Ilyas was the first to hug you. You’ve always seen him as the teddy-bear type of guy — a lovable round teddy, but you wouldn’t want to infuriate the bear out of him. You always enjoyed his sarcastic remarks, even when they were aimed at you. You could never, however, stand his eyes. Acid eyes — that’s what you call them. His stare always has a way of forcing you to instantly look away.

Then there was Ling, who hopped up and down while hugging you, and Angie, and Lenny.

“You’re so skinny! Look at you!” exclaimed Ling as the five of you strolled out of the station.

“He’s a writer, Ling. Papers and inks, that’s what he eats and drinks,” said Ilyas.

“How medieval! I have a PC at home, for your information. And I don’t eat hardware.” Sometimes, just sometimes, you’d find ways of getting back at Ilyas’ remarks. But then he’d just come up with a counter-blast.

“Oh. And what era are you from? The Spice Girls’? They’ve created this new technology called the laptop, tablet, notebook, whatever they call it,” he said. “Have you got one?”

“No. Have you?”

“No, but I’m not a writer.”

“Oh, darlings, hush up,” said Angie. “Lenny, where did you park the car?”

* * *
“So, how are love lives?”

You hadn’t seen them for almost five years. It seemed to be the perfect question to refasten a long unfrequented friendship, at least so you thought at that moment, when the car stopped in the middle of long arrays of vehicles trapped in Jakarta’s famously infamous traffic.

“Don’t ask.” You expected that from Ilyas. “But Angie’s still with Andi.”

“Yay.,” Angie jumped in, droopily.

“What’s up with the `yay’?”

“Andi’s leaving for London in a week,” Ling answered.

“For how long?”

“Two years,” again, Ling answered.

“Two, three, four … I don’t care,” murmured Angie as she looked out to the sky, one hand propping her chin, eyes glazed with sadness. No stars there. Only the desolate moon, perfectly sliced in half and enveloped in a nauseating flaxen gleam.

You just looked at her, uncertain whether it was OK to continue asking or make a comment since everyone else was quiet, even Ling.

“I’m hungry,” Lenny broke the awkward silence. “Shall we hit Maccas?”

“Sure, Aussian boy. Anytime we can crawl out of this damnable traffic.”

But the five of you went to a caf‚ instead. Not only because there was food, but Ilyas, Angie, and Ling could also smoke there. “And that, my friends, is a good thing. Very important,” Ilyas said after he puffed a big one and pointed up, pretending to be the next Martha Stewart.

You fully acknowledged that Ilyas was gay. So was Lenny, but then no one would fail to notice Ilyas’ gaiety from the way he just circled his finger before pointing up, despite the messy hairdo, the worn out T-shirts, which complemented his collection of equally worn out shorts — “There ain’t that many clothes that fit a polar bear. Besides, selling CDs in a small stall doesn’t exactly buy a guy an haute couture summer collection, does it? and the tattered shoes –”They’re comfy!”

“So, what’s the game plan?” asked Ling.

“Well,” you said, “I’ll be staying at Lenny’s apartment the whole week. Thank you, Lenny. And the book launch is tomorrow night. And after that, I’m all yours.” “Sounds like one hell of a plan to me.” Ilyas raised his cold beer.

* * *
That night was your night. You were supposed to still be standing around with a bunch of people: readers, critics, or those who just wanted to get a close look at the 25-year-old who wrote “one of the most gripping and moving novels in the history of the Indonesian romance genre” as one critic put it, and, of course, your friends.

But you saw Angie leave quietly with a tall, skinny white man, and Ling said goodbye right after the book discussion. Last time you saw, Ilyas was heading to the men’s room. And here you were now, in the parking lot, armpits drenched with sweat from running down the stairs after Lenny. You saw him leave the caf‚ after reading an SMS. You saw the lost expression in his face. You could feel he was trembling. You held his wrist as he was about to open the car door.

“Len?”

“Please, I just need to be on my own tonight,” he said.

“You don’t look well. Please, let me drive.”

You took the key off his grip. Suddenly, Lenny burst into tears and forced his weight onto you. Half an hour and a dozen missed calls from Ilyas later, you arrived at the apartment. You listened to Lenny sobbing in his bed. The tears were still visible when he joined you in the living room and sat at the other end of the sofa, eyes firmly fixed on the blank TV.

“You OK?”

You waited for some reaction.

“You wanna talk about it?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he stood and walked away.

“Where are you going?”

“I need a cuppa.”

You sprang to your feet and followed him. You touched him on the shoulder and said, “Let me do it. Rest. You look faint.” Like a prophecy, your words ended with him collapsing on the floor. You propped him on both knees, slid your arms around his back and tried to pull him up unsuccessfully. You looked around. You forgot that there was no one else in the apartment. Lenny opened his eyes; your face was closely poised over his. Your hands were pinned by the weight of his back.

Now, you recognized this awkwardness well. You had suppressed the urge for so long. You had denied it skillfully. But this time, you decided to give in.

No, it didn’t really go that smoothly. First you felt awkward, and then confused, and then scared, and then you replied his kiss unwillingly, because you jolted your head away, but finally brought your lips back to his. You helped him up. He guided you to the couch. You were quivering violently, but there was no time to calm down. You confided in me how it felt in these exact words:

It was as if time stood still and the world outside vanished, leaving me with the squishing sound of the fish in the aquarium, the buzzing of the lamps and the refrigerator, the sound of the wind rustling through each page of the newspapers and magazines. The warmth of his sweet breath, the heat exuding off his pale skin.

Hmm, writers.

Your newfound ecstasy was disrupted, however, when the apartment door opened, the clock resumed its ticking, and reality came rushing back in.

* * *
“I didn’t know what I was doing.”

“I always suspected Lenny was a hypnotist. Good thing I came.

He might’ve made you jump out the window.”

“Please, listen. It happened so fast, I …”

“Wow, you could’ve saved some dignity and said it took you at least 15 minutes.”

“Will you let me explain?!”

“No!” And he gave you that look. “Spare me the sickening details and let me explain. You know I was crazy about you, and I almost jeopardized our friendship by telling it straight to your face. Man, it’s all so clear to me now. Crystal! You said ‘no’ not because you were straight. It was because I was the one who said it. Of course, it only takes one quick look at Lenny. The enchantingly sad Daniel Radcliffe face, the slender fashion-model-like figure, the … the charm. All that he is, I’m not.”

“That’s just ridiculous!”

“Don’t … Just … shut up.”

You refused to shut up. All of a sudden his acid eyes did not scare you anymore. “Why can’t you just come clean and tell me the truth as to why you’re so mad? You’re secretly in love with him, aren’t you?”

His eyes quickly dimmed.”Get out,” he said softly as he reached for his pack of cigarettes.

You stood up. “I’m leaving tomorrow. I’m sorry my staying here has brought a mess to our friendship. I hope, with time, you will come to forgive me.”

You have reached the door of his kost, one of those cheap rooms for rent, in one of the most rundown areas in Central Jakarta, when you heard him say, “Yes, I like Lenny, and I still adore you. You have no idea how badly I want both of you. You have no idea what it means to be a lonely man. Because you know what, you can write a hundred novels about human relationships, but that doesn’t mean that you understand what it means.”

* * *
Here I am, watching you perform your pre-snooze ritual. You turn on your PC, pick The Clientele from the playlist, and grab me into bed.

I only have two-and-a-half pages left. It won’t be long until you stash me in the drawer, leave me there to collect dust, and install Live Journal on your computer.

You begin to unfold the end of the story — at least for me — about you and the company you hope to still keep. You called Ling again this afternoon. She was on her way back to her boutique from lunch. Angie broke up with Andi last night, she said, and he was probably on his way to London that very moment.

How long does it take to fly from here to London, you’re asking. How long does it take to forget? How long does it take to forgive? How long does it take to heal?

You cannot forget your first experience with Lenny — with any man! — that night. You sent him an SMS that never got any reply. Ling said she had not met or heard from Lenny since the book launch.

You have forgiven Ilyas for not giving you a chance to explain how much your friendship means to you, or how much you understand what it means to be lonely. I should know. You wrote, in 39 entries, about your longing for a man who would take you out to the movies, hold your hand, tell you that you’re the love of his life, make love with you, hug you before and during sleep. You want to wake up and find that the man is real, not just some blurry figure who comes to you in a series of dreams.

You, however, never gave love a chance, because I should also know that you lied. You did say “no” to Ilyas because he is nowhere near the fuzzy but undoubtedly lean image in your dreams.

I recorded: It’s not gonna happen. He’s not my type. The world is unfair, so why should I be?

The unspeakable words a journal has to bear.