Peeping Amanda

Adam, my best friend, left without saying goodbye. When school started again and we entered fifth grade, he wasn’t in class. I thought he was still on vacation, but when I went to his house, I found a yellow banner on the fence that read “House for Rent.” My mother said they had moved to Surabaya.

After being rented out for many years and changing tenants several times, the house was finally sold. The buyer was Mr. Maman, Amanda’s father. That was five years ago. Mr. Maman didn’t move in right away. The house was rented for another three years, left empty for a few months, and only then occupied by him and his two sons after he retired from the Department of Health. Less than a year later, his eldest son moved to Bandung for work. After that, Mr. Maman lived with just his second son until Amanda—his youngest child—came to live with them.

Mr. Maman liked to hang out by the mosque gate with the parking attendants and three other congregation members while smoking. If he wasn’t smoking, he would chat on the mosque veranda with the non-smoking members, usually after the Asr or Maghrib prayers, talking about politics or neighborhood gossip. He was sixty-six years old, overweight, with a broad face. His easygoing way of socializing made it seem like he had lived in our neighborhood for decades. He knew more about what was happening in our area than most of the long-time residents. For example, who would have guessed that the one who got the ridiculously budgeted project to install the mosque fence six months ago was the mosque treasurer.

“Just wait and see who gets the marble flooring project for the mosque later,” he said in his hoarse, Sundanese-accented voice.

I didn’t really know Mr. Maman’s eldest son, but I was quite close with his second son. His name was Rulie. I first met Rulie one afternoon on the side veranda of the mosque. He approached us while we were chatting, shook hands with each of us, and introduced himself as a new resident. He was chubby enough that we all had to scoot over to make room for him. We introduced ourselves. From there we learned a bit about him: he lived in the same block as me, previously in Tangerang, and his mother had died of cancer when he was in the eighth grade. Now he worked in public relations at a private hospital in East Bekasi while finishing his thesis.

But getting to know Amanda wasn’t as easy as getting to know her father or brother. Like climbing stairs, I got to know her step by step… and it took quite a while.

On the first step, I saw her as a stranger walking past my house. She could have been anyone—a factory worker in Cikarang, a brand promoter at the mall, a nurse at a hospital, or just passing through. It only occurred to me that she lived here five minutes later when she walked past my house again, carrying a plastic bag from the minimarket.

Curious about her, the next day I found myself waiting for her at the same time. I stood at the gate, occasionally glancing toward the T-junction of the alley. But after half an hour, she didn’t appear.

I kept watch again the day after, but she still didn’t show up. I thought maybe she had passed by while I was inside the house. So for the next two days, I kept an eye on the alley. When she still didn’t appear, I stopped caring about her.

A long time after that, when I had already forgotten about her, I saw her coming out of the alley junction. At that moment I was sweeping trash out the gate. At first I thought she was someone else, but I still recognized her round face. She walked right in front of me, moving as if in slow motion, her hair blowing in the wind, her long black skirt swaying.

Questions like “Who is she?”, “Where does she live?”, or “What’s her name?” popped into my head. But I’m not the aggressive type of guy. So I waited for her every morning at the time she usually passed by—between seven and ten o’clock. If I didn’t see her during that window, I figured she wasn’t coming. Or I just wasn’t lucky.

I didn’t consider waiting for her as a new routine, but rather as a side activity. I had plenty of morning chores: shaving my mustache and beard every two or three days on the terrace, watering the plants, throwing out trash, sweeping the yard, and sometimes hanging out laundry. So seeing her felt like a coincidence—if not considered good luck.

By chance, I learned her name next.

One morning while I was shaving, I heard my mother, who was sitting on the bench by the fence waiting for the vegetable seller, greet her.

“Where are you going, Manda?”

“Manda.” It was short for Amanda, of course. It was a beautiful name. I stopped shaving and peeked at Amanda through the gap in the bamboo curtain.

“To the shop,” she answered, smiling. A captivating smile. “See you, Ma’am.”

My eyes followed her until she turned out of the alley. I wondered, how did my mother know her?

That was a stupid question, obviously. My mother’s social circle was very wide. She helped organize the local pengajian, was active in the PKK, taught Qur’an recitation to children at the mosque, and so on. Meanwhile, I spent most of my time at home. I could have just asked my mother about Amanda, for example: “How do you know Amanda?” or “Where does Amanda live?” but I wouldn’t do that. If I slipped up and asked, even if not certain, my mother would say, “Just focus on getting a job first. Don’t think about girls.” Then my father, who was reading the newspaper, would shake his head. My ten-year-old sister would laugh at me.

My parents were indeed very worried about my future. At nearly twenty-seven years old, they thought I had been unemployed for too long—though one year and one month didn’t seem that long to me, considering I had good reasons for not working. I’ll explain the reasons later.

Even so, I believed my parents’ worry was a form of care, not excessive fear, and they each had their own way of showing it. For example, last Wednesday when Father found me lost in thought on the terrace chair. While patting my shoulder, he said, “Be patient, you’ll get a job again soon.” I appreciated it, even though I was actually thinking about Amanda.

My mother was different. She asked me to stop giving her monthly money—for now, until I got a job again.

I should have been happy to hear my mother’s wise words. After all, I had been the one funding almost all the household needs. I bought the rice, cooking oil, paid the electricity, water, internet bills, my sister’s school fees, and everything else. Not to brag, but this “so far” had been quite a long time—since I started my career five years ago—and I thought it was only right that I, as an unemployed person, no longer had to contribute monthly money. My mother had clearly thought it through. Her income from teaching Qur’an and my father’s nearly untouched pension could cover household expenses.

I could have accepted my mother’s offer, but after thinking it over carefully, I only took half of it. I mean, I still contributed to part of the household needs. That way, I felt that if I didn’t contribute financially, I would become a burden at home. I knew some neighbors who had been unemployed for too long, some even married with children. They often became the subject of gossip, and sometimes even became topics of conversation at home. My mother once told me about a neighbor who was divorced by his wife because he had been unemployed for too long, and I felt sorry for him—now comments like that felt like they were indirectly mocking me.

If you live in a close-knit neighborhood like mine, finding out where a newcomer lives is only a matter of time. That’s how I found out where Amanda lived.

That cloudy Saturday afternoon, Rulie asked me to come to his house to fix his laptop. It was important, he said. The data had to be recovered. I went to his house hoping there wasn’t any major damage so I could go home before it rained.

The wall clock showed 12:55, usually the time I would already be taking a nap. On the living room table were the laptop, work papers, and two pens beside it. We sat on the floor. Rulie opened the laptop and turned it on. It wouldn’t boot into Windows, only showing a blue screen.

I thought for a moment. I remembered my first laptop had a similar problem, but I didn’t panic like Rulie. Back then I searched for a tutorial on YouTube and followed the steps. It wasn’t hard. I tried the same method on Rulie’s laptop, and in less than five minutes it was back to normal. Rulie gave me one hundred thousand rupiah, but by then the rain was already pouring heavily.

“You don’t have any work at home, right?”

“Nope. Just relaxing.”

Thunder rumbled. Strong winds blew, shaking the curtains and scattering newspapers and papers on the table. I helped Rulie clean up the newspapers and papers scattered on the floor and put them under the table. Rulie closed the door and windows, turned on the lights, and went back to his laptop. I leaned my head on the sofa, hugging a pillow, trying to sleep.

There was a sound at the gate. I opened my eyes. Rulie glanced toward the window for a moment then went back to his laptop. Outside, I saw someone without an umbrella struggling to open the gate latch. It took a while before she managed to open it. She opened the house door and wiped her feet on the doormat. Her clothes were soaked. She looked at me, making me wonder if she knew I had been watching her often. She stepped inside, leaving wet footprints on the floor, then stopped behind Rulie.

“Has Dad eaten?” she asked Rulie.

“Yeah. Had eggs earlier,” Rulie answered while typing.

Water dropped from her hair. Her calves were pale white. She swept her wet hair back, exposing her underarm for a brief moment.

Rulie stopped typing. “This is my brother’s friend.”

I stood up, and we shook hands. Her hand was wet, cold, and soft.

“Amanda.”

Not long after she left, Rulie told me that his sister had graduated from high school almost two years ago. He and his father had asked her to continue to university, but Amanda insisted on working. She had worked as a brand promoter and a cashier at a minimarket. She knew how to use Excel, Word, PowerPoint, and MYOB. If there was any job vacancy info, please let him know, Rulie said. I briefly thought of asking him to send Amanda’s CV so I could get her phone number.

“Sure.”

That brief introduction made me braver to show myself in front of her. I pretended to be throwing out trash or watering the plants, or some other reasonable excuse, and greeted her when we crossed paths. I usually said, “Hi, Manda!” or “Where are you going, Manda?” Or sometimes just with a smile. I enjoyed every time I met her, as if seeing her for the first time. She was friendly, her face radiating cheerfulness.

It didn’t matter if I couldn’t yet invite her out to eat or watch a movie. My days already felt complete just by seeing her face. That was the downside of being so passive. For example, when I saw her walking with her male friends, or even when I heard she was dating Bowo.

Bowo and I had known each other for a long time, though we weren’t very close. We had our own circles; he hung out with his friends in the neighborhood youth group, I hung out with my friends at the mosque. For me, social circles were just a matter of tendency, like choosing a major in college. So even though we rarely spent time together, we remained good friends and often collaborated on neighborhood activities.

However, since working as a contract employee at the City Planning Department, Bowo seemed different. He became more arrogant. At first I thought it was just me, but it turned out many others felt the same, including Mr. Maman. That afternoon, after Asr prayer, while we were chatting on the mosque steps, Mr. Maman praised Bowo. He said the kid would soon be made a permanent employee at the City Planning Department. Then he paused for a moment before continuing, “No wonder. His father is the head of the division there.” And we all laughed.

I was very happy when I heard they broke up two months later. I didn’t need to know the reason. It wasn’t important. I mean, everyone already knew Bowo was a playboy.

Then Amanda became rarely seen again. But it didn’t last long. In fact, her appearances became more frequent, more routine, and… scheduled. She passed my house in the morning between 7:30 and 7:40, and in the evening around 5:30 wearing her work outfit: long pants and a dark blue blazer. Judging from her rather late departure and not-too-late return, I thought her workplace wasn’t far, maybe even walkable. Around those times, I would already be ready to throw out trash, water the potted plants, or just stand at the gate. Not every day, so she wouldn’t get suspicious, but every time we crossed paths, I had to give a positive impression. For example, greeting her while holding a book, so she would think I liked reading.

What I did next might sound inappropriate, though at the time I didn’t think of it that way. At the time, I only wanted to know where she worked. The idea came to me one morning right after she passed my house. After she turned out of the alley, I started following her. She headed toward the main road, went up the pedestrian overpass, crossed the road, then turned into the shophouse complex. Her office was at the back corner, near the motorcycle parking and the exit.

I didn’t do it every day. Sometimes I even arrived first. I mean, I was already around her office before she arrived. Sometimes I came at lunchtime to watch her eat. She bought lunch with two office friends. More often she took it away than ate there. She liked soto and fried chicken with rice, and always bought rujak.

Occasionally I followed her when she went home from work. Keeping a safe distance so she couldn’t hear me, I talked to her. I asked how she was, how her day at work was, whether we needed to find a babysitter for our baby, what we would have for dinner, and so on.

Now I need to explain why I’m not working. This explanation might be a bit long, but I hope you can understand my situation at that time, not to seek sympathy.

I used to work as a Business Analyst at a technology company in Jakarta. Commuting thirty kilometers to the office and thirty kilometers back by motorcycle, breathing in pollution, and coming home late at night apparently caused problems with my lungs. The symptoms had been there for a long time: getting out of breath every time I climbed stairs, a cough that wouldn’t go away, and shortness of breath at night. The clinic doctor said the cause was pleural effusion, or fluid buildup in the pleural cavity. In Indonesia, people often call it “wet lung,” but the doctor said that term isn’t accurate. The only way to recover quickly was to drain the fluid. So a needle would pierce my lung, then the fluid would be sucked out through a tube. The doctor said it wouldn’t hurt, but I imagined it differently. If an injection in my backside scared me half to death, what about an injection in the lung? Wouldn’t the needle be longer? This was why I needed time before deciding to take medical leave and go to the hospital.

My father offered to accompany me to the hospital, but I didn’t want to trouble him. I went by motorcycle and arrived at the hospital at half past eight. I registered for the Pulmonary Clinic, handed over my BPJS card, and was given a queue number. The Pulmonary Clinic was on the right, not far from the entrance after a short corridor. The waiting room was long and quite spacious, lit by sunlight coming through five tall wooden windows. Posters about TB and the dangers of smoking were on the walls. Dozens of gloomy faces sat waiting to be called. I sat on the rearmost iron bench, with my back to the window, next to an old man in batik clothes, wearing a black peci cap, who smelled of medicated oil and was sleeping.

Being there felt close to death. In the hallway, a teenager sat in a wheelchair with an oxygen tank and a tube attached to his nose. Beside him, a woman, probably his mother, looked exhausted. A bit further away, a thin old man in a sarong also sat in a wheelchair with an oxygen tank, accompanied by a young man—perhaps his son or grandson—who was massaging his hand. New patients kept arriving, filling the room, spreading viruses through uncovered mouths when coughing, making me regret not bringing a mask. I stood up and walked to the window in the corner of the room for fresh air and calm.

I entered the examination room after waiting an hour and a half. The specialist doctor who handled me was a plump woman in her forties wearing a light blue hijab. I climbed onto the examination bed. The stethoscope was placed on my back without needing to remove my shirt. I was asked to take a deep breath and hold it for a moment. My back was tapped in several places like the clinic doctor had done.

“Do you smoke?”

“No,” I answered. “Never.”

She returned to her desk, wrote something on paper, and handed it to me. It was a referral letter for an X-ray.

I went to the radiology department on the second floor. The queue was long, but it didn’t take long. I was asked to remove my shirt and stand against the wall. A large monitor swung over to cover my chest. Click. Click. Done. I put my shirt back on, and the staff said the results would be ready the day after tomorrow.

The results were bad. Shadows covered both of my lungs. It was a lot of fluid, a great deal. The doctor took a sample of the fluid from my lung for laboratory analysis. In short, the results were good. Clear, though slightly yellowish, and no bacteria. But when they tried full drainage, only about 10–15 mL came out. A second attempt produced the same result. They said the needle hadn’t hit the right spot. Then we moved to the ob-gyn room for an ultrasound of my lungs. Several spots on my back were marked with X using a red marker.

“Don’t let it get erased,” the doctor said.

As I walked out of the room, the nurse looked at me and joked, “Saving it all up in there, huh, Mas?”

I was confused for a moment, not expecting a joke about the water trapped inside my chest.

I returned the next day for another drainage, but after two needles pierced my back, the fluid still couldn’t be drained.

The only other option was to take four large capsules of medicine every morning for six months without interruption. Or if I forgot, I had to start over from the beginning. No dietary restrictions. On the first day of treatment, my urine turned red, then returned to normal in the following days. In the second week of treatment, my eyes and body turned yellow. The doctor said I had liver problems. Then he referred me to an internist at the same hospital.

I went to the lobby and registered for the Internal Medicine Clinic. There was no queue at Internal Medicine. No nurse. The examination was brief. I had to undergo lab tests. The next day I returned to the internist with the lab results. My liver was poisoned by the medicine, he said. I was advised to stop taking the lung medicine. I redeemed the liver medicine prescription at a pharmacy near home.

I used up the rest of my annual leave before resigning from my job to focus on my recovery.

There was no severance pay. The company kindly gave a thank-you payment and a tin of cookies delivered by courier to the house. The company insurance still covered my medical expenses. I received my final salary and bonus at the end of the month. My body weight plummeted from 75 kilograms to 55 kilograms in just two weeks. My cough became more frequent at night, the fluid in my lungs made sounds when I changed sleeping positions. Father made me warm sweet tea when I woke up in the middle of the night because of shortness of breath. Almost every day my former colleagues took turns calling me, asking how I was. Neighbors came to visit, bringing various foods, fruits, money, and traditional medicine suggestions.

I followed treatment suggestions from anyone: I drank boiled shellfish, temu lawak, turmeric, ginger, soursop leaves, and syrup—if that counted as traditional—and got reflexology massages every Wednesday. Father told me that the mosque congregation prayed for my recovery after Maghrib prayers. Every week I had blood tests and redeemed medicine. Having blood tests too often almost made me faint. After considering that the high cost of medicine and lab tests was not proportional to the progress, I stopped treatment.

Anyway, I liked this peaceful silence, without the routine of leaving the house at 5:15, making presentation materials, meetings until late at night, or being stuck in traffic for hours. The only thing I missed from my job was receiving salary and bonuses every twenty-seventh. I spent my time sunbathing every morning, reading books I hadn’t touched in a long time, reviving my photography hobby, learning graphic design, and contemplating life. After two months, I got better; the yellow color in my eyes and body slowly disappeared, leaving fluid in my lungs. Of course, it was impossible for the fluid in my lungs to just disappear, but I believed the heat of the sun made the fluid evaporate. The illness was also what brought me closer to Amanda. Here’s the story.

The wedding invitation was actually for my parents. Father asked me to go because he and Mother had another wedding invitation in Jakarta. I refused. I didn’t really know Hani, the bride, and apparently neither did my friends. My knowledge of Hani was limited to knowing her luxurious house. But Father kept persuading me, saying when else could I attend a wedding at a five-star hotel.

Father didn’t know that when I was still working I had attended several parties at hotels or even stayed overnight. But it felt like a very long time ago. I took the dark green invitation from the table and read it.

“Alright then. Give me the angpao.”

Father handed me a sealed envelope.

The hotel was in South Jakarta. I went by motorcycle. I parked in a small field outside the hotel. Two large wedding flower arrangements for Hani stood beside the entrance. In the lobby I saw the event signage. I went up to the second floor, signed the guest book in my father’s name, and put the angpao money into the box. The souvenir was a cool green tumbler.

The party was truly luxurious. Maybe a thousand people came. The groom was Italian. The Sundanese atmosphere was thick with the sound of degung music, traditional decorations, and a majestic pelaminan like a royal throne. Dozens of food stalls lined up on the right and left, each attended by waiters in bow ties. The chef himself checked the dishes at the long dining table. Beside the gate was a large ice sculpture shaped like a swan with the couple’s initials, various cut fruits and glasses of mineral water filled the round tables. The music stage was large, the sound crisp and clear.

I went to the right side, standing between two food stalls, looking for people I knew. Not to meet them, but to avoid them. The foreign guests, though not too many, stood out with their tall bodies, light skin and hair. The women wore kebaya and batik cloth, the men wore cream beskap or batik shirts, mingling in the buffet line or chatting with locals.

My guess was correct; I didn’t see any of my friends. No wonder she didn’t invite us. She probably didn’t know us anyway. It was natural. She had spent most of her life abroad. She spent her school years in Singapore, then continued her studies in England. The only time I met her was when we shook hands after Eid prayer about fourteen years ago. Even then I was with my parents. I went up to the pelaminan to congratulate the couple and their parents. The groom, the Italian guy, said “Thank you for coming” in fluent Indonesian.

I didn’t know how much money my father put in the envelope, but I was sure it wasn’t comparable to the amount of food I ate. After finishing a bowl of meatballs, I moved from one food stall to another, enjoying various breads, spaghetti, and kebabs. While queuing for lunch, I finally found one of my friends, Yusuf, who came as a qori for the akad nikah. And another one, Amanda, of course, who was working as a bridesmaid. I had seen her earlier on the pelaminan.

I sat on the left side of the building facing the stage. On the stage, the MC introduced a beautiful female singer in a red gown beside him. The singer smiled, said thank you, and introduced herself. I heard someone behind me whisper, “She was on Indonesian Idol.” The singer performed Endless Love, a song that should have been sung as a duet, but she sang it alone with a beautiful voice. No one danced like in the movies; the guests were busy with lunch and chatting.

My lunch was finished after two songs. I was too full to eat another bowl of meatballs or head home just yet. So I just sat there until the bloated feeling in my stomach subsided. More guests arrived, some others had already left. At the food table, catering staff refilled trays and plates. Amanda approached me from the side, but I pretended to be enjoying the music.

“Alone?”

Amanda wore a fitted white kebaya that revealed a hint of cleavage. Her bun had been undone, her makeup removed, so only her natural face showed. She wore gray contact lenses. Beads of sweat dotted her forehead. She pulled up a chair and sat next to me. She placed her hand on the back of my chair as if she had known me for a long time.

“Yes,” I answered, pretending to be surprised. “Actually my father was invited, but he couldn’t come. There’s another invitation elsewhere. A relative of my father’s is getting married.”

Amanda also didn’t know the bride. She became a bridesmaid at the request of Hani’s mother. Hani’s mother got information about her from Mrs. Wati, whose house was next to Amanda’s. Hani’s mother felt it would be awkward if there wasn’t a local girl as bridesmaid, or so Mrs. Wati told Amanda last week. Actually Mrs. Wati also had a daughter who was still in high school, but the girl was very shy. She thought why not Amanda?

Amanda had been a bridesmaid countless times since she was ten. It was tiring work and usually unpaid. Even so, being a bridesmaid at a foreigner’s wedding at a hotel would be a first for her, especially since her schedule was free that day.

“I even get to keep the uniform.” She stroked the sleeve of her expensive-looking kebaya. “For half a day’s work, the pay is decent. If it’s like this, I wouldn’t mind making bridesmaid my main job.” She laughed.

The preparations were like shooting a movie, she continued. Yesterday she had a rehearsal at the hotel along with fitting the dress. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner were at the hotel restaurant. On Sunday morning she was picked up to get ready, then attended the akad nikah, accompanied the bride in the traditional ceremony, and served as a guest greeter. Now her duties were finished. She had planned to go home—there was a driver to take her—but changed her mind after seeing me. There was something important she wanted to ask.

“What?”

She moved her chair until it touched mine, and her knee touched my thigh.

“Is it true you had lung disease? Are you fully recovered?”

I guessed Rulie must have told her. “Alhamdulillah, I’m recovered.”

“How did you get it? Where did you get treatment? How long did it take to recover?”

My serious illness at that time had become hot gossip in the neighborhood. People felt sorry for me. At that time I was very thin and looked pitiful. Two of our neighbors had died around the same time from serious illnesses, making them think my life wouldn’t last long. When I finally recovered, they considered me like the only passenger who survived a plane crash. A miracle. I thought that story was what made Amanda curious.

But it turned out not to be.

Amanda took a deep breath after hearing my story. Her empty gaze was directed at the stage. Did I tell it too dramatically? On the stage, the singer invited the guests to sing. A white man with a thick mustache in a green batik shirt hurriedly went up. He waved, greeted the guests, then introduced himself in fluent Indonesian. The singer asked what song he wanted to sing. Walk Away, he said. I knew that song. It was a Matt Monro song. My father had the cassette.

“I also had lung disease,” said Amanda. “When I was in the eighth grade. Not as bad as yours. Just spots on the lungs. I took the same medicine as you. After eight months I was declared cured. But after that I became paranoid every time I coughed. Scared it would come back. That feeling is still there until now. Do you feel the same?”

That question should have sounded ordinary. I felt I had recovered. No more shortness of breath or coughing, my weight was back to normal. I was healthy. Very healthy. But the fact that I hadn’t had another X-ray made the question turn into something frightening. I remembered my doctor once saying that fluid in the lungs could return if the cause hadn’t been addressed. Maybe I’m not really cured. I took a deep breath and said, “Yes.”

For a few moments we were both silent, both looking at the stage before Amanda finally said, “So, what are you doing now?”

I had once heard a neighbor ask my mother the same question, a question that could also mean something else: Why hasn’t your son gotten a job again?

People always seem curious about things that have nothing to do with them. Fortunately, my mother’s answer was very diplomatic. She said I was still in recovery, so I shouldn’t get too tired and wasn’t allowed to work yet. But I was sure Amanda wasn’t like that. It was just a spontaneous question, or in other words, she wanted to get to know me better. Without meaning to exaggerate, I said that I was still recovering and keeping myself busy learning new things. I was learning graphic design, photography, reading novels, writing short stories, growing chilies, yeah, anything.

“Amazing!”

“Might as well make good use of my free time, right?”

We stayed there until ‘Love Story’ ended around 2:00 PM. I took her home on my motorcycle.

By then, I’d stopped keeping track of how far along I was. I felt we both made positive impressions at that meeting. Maybe she felt the same way toward me. I certainly felt optimistic. But I knew my place. I had just entered her circle of friends, at the same level as her friends in the neighborhood youth group. I was still benefiting from the positive image I’d built before I got sick and stopped working. For example, until now I was the only graduate of a state university in our neighborhood.

Well, people might have forgotten or no longer cared about that, and saw a person’s current image more. Now they saw me as an unemployed person, but they didn’t know I had bright prospects. I was working on a personal project, a business. Like my feelings for Amanda, I didn’t need to tell them what project I was working on. In time, once my business took off, people would know for themselves.

That’s why I didn’t need to rush to show my feelings for Amanda, let alone confess my love. I acted as usual; I greeted her when we crossed paths or just watched her from behind the bamboo curtain. I never mentioned her name when talking with Rulie or my other friends. When my friends talked about her, I stayed silent as if the conversation wasn’t important. I also stayed silent when one of us showed interest in her. I wasn’t jealous when I saw her walking with her male friends. Even when I heard she was engaged, I wasn’t disappointed, sad, angry, or regretful.

Amanda herself delivered her wedding invitation to me when we crossed paths one afternoon while I was watering the plants. Her future husband was named Adam, a pediatric specialist acquaintance of her brother. Of course I didn’t think he was the same Adam as my elementary school friend. Even his full name was different.

I went to Amanda’s wedding reception on my motorcycle, with Jaja—my friend—riding pillion. Along the way to Amanda’s wedding venue, I remembered the first time I saw her, the first time I heard her name, when I followed her to her office, when we met at her house, up to when we chatted at Hani’s wedding. The situation would definitely have been different if I hadn’t gotten seriously ill. If I hadn’t gotten seriously ill, I wouldn’t have stopped working. If so, I would have had the courage to approach Amanda. Then we would have dated and planned our wedding. In the end, nostalgia and “what ifs” became my way of comforting myself.

Jaja and I entered the building behind the wedding procession that walked slowly. Once inside, we separated from the procession and joined our other friends on the right side. We were both mesmerized by Amanda’s beauty. Accompanied by degung music and the touching narration of the MC, the couple performed the sungkeman ritual. Amanda’s sobbing was heard as she asked for her father’s blessing. Mr. Maman repeatedly wiped his tears, then hugged his daughter. Amanda wore a white kebaya and a flower-adorned hijab, sitting beside her handsome husband. After the ceremony, we lined up to approach the pelaminan. I shook hands with Rulie and his father, then congratulated Amanda and her husband. While enjoying the various dishes, my eyes never left Amanda’s face. I was still watching her when she greeted the guests, when she took photos with her junior high friends, when she took photos with her high school friends, when she took photos with her coworkers, when she took photos with her neighborhood youth group friends, and when she took photos with me. ✦