The sun slipped through the gaps in the classroom windows, landing in thin lines across the pale wooden floor. Dust drifted lazily in the warm light, moving with each faint breeze that came through the tilted glass panels. Outside, birds chirped in the school yard, their voices sharp against the soft rustling of tree leaves.
Nadif sat at his usual spot near the back. His desk was neat, just like always—pen lined up perfectly next to his notebook, schoolbag tucked quietly under his chair. The homeroom teacher hadn't arrived yet, and the other students filled the room with scattered laughter and footsteps. Some leaned over desks chatting, others moved between rows, already buzzing with weekend plans.
Nadif didn't move. He kept his eyes on his notebook, where yesterday's notes about Indonesia's political history ended mid-sentence. He could recite all of it if asked. He knew dates, events, causes—his grades in social studies were solid. But no one ever asked.
To his left, Rizky and Dimas argued in low voices about which movie to watch after school. Behind him, a girl he didn't know laughed too loudly at something someone whispered. Nadif didn't feel ignored. Just invisible.
A group near the windows leaned out and shouted at a friend below. They waved as a tall student passed, one of the seniors with a bright club jacket. Nadif looked at the patch: Photography Club. He never joined any of them. Soccer. Science. Music. Debate. None.
He tapped his pen lightly on the desk. Outside, sunlight glinted on the school's front gates. His final year was creeping closer. He still had time. Maybe. But the quiet in his chest didn't feel like hope. It felt like habit.
The door slid open suddenly. A teacher stepped in, calling the class to order.
Nadif's fingers moved quietly under the desk, slipping his phone out with practiced ease. The screen lit up at a low brightness. No new messages. Just rows of tiny red dots—notifications from websites, newsletters, a few writing forums he had joined, forgotten, rejoined. Poetry digest. Literature updates. A free online seminar on modern storytelling.
He scrolled slowly with his thumb, barely skimming the headlines. "5 Forgotten Forms of Indonesian Folklore", "Write a Poem in 7 Lines", "Is Literature Still Relevant Today?" The last one made him stop. His thumb hovered over the title.
The teacher's voice was still going, steady and firm. "You are third-years now. Next year, you'll be out there. What you do this year matters more than before. Not just grades—but choices. You need to start thinking about your future. Where you'll go. What you'll do."
Nadif's chest tightened slightly.
He looked back at the screen.
Something buzzed—his name.
"Nadif," the teacher said.
Nadif's head jerked up.
The phone slipped from his hand and tapped the inside of the desk. He sat up straighter, heart racing.
"Here," he muttered quickly.
The teacher raised one eyebrow, clearly having seen something. But he didn't comment. Just continued reading names from the list.
Nadif slid the phone back into his pocket. His cheeks felt warm. He stared ahead, not really seeing the whiteboard. Outside, the sun had risen higher. The light looked harsher now.
Rizky leaned over his desk, half-hiding his smirk behind his hand.
"Yo," he muttered, barely moving his lips. "You really need to level up your multitasking game. Scroll and pay attention. Ninja mode. You'd get roasted in a group chat mid-class."
Nadif kept his eyes forward, smirking. "Says the guy who texted his crush and accidentally sent it to his mom."
Rizky's smile vanished. He fake-gasped. "Dude. We agreed that was off-limits!"
Nadif shrugged, still facing front, but there was a tiny grin creeping in.
The teacher rustled some papers, not even looking up.
"Rizky."
Rizky froze. "Huh?"
"Rizky?" the teacher repeated, this time looking at him.
"Oh! Yep, here! My bad!" Rizky sat up like he'd been electrocuted, his chair letting out a dramatic squeak.
A few kids chuckled under their breath. Nadif didn't laugh, but his smirk stuck around.
For once, the classroom didn't feel so dead.
Nadif leaned back in his chair just slightly, eyes drifting toward the classroom ceiling, though not really seeing it.
What had he even been doing all this time?
He remembered joining the student council in his first year—how motivated he had felt that day, thinking it might finally push him into something meaningful. He had filled out the form, showed up for the introduction meeting, and then... never went again. Just like that, his name was quietly removed from the list. No one asked. No one even seemed to notice.
Three years now. A whole cycle of uniforms, exams, morning ceremonies, and school bells. And somehow, everything still felt like he was only watching from the edge.
His friend circle—if it could be called that—wasn't completely empty. There was Rizky, always joking. Dimas, quiet but dependable. Also Ardi, who only talked to him during group projects. Faiz, who once shared a whole anime series with him but never started a second conversation. And Rara, who used to sit beside him in science class, mostly talking about her own problems.
They weren't bad people. Just… fragments. People who passed time with him, not people who stayed. He couldn't even imagine messaging them five years from now. Ten? They'd all vanish into their own lives. Into jobs, universities, marriages, cities, screens.
He was sure they'd forget him.
He already felt like a ghost inside the school walls—just one more student number on a list, one more seat filled in a row of desks.
The teacher's voice blurred again in the background.
Sunlight shifted on the floor.
Nadif reached into his bag quietly, fingers brushing past his pencil case and textbooks until they found the worn black cover of his personal book. It wasn't a school notebook. No subject label. Just a thick stack of soft pages, slightly bent at the corners. The spine was creased from being opened and closed a hundred times.
He set it down on his desk, careful not to draw attention. His fingers flipped through the pages slowly, passing old scribbles—poems written in the quiet moments between classes, story fragments born from dreams or boredom, quotes copied from books he loved. Pages filled with thoughts he never shared.
Halfway in, he found an empty spot.
He clicked his pen and leaned forward.
His handwriting came out neat, darker than the rest of the faded lines.
"Will anyone remember me?"
He let the pen rest there for a moment longer, pressing a faint dot after the question mark.
The room kept moving around him—chalk scratching on the board, papers flipping, whispers from two seats down—but Nadif sat still, staring at the words.
They looked simple. Quiet. But they sat heavy on the page like stones.
Nadif kept the pen in his hand. His eyes lingered on the sentence for another breath. Then, without overthinking, he let the next words flow out beneath it—soft, small strokes that came from the center of his chest, not his mind.
Will anyone remember me?
Not for answers in tests,
Or silent seats filled in rows,
But for the breath between words,
The stillness in halls,
The weight of things I never said.
He paused. The pen hovered again, ink just touching paper.
I was here, though it looked like I wasn't.
I passed, though no one looked twice.
I wanted to be more than a name in a file.
But maybe that's what I'll be.
He stopped there.
The poem wasn't perfect. It wasn't even polished. But it felt real. Each line had a quiet weight, like a thought he had never dared to say aloud.
He read it once, then closed the book gently. He didn't put it back in his bag—just let it sit there on his desk, one hand resting lightly on the cover.
The classroom felt different for a second. Not better. Not worse. Just more honest.
The bell rang with a dull, metallic tone. It wasn't loud, but it shook the classroom for a moment—students sat up straighter, some stretching their arms, others already reaching into their bags for the next subject.
Nadif stayed still, eyes on the desk, until the door slid open again.
A new teacher walked in, carrying a thick plastic folder under her arm. Ms. Retno—counseling and guidance. She always wore the same soft brown cardigan and a warm, slow smile that somehow felt too gentle for the pace of school life.
"Good morning, class," she said calmly, placing the folder on the teacher's desk.
"Good morning, Bu," the class mumbled, half in unison.
"Today we're doing something a little different," she continued, flipping the folder open. "I'm passing out forms. You'll fill these during class. It's about your future goals. School, career, interests. Just be honest."
The room buzzed slightly. A few students groaned.
She walked between the rows, passing stacks of forms down each aisle. Nadif took one as it reached him. The paper was thick, slightly curled at the edge. At the top: "Third-Year Counseling Form: Future Plan & Self-Reflection."
Below that, empty boxes.
What are your career interests?
What activities have you joined?
What do you see yourself doing after graduation?
What personal strengths do you have?
Write a short message to your future self.
Nadif stared at the page. His pen felt heavier than before.
Outside, the sun had dipped behind a cloud, softening the light through the window.
Nadif read each question slowly, pen poised but unmoving. His eyes moved from one box to the next like they were locked doors without keys.
What are your career interests?
He thought about books. About writing. But didn't write it down.
He moved on.
What activities have you joined?
Student council. But only briefly. Not enough to count. No sports. No clubs. He started to write something, paused, then crossed it out before the first letter was even finished.
The same happened with the next:
What do you see yourself doing after graduation?
He didn't know. He wasn't ready to guess. And if he guessed wrong, it would just be another answer that didn't mean anything.
By the time the bell neared again, most of the page was still empty.
Except one box.
Write a short message to your future self.
He had filled it out with steady, small writing.
I hope you remember this silence. Not to stay in it, but to know where you started.
He stared at the sentence for a while.
When Ms. Retno walked past to collect the forms, he slid his quietly onto the pile. Almost nothing written. Only that one small message.
The break bell echoed sharp and clean through the school corridors, followed by the usual stampede—dozens of feet rushing out of classrooms, voices rising like birds startled into flight. Nadif was already ahead of it all. The moment the bell had started to ring, he was halfway down the stairs, weaving past first-years, moving fast but quiet.
He bought the nasi goreng from a junior who sold cheap packed meals near the bike shed. The plastic wrap was warm against his palm by the time he climbed back upstairs. His classroom was nearly empty when he returned. He sat in his chair and tore the thin plastic open. The smell was heavy—oily rice, fried egg, sweet soy sauce, crushed kerupuk tucked on top like an afterthought.
He didn't care. He was hungry.
He ate quickly, spoon scraping the bottom of the pack, elbows on the desk. The food was salty and hot, and maybe a little too spicy near the end. But it filled the space.
Outside, the school courtyard was alive with movement.
Students clustered under trees, trading snacks, sharing inside jokes. Some played football with a crushed bottle. Others sat in circles, talking loudly about celebrities, games, college dreams. Laughter came in bursts—bright, free, loose.
Nadif watched from his window seat. Not with envy. Just a quiet, dull kind of distance.
He wiped his mouth with the edge of the plastic, tossed the empty container into the trash near the door, and opened his personal book again.
The pen touched the page. A poem drifted in like steam from the rice still clinging to his fingers.
They laugh beneath the trees
As if the day belongs to them.
And maybe it does.
I sit behind glass, eating silence,
Counting crumbs of time and taste.
He paused.
Is this what remembering feels like before it's even over?
The bell wouldn't ring for a while yet. The room was quiet except for the faint echo of a ball bouncing against the courtyard wall.
Nadif pulled out his phone with the same practiced motion as always. He adjusted the brightness, focused the lens just right, and took a single photo through the open window.
The image came out soft—sunlight filtering through the leaves, shadows of students stretching long across the courtyard tiles, the movement of youth frozen mid-step. He stared at it for a second. Then his thumb began to move.
He opened his editing app, adjusted the contrast, warmed the tones slightly, and typed a line from his notebook in white serif font, placing it in the corner of the image.
"I sit behind glass, eating silence, counting crumbs of time and taste."
It fit.
Not just with the light, or the framing—but with the mood that clung to everything he did.
He posted it.
The account was quiet in tone, just like him—no name, no bio. Just a username: @eclipsescript. A black-and-white profile icon of a moon behind clouds. Nadif had never shared it with his classmates. Never followed anyone from school. It was his own little shore, far from everything else.
But it wasn't empty.
Almost 17,000 followers. Most of them foreigners. Artists. Writers. Strangers who reposted his photos with quiet admiration, who commented with soft words and translated the quotes into their own languages. A few Indonesian followers, too, but none he recognized.
He never replied.
Just posted. Watched the likes grow. Closed the app again.
It wasn't fame. It was distance dressed as connection.
Already, hearts were appearing at the bottom of the screen. A few comments in Spanish, English, one in Arabic. Nadif didn't read them. He locked the phone and slid it face-down on the desk.
The courtyard outside was still noisy. But inside, in this little corner behind the window, everything was still again.
Nadif didn't turn around at first. He kept his eyes on the window, chin resting lightly on his arm, the faint glow of his phone still lighting the edge of his desk.
Rizky's voice came again, light and teasing. "Enjoying the solitude, Nadif?"
Behind him, footsteps shuffled. Chairs creaked. Dimas was there too—silent as usual, the quiet echo to Rizky's noise. They stood near the doorway, half-in, half-out of the classroom. The hallway behind them pulsed with break-time energy.
Nadif tilted his head slightly, just enough to catch their reflection in the glass.
"Something like that," he replied, his voice dry, almost bored, but not unkind.
Rizky chuckled. "You're like some sad novel character, bro. Sitting by the window with your little notebook. We're heading to the canteen. You coming or still composing your lonely masterpiece?"
Dimas gave a small nod behind Rizky. Not a push. Just quiet recognition. An offer, nothing more.
Nadif lifted his phone, locked the screen, and tucked it back into his pocket. His book stayed closed on the desk.
He didn't smile. But something in his expression loosened.
Nadif stood up slowly, his chair legs scraping gently against the tiled floor. He didn't say anything right away, just grabbed his bag out of habit, slinging one strap over his shoulder. His hand brushed over the notebook but left it behind.
Rizky raised an eyebrow, surprised.
"Just looking for air," Nadif said, voice even.
A quote floated quietly in his head—he couldn't remember who had said it, maybe a writer, maybe a poet. "Sometimes the best cure for a restless mind is to walk until your thoughts become scenery." Something like that.
He didn't share it out loud.
Outside the classroom, the air felt different. It wasn't cold, but the hallway carried a soft, open breeze from the school yard. It carried voices too—students laughing, arguing, making plans. The smells of fried tofu, ice drinks, and concrete warming in the sun all mixed in the air.
Rizky gave Nadif a small nudge with his elbow. "See? Doesn't suck to breathe now and then."
Dimas offered a quiet smile, hands in his pockets.
The three of them walked side by side, not saying much, not rushing.
The sunlight reached down through the corridor windows and broke into strips across their path.
Rizky stretched his arms overhead, cracking his fingers lazily. "We're heading to the canteen, yeah?"
Dimas nodded once. "You coming, Nadif?"
Nadif shook his head, already slowing his pace near the hallway turn. "Too crowded," he said simply, waving them off with a faint gesture. "Go ahead."
Rizky gave a mock salute. "Enjoy being mysterious."
They disappeared into the flow of students, swallowed by the moving chatter of hungry teens.
Nadif turned away from the noise, slipping into the quieter parts of the school—the back corridors, the narrow side paths behind the library, the shaded edge near the art building where barely anyone walked during break.
The sun was softer here. Shadows stretched longer. He pulled out his phone again and began taking photos—textures of cracked tiles, light through bamboo leaves, a line of forgotten shoes by the musalla wall.
Each picture caught something still. Something overlooked.
He lifted his phone a third time, angling it toward a narrow strip of path where the sunlight filtered down in golden dust. He clicked the shutter.
The sound was faint, but not silent.
And in that exact moment, a girl walked across the frame.
She slowed mid-step, glancing toward him. Her friend paused too, just behind her.
They exchanged a quick whisper. Then, without hesitation, both approached him.
Nadif froze slightly, lowering the phone. The girl was maybe from his year, maybe second year—long ponytail, small canvas bag slung across her chest. Her friend wore a darker uniform vest, expression unreadable.
The girl's voice came soft.
"Did you… picture me just now?"