The morning air bites at my earlobes. I bury my chin deeper into Mom’s old batik scarf—the one I never fold right. The first step is always the cruelest: cold asphalt creeps through my worn sneakers, remnants of a night reluctant to end.
But I keep walking. Here, on the cracked entrance to my neighborhood, the fog still smells like the earth’s sleepy sweat. The trees loom like lazy giants rubbing their eyes. One by one, light slips through brittle branches, scrubbing my face raw.
My arms swing hard. My breath forms little clouds shredded instantly by the wind. I push faster—left, right, left—as if racing the heartbeat chanting, “Electric bill’s due tomorrow.”
Near the clogged drain, the warung lady dumps cloudy rice-washing water onto the street. It stings—sharp, raw, like the earth just birthed this morning. She stares. Probably wondering why a 27-year-old woman walks at dawn in a neon jacket, hair wild, sniffling from a cold.
I walk faster. My legs burn, sweat pooling under my bra strap. Here, on this street that hasn’t been conquered by TikTok sermons or honking cars, I can pretend to be normal. Someone whose eyes aren’t swollen from scrolling old texts. Someone whose chest doesn’t tighten passing the old mosque where we used to pray together on Fridays.
At the street’s end, I gulp water. It sloshes in my empty stomach. The sky’s now a murky blue—the exact shade of his shirt when he said, “Let’s just be friends.”
A motorbike roars past. Exhaust smoke carves up my face. But beneath the noise, I hear it: the church bells clanging at the corner. Their echoes tumble onto the asphalt, roll into gutters, sweeping up the night still clinging to weeds.
I turn back. The walk home feels heavier—like the fog stuffed rocks into my backpack. But between steps, I catch the nasi uduk seller yelling “Extra spicy, Ma!”, a kid wailing for candy money, and my sneakers still chanting: left, right, left.
This isn’t a morning walk. It’s survival. Every step slaps me awake: “You can still feel. You’re still alive. You’ll still need to fight for that instant coffee when you get home.”
I rub my temples. My $5 watch beeps—6:17 a.m. The garbage truck’s coming. I hurry, but not before glancing up.
The fog’s gone. The sun hangs high and sterile, like the office neon lights where I’ll clock in soon. One hour from now, I’ll be just another girl in a cubicle. But for these 4,237 steps, I’m the goddamn main character of this cracked asphalt universe.
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