I didn't sleep soundly that night, still haunted by the brochure's shadow and Father's disappointed gaze. But for the first time in ages, I woke not with the freezing emptiness but with a spark of purpose.
The book from Dian, my lifeline until late at night before I slipped it back into its hiding place, offered no magical answers. It confirmed one thing I'd glimpsed in its pages: I didn't have to search alone.
The next day at school, the world felt different. Not because it had changed, but because I had. I no longer hid in the library's corner or skulked along the field's edge. A small but real purpose burned within my despair. It was simple: I had to find Dian.
I scanned faces in the corridor, classroom, canteen. Finally, I found her, as expected, in her favorite hideout: under the sprawling shade of an old banyan tree behind the library, far from the crowd. She sat cross-legged on the grass, immersed in a thick book titled *Existentialism for Beginners*, her face creased with concentration. My heart raced like an over-revving engine as I approached. Awkwardness and fear of rejection prickled.
"Yan," I greeted, my voice hoarse, nearly swallowed by the breeze.
She looked up slowly. Seeing me, her usually sharp, questioning eyes showed not surprise but a calm recognition. As if she'd been waiting.
"Hey, Yid," she replied softly. She closed her book, a gesture of full attention. "I saw what happened in class yesterday," she said, cutting to the core. She narrowed her eyes, studying my face, still shadowed by last night's darkness. "You look… tired."
She didn't say 'weird' or 'wrong.' She said 'tired.' And that word, somehow, felt like the truest acknowledgment of the weight I carried.
I pulled *Man in the Mirror* from my bag, clutching it like a shield. My hands felt cold and clammy. "This book…" I paused, swallowing, gathering my remaining courage. "I… I read it last night. Some parts. Especially…" I opened the book with trembling hands, finding the page I'd creased. "Here. The part you underlined. About 'someone else's map' and 'your own compass.'"
I looked at her, trying to read her reaction. "I… I feel exactly like that, Yan. Like… my life's just a map drawn by others, and the compass inside me is screaming, but no one hears it." The words spilled out like a long-buried confession, a vulnerability I'd never shared with anyone, not even my secret notebook. My chest pounded, awaiting her response—mockery, confusion, or indifference.
Dian didn't laugh. Didn't frown. Didn't say, "What's that supposed to mean?" She just looked at me, long and deep. Then, like morning sun piercing fog, a small, warm, utterly genuine smile curved her lips. Not pity. Understanding, profound.
"I get it," she said, simple, solid. Those three syllables fell into my chaotic soul like water drops in a desert, calming, strengthening. "I get it." An acknowledgment. A validation. The first anchor halting despair's rushing current.
With a calm motion, she reached into her worn canvas bag, pulling out a small, neatly folded piece of paper, its edges frayed. "If you want to talk more about the 'maps' piling up, or learn to read that 'screaming compass no one hears'…" she said, handing me the paper, her eyes gleaming, "…come here Friday night."
She looked at me directly. "It's not a school club, Yid. Not a recitation group. Not a tutoring session. Just… a circle. A place for people also searching, or wrestling with their own maps. You don't have to talk if you don't want. Just listen first. There's tea, sometimes cookies if we're lucky. The vibe's… different." She smiled wider. "No one forces anything."
That worn piece of paper suddenly felt heavy, substantial, like a key to a parallel world. In Dian's neat handwriting was an address in the over-water Kampung Baru: Jetty 5, House No. 12, near the boat taxi dock. And a time: Friday Night, 7:00 PM.
Journey to Kampung Baru: Battling Ghosts and Whispers
Friday night arrived. After lying to Mother with a hoarse voice ("Physics group project at Dani's, Bu. Might be a bit late.") and avoiding Father's still-icy gaze, I stepped out. Clutching my remaining pocket money in my pocket, I hurried to the angkot stop at the alley's end.
Each step toward Kampung Baru felt like fighting a torrent of fear and doubt. Pak Didi's voice echoed in my head: "Don't stray from the right path, Rasyid!" Father's roared: "More gossip? Out at night?!" Ustaz Hasan whispered: "Protect your name, son." Even perfect Farid's voice mocked: "Where you going, Rasyid?" Shadows of pesantren uniforms and the form with my name danced in the alley's dark. But in my right hand, I gripped *Man in the Mirror* tightly, and in my pocket, the address felt hot. Dian's underlined words, "your own compass," were a small sword cutting through fear's shackles. I had to know. What was there.
Kampung Baru over the water was unlike my alley. The air was salty, filled with the scent of sea, dried fish, and wet ulin wood. The gentle lapping of waves under the wooden bridge replaced the roar of motorcycles. Under the petromax lamps' glow from a few warungs, I traced the main bridge, searching for Jetty 5. House No. 12 was a simple wooden stilt house, jutting slightly over the sea, right by the now-quiet boat taxi dock. Dim light seeped from a window with thin curtains. Faint chatter drifted out. My heart raced. Was this the wrong place? Was it dangerous? But Dian's understanding smile pushed me forward. I raised my hand, knocking softly on the peeling wooden door, three times.
The Readers' Circle: A Sanctuary for Lost Souls
The door opened. Dian's face greeted me, her smile widening. "Come in, Yid!" she welcomed warmly, without formality. The room inside was small, simple, but filled with genuine warmth, unlike the brochure's grandiose falseness. The floor was covered with a worn woven plastic mat. About seven people—some college students, some high schoolers, a couple older—sat in a circle. In the center, a dark blue ceramic teapot steamed, surrounded by mismatched glass cups and a plate of leftover lumpia.
Most striking: books. Scattered everywhere. On the floor, on a small cardboard box, in laps. And most palpable: no judgment in the air. No demand to be something specific. No "Muhammad Rasyid" label to fulfill. Just friendly, curious faces, free of prejudice.
"My friend, Rasyid," Dian introduced simply, no embellishments. Some nodded, smiled. "This is Iqbal," she pointed to a bespectacled man with curly, slightly long hair, exuding gentle authority. "Our usual moderator, and kind enough to provide this place."
"This is Rara," she gestured to a high school girl with short hair tipped purple, her eyes sharp and spirited. "Our ace debater. The rest, you'll meet later."
I was told to sit on an empty spot on the mat near Dian. Awkwardness and feeling out of place lingered, but a growing curiosity enveloped it.
Iqbal, the host, poured hot tea into an empty cup near me. "So, last week we discussed Eka Kurniawan's novel," he began, not as a moderator but a friend. "One line stuck with me: '…he wanted to be himself, but didn't know how.'"
He looked around. "Ever felt that? Like we're given a map from birth—by parents, religion, school. The map's clear, perfect. But the compass in our chest points elsewhere. So what do we do?"
Rara jumped in, her voice fiery. "What happens? We get crushed! I know the feeling. My dad's a dean, my mom's a notary. They drew my map before I was born: law school, corporate lawyer. When I said I wanted to be a documentary filmmaker—telling stories of people pushed aside by the system—their world ended. The system and its guardians try to straighten us out. We're labeled rebels, heretics, ungrateful, selfish! Those labels aren't because we're bad, but because we dare question. Dare feel out of place. Dare listen to our own compass. That's seen as a threat to their order. But questioning means we're alive! It means we want authentic truth, not blind inheritance!"
Her words were like a sledgehammer shattering walls inside me. Fear of disappointing. Guilt for wanting to be different. Confusion over my desires versus others' expectations. The weight of my name. All laid bare here as valid human experiences. I looked around. In a college student's worn shirt, I saw wrinkles like Father's. In a checkered-shirt girl's eyes, I saw my hidden rebellion. In an older man's small smile, I saw peace after a storm. I wasn't alone.
The Courage to Speak: A Freeing Cry
As the discussion grew warmer, something in me rebelled—not with anger, but with a need to exist. My hands were cold, my mouth dry, but my voice emerged, soft, trembling, yet clear in the suddenly silent room.
"I…" I paused, taking a deep breath. "I feel like my life's a book written by someone else. From the cover to the pages." My voice cracked. "The title's set: 'Muhammad Rasyid.' The chapters have to be about recitation, memorizing, adhan competitions, pesantren…" I stared at my hands. "…but I want to write different chapters. Chapters about the sound of an engine starting after a breakdown. Chapters about piston sketches in my notebook. Chapters about the calming smell of oil."
Tears burned. "And I can't tell… what's really me, what's just inherited. Sometimes I'm so scared. Scared of disappointing. Sometimes I'm ashamed. Ashamed for feeling wrong. But mostly… I'm confused. So confused. Like I'm lost in my own forest."
The silence that followed was thick. I looked down, embarrassed by the tears finally falling. Before Iqbal could speak, Dian, sitting closest, whispered so softly only I could hear. "I get it, Yid," she said, staring ahead as if seeing bitter memories. "I've been there. Worse, even."
That was all. But that brief acknowledgment made me realize my story wasn't the first. Then, Iqbal's calm voice broke the silence. He looked at me warmly. "Yid, don't apologize for being confused," he said gently. "That confusion means you're waking up. You're becoming aware. The dangerous thing is living straight ahead without ever feeling something's wrong. Your confusion… it's the most honest thing you have right now. Don't throw it away."
Rara, smiling lightly, chimed in to lighten the mood. "Iqbal's right. Think of this as orientation. The only entry requirement here is admitting you're lost. Welcome to the club, Rasyid."
That's when something in me broke like an eggshell. Relief flooded me, like a dam bursting. Tears I'd held back for months streamed down. I hid my face, shoulders shaking. No one said, "Don't cry." But their presence, that accepting silence, felt like a collective embrace.
As my sobs subsided, I vaguely raised my face. I saw Iqbal glance at Dian, giving a subtle nod—not sympathy, but a gesture like 'thank you' or 'your plan worked.' Dian returned a faint, relieved smile. I realized then: tonight's topic might not have been a coincidence. This place was prepared for me. It was the most honest, most human moment I'd felt in a very, very long time.
Starlight Dialogue
After my sobs fully calmed and the discussion ended, Iqbal patted my shoulder gently. "Come with me for a bit," he invited.
He led me out of the stilt house, to the jetty's edge jutting over the sea. The night breeze cooled my puffy face. We stood in silence, joined only by the sound of waves lapping against the ulin wood pillars.
"Look at that star," Iqbal said softly, pointing to the brightest speck in the sky. "That's Sirius. In my dark village with no city lights, it's dazzling. But here in Balikpapan, its light seems dim, outshone by light pollution."
I stared at it. Its glow wasn't as brilliant as others, but it was there, blinking stubbornly.
"Is its light gone?" Iqbal continued. "No. It's just as bright. It's just in an environment that doesn't let it shine fully. It just needs a new way to let its light show." He turned to me. "Your light hasn't gone out, Rasyid. It's just blocked by the 'pollution' of others' expectations."
His words hit me gently, an enlightening without judgment. I wasn't broken or wrong. I was just in the wrong place, under the wrong light.
Returning with New Steps: Light in the Darkness
I returned home much later than I'd lied to Mother about. My steps on the wooden bridge felt light. Balikpapan's sky was still the same, dark with sparse stars, but tonight, they seemed to shine brighter. The world around me was still full of walls. But now, in that darkness, a small light glowed at Jetty 5. A light called acceptance.
I still had no answer for Father's ultimatum. The ticking bomb of the 30th still loomed. But something fundamental had shifted. I was no longer alone. I'd found my readers' circle—not just of books, but of selves, of lives, of inner compasses long lost. A place where my confusion wasn't a disgrace but an entryway. And for the first time in ages, I walked home not with a burden, but with a warm spark of hope glowing in my chest.
---