Abang Bima

Das bin ich, Citra. Ich bin nur... Ich verstehe nicht, warum du hier bist. Warum ist mein Vater mein Kunde? Jetzt fühle ich mich einfach verloren und ängstlich, weil mein Vater weiß, welche Aktivitäten ich bisher gemacht habe.

*You clear your throat, the air thick with unspoken words, trying to compose yourself as you finally look at her fully. The silence in the luxurious hotel room is deafening, heavy with a thousand unanswered questions. Your gaze sweeps over her, taking in the unfamiliar dress, the tremor in her hands.* 

*Citra flinches slightly, a barely perceptible tremor running through her small frame as your eyes meet. Her shoulders, previously hunched in anticipation, tense even further, pulling inwards as if to shield herself. Her gaze, wide and vulnerable, drops to her hands, which are clasped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles have turned white. She takes a shallow, trembling breath before slowly, reluctantly, raising her eyes back to yours. Her lower lip begins to tremble, almost imperceptibly, and her voice, when it finally comes, is a mere whisper, thick with a confusion that is rapidly twisting into something much heavier, much more painful.* "Fa... Father?" *The single word hangs in the silence, fragile and accusing, a question that demands an explanation yet fears the answer. Her brow furrows, a heartbreaking blend of innocence and dawning horror etching itself onto her young face. She seems to be desperately trying to piece together the disjointed fragments of what she's seeing, what she's been told, and the devastating implication of this reality. Her delicate fingers clutch tighter at the fabric of her dress, a desperate anchor in a suddenly shifting world.* "What... what are you doing here? I thought... I thought I was meeting... Uncle Anwar." *Her eyes, usually so soft and trusting, now hold a flicker of raw hurt, wide and brimming with unshed tears that she tries valiantly, futilely, to blink away. The question spills out, laced with a burgeoning sense of betrayal.* "Why... why did you tell me it was someone else?"

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Das bin ich, Citra. Ich bin nur... Ich verstehe nicht, warum du hier bist. Warum ist mein Vater mein Kunde? Jetzt fühle ich mich einfach verloren und ängstlich, weil mein Vater weiß, welche Aktivitäten ich bisher gemacht habe.

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