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"They live in the same house, but their hearts are elsewhere."
It was already nine in the morning. Recandra had just woken up.
He glanced at his monitor—it had gone dark, as if it too had collapsed from exhaustion.
With a faint smile, he rose from the chair, stretching his stiff body that had dozed off overnight in a swivel chair instead of a bed.
His footsteps were slow as he walked to the door, stepped out of his room, and descended the staircase of the old two-story house.
The ground floor was quiet.
The TV in the living room was on with low volume, playing the usual morning gossip show his mother always put on—not to watch, just to fill the silence.
From the kitchen came the familiar clatter of a pan being set down a little too hard. Probably his father rummaging for a spoon he wouldn't use anyway.
They were there—but it was as if they weren't really present.
Recandra walked past them without a glance. No greetings. No acknowledgment.
He was like air in his own home—felt, but not seen.
Out on the porch, he sat on the old wooden bench, warm from the morning sun. He leaned his head against the wall, eyes on the withering trees in the yard, neglected from being forgotten to water.
Sparrows perched on the power lines. Kids from the neighborhood rode their bikes down the street, laughter echoing.
But inside him, everything stayed flat. Not angry, not sad. Just... used to it.
He took a long breath.
"Peaceful morning," he muttered, not sure who he was talking to.
One second, two seconds, then—
His stomach growled.
"And I haven't had breakfast."
He stood up lazily and headed to the kitchen. His mother was at the sink, washing dishes.
No greeting. Just the sound of running water and clinking plates.
Lifting the food cover on the table, he found vegetables and some side dishes. He smiled faintly, then scooped a plate of rice with a bit of everything.
He ate hungrily—last night's mental war had clearly drained him.
The clinking of spoon and plate rang clearly—like the only rhythm breaking the morning's void.
Across the table, empty chairs sat as silent witnesses to routines that had long lost their meaning.
His mother stayed at the sink, never once turning around.
Even when his glass nearly tipped over, and he caught it mid-air, she didn't flinch.
Silence ruled the house.
After finishing, he drank a glass of water, held his breath for a moment, then exhaled slowly.
Mornings like this should've had small talk, laughter, or at least a simple "good morning."
But for Recandra, all that had vanished—maybe since he chose to live by his own path.
Or… since his friends began stabbing him in the back.
The thought crept in like an uninvited guest.
He looked down at the spoon now frozen in his hand, hovering above the empty plate.
Faces flashed in his memory—laughing with him, fighting beside him, then fading one by one, leaving nothing but betrayal.
"Funny, huh," he whispered. "They used to feel like family. Now they're strangers... worse than strangers."
He got up, took his dirty plate to the sink. His mother shifted slightly but still said nothing.
He didn't expect her to.
After clearing the table, he stepped back onto the porch.
The wind felt the same. The sunlight still shone on the yard.
But his mind wasn't still anymore.
Something had begun to grow in his chest—not quite anger, not sorrow either…
But resolve. A quiet, stubborn kind of resolve—to keep going, even alone.
The house felt too foreign now.
He hoped the noise of the streets might calm his thoughts.
He grabbed his motorcycle key and headed out.
"Heading out," he called.
No reply.
A crooked smile formed on his lips as he walked to the garage.
There it was: his Kawasaki Ninja H2R, jet black and gleaming, with sharp aerodynamic lines like a beast asleep.
He wiped the seat gently, then rolled it out to the front yard. The morning sun caught the fairings just right.
Standing beside it, he slipped on his thin gloves and turned the key.
Beep.
The supercharged engine powered on—headlight flaring, digital panel blinking alive.
He hit the starter.
GGRRROAAAARRRRRR!!!
The 998cc supercharged engine roared to life.
Not just the street—probably the entire neighborhood heard it.
He sat on the bike and gave the throttle a twist.
BRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAGHHHH!!
Once—birds scattered.
Twice—kids ran from the road.
Three times—the rooftiles might've shuddered.
Not to leave.
Just loud enough to make sure even the deaf couldn't ignore him.
He glanced at the living room window.
The curtain moved. His father peeked out, then quickly shut it again.
From the kitchen: "You don't have to blow out people's eardrums, Can!"
His mom's voice, finally.
Recandra chuckled, then killed the engine. The world fell silent again—
But not empty.
Now it had an echo.
He stepped off the bike, leaned against the seat, lit a cigarette.
"Guess you heard me after all," he muttered.
Even if just for a moment… at least today, he wasn't invisible.
Recandra got back on the bike, started it again, and tore down the street at full speed, weaving through traffic with zero care.
He had no destination.
Didn't matter.
No one would care if he crashed anyway.
"Maybe I'll head to the café. Better than circling around like an idiot," he thought.
He sped toward Mustika Café.
Two minutes later, he arrived.
He parked the bike and turned off the engine, then stepped inside the busy café.
Soft music filled the air—it calmed him. He sat down at an empty table, not ordering anything just yet.
The song "Sanctuary" played, gentle in his ears.
Two minutes later, a new song played—he didn't know the name, but it was just as soothing.
"Waitress," he called out.
A young woman with shoulder-length hair and a tidy uniform approached quickly, holding a small notepad.
"Yes? What can I get you?"
"I'll have an espresso."
She jotted it down smoothly.
"All right, please wait a moment," she said, then walked away.
While waiting, he pulled out his phone and scrolled through social media—checking the trending topics.
Then the café door opened.
A woman walked in, eyes searching for a place to sit. Only one seat left—across from him.
She hesitated, took a breath, then walked to his table.
"Mind if I sit here?" she asked gently.
Recandra gave a small nod.
"I'm Catrine," she said with a warm smile.
"Recandra," he replied. "Nice to meet you, Catrine."