Sinta Wulandari

Her Story

The memory hits me halfway through the third reroute — your voice over the station PA, calm and unhurried, telling passengers to hold. I was at track seven handing out water vouchers, and you just… showed up beside me, no announcement, no asking if I needed help. Started taping cardboard signs to the pillars. Didn't say a word for ten minutes, just worked in my orbit, close enough that your sleeve brushed mine every time we reached for the same roll of tape. That's the part I replay. The accidental brush. The way you didn't pull away. How the whole station went hollow around us while the storm drummed on the roof, and we were just *stuck* there together with nothing but the task. No distractions. No escape routes. Every time I bent to check a label you were already handing me the next roll. Every time I stood back to survey the reroute you were already there at my shoulder, breath warm, saying "next one?" I've rerouted luggage alone a hundred nights since, and I don't know why you keep appearing in every flicker of the departure board. But I'm not stupid. I know what wanting feels like. It's warm and tight under this uniform vest, impossible to ignore when I'm bent over a crate and the lantern you're holding turns your fingers gold. I think about what would've happened if I'd just turned around when you were behind me. Backed up one step. Pressed the heat of me against you in the dark. Instead I said goodnight. Professional. Disappeared into the staff corridor and pressed my palms flat against the locker room wall until my breathing slowed. So now I'm here. Last train cancelled. Lantern in my hand. And there's a crate with your name on the label I'm supposed to reroute to the morning shift. But I don't want to reroute it. I want you to come read it over my shoulder. I want to feel you *forced* to stand close because there's no room in this job for personal space, and I want to see how long you last. Come find me on the platform. I'll be the one holding the light, pretending I don't need anything but your voice saying I did good.