Sudirman Street, and All That I Leave Behind

Recommended songs to accompany you reading this story :)
> Loml - Taylor Swift 
> Intro (end of the world - extended) - Ariana Grande

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The sun had risen high, casting its golden glow across Sudirman Street, where the traffic hummed like a well-oiled machine. The street was alive, vibrant in the way only the noon light could make it. The soft halos of yellow from street lamps were replaced by the harsh brightness of the sun, reflecting off the glass facades of towering skyscrapers. Horns blared, cars and motorbikes weaving in a chaotic dance, an orchestra of urgency without a conductor. The city pulsed, a heart too busy to notice the quiet ache of a single soul. And yet, amidst the swarm of bodies and noise, she moved like a shadow, slipping unnoticed through the city's veins.

Sudirman had a particular scent at noon—a mix of fresh exhaust fumes, the smoky sweetness of satay grilling on the side streets, and the faint perfume of the city's midday heat radiating off the asphalt. It was strange how even scents could echo memories. As she passed the roasted peanut vendor near the underpass, she found herself smiling, remembering how he had been there just a couple of months ago. Just as they had been, once.

They used to laugh here—her and him—just two figures among thousands, standing too close beneath the buzzing street lights at night, their faces hidden in shadow. He used to tug her by the wrist into warung stalls when the rain had caught them, pretending they were on some cinematic adventure. But now, with the sun shining high and a new warmth on the pavement, there was no wrist tug. Just her, and the world, and the soft murmur of people moving past.

She paused near the pedestrian bridge, where the city opened up in layers—people moving above, people moving below, each with somewhere to go, each in their own world. Jakarta never stood still. Maybe that was what made the heartache sting more sharply: how the world continued to spin, unaware of the emptiness left by one person's absence.

A neon sign blinked lazily across the street—Warung Ketoprak. That was their spot. Their third date. She remembered how they’d argued over who made the best Ketoprak and how she had laughed so hard at his stubbornness that he ate the fallen cracker. Now, the same tables were taken by strangers, laughing in ways that didn’t know her name. Life had moved on. It was time she did, too.

A warm breeze brushed her face, lifting strands of hair like a soft whisper. She closed her eyes for a moment, allowing the city to speak to her—not in words, but in sensations. The buzz of motorbikes zipping past, the mouthwatering aroma of grilled chicken drifting from food stalls, the steady tap of hurried footsteps on the pavement, the carefree laughter of teens in their uniforms. Life. It thrummed all around her, and she was still part of it, even if her heart had yet to catch up.

“I miss you,” she whispered—not aloud, but deep within her thoughts. It wasn’t a desperate kind of longing. No, it was quieter now. A soft ache, worn and familiar, like an old shirt that still fit, but no longer held the same weight. Comfortable, but no longer necessary.

She crossed to the other side of the street, her steps more certain now. The skyline loomed ahead, gleaming and metallic, reaching toward the vast sky. The skyscrapers shimmered like fragments of possibility. She had once looked at them and thought of their shared dreams. Now, she looked at them and saw only her own reflection.

It wasn’t that she had stopped loving him. No, some loves remain etched in the soul like graffiti on old brick walls—imperfect, fading, but undeniable. But in the wake of their ending, she had learned something: love doesn’t always mean forever. Sometimes, love is a moment. Sometimes, it’s the season. And sometimes, it’s a street in Jakarta where memories linger, but you no longer need to stay.

There, at the corner of the bus shelter where they once missed the last TransJakarta together, she paused for a moment. Her fingers brushed against the cool metal pole, grounding herself. A couple passed by, hands entwined. She didn’t flinch.

The wind shifted once again, carrying a new scent—a hint of jasmine from a passing street vendor. Her favorite. She smiled.

This street would always carry pieces of her—of them. But she wouldn’t remain trapped in its maze. She would walk forward, not as half of a broken pair, but as a woman remade by her own strength.

As she stepped into the slow march of the crowd, the city swallowed her whole, not in forgetting, but in forgiveness. For him. For herself. For all the would-have-beens that never found their ending.

And just like that, Sudirman faded behind her—still alive, still humming—but carrying only the echoes of a love she no longer needed to carry.

You can read the Indonesian version here:
INDONESIAN VERSION