Ibu

  

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“You only claim to be a Pluviophile just to sound romantic.” she said slipping of her shoes then socks to wring the water out of it.
I chuckled. “Well, some people do put up a front. ” not denying or admitting anything.
“I used to too. But fuck this shit. I’m freezing.” and she will be freezing for the next one and a half hours or two, depending on the rain and stupid Jakarta traffic that always comes down harder with it.
“Why don’t you bring a sweater or a hoodie like everybody else on this freezing bus?”
“Look at my bag. If I stuff more stuff into it, it might report me for baggage abuse. A hoodie, you say?”
She was actually shivering when she said this.
I knew it was my cue to lend her my jacket.
When she looked all snug and rested her head on my shoulder to return the warmth, I looked out the window and thanked the rain.

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Lately, I’ve learned more and more about the four letter word. How it has a will of its own. How it sometimes takes over everything. How it makes you feel what the people it attaches you to feels.

Love, it lives. Even after we die.

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