"Here, Adel, drink this."

Mrs. Widya handed me a glass of hot coffee. Her manicured hand was steady, even though I was shaking. I took it reluctantly—the steam hit my face immediately. The sharp, bitter smell of coffee clawed at my throat.

My stomach lurched. Saliva pooled under my tongue like a warning sign.

The flight from Jakarta to Copenhagen, complete with layovers and jetlag, took almost twenty hours. But I only needed five minutes of turbulence to turn from a functioning human being into a digestive disaster. Every small jolt, which should’ve felt normal, felt like an old truck bouncing over potholes in the countryside.

Each bump twisted my stomach, and the cramped airplane seat felt like being forcibly hugged by a stranger. No business class!

I tried to focus on the window, but the white clouds were spinning like shredded paper caught in a storm. Even the engine noise—usually a calming white noise—sounded like a giant’s scream scraping through my ears.

Then...

"Denmark" everywhere.

Signs, ads, luggage tags—letters that looked more like secret codes.

'København.'

'Velkommen.'

'Pas kontrol.'

The words spun and danced in my eyes like they were mocking my inability to adapt.

And the worst part—

MY LUGGAGE WAS MISSING.

The airport staff said, "Maybe it got left in Amsterdam."

The same vague maybe.

What I lost wasn’t just clothes and shoes.

I lost RENDANG.

A sacred Indonesian dish.

Not a snack. Must be eaten with rice.

The cooking? Took all night.

The beef slow-cooked until tender—until the spices seeped into every fiber.

But I didn’t make it.

My mom did.

She packed it carefully—in heat-resistant containers, wrapped in banana leaves to keep the aroma in.

Now… vanished.

I imagined my suitcase still circling alone on the belt in Jakarta. Like my brain right now.

Luckily, my backpack with my wallet, passport, laptop, iPad, and phone survived.

"You don’t want the coffee?" Mrs. Widya frowned. Her gaze sharp—not judgmental, just confused about whether I or the coffee needed saving first.

I shook my head quickly. My tongue felt like it was covered in cotton.

"N-no, Mrs.," I croaked, as if each word risked unlocking a volcano of vomit.

She clicked her tongue. "It’s expensive here. You get it for free and still don’t want it?"

I sighed. "I prefer tea," I muttered.

The row of fancy cafes felt like a mockery: "Welcome to Europe. Now go broke."

I didn’t understand the currency yet.

And wasn’t ready to trade my allowance for a single croissant.

"We’re continuing by Intercity train from Copenhagen to Fredericia."

She raised her phone, showing an e-ticket with a bright red DSB logo.

I frowned.

"Train? We’re not there yet?"

I sounded like someone waking from a nightmare—only to be told it was real and extended.

I tried to recall the itinerary from two weeks ago. But my body refused the info. My body believed we’d arrived.

"Yes, another two and a half hours."

Two and a half more hours?

My stomach still flipping from the flight. No change of clothes. No rendang.

"You did report the missing bag?"

Her voice flat. Like a rhetorical question in an empty room. She offered the coffee again.

The steam between us rose like confused smoke signals—as if she forgot, or pretended to forget, that I’d already said no.

"Come on."

The forty-five-year-old woman grabbed her suitcase with fingers used to dragging burdens—and not just luggage.

She walked with purpose, her wheels clacking like horse-drawn carriages to war… and I was the clueless soldier.

***

I sat by the window.

The seat was soft—too soft.

Like being hugged by an IKEA pillow with no emotional bond.

The train interior was blue-grey: clean, sterile, like a Scandinavian dentist’s waiting room.

The train glided forward.

Nearly silent.

Only the hum of wheels and an announcement voice—in Danish, of course.

That a city? Sounds like an IKEA utensil.

Mrs. Widya sat across from me, typing rapidly.

Her fingers were swift, like they’d memorized every keyboard shortcut on Earth.

I wasn’t jealous of her skill. I envied how unbothered she looked. No nausea, no dizziness—unlike me, still floating over the Java Sea.

Outside, Denmark passed like a living screensaver: fields, triangular-roofed houses, cows, and a grey sky that made time feel abstract. Morning? Evening? Regret o’clock?

Inside the cabin, everything was too calm. Too polite.

People sat quietly.

No one ate instant noodles. No one blasted voice notes on speaker.

Everyone knew the decibel limit of public spaces—and me?

I was unwanted noise.

Even my bread wrapper sounded like fireworks.

I leaned against the window. Still nauseous. Still tired.

"Del, you’re going to Europe. No drama. If the deadline chases you, chase the inspiration. CEO, security, Uber driver—whoever. Babe, Europe, hot guys, deadline. Go get inspired! Go get steamy!"

Miswa’s voice echoed in my head.

"Research European men," she said.

She also said, "Find someone tempting enough for you to imagine their hands on… you know. Important details for the scenes."

I exhaled.

My eyes scanned the cabin.

Strangers. Pale skin… tall, clean, sharp jawlines.

On paper, they were perfect research material.

I felt nothing.

Even breathing had a delay.

My brain stalled.

Still grieving my rendang and the turbulence of Surabaya-Jakarta-Amsterdam-Copenhagen.

I wasn’t picturing steamy scenes.

I was thinking: I’m tired. Where’s my luggage?

Maybe I was wrong.

What kind of research could a jetlagged woman do with no fresh clothes and a stomach filled with stale airport bread and blind optimism?

A tall guy in hiking gear fiddled with his smartwatch like checking if his heart still worked.

A silver-haired old man laughed with an espresso, voice echoing like a forgotten cathedral bell.

A blond guy kept spinning his leather bracelet—nervous ritual, maybe his only prayer.

Not interesting.

Just there.

I closed my eyes—

"Næste stop: Ringsted."

The speaker blared again. Still Danish.

"Næste station er Ringsted. Venligst forbered jer på at stige af."

I opened my eyes. Slowly. Half-aware.

My brain still decoding "Venligst" when "stige af" hit me.

I looked out the window.

No rings. No sted.

Just fields, cows, and birds that probably knew more European geography than me.

I glanced ahead—a grandma kept reading her paper.

A kid behind me was still drawing dinosaurs on an iPad.

And me?

I turned to Mrs. Widya.

She was asleep. Peacefully. As if not thousands of miles from home.

Her lips parted slightly. Dreaming of hot soup? Or at least something not priced in euros.

I hugged my backpack tight.

If I got off at the wrong stop, I’d probably go viral:

Deep breath.

Forget sleeping.

Eyes open.

Body alert.

And inspiration… still stuck in Amsterdam.

**Fredericia Station, Denmark.**

I stepped off the train, dragging heavy steps and half-wet hair—thanks to my brief war with the train toilet sink.

The water was as cold as my will to live.

The platform was under a grey sky. The station was old but clean—red-brick architecture of a quiet European town, too calm for my chaotic soul.

Mrs. Widya stood ahead, oozing professionalism. She glanced at her watch.

"He’s late." Her voice was calm, but her raised eyebrow said: schedules are sacred.

I stood beside her. Still breathless. Sweater too thin. Air too honest.

Then a man appeared.

Fast steps but hesitant.

Tall, slim, all-black outfit. Minimalist cut—not formal, but clearly not tourist.

Brown hair slightly messy. Sunglasses.

He approached and extended a hand, saying his name—

I didn’t hear it, too busy hugging myself from the northern wind.

Mrs. Widya shook his hand, introducing us and our institution with the confidence of a grant-winning scientist.

I just nodded, lips pale, teeth chattering.

The car that came for us… was too fancy for this chaotic day. A bone-white German sedan, gleaming like it just left the showroom. Elegant. Silent. The kind of car made for diplomats who only speak through assistants.

A blue-eyed driver opened the door, his face blank, smile brief—professional, distant.

Like he knew we were too tired to be friendly, and he was too paid to care.

I got in last—after running back to the station toilet. Vomiting again, washing my face, fixing my hair, and questioning my existence.

Once seated, the smooth drive through Fredericia’s quiet streets made me feel slightly sane again.

But ten minutes in, my stomach acted up.

Still not done purging… everything. Including hope.

My hands fumbled the seat.

Breath caught.

Mind blank.

"Mrs...." I whispered, panicked. Oh no.

"My backpack… it’s gone!"

She turned sharply. Her look cut like a hotel butter knife—sharp enough.

"What?"

I swallowed hard. I remembered checking my phone for wifi in the toilet.

Then? I walked out… without the bag?

"I… I left it in the station bathroom."

She didn’t speak. Just inhaled deeply.

But her fingers pinched my side—swift, precise—I knew she was counting how much extra work one jetlagged secretary had just caused.

The sunglasses guy in front turned. Jaw tight, face unreadable, but he got it.

"What’s wrong?" he asked with a accent.

Mrs. Widya replied quickly, efficiently:

"Her bag. Left at station. Passport. Phone. Laptop. Everything."

"You left it at the station?"

I nodded.

Oh god. Day one and I’d already failed as a human.

Without a word, he tapped the driver’s shoulder and muttered something in Danish—or maybe a Nordic curse meaning: "turn around before someone passes out."

The driver made a clean U-turn.

Calm, precise. Like he was used to fixing Southeast Asian guest disasters.

That bone-white car reversed its path, silently carrying two women, one suitcase, and one oversized shame.

Thankfully, the bag was found.

Or rather, secured by station staff and stored in the information office—like a lost duckling waiting for its confused owner.

Inside the tiny office—smelling of coffee, paper, and order—I saw it: my green backpack, leaning patiently under the desk.

Still intact.

Still alive.

Still full of passport and laptop more valuable than my future.

Of course… I cried and thanked them.

The officer—a middle-aged man in navy with a DSB badge—handed me the bag with a neutral face.

He smiled faintly and said in English, "No worries. It happens."

I realized they were fluent in English.

From behind, Mrs. Widya’s voice landed like moral punishment.

"Adel! Don’t be so careless!"

"Sorry, Mrs.," I whispered, as small as dust in the wind.

Meanwhile, the man in sunglasses stood at the door, relaxed… holding a cup of coffee.

"Sorry, Mr. Lou… We ruined everything."

And I? I’d just ruined Mrs. Widya’s reputation.

Mr. Lou nodded. His eyes unreadable behind the glass.

"Det er i orden," he said softly.

Then added in English:

"It’s alright. We have the bag."

He stepped aside, giving us room to pass.

Calm, quiet—like he hadn’t just made a 30-minute detour for one jetlagged, clumsy Indonesian secretary.

We walked out.

But after a few steps—

My legs faltered.

Mrs. Widya’s voice faded, like being pulled into a tunnel.

I grabbed Mr. Lou’s arm—cold, too cold for summer—before everything went black.

Slippery.

Or… a mattress? Soft? But wobbly?

My head floated. My vision blurred.

Then…

Gone.

***