Today, I finally came home.
I took a different route than usual.
Normally, I go through Cangar. Steep hill roads, sharp climbs and long drops, cutting through forest so quiet it almost hums. That route is my favorite—peaceful, almost sacred. Not many people take it.
But three months ago, there was a landslide.
Eleven people died.
They closed the road.
It reopened a month ago.
But I haven’t gone back.
I guess I’m still scared. Not of the road. Of death.
So I skipped Cangar.
Pasuruan was the other option—but fuck that road.
Trucks, buses, smoke.
Engines growling like dying beasts.
Smog thick enough to choke God.
So I took the Pujon route.
Much longer, out of the way. But it’s quieter. Less traffic.
Better than crawling behind a convoy of metal monsters.
I brought a lot of stuff with me.
I’m planning to move back in.
Back home.
Back to my parents’ house.
My back’s killing me.
My keyboard alone weighs two kilos. Add my laptop. My two-liter water flask.
I looked like a delivery guy from hell.
Still, I only stopped once.
Indomaret. Quick break. Bought a Buavita Mango.
Cold, sweet, sharp.
Exactly what I needed.
I reached Jombang in the late afternoon.
Didn’t head straight home.
Instead, I kept riding.
I wandered the city on my motorbike like a ghost retracing its old steps.
Took turns I remembered by instinct.
Every corner had a shadow of someone I used to be.
The roads from junior high.
The alleys near my high school.
The long curve behind the train tracks where we used to race each other after class.
I caught myself smiling beneath my helmet.
Not because anything was funny.
Just… because I remembered.
Funny how, back then, I probably wanted to escape this city.
Probably said something like, “I can’t wait to leave this place.”
But now I miss it.
Now I ride through it like it owes me something.
Like it might still give me back pieces of myself I didn’t realize I’d lost.
I thought about my old friends.
In junior high, we only had 12 guys in class.
Was that real?
Did I forget someone?
Or were we really that rare?
High school had 15.
Still not many.
The city’s changed.
Still familiar, but it’s shifted—subtle, but undeniable.
The cold chocolate stall I used to visit every Saturday? Gone.
My favorite bubur ayam? Gone.
The warung I depended on for lunch? Now it sells cheap clothes.
The school’s been repainted.
The internet café that felt like home is now a gym.
It’s all different now.
But somehow, I keep thinking… it’s still there.
Like the real city is layered just underneath this one.
The memories haven’t vanished.
They’re anchored in asphalt and corners and broken sidewalk.
I remember everyone. Every face. Every version of myself.
And now I’m wondering—
Is it me who hasn’t changed?
Did the city grow while I stayed behind?
Am I stuck in the past?