as a handful of student athletes continued their practice beneath the pale morning sun.

Aditia spotted her immediately.

Alya stood alone at the far end of the range, her posture perfectly straight as she drew another arrow from the quiver resting against her hip. Every movement was calm. Deliberate. Years of discipline had turned each shot into second nature.

She released the string, and the arrow struck the center of the target with a sharp thwack. Another followed, then another, each landing with the same precision. None missed.

Aditia couldn't help smiling. Some people looked graceful because they wanted to be admired, but Alya looked graceful because she had forgotten anyone was watching.

As if sensing his presence, she lowered her bow and glanced over her shoulder.

"There you are," she said with a playful grin. "I was starting to think you'd forgotten me."

Aditia walked toward her, slipping both hands into the pockets of his jacket.

"I don't think that's ever happened."

"No?" She tilted her head.

"I distinctly remember someone standing me up yesterday."

Aditia rubbed the back of his neck. "...About that."

She laughed before he could finish. "I'm kidding."

Her laughter came easily, bright enough to erase whatever awkwardness had settled between them.

For a moment, Aditia almost forgot everything—the crossroads, Bude Pecel, the gray sedan, the license plate. It all seemed impossibly far away.

Alya removed the protective guard from her forearm before setting the bow carefully onto a nearby bench.

"So..."

"What was so important that you asked me to skip my morning practice?"

Aditia looked at her in silence. This was the Alya he knew—confident and kind.

The daughter of a wealthy family who had somehow become friends with a quiet university student who drove an old angkot every night to pay his tuition.

By every measure, they belonged to different worlds, yet Alya had never treated him that way. She never cared that his shoes were old or laughed at his patched backpack.

Never once made him feel small because he had less than everyone else.

Perhaps that was why...

He found it impossible to believe she could have abandoned someone to die.

"You've been staring at me for almost a minute," her voice pulled him back. "Something wrong?"

Aditia blinked. "...No. I just..." He forced a small smile. "I wanted to see you."

Alya raised an eyebrow before folding her arms.

"Oh?"

"That's suspicious."

"I thought you only came looking for me when you needed lecture notes."

"I've done that exactly once."

"Twice."

"Once."

"Twice."

They stared at each other for several seconds.

Then...

Both of them laughed.

Neither noticed that Aditia's smile never quite reached his eyes.

"So..." Alya studied him for a moment before her smile slowly faded. "What's really going on?"

Aditia glanced around the archery range. A few students were still practicing nearby, laughing as they retrieved their arrows from the targets.

"This isn't the right place," he said, and she immediately sensed the change in his voice.

Without another question, Alya picked up her backpack and slung it over one shoulder.

"Let's go."

They left the training field together, walking across the quiet campus beneath rows of towering rain trees. Morning lectures had already begun, leaving the pathways unusually empty except for the occasional student hurrying toward class.

Neither of them spoke, and the silence between them wasn't awkward—it was heavy. Alya stole a glance at him.

"You've barely said ten words since you got here."

"I know."

"And you haven't looked at me once." Aditia smiled faintly.

"I didn't realize you were counting."

"I always count."

That earned her the smallest laugh she had heard from him all morning, and she smiled.

"There you are."

They continued walking until they reached the old angkot parked beneath a large banyan tree near the edge of campus.

Alya stopped.

"You drove here?"

"I always do."

"I thought you only used it at night."

"Usually."

She looked at the weathered vehicle with a nostalgic smile before running her fingers lightly across the faded green paint.

"I still can't believe this thing is older than both of us."

"It complains less." She laughed.

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that." For a brief moment...

Everything felt normal again.

Like countless mornings they had shared after class.

Like two friends with nothing more important to worry about than assignments and upcoming exams.

Then Aditia opened the folding door.

"Alya." His voice was quiet. "I need you to come with me." She looked at him, puzzled.

"Where?"

"The crossroads near Mount Salak." Her smile disappeared.

"...Why?"

Aditia hesitated, remembering how he had rehearsed this conversation over and over on the drive home, yet now that the moment had finally come, none of the words felt right.

"I need to ask you about something that happened yesterday morning," Aditia said, and Alya's expression stiffened almost imperceptibly.

"Yesterday?"

"Yes." She lowered her eyes for only a second.

When she looked back up, she was smiling again—too quickly, too perfectly.

"What happened?"

Aditia held her gaze.

"The truth."

The smile slowly faded from her face.

For the first time since they had met that morning...

Neither of them knew what to say.

The drive to Mount Salak took nearly an hour.

Neither of them spoke much along the way. The old angkot rumbled steadily through the late morning traffic before leaving the city behind, where rows of concrete buildings slowly gave way to quiet villages and winding mountain roads.

Alya sat beside the window, watching the passing scenery in silence.

Normally, she would have filled the journey with endless conversation.

She would have complained about assignments.

Teased Aditia for driving too slowly.

Or argued that his taste in music belonged to someone twice his age.

Today, she said nothing, and both Aditia and Alya noticed it.

When the angkot finally came to a stop beside the quiet crossroads, Alya looked outside and frowned.

"I've never been here before," Alya said as Aditia turned off the engine.

"I know," he said as she looked back at him.

"Then why are we here?"

He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he stepped out of the angkot and walked toward the side of the road.

After a brief hesitation, Alya followed.

The intersection looked completely ordinary beneath the bright morning sun. A few motorcycles passed every now and then, while the surrounding rice fields swayed gently in the breeze.

Nothing about the place suggested that someone had died there less than twenty-four hours earlier.

Aditia stopped near the edge of the sidewalk.

"This is where Bude Pecel was killed."

Alya froze, her expression changing so quickly that she couldn't hide it. "W... what?"

Aditia kept his eyes on the road. "Yesterday morning. The hit-and-run."

Silence followed as the breeze stirred the tall grass around them and birds sang somewhere in the distance, the world moving on as though nothing had happened.

"I know you were here," he said calmly. "So I'm only going to ask you once."

He slowly turned to face her. "Were you driving that gray sedan?"

Alya stared at him for several long seconds without blinking or breathing, then let out a small, uncertain laugh. "What kind of question is that? Aditia... you can't seriously think I..."

Her voice trailed off because she had already seen it—he wasn't accusing her, he wasn't angry, he was waiting, waiting for her to tell him the truth.

The smile disappeared from her face as she slowly lowered her eyes. "I..."

Her fingers tightened around the strap of her backpack. "I didn't mean..."

The words refused to come, and a single tear slipped quietly down her cheek.

Aditia felt his chest tighten. Deep inside, he had prayed he was wrong. He wanted her to deny everything, wanted to believe the memory had lied.

Instead, the silence between them became the answer he had never wanted to hear.

"I panicked."

The words came out so quietly that Aditia almost didn't hear them.

Alya kept her eyes fixed on the ground, her fingers still gripping the strap of her backpack as though it were the only thing keeping her upright.

"I didn't even realize I'd hit someone at first," she said, her voice trembling. "It was raining, the road was slippery, and I lost control when I tried to avoid a motorcycle."

She closed her eyes.

"Then I heard... the impact."

A long silence settled between them. Aditia didn't interrupt. He simply listened.

"I got out of the car," she continued, her breathing growing uneven as the memory returned. "I saw an old woman lying on the road. There was blood... so much blood."

She wrapped both arms around herself.

"I wanted to help her. I really did."

A tear rolled slowly down her cheek.

"But then... my father called."

Aditia frowned.

"He kept asking where I was. He said reporters were already looking for me because of yesterday's tournament."

She let out a bitter laugh.

"Can you believe that? The first thing I thought about... wasn't the woman. It was my family's name."

She wiped her face with the back of her hand.

"I hate myself for that. I stood there... just staring. I kept telling myself to call an ambulance, but I couldn't move."

Her shoulders trembled.

"Then another car came. I got scared. So... I drove away."

The confession hung heavily between them—no excuses, no attempt to justify what she had done, only the truth.

Aditia slowly looked toward the empty stretch of road where he had watched the memory unfold only hours before.

"Bude Pecel..." he whispered. "...waited for me."

Alya looked up. "What?"

He shook his head. "Nothing."

Another long silence followed.

The wind carried the scent of damp earth across the crossroads, rustling the tall grass beside the road.

Finally...

Alya spoke again.

"I haven't slept. Not even for a minute. Every time I close my eyes... I see her."

She swallowed hard.

"Standing in the middle of the road, looking at me. I know she's dead. I know. But somehow... it feels like she's still waiting for me."

Aditia lowered his gaze.

"No," he said calmly. "She's not waiting for you."

Alya blinked. "Then... what is she waiting for?"

Aditia met her eyes.

"The truth."

Silence fell between them once more, and this time neither of them looked away.

Alya lowered her head.

"I know what I did can't be undone."

Her voice was barely more than a whisper, yet every word carried the weight of a sleepless night.

"I've replayed that morning a thousand times."

"A thousand different choices."

"A thousand different endings."

She laughed softly, though there wasn't the slightest trace of humor in it.

"In every single one..."

"I get out of the car."

"I stay."

"I call for help."

"But when it really happened..."

She closed her eyes.

"I ran."

The breeze swept gently across the crossroads, carrying the scent of wet grass through the quiet morning. Somewhere in the distance, a truck rumbled past, its sound fading almost as quickly as it had come.

Life went on, indifferent and unaffected.

As though the road had never witnessed a tragedy.

Aditia looked toward the patch of asphalt where Bude Pecel had taken her final breath.

"Do your parents know?"

Alya slowly shook her head.

"They think I damaged the car after hitting a guardrail."

"And the police?"

"They never questioned me."

Her answer came so quickly that it almost sounded rehearsed.

"My father handled everything."

Aditia wasn't surprised.

Families like Alya's had influence.

Enough influence to make inconvenient questions disappear before they were ever asked.

"What are you going to do now?"

Alya didn't answer immediately.

Instead, she looked toward the road, her eyes lingering on the place where everything had changed.

"I don't know."

Another tear slipped down her cheek.

"I've been pretending nothing happened."

"I still go to class."

"I still smile."

"I still practice."

"But every morning..."

She drew in a shaky breath.

"...I wake up wishing I could go back."

Aditia remained silent. There was nothing he could say that would erase what had happened. No words could return Bude Pecel to her family, no apology could change the past. But the future... that was still waiting.

Finally, Alya turned to him and asked, "If you were me... what would you do?"

Aditia held her gaze for a long moment before answering with the same quiet certainty his father had always carried.

"I'd stop running."

Alya closed her eyes.

As though she had known that answer long before she asked the question.

When she opened them again, something inside her had changed.

The fear was still there.

The guilt remained.

But beneath both...

A decision had begun to take shape.

"I want to tell the truth."

She drew a slow, trembling breath.

"And this time..."

"...I don't want to run anymore."

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

The crossroads lay quiet beneath the late morning sun, almost peaceful now. Cars continued to pass in the distance, their drivers unaware that two lives were being changed forever on the side of the road.

Alya slowly wiped away the tears on her cheeks.

"I'm scared."

It was the first time she had admitted it out loud.

"I'm terrified."

"Not of prison."

"Not of what people will say."

She lowered her gaze.

"I'm afraid my parents will never forgive me."

Aditia looked at her without speaking.

He understood.

For someone like Alya, disappointing her family was a fear she had carried long before yesterday morning.

"My father spent his whole life protecting our family's reputation," she continued quietly. "And I destroyed it in a single moment."

"You made a terrible mistake," Aditia said at last.

Alya closed her eyes.

"I know."

"But hiding it won't undo what happened."

She drew a slow breath.

"I know."

His voice remained calm.

"The longer you run..."

"...the heavier it becomes."

Alya nodded.

"I know."

The answer came more easily this time, not because the burden had grown lighter, but because she had finally stopped fighting the truth. She looked toward the empty road one last time.

"I don't think I'll ever forgive myself."

"You may not."

Aditia's answer surprised her.

He wasn't trying to comfort her.

He wasn't offering easy forgiveness.

He was simply being honest.

"But forgiveness isn't where you begin."

Alya turned to him.

"Then where do I begin?"

He looked toward the distant mountains, remembering his father's words.

"With the next right decision."

Silence settled between them once more, this time feeling different—not suffocating, not hopeless, only uncertain.

Alya let out a long, trembling breath.

"Will you..."

She hesitated before finishing the question.

"...come with me?"

Aditia met her eyes.

He already knew where she wanted to go.

He gave a slow nod.

"Yes."

She closed her eyes in relief.

Not because the road ahead had become easier...

But because she no longer had to walk it alone.

Together, they turned away from the crossroads and walked back toward the old angkot.

Neither of them looked back.

The past would always remain there.

But the next destination...

Was waiting.