Why Different?
Under The Rain, They're Crying Again
Dozens of bubbles of messages that Zahira sent for three consecutive days ended up left in a state of two gray ticks, a sign that let alone reply, reading it was not willing Juan.
Zahira got off the bed, walked straight to the dresser and sat on a chair. In front of him, there was a mirror that allowed him to see how ugly he looked at the moment. Pale face, puffy eyes, dry lips and long hair disheveled. Rather than a human, he felt much more akin to a zombie. The difference is, he has no desire to hunt the brain to meet the hunger that continues to undermine. Instead, he had no taste for putting anything into his bitter-tasting mouth.
It may sound like an exaggeration, but for Zahira, this is the first time he and Juan have had a big fight. Even if she could ask, Zahira was more willing to listen to the man blabbering at length in front of her face, protesting against anything that would be wrong so that she could make a defense. However, what happened now even made Zahira confused. Juan was chatty, so if the man had stayed for days, it meant that the man's anger had reached a level where it might be difficult to apologize.
Desperate, Zahira rolled her head on the dresser, removing a series of skin care from various brands to the corner so she could freely lay down her head that felt like it was about to break. Then he lamented his phone again, rereading the unreadable messages ignored by the recipient.
So excited to scroll the screen, Zahira until not realizing that slowly the gray tick there has changed to blue one by one. He was still busy lamenting, unaware that the messages were beginning to be read by Juan.
Until then, an incoming call made Zahira's hand movements that were still engrossed scrolling the screen practically come to a halt. It's like a dream, but it's too real not to admit it. On the screen of his phone, Juan's name is so clear, complete with a profile photo showing a pair of couple rings they bought late last year.
With a slow motion, Zahira lifted her head, glued to the screen for a long time, just convincing herself that the person calling her was Juan, the lover she was waiting for.
Seconds and seconds are up for free, without Zahira doing anything to get the ringing on her phone to stop and their phone to connect. Until at sec—entah ke-berapa, Zahira with a trembling hand shifted the green log.
Juan's voice echoed closely, clearly amidst the noise of the rain. Oh, Zahira doesn't even realize it's raining outside, because she's too focused on diving into her own rain, the rain that falls on her heart.
“Ju?” he called, as if in doubt.
While on the other end of the phone, Juan still heard his heavy voice that collided with the splashing of rain water.
Zahira's tongue felt faint, so in the end he did not say anything to respond to the question that was thrown from Juan's lips next. In fact, he again cried, sobbing when his chest again felt tight.
The issue of course caused concern from the man across the phone, who was now out of nowhere but Zahira could feel that they were so close. It's so close, just like a vein with a pulse.
Tens of seconds went on like that. Zahira with her crying became more and more, while Juan could only shut his lips and let the lover cry until satisfied.
Juan's voice was still echoing on the other end of the phone, but Zahira no longer cared about it. After getting the instant headscarf she was looking for, Zahira immediately put it on, then ran out of her room which was only illuminated by a dimly lit sleeping lamp.
A dozen steps down in a hurry. His breathing was no longer noisy, but Zahira did not intend to stop for a second. He didn't want to lose a moment, didn't want to lose an opportunity to be able to accept Juan's forgiveness even though he didn't know what kind of reward he had to receive for it.
It was already midnight, the house was deserted and the only room that was still left in a state of light was only the middle room. So when Zahira arrived in the living room, he turned on the lights, then ran back to the main door and opened the big door with the rest of the energy.
Zahira's tears broke again when she found Juan standing in front of the gate, letting his body wet under the rain while the phone was still stuck in the ear, waiting for Zahira to answer his words when the woman no longer heed where he left his phone.
Just half an hour before he stood there, Juan decided not to call Zahira on the first try. Although it was late and Reno had told him to meet Zahira the next day, Juan still insisted on coming here. His car was parked far away, barely visible from his current standing position. So when it finally rained right before he called Zahira for the second time, he remained reckless standing there despite having to shiver with the cold.
Zahira walked over to Juan. It was no longer unthinkable for him to just look for an umbrella so that he was not bored. Reaching the courtyard, the limped step he turned into a wide swing, half running he towards the gate. To finally arrive in front of Juan and immediately burst into the arms of the man.
Stupid timing. Zahira no longer cares about people. Want anyone to witness his behavior at this time, Zahira will just turn a deaf ear and pretend to be deaf.
As for Juan, the man froze where he stood. He was too surprised, still unable to process what was going on so instead of returning Zahira's embrace, he just kept quiet like a lifeless body.
“I'm sorry, Ju.” Zahira's trembling voice becomes a helper for Juan who is about to lose his sanity. In that instant, Juan returned Zahira's embrace, much tighter than the woman did.
“Don’t cry, Za.” Juan whispered. “I'm not here to see you cry.”
Zahira said nothing. The more face he put into Juan's chest. Although they ended up equally wet, but that hug could at least slightly hug the poignant one that he kept tight for these three days.
The rain that fell more and more did not prevent the two human children from completing their feelings. They remain in that position for quite a long time, completely removing anything else from the inside of the head.
Seriate
