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Fundamentally, every human being experiences fatigue, boredom, and frustration. Repetitive routines often unconsciously breed a sense of weariness and annoyance. Sometimes these feelings are expressed openly, while at other times, they remain nothing more than whispered complaints behind people's backs.
I have often experienced this—or at least witnessed it firsthand—in my own life.
"Jalal, I’m sorry."
"I apologize. I promise I won’t do it again."
"Please forgive me for what I did. I’ll replace it with a new one later."
"I’m sorry the item I borrowed got broken, Jalal. I’ll get it fixed once I have the money."
At first, I accepted those words with an open and sincere heart. After all, apologizing and forgiving are noble and praiseworthy acts; however, as time went on, those words became hollow—mere empty utterances devoid of any real proof through action.
A high school friend of mine named Sukma frequently uttered such apologies whenever he borrowed something—whether it was a textbook, soccer shoes, a sports jersey, or a backpack for a school camping trip. Yet, he often found himself apologizing because the borrowed items ended up broken or, worse, lost, without him ever showing any intention of replacing them.
Initially, I was understanding, but over time, I began to feel like I was simply being taken advantage of. Because I am someone who finds it hard to say no, I always tried to help whenever I could, even though it sometimes led to the kind of disappointment I just mentioned.
I still remember when I was in my third year of high school; at the time, our class was planning a group trip to Bali after the national exams concluded. That evening, after my classmates and I finished discussing our Bali trip itinerary and costs with our homeroom teacher, I went straight home to pack. While I was folding clothes and getting snacks ready, my phone chimed—a message had arrived.
"Can I borrow your suitcase? My parents' suitcase is broken," Sukma wrote.
To be honest, I didn't reply to Sukma right away. As soon as I read the message, memories of past apologies—and of my own belongings that had been damaged or even lost—flooded my mind.
A few minutes later, I replied: "Sorry for the late reply, Sukma. I actually do have another suitcase, but you have to take good care of it—don't let what happened before happen again; it can't get damaged or, worse, go missing."
"Okay, no problem." Sukma reply was brief, with no apology or sign of guilt regarding her past carelessness. That only added to my annoyance, especially knowing that, in the end, my parents would likely scold me too.
Long story short, Sunday arrived—the day my friends and I had agreed to set off for our Bali vacation. We all enjoyed the trip—especially me, as it was my first time vacationing in Bali.
All my annoyance vanished, soothed by the scenery along the way and the activities we shared—from savoring authentic Balinese cuisine and visiting various tourist attractions and historical sites to—the best part—taking photos with international tourists.
Caught up in the excitement and fun, I lost track of time; before I knew it, the week-long holiday in Bali had flown by. Our homeroom teacher messaged the school group telling us to start packing our things and souvenirs, as we would soon be heading home. That night, we were all busy packing.
To cut a long story short, we headed home with mixed feelings of exhaustion and happiness. During the journey back, I chose to sleep soundly, while my friends sang joyfully or focused on their phone screens, scrolling through photos from the trip.
A few days later, after my mother asked about the suitcase Sukma had borrowed, I immediately called Sukma to inquire about it. She said she would leave it with Ganjar, her seatmate in class.
Sure enough, my suspicion was confirmed: the reason Sukma had left the suitcase with Ganjar instead of returning it herself was that the zipper was broken. Naturally, my annoyance grew. Without a second thought, I called Sukma.
"I told you not to let it get damaged. The suitcase you borrowed belongs to my younger sibling, and my mother is angry about the damage. You need to take responsibility for this now," I said, my voice tinged with emotion.
"I'm sorry, Jalal. You're acting like I'm a stranger. We're classmates, after all," Sukma replied breezily.
"I’ve been patient with you for so long. A damaged text book, a lost pair of soccer shoes, a ruined sports jersey, and now my younger sibling’s suitcase is broken too," I said, raising my voice.
"Fine, fine, no big deal. Once I have the money, I’ll replace everything of yours that got broken or lost," Sukma replied with a cynical tone.
Without saying goodbye, I hung up the phone and deleted her WhatsApp number. It was the first time I had dared to voice my complaints and frustration. Unbeknownst to me, Dad knew I had just vented my anger at Sukma.
"Just how many things have actually been broken or lost because your friend Sukma borrowed them?" Dad asked as I stepped out of my room.
"At least four," I answered curtly, still feeling emotional.
"People like Sukma are toxic and lack any sense of responsibility. It’s better to keep your distance rather than letting yourself get upset and stressed out," Dad said while watching TV.
"Apologizing and forgiving are noble acts. However, they shouldn't stop at mere words. An apology requires concrete action, and forgiveness must be reflected in how we treat the person who wronged us. The constant apologies from your friend have lost their meaning; they’re just empty words. I agree with Dad—from now on, you really should keep your distance from Sukma. Just answer her if she asks something. There are certain people we simply need to ignore and avoid if their behavior has a negative impact on our lives," Mom added.
After that incident, and heeding my parents' advice, I became bolder in saying "no" whenever I encountered behavior like Sukma’s—a stance I have maintained to this day. Indeed, there are people best left ignored, without harboring any resentment. After all, an apology unaccompanied by concrete action is utterly meaningless.
