“Wynter and I put our money together, although he insisted on funding it all,” Cahya said, his voice softening. “We’ve been planning this forweeks.”
Wynter stepped closer, his gaze steady and warm. “We know you’ve been homesick,” he said gently. “You miss your mom, your people, your home. We just thought…it was time.”
I stared at them, my heart swelling with an overwhelming mix of gratitude and love. “You two didn’t have to do this,” I whispered, my voice breaking.
Cahya shrugged, his grin never faltering. “Of course we did. You’ve been working so hard, Yesoh. You deserve to see home again, see mom.”
“And it’s not just for that,” Wynter added, a small smile playing on his lips. “I wanted to do this for us, too. I want to see where you come from. To understand that part of you.”
The tears spilled over then, and I covered my face with my hands, laughing softly through the sobs. “You’re both ridiculous. And amazing. And…I don’t even know what to say.”
“Commonly I think ‘thank you’ works,” Cahya said with a wink.
I laughed, shaking my head. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
Wynter knelt beside me, brushing a tear from my cheek with his thumb. “You don’t have to thank us, Yesoh. We care for you. Deeply. That’s all this is.”
Cahya threw an arm around my shoulders, his usual playful energy tempered with something quieter, something deeper. “We leave next week,” he said. “So you better get ready, because Soleh is already planning his Jakarta food tour, and he’s got about twenty spots on the list.”
I couldn’t stop smiling, my heart so full it felt like it might burst. “I can’t believe you did this,” I said again, my voice thick with emotion.
“Believe it,” Wynter said, his smile soft and proud. “I’m starting to realize that I would do anything for you.”
And for the first time in months, the ache of homesickness began to fade, replaced by the warmth of family, of love, of home.
The soft glow of the lamp bathed the room in a warm, golden light as I settled onto the floor between Wynter’s knees. My hair spilled over my shoulders, a cascade of dark waves that I’d brushed out after my shower. The scent of the coconut oil I’d set on the coffee table filled the room, rich and familiar, wrapping around me like a memory.
“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” I teased, glancing over my shoulder at Wynter.
He smirked, rolling up his sleeves. “I think I can handle it. Just show me what to do.”
I handed him the bottle, smiling at his tentative expression as he poured a small amount of the oil into his palms. “Warm it up in your hands first,” I instructed, watching as he rubbed his hands together, the oil glistening against his skin.
“Like this?” he asked.
“Perfect.”
I turned back around, closing my eyes as his fingers gently threaded through my hair. His touch was careful at first, tentative, as though he were afraid of pulling too hard. But as he worked the oil through the strands, he grew more confident, his movements fluid and deliberate.
“You’re a natural,” I murmured, leaning into his touch.
“I aim to impress,” he said lightly, though there was a tenderness in his voice that made my chest ache.
For a while, we sat in comfortable silence, the only sounds were the soft rustle of my hair and the occasional creak of the old wooden floor. Then, Wynter broke the quiet.
“So,” he began, his thumbs gently pressing against my scalp in slow, circular motions. “Tell me about Jakarta. What was it like growing up there?”
I smiled at the question, the memories flooding back in vivid detail. “It was…beautiful,” I said softly. “Hot, crowded, loud—but beautiful. The city is alive in a way that’s hard to describe. It’s chaotic, but there’s so much joy in it. The food stalls on every corner, the smell of satay grilling on the street, the sound of the call to prayer echoing in the distance…”
As I spoke, Wynter’s hands never stopped moving, his fingers working through my hair with a soothing rhythm.
“Did you have a favorite spot?” he asked, his voice low and curious.
“There was this park near our house,” I said, my smile growing wider. “Taman Suropati. It wasn’t anything fancy, but I loved it. My mom would take us there on weekends, and we’d feed the birds or sit on a blanket under the trees. Sometimes she’d bring her guitar and sing for us.”
“Sounds magical,” Wynter said, his voice soft with admiration.
“It was,” I said, my chest tightening with longing. “I miss it. I miss her.”
