"Bintang, how many days of annual leave will you be taking?"

  My manager’s voice was calm, laced with the professional detachment he always carried. His eyes flickered between me and the glowing calendar on his laptop screen, fingers tapping rhythmically against the desk.

  "Just a week, sir. I’ll be back on the second day of the new year," I replied, keeping my tone polite yet precise.

  "Ah, so five days then? From December 26th to the 30th. You’ll return on Monday, January 2nd?" He tilted his head slightly, verifying the details.

  "Yes, exactly."

  A brief nod. "Very well. Approved."

  "Thank you, sir."

  As I turned to leave, he offered a rare smile, "Oh, by the way, Merry Christmas and Happy New Year."

  "Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to you too!" I replied, forcing a cheerful smile before walking back to my desk.

  My name is Bintang Sentosa, a 25-year-old senior programmer from Indonesia. I wear glasses—not out of fashion, but necessity, after years of staring at screens. My promotion had come earlier than expected, a recognition of my efficiency and reliability. My previous manager saw something in me, pushing me forward, but he left a year ago. His replacement—my former senior—was fine, though we never developed the same rapport.

  Not that it mattered. Work was work.

  I wasn’t searching for something better. My salary was enough to support myself and my parents.

  My colleagues? They were… pleasant. More than acquaintances, perhaps. But could I call them friends?

  I don’t know.

  I wish I could share my stories with my childhood friends…

  <”Haa… Lim, Fran, Octra, Stan… how are you? Are you all happy where you are?”>

  I sighed and stared out the office window, watching the sky shift to an evening hue.

  They were special to me, the only people I could once call true friends. But fate—or something crueler—took them one by one.

  From the age of 12 to 15, I lost them.

  A slow, merciless sequence—illness, accidents, and murders. At first, I told myself it was a coincidence, a cruel trick of fate. But then… the pattern became undeniable. One death each year, as if it were a ritual.

  A dark thought took root: Was I cursed?

  Even if I knew it was irrational—even if I understood, logically, that their deaths had nothing to do with me—I couldn’t shake the fear. What if anyone who got close to me was doomed to the same fate?

  A decade had passed, but the scars remained. I never allowed myself to form deep bonds again. It was easier that way.

  I inhaled sharply, pushing the thoughts away.

  <”Not good. I need to focus. No one can see this side of me.”>

  I forced my lips upward, testing the expression in the reflection of the window. Fake. Like always. As long as this trauma festers inside me, every smile will feel artificial.

  A-Anyway, today is Friday, December 23rd. I have completed all my work and am prepared to go on vacation with my parents tomorrow for a week.

  “Senior, you look happy. Can’t wait for your holiday, huh?”

  I blinked, snapped out of my thoughts by my junior's voice as he leaned against my desk, grinning.

  “Of course. I’m heading to Bali tomorrow.” I adjusted my glasses, keeping my smile intact.

  "Whoa, sounds fun! When are you coming back?"

  "End of the year."

  "Huh? You’re not celebrating New Year there?"

  I shook my head. "No. I need to rest on the first day of the year. Back to work on the second."

  He groaned. "Man… I’m jealous. I wish I could go on vacation too.”

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  "Then convert to Christianity or Catholicism. You’ll get Christmas leave," I joked dryly.

  "Yeah, sure, like that’s possible." He scoffed, "You’re not even Christian or Catholic yourself.”

  I chuckled, but something about his words lingered.

  Our company divided holiday leave based on religion. Muslims had time off during Idul Fitri. Non-Muslims could take Christmas leave.

  I was officially Buddhist, at least on paper. But in reality? I wasn’t sure what I was, perhaps, agnostic.

  I had prayed before. To different gods. To anyone who might listen. But all I ever received was silence.

  People talked about God’s mercy, His grand plan, His love for humanity. Yet, in my life, all I saw was absence.

  If God exists, then He is cruel.

  He watched as I lost my closest friends one by one—four deaths in four years. He never sent a miracle, never intervened. I was just a child, forced to mourn again and again, wondering if I would be next.

  And if God doesn’t exist?

  Then my prayers had been nothing more than pointless whispers into the void.

  Either way, it didn’t change the outcome. Whether divine or indifferent, the universe had never once answered me.

  That’s why I stopped believing.

  Not in an angry, defiant way. There was no need to rage at the sky or curse some celestial being I had never seen.

  I simply… stopped expecting anything from Him.

  Stopped waiting for justice. Stopped hoping for fairness.

  People who believed in God liked to think He had a plan for them. That all suffering had meaning, that it would lead to something greater. But what meaning was there in watching my friends die, one by one?

  What was the purpose of taking Lim, my junior? He wanted to be a pro gamer. He spent hours training, dreaming of competing in international tournaments. He was better than anyone else in our school. Then, one day, a sudden heart attack—a condition no one even knew he had. Gone.

  What was the lesson in Fran’s accident? He was my senior, a dependable friend. Then one night, while riding his motorcycle to home, a reckless driver struck him and fled.

  What divine wisdom was there in Octra’s illness? She was the kind of person who had her future mapped out, someone destined to achieve great things. Then she started feeling weak. Months later, she collapsed.

  And then… there was Stan. My senior. He was going to graduate in a few months. He had already planned his university applications. He had already promised to treat me to dinner once he got accepted.

  But he never made it.

  Because he was murdered.

  During his sleep.

  The police closed his case without catching the perpetrator.

  What kind of god lets something like that happen?

  What lesson was there in being killed for nothing?

  Where was the justice in watching each of them disappear, knowing I could do nothing?

  There was no lesson. No morals. No greater good.

  Only loss.

  Only pain.

  I didn’t hate God. I just didn’t trust Him.

  Because even if He was real, He had never been on my side.

  I sighed, blinking back into the present. No use thinking about it now.

  "Well, take care of things next week. See you next year. Happy New Year." I grabbed my bag, preparing to leave.

  "Yeah, Happy New Year!”

  December 31st.

  The week passed in a blur, and now, we were heading home from the airport. My father drove, his hands steady on the wheel. I sat beside him, watching the road, while my mother rested in the backseat.

  At 62 years old, my father still carried himself with quiet dignity. His short white hair gave him an air of wisdom, accentuated by the batik shirt he wore. My mother, 58 years old, remained as graceful as ever, her black hair framing her face elegantly.

  I wore a simple red T-shirt and black jeans, blending into the night.

  "Mom, did you enjoy the trip?" I asked, breaking the quiet hum of the car engine.

  "Yes! But the best part was your father’s face when that foreigner started talking to him!" She burst into laughter.

  My father sighed, shaking his head. "W-Well, it’s not my fault! I don’t speak English!"

  I chuckled. "You should’ve seen your face, though."

  "Hmph. At least you understood him. I would’ve been doomed without you.”

  "Haha… well, understanding English is one thing, but speaking it is another. It’s hard to switch my thoughts from Indonesian on the spot.”

  As we talked, I let my eyes wander outside.

  The street lights flickered in the distance, casting uneven shadows. The night felt strange.

  The night felt different. The air was thick—charged, as if something was waiting.

  Something was wrong.

  I couldn’t explain it, but the air felt… thicker.

  Heavy. Pressing.

  The same feeling I had the night Fran died.

  The same feeling I had each year before I lost another friend.

  I glanced at my father’s speed. Normal. The roads were clear. Everything was fine.

  The traffic light turned green. My father eased forward at the intersection.

  Then, a chill crept up my spine.

  I turned sharply toward the window beside my father, my breath catching in my throat.

  A truck.

  Barreling toward us. Too fast.

  Panic seized me, my heart slammed against my ribs. I instinctively pointed at the impending danger, shouting,

  "WATCH OUT!"

  Both my parents snapped their heads toward the oncoming truck—

  “"Huh—!?"”

  A blinding light.

  *CRASHHH!*

  Metal twisted. Glass shattered.

  Pain. Noise.

  Then—

  My world collapsed.