Evan sat by the window, watching the Jakarta rain blur the glass like watercolor. It had been three years since he last touched her hand. Three years since that summer in Manila when they promised to wait for each other—no matter the cost.
His phone buzzed. A message from Alia.
> "Just landed. Rain here too. Same sky, different cities. Miss you."
He smiled, a soft ache behind his eyes. It was the same message format she always used—simple, quiet, tender. He reread it three times before replying.
> "Still raining here too. Stay warm. Can't wait to see you next month."
Next month. That phrase had been their lifeline for years. Next month, we'll meet. Next month, things will be better. But time had its own way of mocking promises.
Evan worked as a backend software engineer in Cikarang, surviving long hours and tight deadlines. His days were filled with logic and code, but his nights belonged to her—video calls, voice notes, letters neither of them could send by mail because they wanted to read them aloud.
Alia, on the other hand, was a nurse in Manila. She worked shifts that broke her body, caring for others while waiting for her own future to arrive. They were two people in love—separated by oceans, united by a screen.
He stared at the ring box in his drawer.
It wasn't fancy. Just a simple silver band she once admired on a Pinterest board, buried beneath a pile of screenshots she'd sent him over the years. He had it custom-made six months ago, saving up little by little between rent, groceries, and the bills he didn't tell her about. She always worried too much.
Tonight, he was going to book the flight. Not "next month." Not "soon." But now.
---
Evan's heart pounded as he stared at the airline page. Manila. Round trip. Departure: in two weeks.
> Are you sure you want to continue?
He clicked yes.
---
Alia sat at her desk, wiping off her make-up after a 12-hour shift. Her feet ached, her heart too. She opened her journal, something she hadn't done in weeks.
> "Dear Evan,
I know we said we'd wait. And we have. But sometimes I wonder if distance doesn't just test love—it stretches it so far until it becomes something else.
Not less. Just… different.
Still, I choose you. Even on the lonely days. Especially then."
She closed the book, sighed, and turned off the lamp.
---
Two weeks later.
The arrivals gate in Ninoy Aquino International Airport was crowded. Evan stood with trembling hands, holding a small bouquet of sunflowers. Her favorite.
His eyes darted, scanning each face.
Then he saw her.
She was thinner. Tired. But still the most beautiful soul he had ever known.
"Evan?" Her voice cracked.
He dropped the flowers.
And hugged her like he never wanted to let go.
---
That night, under the soft hum of her apartment's fan, Evan knelt down, not with grand speeches, but with quiet certainty.
"I don't care where we live. I don't care if we have to eat instant noodles every day. I just want to come home to you. Will you marry me?"
Alia covered her mouth, tears falling freely.
"I thought you'd never ask."
---
One Year Later
The wedding was held in her grandmother's backyard. Small, simple, with mismatched chairs and borrowed decorations. But their vows were loud enough to silence any doubt.
Evan got transferred to Manila. He worked remotely part-time, doing freelance gigs to keep things afloat. Alia still worked at the hospital, but now she came home to someone who massaged her feet and made her laugh when she wanted to cry.
They fought, sometimes. Over laundry, over money, over how many kids they wanted. But each fight ended with whispered apologies and forehead kisses.
---
Two Years Later
A baby's cry echoed through the tiny apartment. Evan held his daughter like she was made of glass and stars. Alia, pale and sweaty, watched them from the bed, smiling weakly.
"She looks like you," Evan whispered.
"She has your eyes," Alia replied.
They named her Mira, after the Latin word for wonder.
Because she was.
And so was the love that waited, endured, and finally arrived.
---
> Distance tested them.
Time shaped them.
And love—love brought them home.