Off the Record

Hi, Fafa!

I have an idea.

Perhaps we can leave them outside for a little while. Just for this letter.

Between us.

Don’t tell Detective N. Don’t tell Lupin either.

First things first…

Are you okay?

Is everything alright over there?

I hope the reason you’ve barely been sleeping lately is because something exciting happened, something that made your mind too alive to let you rest.

But if it turns out to be the opposite…

I hope it gets better soon.

And if there is anything I can do to make it even a little lighter, you can tell me.

My days are usually quite ordinary. I don’t think I ever truly have good days or bad days.

Most of them simply… exist.

So perhaps that makes me something like a blank sheet of paper.

You can write anything on it.

zzzzzzzz

Oh, I’ve been listening to Stupid Song much more often today.

You were right. It’s almost impossible to explain.

Halfway through I thought,

“I understand exactly what he means.”

A few seconds later, I realized I didn’t.

Then I wanted to replay it immediately, which is usually how I know a song has done something interesting.

You also introduced me to Daft Poet Society.

The name alone already felt like something I would have clicked.

I’m still making my way through them.

As I’m writing this, Luruh is quietly playing in the background.

I’m taking my time.

Though I noticed something curious.

When I searched for Matahari on Spotify, I couldn’t even find the listener count.

Is it a newly released song?

Either way…, I’ll listen carefully.

I think recommendations deserve that kind of respect.

Not because they’re only songs.

Because someone once lived with them long enough before deciding,

“I think you’d like this.”

So…

thank you.

You called your music taste inconsistent.

I think mine looks equally chaotic.

One moment it’s Taylor Swift.

Justin Bieber, Ariana Grande, Ed Sheeran, Dua Lipa, Mitski, Adele,…

Suddenly an obscure Korean indie singer whose name isn’t exactly ear-catching.

A bubbly k-pop girl group.

Then somehow a Korean rock band whose ballads quietly become my favorite songs.

Maybe I don’t actually have a taste. Maybe I simply like collecting experiences.

I did tell you.

I’m rather like a blank sheet of paper.

May I recommend one of my favorite bands to you someday?

As for Indonesian songs…, most of them arrive accidentally.

I overhear them somewhere.

At a café. Inside someone’s car. A convenience store.

Then gather enough courage to ask,

“Eh, ini judulnya apa?, hehehee..”

(By the way, I was wondering about the guitar piece you shared. Is it an official recording that’s available on streaming platforms? I’d love to hear the full version.)

The same thing happens with films and books.

I don’t think I’ve ever belonged to one particular genre.

I can spend one week reading psychological thrillers.

Then immediately watch something capable of making me cry for three days.

Then somehow end up enjoying a light, cliché romance immediately afterward.

I’m still trying to figure out whether that means I have no taste…

or perhaps I’m simply still collecting experiences.

One page at a time, a blank sheet of paper.

There is one thing I borrowed from your report that quietly stayed with me.

You wrote,

“Sometimes I suspect my favorite book is always the one I haven’t read yet.”

I smiled.

Because curiosity seems to have a strange relationship with satisfaction.

If we ever felt completely finished, perhaps we would stop reading.

Stop asking. Stop becoming.

Maybe an unfinished bookshelf isn’t evidence that we’re falling behind.

Maybe it’s simply proof that we still expect tomorrow to arrive.

I like that thought.

Speaking of books… You asked me which one has left the deepest footprint on my life.

I’ve been thinking about that question ever since I read it.

I still don’t know if I have only one answer.

Books seem unfair that way.

Different books arrive for different versions of ourselves.

The book that saves us at seventeen rarely saves us at twenty-five.

Sometimes they exchange places.

Sometimes they quietly wait until we become the person capable of understanding them.

Perhaps that’s why I never completely believe people when they say,

“This is the greatest book ever written.”

I always want to ask,

“For which version of you?”

I remember you wrote,

“Perhaps wisdom is not the collection of every truth. Perhaps it is the ability to recognize which truth you need today.”

I think you’re right.

Though I also find something comforting in admitting that today’s truth may not be tomorrow’s.

Maybe growing older isn’t becoming more certain.

Maybe it’s becoming more willing to revise ourselves without feeling embarrassed.

You also asked something that genuinely surprised me.

What was it like growing up as the middle child?

I don’t think anyone has ever asked me that before.

The official version is simple.

I have an older sibling. I have a younger one.

The unofficial version…, is considerably longer.

I actually wrote more than five paragraphs trying to answer you.

Then deleted every single one.

Reading them back, I felt like I was just being a whiner.

Maybe I’m still learning how to tell that story without sounding unfair to the people I love.

And somehow…, letting you read that version of me still feels strangely embarrassing, Faa.

Perhaps some stories need a little more time before they know how to introduce themselves.

Perhaps one day.

Just…, not today.

Another thing I’ve been carrying around ever since I finished your supplementary evidence.

You wrote,

“Perhaps every person really does speak their own language.”

I’ve been thinking about that sentence ever since.

Because maybe that’s why some conversations feel effortless while others never quite meet in the middle.

Not because one person speaks better.

Sometimes the most fluent people still fail to understand each other.

Meanwhile…

some people somehow do after only a handful of conversations.

Xdinary Heroes reference George Orwell’s 1984

There was one paragraph I almost wish you hadn’t written.

Not because I disagreed. Because I recognized myself inside it.

You wrote that the world has felt a little kinder lately.

I paused there.

Because I realized I’d quietly been feeling the same thing.

Nothing outside had really changed.

The news was still exhausting. The economy was still uncertain.

Life was still…, life.

And yet…, somehow…

certain mornings have become just a little lighter than they used to be.

I don’t know whether that’s measurable.

Perhaps some things aren’t meant to be measured.

Only noticed.

Perhaps that’s what kindness has always looked like.

Not changing the whole world.

Only changing the weight of an ordinary day.

I suppose Detective N would insist on calling this another investigation.

Lupin would probably classify it as supplementary evidence.

Fortunately…, they’re not reading this letter.

This one is only between us.

— N

p.s. Please excuse the messiness of this letter. I’ve been a little unwell lately, and my brain seems to have quietly gone on strike.