Longing for One’s Own Voice

Short Story by Leni Marlina

—

Rain had been falling since late afternoon and showed no intention of stopping. Alia stood at the threshold of the kitchen, checking a pot that was no longer boiling. The flame beneath it was small. She turned it down even further, an unconscious habit she had developed over the past few months: making sure that nothing was too much.

“Just turn it off,” Riki said from the living room.

“Wait a moment,” Alia replied. “The soup is almos… ”

“You always say that. It always ends up too salty.”

Alia turned. “Yesterday it wasn’t.”

“Yesterday?” Riki smiled faintly. “We didn’t cook soup yesterday.”

Alia fell silent. She opened her phone and scrolled through the gallery. A photo of a pot on the stove, steam rising. Yesterday’s date. She lifted the screen.

Riki glanced briefly. “That was two days ago. Look at the time.”

Alia zoomed in. The clock read 5:00 p.m. She remembered the rain, the smell of onions, the sound of a spoon striking the pot.

“Was it raining two days ago?” she asked, uncertain.

“No,” Riki said quickly. “It was sunny. You must be mixing things up.”

The word must landed lightly, almost kindly. Alia closed her phone. She stirred the soup slowly, as if stirring her own thoughts.

They ate without much conversation. Riki’s spoon moved steadily. Alia counted each bite. On the wall, their shadows stretched and fractured under the lamplight. The wall felt cold and solid, the foundation of the house, her father once said, built with Padang cement so it would not shift during flash floods. Alia touched it briefly, to make sure the world was still hard and real.

“Are you tired?” Riki asked.

“A little.”

“Because you think too much.”

Alia stared at her bowl. “I just want to make sure.”

“Make sure of what?”

“That I’m not wrong.”

Riki chuckled. “Everyone is wrong sometimes, Alia. But you… you’re often wrong.”

The word often made the soup taste bitter.

That night, before sleeping, Alia wrote in her brown journal, not to remember, but to survive.

Yesterday it rained. I remember. I am here.

Riki turned off the light.

“Don’t stay up late. You get sensitive.”

“I’m just writing.”

“Writing makes you invent things.”

Darkness fell like a curtain.

Morning arrived with the smell of wet soil. Alia swept the front porch. Leaves clung to the corners; she swept again, until everything was clean. Riki came out with his coffee.

“You forgot to lock the gate last night,” he said.

“I locked it.”

“No.”

“I remember the sound.”

“You remember the sounds of many things that never happened.”

Alia stopped sweeping. “Why are you always like this?”

“Like what?”

“Making me doubt myself.”

Riki sipped his coffee. “I’m protecting you from mistakes.”

“By making me wrong?”

“By making you aware.”

The word aware hung like mist. Alia wanted to be angry, but her voice caught. She returned to sweeping, the repetitive motion calming her.

The phone rang. Sari.

“Alia, are we still meeting this afternoon?”

“Yes,” Alia answered quickly.

Riki raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t tell me.”

“I did. Last night.”

“No.”

“We talked in the kitchen.”

“You dreamed it.”

Alia closed her eyes. “Riki, please.”

“Why do you always ask me to help you, but resist when I correct you?”

That afternoon, Alia met Sari at a small café. Steam rose from their cups. Her hands trembled.

“I’m starting to doubt my memory,” Alia said. “Small things. Dates. Conversations.”

Sari leaned forward. “Since when?”

“I don’t know. It’s like… fog.”

“Every time you’re sure, does someone tell you you’re wrong?”

Alia fell silent.

Sari took her hand. “Alia, write things down. Save them. Photos. Messages. Not to prove anything to anyone, just for yourself.”

Alia nodded. The fog thinned slightly.

At home, Riki was waiting. “You were gone long.”

“The café was crowded.”

“You must’ve picked the wrong time.”

Alia took out the receipt. “Here.”

Riki read it. “Cash registers often mess up the time.”

“All of them?”

“You trust objects too much.”

Alia swallowed. She opened her journal and wrote in large letters:

I trust myself.

Riki stood behind her. “Writing is an escape.”

“No,” Alia said, her voice trembling but whole. “It’s an anchor.”

Riki smiled. “A fragile one.”

Alia stood and walked to the wall, pressing her palm against it. Cold. Solid. The foundation worked silently. She took a long breath.

“You’ve changed,” Riki said.

“I’m learning to stand.”

“Without me?”

“With myself.”

Rain fell again. The shadows on the wall shifted, but Alia no longer followed them with her eyes. She opened the window slightly. Air entered, carrying the smell of earth. Real.

That night, she placed the journal in her bag. She photographed the gate lock before turning the key. Not to challenge—only to protect.

On the final page of the journal, she wrote:

I am the witness of my own life.

The days that followed were like walking on a slick floor. No hard falls, only small slips, repeated.

“Why don’t you reply to Sari much anymore?” Riki asked one evening.

“I do.”

“Are you sure?”

Alia opened her phone. The chat history was empty for the past two days. She scrolled, frowning.

“This is strange,” she said. “I remember typing.”

“You often think you type,” Riki replied lightly. “But you’re just thinking.”

Alia locked the screen. “Did you delete them?”

Riki laughed softly. “Why would I do that?”

“I don’t know,” Alia admitted. “That’s what scares me.”

“Scared of whom?”

“Of myself.”

Riki stepped closer. “That’s why you should listen to me.”

The word listen sounded like a command wrapped in care. Alia nodded, though her chest resisted.

The weekend came. A message from Sari: Can I come over?

Alia replied quickly: Don’t. I’m tired.

Riki saw the screen.

“A good decision.”

“Why?”

“You need calm. Other people crowd your head.”

Alia turned off her phone. The house felt wider—and emptier.

She cleaned the shelves, rearranging photos. A picture of herself smiling at the beach was placed at the back. A photo of her and Riki was set in front. She didn’t remember deciding this; her hands obeyed quietly.

In the living room, the cold wall was still there. She touched it, seeking balance. The foundation did not speak, but it held. Alia held her breath, imitating it.

“Why are you standing there?” Riki asked.

“It’s nothing.”

“You often say ‘nothing’ when it’s clearly something.”

Alia turned. “What do you want me to say?”

“The right answer.”

“Right according to whom?”

Riki paused. “According to us.”

The word us sounded vast, yet narrowed Alia’s steps.

That night, she wrote again. Her hand trembled.

I miss my own voice.

Riki turned off the light.

“Tomorrow you’ll forget.”

“No,” Alia said, clutching the journal.

“We’ll see.”

Fog descended thicker. Alia woke with a heavy head. The clock read 4:40 a.m. She remembered setting the alarm for 5:00.

“You turned it off,” Riki said from the doorway.

“I didn’t.”

“You were restless. I felt sorry for you.”

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

“For what? You always misstep when forced.”

Alia sat on the edge of the bed. “I feel stupid.”

Riki approached, smoothing her hair. “Not stupid. Fragile.”

The word touched an old wound. Alia cried without sound.

At noon, Sari arrived unannounced. Alia was startled.

“I was worried,” Sari said. “You disappeared.”

Riki cut in quickly. “Alia isn’t stable.”

Sari looked at Alia. “Is that true?”

Alia opened her mouth, closed it. “I’m… tired.”

“We can talk alone,” Sari said.

Riki smiled. “Later. She gets confused easily.”

Sari hesitated. “Ali?”

Alia nodded faintly—to Riki, not to Sari. The door closed. Silence fell like a wet cloth.

That night, Alia checked her journal. Several pages were missing. She held her breath.

“What are you looking for?” Riki asked.

“The last pages.”

“You tore them out yourself. You were angry.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You often forget when you’re angry.”

Alia sat on the floor, trembling. “If I remember everything wrong… who am I?”

Riki knelt before her. “You’re safe with me.”

“And without you?”

“You drown.”

The words felt like stones. She felt small, hollow. She almost gave in—almost believed the world was only safe if she stopped trusting herself.

Then she touched the floor. Cold. Hard. Real. The foundation bore weight. She remembered her father: strength does not make noise.

Alia stood slowly. “I want to sleep.”

Riki nodded, satisfied. “That’s the right choice.”

In the bedroom, Alia slipped a small piece of paper into her bag—not the journal. She wrote just one sentence, her hand shaking:

I am here.

She placed the bag near the door.

Outside, the rain stopped. The shadows thinned. For the first time in a long while, Alia did not wait for permission to breathe.

Morning came without rain. Light entered through the window’s gap, falling straight onto the floor. Alia sat on the bed, staring at the bag near the door. The small paper in her pocket felt warm. Riki was still asleep.

She stood quietly. Each step on the floor sounded clear. In the living room, she pressed her palm against the wall. Cold. Solid. The foundation worked silently bearing invisible weight. She closed her eyes, imitating it: holding, without noise.

Her phone vibrated. A message from Sari: I’m outside.

Alia opened the door. Morning air rushed in, fresh. Sari stood there, worried.

“Are you okay?”

“I want to talk,” Alia said. “Outside.”

They sat on the bench in front of the house. Alia opened her bag and took out the small paper. “I wrote this yesterday.”

Sari read it slowly. I am here.

“That’s enough,” Sari said softly.

“It’s small,” Alia nodded. “But real.”

Riki appeared at the doorway. “You didn’t tell me.”

“I’m telling you now,” Alia said. “I need space.”

“You’re confused.”

“I’m aware.”

“Listen!”

“No,” Alia cut in.
Her voice was not loud, but whole. “Now it’s my turn to speak.”

Silence tightened.

“I’ll be leaving for a while,” Alia continued. “I’m not accusing. I’m setting a boundary.”

Riki exhaled. “You’ll regret this.”

“Maybe,” Alia said. “But it’s my choice.”

She stood. Sari stood with her. Alia glanced once more at the house. The walls still stood. The foundation did not collapse when left for a moment.

The days that followed were simple. Alia stayed at Sari’s house. Mornings were for walking, afternoons for writing one page, nights for rereading without correction. When doubt came, she touched tables, chairs, floors, solid things that existed.

Each night she sent herself a short message: I am here. Today was like this.

Not every day was light. Some mornings the fog returned. But now there was space: a pause in which to choose.

A month passed. Alia returned to the house to collect her belongings. Riki was not there. The house was quiet. She walked slowly, touching the walls, not to check, but to give thanks.

She took her brown journal. Some pages were gone, but many remained. She smiled faintly. What remained was enough.

On the final page, she wrote without haste:

I am not always certain.
But I am learning to trust small steps.

The foundation did not shout. It held. Alia closed the journal. Locked the door.

Outside, the sky was clear. Shadows were short, no longer stretching.

Alia walked away with a long breath. There was no loud victory. Only a quiet steadiness, working silently like a strong foundation.

And that was enough.

—

Melbourne, Australia, 2012