2:17 a.m.
The house was already quiet. The AC in Kyla’s room was set to 16 degrees, freezing cold, but Kyla was still wide awake. The baby-blue blouse she had been wearing since 9:30 that morning at the library was still clinging to her body. She hadn’t changed. It was wrinkled, smelled like coffee, and smelled like rain.
Kyla’s eyes were swollen. Her thesis bag was still on the floor, its contents scattered everywhere, with half of the thirty printed pages sticking out. Her laptop was still on the desk, the screensaver running. The file "THESIS_KYLA_CHAPTER3_REVISION7_FINAL_FINAL2.docx" was still sitting on the exact same paragraph.
Only two paragraphs had been added. On the floor, Kyla sat with her back against the bed, her knees bent, her phone in her hand. Her phone battery was already down to 12%. The charger was on the desk, but she was too lazy to get up and grab it.
Kyla was done crying. Now she was in the staring-blankly phase. The most dangerous phase for a Gen Z kid.
If you were still staring at the ceiling at 2 a.m., you were definitely going to do something you’d regret the next morning.
Kyla opened Instagram. She opened the camera. She pointed it toward the ceiling of her room, where there were glow-in-the-dark star stickers that had mostly stopped glowing. The room lights were off. The only light came from her phone.
Kyla took a picture of the ceiling. It was dark, slightly blurry, with one glow-in-the-dark star still faintly shining.
Then Kyla typed on her story:
"tired of being Kyla today. :)"
After typing it, Kyla thought for ten seconds. Should she upload it to Close Friends or to everyone? If she uploaded it publicly, it would be dramatic. If she uploaded it to Close Friends, it would be safe.
Kyla’s Close Friends list only had eight people:
Ara, three Literature friends, two high school friends, one cousin, and...
Nata.
Yes. Nata had been added to Kyla’s Close Friends two weeks ago, after they started going to the café together at four.
Kyla clicked Close Friends. Upload. 2:17 a.m.
After uploading it, Kyla immediately threw her phone onto the bed and covered her face with a pillow. She didn’t care who saw it.
✿✿✿
The internet café lights were dim, like a broken nightclub. The smell of cigarettes, spilled instant noodle soup from earlier that afternoon, and the sweat of three guys who had been playing Valorant since 8 p.m. had all mixed together. The internet café’s AC had been turned off since 10 p.m.
The reason? To save electricity.
So now there was only one huge fan making a krek-krek-krek sound like it was about to fall apart.
Nata was sitting at the cashier’s desk. The surface was sticky. He was wearing a black T-shirt with a blue screen-print ink stain on the sleeve, worn-out black shorts, and a pair of Swallow flip-flops whose right strap had broken at the end.
So he had to walk carefully, slightly limping. In front of Nata were three computers that were turned on. All of their screens were blue.
At Computer 1, a middle-school kid was screaming,
“HEY! HEAL ME!” while playing Valorant.
At Computer 2, a middle-aged man was watching a YouTube religious lecture at full volume.
Computer 3 was empty, but the timer was still running, so Nata just left it alone.
On the cashier’s desk was a black Indomaret plastic bag containing the stickers that hadn’t sold that day.
Twenty pieces left.
There was also an empty bottle of mineral water that Nata kept because he felt bad throwing it away, a notebook for recording the internet café timers, and Nata’s phone charging with the café’s charger.
The charger cable was already peeling apart and had been wrapped with black tape.
It had to be tilted at a 45-degree angle just to charge.
2:17 a.m.
Nata was extremely sleepy. His eyes looked like a panda’s, dark circles showing underneath them. This was his eighth night of working the internet café this month. His shift was from 7 p.m. until 7 a.m. He was supposed to work fifteen nights for $45. That meant only $3 per night.
But Nata really needed the money to pay for his boarding house. Nata had already drunk two cups of coffee. Cheap instant coffee that made his heart race. He had yawned seventeen times. He had counted them himself.
Nata’s phone vibrated.
The cracked screen in the bottom-left corner lit up.
Instagram notification.
White letters against a black screen:
"Kyla added to Close Friends story."
Nata had been yawning with his mouth wide open. He immediately woke up. His sleepiness disappeared 100%, as if someone had poured ice water over him.
“Damn, Kyla,” Nata whispered.
The Valorant kid looked over.
Nata quickly unplugged his phone charger. The black tape came loose, but Nata didn’t care. He opened the story with a trembling thumb. The internet café wasn’t cold because the AC was off, but he was sweating anyway.
A dark ceiling. Blurry. Slightly tilted. One glow-in-the-dark star was still faintly glowing in the upper-right corner.
The caption:
"tired of being Kyla today. :)"
Nata went silent. He didn’t look at the story just five times. He looked at it twelve times.
Nata turned the volume on his phone all the way up and held it against his ear, afraid there might be the sound of Kyla crying somewhere in the background.
Afraid he might hear quiet sobs. There was nothing. Just a picture of the ceiling. But somehow, the absence of sound made it hurt even more.
Nata immediately remembered. He had been such a jerk today.
At 7:23 that morning, Kyla had messaged:
“Ta, are you coming to the library? Ara and I are on the second floor.”
Nata had read it but didn’t reply because he was working on the small food-stall website worth $30.
Then, in the afternoon, Kyla had messaged again:
“Ta, are you still going to the café this afternoon?”
Nata didn’t reply because he had been walking around in the heat trying to sell fifty stickers.
Nata felt twice as guilty. Triple guilty. Squared guilty, even. He wanted to message her, but he had absolutely no idea what to say.
The fingers that were usually quick at typing code for websites were suddenly stiff.
Nata typed in Kyla’s chat. Typed. Deleted. Typed. Deleted.
"Kay, are you still awake?"
Delete.
"Kay, what’s wrong with your story? Were you crying?"
Delete again.
Too nosy. Too accusatory.
"Kay, are you okay? I’m worried."
Delete.
Too hopelessly smitten.
They had only known each other for a few weeks.
"Kay, I’m sorry."
Delete.
Saying sorry alone wasn’t enough.
Nata looked at the clock on the cashier’s computer.
2:18.
2:19.
He looked at the kid still screaming at Valorant.
Nata felt like the noisy internet café around him was the complete opposite of Kyla’s silent story, which was nothing but a picture of a ceiling.
Finally, at 2:19 a.m., with his heart pounding, Nata typed the most honest thing he could think of.
And this time, he finally dared to send it.
Nata: "Kay, I saw your story. Are you still awake? I’m still at the internet café, working the night shift. I just finished my second cup of instant coffee. I’m really sorry I didn’t message you all day. It wasn’t because I forgot about you, but my phone died this afternoon, and I was going around selling stickers. Are you tired today? Tell me about it if you want."
Nata sent it. Message delivered. Two check marks. Not read.
Kyla had already thrown her phone onto the bed and covered her face with a pillow.
Nata placed his phone on the cashier’s desk.
The screen was still open to Kyla’s chat.
Nata looked at the cashier computer showing the internet café timer:
"PC 02 - 05:12:34"
He still had five hours left on his shift.
Nata kept looking at Kyla’s story over and over until Instagram displayed:
“This story will disappear in 24 hours.”
Inside Nata’s head, the same questions kept circling.
Is Kyla tired because of me?
Because I didn’t message her?
Or because of Kirana?
Nata felt like the biggest jerk in the world that day. Sitting in an internet café that smelled like instant noodles, wearing a broken pair of Swallow flip-flops, waiting for a reply from a girl who was tired of being herself.
✿✿✿
Kirana still hadn’t gone to sleep either. Not at all.
Kirana sat on the edge of her bed, her back against the wall. She was still wearing the same floral house dress from earlier, after she had argued with Kyla.
The end of the dress was still slightly wet from when she had washed the dishes. The light in Kirana’s room was still blazing. A 20-watt white light. Not a bedside lamp.
Kirana deliberately kept it bright so she wouldn’t get sleepy. So she could think.
In Kirana’s hand was her phone, its screen bright while it charged. Beside it was a bottle of eucalyptus oil and some tissues that had already been crumpled repeatedly.
Kirana had fought with Kyla at 8:30 that night.
The yelling.
Kyla had gone into her room and gently shut the door.
Kirana had sat on the living room sofa for hours, from 8:30 p.m. until 11 p.m., alone. The soap opera was still playing on TV, but Kirana wasn’t watching it. She could hear Kyla quietly crying from the next room through the wall.
Every time Kyla sobbed, Kirana could hear it.
At 11 p.m., Kirana went into her room. But she couldn’t sleep. She kept turning from side to side. Right. Left. Face down. On her back. Nothing worked.
Kirana felt guilty. But her pride wouldn’t let her apologize first. She was the older sister. An older sister had to be firm. But she had gone too far tonight.
At 2:17 a.m., Kirana still couldn’t sleep. So she opened Instagram. Kirana had a second account.
Its username was:
"@orangecatlondon"
An account Kirana had created three months ago. It only contained pictures of the orange cat that belonged to the neighbor. It had twelve followers and followed eighty accounts.
Kirana used this account to stalk Kyla. Because if she used her main account, "@kiranaputri", Kyla would know she was checking on her.
And Kyla would make her stories private. Kirana logged into "@orangecatlondon".
She opened the stories. At the very front, on the far left, there was a green circle.
Kyla’s profile picture showed her wearing a baby-blue blouse. The words Close Friends appeared underneath. Kirana froze. She whispered in the quiet room,
“Wait... I’m in Kyla’s Close Friends? Seriously?”
The truth was, Kirana had been added to Kyla’s Close Friends because Kyla had forgotten to remove Kirana’s second account from the list.
Kyla thought "@orangecatlondon" was the account of a Literature friend who owned a cat. Kyla had no idea it was actually Kirana’s stalking account.
Kirana clicked the story with her heart pounding, like she was opening a government secret.
The same photo. The dark ceiling. Blurry. Slightly tilted. One glow-in-the-dark star still faintly glowing in the corner.
The caption:
"tired of being Kyla today. :)"
Kirana immediately went weak. Her phone nearly fell from her hand. Her chest tightened, as if something was pressing down on it.
Kirana stared at that fake smile. ":)"
She knew it wasn’t a real smile. She had been Kyla’s older sister for twenty-one years. She knew the difference between Kyla’s real smile and her fake one. Kyla’s real smile had dimples. Her fake smile was just: ":)"
Kirana remembered how she had yelled at Kyla earlier. With some of the harshest words she had ever said:
“You’re lying, aren’t you? You met Nata again, didn’t you? That poor kid? The one who rides that beat-up bicycle?!”
Those words kept replaying inside Kirana’s head at 2 a.m.
Kirana remembered Kyla’s face, almost crying. The heavy thesis bag on her back. The baby-blue blouse that had been wrinkled after an entire day at the library.
Kirana locked her phone and placed it on the table a little too harshly. Then she slowly walked toward Kyla’s bedroom door. It was only three steps away from Kirana’s room. The living room floor was cold.
Kirana wasn’t wearing slippers. She was standing in front of Kyla’s bedroom door. Her hand lifted. She was about to knock.
Knock knock.
But from inside the room, Kirana could clearly hear Kyla quietly sobbing. She was still crying.
At 2 a.m.
Trying to hold her cries back so no one would hear.
But because the walls were thin, Kirana could hear everything. The sound of Kyla trying to hold back her tears made Kirana’s hand slowly lower.
She didn’t knock.
Kirana thought, If I knock now, Kyla will get even more upset. She’ll think I’m spying on her while she cries.
Kirana slowly returned to her room, afraid her footsteps would make a sound. She sat on the edge of her bed again. She picked up her phone. She looked at the story again. And again. Until her own eyes started to water.
Kirana opened the Notes app on her phone.
She typed something.
Not in WhatsApp. She was too proud to message Kyla directly.
So she typed it into a note that would never be sent to anyone. "Tomorrow morning, I have to apologize to Kyla. I have to make her favorite chicken porridge. I have to tell her that Sis loves her. I have to tell her that I’m only scared something will happen to Kyla, not that I hate Nata."
But Kirana deleted the note.
She was afraid Kyla might read it if she ever borrowed her phone.
Kirana opened the story again.
2:28.
2:31.
2:33.
She kept replaying it. One picture of a dark ceiling. One fake smile.
✿✿✿
Kyla’s phone, which she had thrown onto the bed earlier, vibrated.
Notification:
"Nata replied to your Close Friends story."
Kyla lazily picked up her phone. Her eyes were swollen. Her hair was messy.
Nata: "Kay, I saw your story. Are you still awake? I’m still at the internet café, working the night shift. I’m really sorry I didn’t message you all day."
Kyla read it. Marked as read. No reply. Five minutes later, her phone vibrated again.
Not from Nata.
From Ara.
2:39 a.m.
Ara: "KEY, ARE YOU STILL AWAKE??? I SAW YOUR STORY! ARE YOU OKAY??? I’M COMING TO YOUR HOUSE RIGHT NOW, OKAY???"
Ara really was the most alert bestie twenty-four hours a day.
Kyla read Ara’s message. Then replied.
Kyla: "no need, ra. i'm okay. i'm sleepy. i wanna sleep."
A lie.
Kyla wasn’t sleepy at all.
Outside Kyla’s room, Kirana was still awake, watching the story for the fifteenth time.
At the London internet café, Nata was still awake too, staring at the same story and waiting for Kyla’s reply that never came.
At 2:17 a.m., one Close Friends story was seen by the two people who had made Kyla cry that day.
In two different places.
With exactly the same feeling of guilt. But neither of them had the courage to knock on Kyla’s bedroom door at 2 a.m.
There was only Kyla sitting on the floor of her bedroom, still wearing her baby-blue blouse, with the dark ceiling above her. One glow-in-the-dark star was still faintly shining.
A quiet witness that today, Kyla really was tired of being Kyla.
✿✿✿✿✿✿
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