In the living room, Ardo displayed his painting. Five minutes earlier, when he had just stepped out of the car, his mother had already been waiting at the doorway with a broad smile. His little sister, Lussi, had been squealing excitedly, eager to see her brother’s artwork. Although his mother had once discouraged him from majoring in a field that supported his artistic talent, she never truly forbade her second son from painting. She had known all along that he had been preparing for a competition at the art gallery where he practiced.
“What’s the theme of the contest?” his mother asked, studying the painting closely.
Ardo crossed his arms. “Hope.”
She looked up and smiled. “You call that hope?” She pointed at his painting.
Of course, his mother already knew the answer to that question. She was an art curator—she understood perfectly how to interpret a painting’s meaning. The competition theme was hope, but it also had to connect to economics. That’s why Ardo already had a clear image in his mind of what he wanted to paint: a bank building devastated by an earthquake, its structure cracked and broken in many places.
He turned the image of despair after a natural disaster into something hauntingly beautiful—a tall, graceful fracture cutting across the building from bottom to top. And the hope Ardo wished to portray, in line with the competition’s theme, took shape as a giant banyan tree sprouting from within the ruins, its roots gripping the structure as if fusing with it.
On the nearly-collapsed steps of the bank, he painted a small nameless flower—the kind that grows wild by the roadside. Ardo disliked painting living beings; he preferred structures and plants. Depending on the viewer’s perspective, the painting could appear either terrifying or profoundly hopeful.
“Yeah, it’s a little dark,” he admitted, relaxing his shoulders, “but I’m pretty satisfied with how it turned out. Turns out my skill hasn’t gone dull. The first-place winner’s piece was more aesthetic, though—he painted a teller and an elderly customer interacting inside the bank. More lively, more heartwarming, according to the judges.”
His mother smiled proudly at him. “I’ll add some extra allowance for you. Take Risa out somewhere nice to celebrate.”
“Seriously?” Ardo’s eyes widened.
“Yes.”
He then returned to the couch in the living room, joining his three friends. Earlier, Indra had wanted to treat everyone to dinner at a nearby restaurant, but Ardo had insisted on going straight home to show his mother his work. Risa had gone home after congratulating him, but that was fine. They would meet again tomorrow at campus, and he’d ask her out properly. For now, he was content to celebrate his small victory at home—with friends and family around him. Tomorrow, he’d focus on studying for exams and, once again, put his painting hobby aside. Academically, Ardo’s college record was fairly average, after all.
“Boys, hang on a bit. The food’s still in the kitchen,” his mother called.
“Yes, Auntie!” Aldo, Tomi, and Indra answered in unison.
Indra immediately wrapped an arm around Ardo’s neck in a playful chokehold, proud of his friend’s win. He’d wanted to take them all out for a big meal earlier, but Ardo’s mother had asked him to come home first—she wanted to see her son’s masterpiece herself. Too bad his girlfriend couldn’t join them; she was busy helping her mother cook for the neighborhood gathering. Her cooking? Just picturing that made Ardo laugh to himself—it simply didn’t fit her personality.
***
By the time they returned to the hotel, it was 6:32 p.m. Both went straight to their rooms without saying a word. What for, anyway? To wish each other good night and sweet dreams? Every time one of them spoke, the other would find a way to attack or be attacked in return. An hour later, Ardo went down to the restaurant for dinner, ordering whatever he wanted, not caring if it would tip the scale later. After all, this trip was almost over.
Ardo could start fresh again—rebuild himself. Pretend that Arisa didn’t matter and just move on. A man doesn’t fall in love only once in his lifetime, right? Ardo believed that—or at least wanted to believe it. If that cruel writer wasn’t meant to be his, then surely his heart was destined for someone else.
But as he sliced into the salmon on his plate, he suddenly wanted to curse out loud. No—he wasn’t that strong. He wasn’t ready to accept defeat. Ardo would fight for her until his very last breath.
“Salmon,” he muttered, staring at the neatly cut pieces of fish.
As he brooded, the woman who had been giving him headaches all along appeared. She sat across from him and winked teasingly. To make matters worse, she wordlessly gestured for a bite—as if she were some old friend. Did she think Ardo was her buddy now? The thought made him furious. He wasn’t her friend; he was her ex. Better to be seen as an annoyance than treated like a casual acquaintance.
Ardo fed her a piece of salmon. “Satisfied?”
She was busy chewing, both thumbs raised in approval. Ardo tried to keep his ego in check. He recalled her once saying that he hadn’t changed—that he still couldn’t control himself. That stung. How would she even know? They had only met again recently.
A lonely writer and an influencer who had lost his sense of purpose—love should be able to reconnect them. Ardo was willing to rebuild it, just like before. Arisa was merely lonely, and Ardo was the entertainer who knew how to make others laugh. Wait—hold on. That sounded suspiciously like a gigolo.
“My phone’s worth less than five million,” she said, setting it on the table. “I’ve got another one, but that’s just for reading. No SIM card—just Wi-Fi. I bought it for the e-ink screen. Sometimes I’m too lazy to bring my e-reader around.”
Ardo didn’t respond, but he already knew where this conversation was going. This was definitely about what he’d said earlier—that maybe they were still compatible. In his eyes, they would always be compatible—past or present. But this time, he would just listen, throw in a few words, and see what her game was.
“But if a phone that costs only four million can still take beautiful pictures, that means its owner must be really beautiful to begin with—no filters needed,” Ardo teased.
Arisa snorted in amusement. “The shoes I wore to the tea plantation? Two hundred fifty thousand, tops. My laptop’s ancient—still runs on an old version of Windows. Meanwhile, I bet you’re at MacBook level. You—your shoes cost millions, your clothes too, and your iPhone’s probably the latest model, huh? Go ahead, enjoy it... but I’m not playing that game.”
Moments later, a waiter came to take her order. Ardo kept eating, pretending not to care. Why did the conversation have to turn there? Didn’t her pilot boyfriend also live the same kind of lifestyle? Then what exactly was wrong if he did? Ardo truly couldn’t understand the twisted logic of that wicked woman anymore.