My Red Strings: Growing Away, Growing Apart — EP4 | by Galuh Pratiwi | Nov, 2025

It was my first week of college, Thursday, if I remember right. The sun was too bright, my bag felt too heavy, and my soul was somewhere between “I should’ve stayed home” and “maybe college will fix me.” As we were about to go home, I bent down near the gate and picked a small blue flower. I did that a lot, it was kind of my bad habit. A tiny, weird ritual that possibly ruined the world if there were thousands of me. I liked the color, the beauty of it.

And then there he was, Alden.

Alden leaned in confidently but not in a creepy way, thank God, gesturing something like, “You should put it behind my ear.” I laughed, thinking he was joking. He wasn’t. He tilted his head, waiting. So I tucked the flower behind his ear, and he grinned like he’d just invented romance. Maybe that was the moment everything started. I didn’t know it yet, but I was probably already falling.

From that day, it was like we’d known each other forever. Everything between us just… clicked. We started walking together to class, sitting together during lectures, grabbing lunch, working on projects. Basically forming a two-person cult that confused everyone else. And every morning, without fail, I’d get the same message from him.

“Where are you?”

Three words. Zero punctuation. It was our unofficial good-morning text. At first, I thought it was sweet, like he cared. Later, I realized he probably just wanted someone to share his complaints with. But I didn’t care. I looked forward to it.

He was charming in that effortless way that made people stop mid-conversation when he spoke. He had opinions about everything, politics, music, the meaning of life, the cafeteria’s weird tasted orange juice. He was smart, confident, and slightly annoying. My type, apparently.

We became inseparable. My friends started teasing me, “You two are basically boyfie and girlfie,” they’d say, which I’d laugh off while silently dying inside because yes, I wished.

For a while, it was perfect. He’d walk beside me, say something funny, and I’d laugh too loudly like an idiot. You know that kind of laugh where you sound like a malfunctioning printer? Yeah, that was me.

But slowly, little cracks started to show.

It began small, harmless, I told myself. Like the way he’d interrupt people mid-sentence to correct their grammar. (Yes, I know, I did that too, little hypocrisy but you’ll know what I mean in a sec) Or how he’d joke about people’s mistakes just a little too loudly.

Then came Kana. Sweet, confused, a little lost Kana. One of our classmates who never seemed to know what day it was but always smiled anyway. Alden loved picking on him. He’d mimic Kana’s stutters, exaggerate his answers, and act it all out like he was auditioning for a stand-up comedy special. Others laughed too, maybe out of habit or just to fit in, but the way he did it felt different. It was crueler, sharper, like he wanted to prove something.

I remember one day, Kana was trying to answer a question in class. He was nervous but eager, bless his heart. And I caught Alden smirking. That look stayed with me. I didn’t find it funny. I expected more from him. More compassion, More respect. Later that day, I told him somewhere along the line that he laughed too loudly. He just smiled and said,

“It’s okay to be superior when you are.”

I wish I were kidding.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or throw a chair. Instead, I laughed, because what else do you do when the person you like says something so painfully arrogant you question all your life choices?

Still, I stayed. I told myself he didn’t mean it that way. That maybe I just didn’t “get” his humor. I clung to the good parts, his wit, his boldness, the way he remembered tiny details about me. I ignored the red flags waving like they were in a national parade.

Then came the writing project.

Alden got paired with George who was not the strongest writer in the batch. When they presented, the lecturer praised the work, and Alden said, smiling, “Oh, I’m not the only one who did it, ma’am. Of course, Mr. George right here had some part too.”

Everyone laughed. I didn’t. I wanted to melt and crawl into the floor. The tone, the smile. It wasn’t humor. It was humiliation disguised as charm.

But did I say anything? Of course not. I was too busy pretending everything was fine because confronting your crush about being a jerk is apparently illegal in my emotional codebook.

Then, the universe decided to hit me with a plot twist. I found out, through one of my classmates whom Alden wanted to be best friends with, that Alden told him and some other friends that I liked him. Like it was some kind of achievement.

“He totally knows you like him,” one friend whispered, giggling.

And just like that, my heart dropped, hit the ground, and rolled under the table.

It wasn’t just embarrassing, it was infuriating. The idea that he’d use my feelings as a confidence booster? Was it to win over his best friend-to-be? I didn’t know, but it definitely made me want to delete my entire personality and start over. Still, the final straw hadn’t arrived yet. Oh no, that was saved for later — the grand finale of disappointment.

Alden created a new email account for our class. When I saw the address name, my jaw dropped. He’d used a homophobic slur. Yes, that word started with f, the one that rhymes with “maggot.” He thought it was funny. Like, really funny.

I stared at the screen, expecting someone to jump out and yell “gotcha!” But no, it was real. He was laughing about it. I remember thinking, Wow. Imagine studying social ethics, colonialism, and marxism, while being the walking definition of irony.

That was when something inside me finally clicked. Or maybe it cracked. My admiration turned into a kind of quiet disgust. I stopped replying to his “Where are you?” messages. I stopped waiting for him after class. I stopped trying to see the good in someone who clearly didn’t care to be good.

It didn’t happen overnight, but little by little, I let go.

And when I did, I saw him differently. His “confidence” now looked like arrogance. His “humor” sounded like mockery. His intelligence? Just another weapon he used to make people feel small.

I didn’t hate him — not exactly. Hate takes too much energy. I just stopped seeing him as someone worth thinking about. It was like watching a statue crumble and realizing it was hollow inside.

Sometimes, though, I still catch myself remembering the good parts, the morning messages, the blue flower, the laughter that used to feel so real. But nostalgia is a liar. Those memories don’t make me sad anymore.

Now, we’re strangers. Not enemies, not friends, just two people who once stood side by side, staring at the same blue flower, before walking in completely different directions.

Looking back, I don’t regret knowing him. I just wish I’d known him sooner (like really known him). Because love without understanding is just daydreaming, and admiration without awareness is dangerous.

I used to think love stories always had to end with heartbreak or confession. But sometimes, they end with something quieter. Realization. Peace. Growth.

And maybe that’s better. Because walking away from Alden wasn’t losing love. It was finding myself again.