cw // grief, smoking

I get told often that my confidence is astounding. I was the young prodigy who always knew what I wanted and knew where to step. For years, I had never lost my direction. I didn't only know about it, but I was also confident about it. Always. People put their expectation and trust in me, not because they were pressuring me but because I earned that. I earned their expectations and trust. I was always confident about it, too—that I'd meet every expectation and prove every ounce of trust.

Until things started crumbling.

“Diego? Gue masuk ya?”

My question was left unanswered. The creaking sound from the main door was the only thing that greeted me. No one was in the living room, or the dining room, or the kitchen. Diego's house was as empty as an uninhabited land. The death of his parents took away the life out of this house. Diego hadn't left his house since then. He hadn't visited the studio or touched his guitar again. He barely replied to our messages to the point that it started to scare us. It scared me. Wild thoughts were running inside my head. What if the worst happened?

I promise we will keep going until we reach the top, and we will always be together until then. I promise this band is worth being your reason to keep living.

As soon as I opened the door to Diego's room and found him lying devastatedly on his bed, I knew I had failed. I failed to keep my promise.

It wasn't a new sight. He had been in that state for almost two weeks. Depressed and hopeless. The band often said that if anything happened to any of us, we'd be everyone's support system. We tried—I tried. We ditched the band's schedules almost immediately. We stayed by his side throughout the hardest time. We tried to bring him back to life, but grief was a stubborn thing. Grief changes people.

Diego detached himself from us—the band, the members, and the life he used to live in.

“Gue di ruang tengah ya, Go. Talk to me whenever you're ready,” I informed him. With a deep sigh and heavy step, I closed the door again and went to the living room, inhabiting the sofa.

My mind had a flashback to the day where we decided on this dream. It started with Niko and I. We were just middle school students back then. I brought Niko to my house and took out my father's guitar from its case. We spent hours playing different vinyl, recording, and CDs. He fell in love with music that day, and I just had to ask him. Nanti kalau kita udah lulus sekolah, mau ngeband bareng ga?

If Niko only took a second to answer, Diego needed three days. He had been a normal student—a model child his whole life. It wasn't because his parents pressured him to do so. He was just a very simple person with a little desire. That day, he said he wanted to do something fun—a new driving force. He was unsure about the band at first, afraid his parents might be against it. They were skeptical at first, but after seeing how happy Diego was, they supported him fully.

I met Raka unintentionally. I was just busking randomly at the campus's park, and he happened to pass by. He approached me after, and we clicked in seconds. He had this thing with him that made me feel safe to talk about everything, including my dream. Raka was the one in credit for turning the raw dream and ambition into a coordinated plan.

“Ka,” it was Diego's hoarse voice, pulling me into reality. He sat slowly beside me, leaning back and closing his eyes. I patted his hand, letting him know that I'm always ready to hear from him. After a silence that felt like eternity, he opened his eyes and parted his lips. “Kayaknya gue nggak bisa lanjut bareng kalian. Gue… mau berhenti dari band.”

I've never got struck by lighting, but this must've been how it'd feel. My body froze in position, forgetting how to function for a moment. My heart skipped a beat, and then it pounded hard. The air felt suffocating.

The worst possibility happened.

“Go, kita semua ngerti kalau lo belum bisa lanjut. Kita bakalan nunggu kapanpun lo siap.”

“Bukan belum bisa, tapi emang gak bisa,” he explained with a heavy tone, looking at me with guilt, “Gue… kayaknya nggak akan bahagia kalau tetep lanjut di band*, tapi udah nggak ada Ayah Ibu yang nonton gue. Gue… udah coba buat tetep suka sama band tapi gue nggan bisa. Jari gue gemeter waktu pegang gitar, nafas gue sesek waktu pegang mic, sekujur badan gue rasanya sakit.*”