"My name is Gibran Sasongko." (A string of words that almost resembles the name of a famous poet).
Never had I imagined a life filled with unclear trials and obstacles. That is why I am not certain I would ever enjoy the life of a poet. Their lives are always carved with twists and turns that color their feelings and ways of thinking.
Yet if my name must still be tied to it, perhaps the abstract path of my life is nothing more than coincidence. And if there are strings of similarities, then it is simply the way He has written it for me.
The storms I've faced often leave me lost within my own thoughts. Those who don't care make me feel as if I don't fully exist in this world.
Bluntly put, they see me as "abnormal," a man who deliberately fills his head with crazy ideas.
But all of that is nothing but slander, far from the truth. They are the ones unable to comprehend the way my mind works—thoughts that stretch far beyond the limits of what they call normal.
At my core, I've always believed small talk is unnecessary, nothing but a shallow act. I don't even know where that conviction first came from, but one thing is clear: I am not a fool willing to demean myself.
Silence has always been my refuge. I prefer to play with the reasoning inside my head, for it allows me to create rules I like, rules of my own choosing. Why waste energy commenting on the behavior of others, when it only produces the trash of meaningless debates that clutter the mind?
My words may sound selfish. But isn't selfishness, at times, a natural shield for survival?
When you are constantly belittled, selfishness becomes the only weapon left to remain the winner in your own solitude.
But I don't consider myself "selfish" for insisting that the life I lead is not a curse tied to a name, a birthdate, or any prophecy. Besides, what meaning does this name of mine really hold? It's just a string of letters without any real value—ah, whatever!
What I do know is I'm proud to acknowledge who I am. I won't be ashamed of being plain-looking, not very bright, only somewhat polite and orderly, and carrying many other flaws that my "selfish" side prefers to keep to itself.
Underneath that selfish façade, there is still gratitude; enough, I feel, for me.
"To hell with those who act the same toward me," I tell myself. I believe life can be steered by the fierce strength and thought in my mind. Let those who call me "weird" or even "crazy" be nothing more than passing wind.
After all, as long as they are the ones making the rules, there's no point in proving to them that I am the more normal one. To be "normal" in their world would force me to follow habits that contradict my thoughts.
Sometimes I have tried to please them—obey the rules and pretend everything is fine. But because it began with compulsion, I only grew more uncomfortable and returned to the consequence I'd chosen before: befriending solitude.
(Behind all that, know this—I still wait for an honest confession someday: that it is they who are crazy, not me.)
That is my life as Gibran Sasongko. I remain a man capable of wandering the wilds of existence, though time must be guided by my own sharp reason. I fight the onslaught of hardship with principles they call "selfish."
Everything goes on as it is, with the consequence I must bear: being set apart from the crowd. Until one day I found Her—my angel, the one I adored.
1
Today is my first day carrying the title of university student—Philosophy, my chosen major, at one of the country's well-known state universities. I also just moved into a small rented house near campus.
As a newcomer, of course I need to start learning about the neighborhood and the people around me. I hope that here, my true self will be more easily accepted, unlike in some of my past residences that often left me feeling weary.
I am a wanderer, always moving from place to place. Since high school I had already parted from my family. Coming from a family of migrants, my siblings and I were children of parents who had long lived far away from their homeland.
When I left for high school, I began searching for my own identity as a drifter, leaving my family behind in another faraway town in the eastern part of the country. As a wanderer, I simply followed wherever fate led me. I don't know why I was destined to live this way—perhaps it's because of one thing: freedom. Isn't that the word most young people my age are searching for these days?
It was always easy for me to leave a place when boredom set in, though I often excused it as seeking a "new atmosphere." But this time, the reason was simple: I needed a place closer to campus.
---
If you trace the beginning of this story… it all started with an accidental encounter. All I knew at the time was that I was looking at a girl—beautiful enough to catch the eyes of any normal young man. That was it.
The flower shop, Kembang Setaman. Rows of blossoms stretched before me, colorful and radiant. That place would later be etched in memory as the beginning of my story.
And it wasn't the only encounter. What first seemed like a fleeting glance became a memory I carried with me. Perhaps it was fate—because the flower shop I often passed on my way to and from campus was the very place where I kept seeing her.
So the simple conclusion was this: at that flower shop, there was a girl I often came across. That was all.
(Accustomed to wrestling with complex thoughts, I had trained myself to dismiss matters I considered trivial. For me, education and the effort to "fill my stomach" were more important. Words like "dating" or "romance" were always pushed to the very bottom of my priorities. Perhaps because my past experiences had only ever taught me the theory, never the practice.)
(Could there really be a normal girl willing to get close to someone like me? I never saw myself as interesting—just a young man buried in books and his own mind. If such girls existed, they would be rare, and probably as unfortunate as I was.)
And yet, I couldn't deny my nature as a man. No matter how hard I tried to suppress or hide it, sooner or later that feeling was bound to surface. This story began simply—with my admiration for a girl.
---
Days passed without much notice, stretching into weeks. Still a stranger in this city, I had no real intention of getting to know her better. Not until that morning.
Like every other day, I walked toward campus, counting my steps with a bag full of heavy books slung over my shoulder. When I reached the front of the flower shop—
"CRASH!!!"
A loud noise shattered the air, jolting me awake. Something had fallen and broken.
Still shaken, I turned toward the sound. Just a few steps away, a figure had also frozen in place. She had just dropped a glass vase, the shards now scattered across the shop's entrance.
My eyes lingered. We were only a few steps apart; if neither of us was nearsighted, we could easily see each other's faces. For a few seconds I stared, and then realized it was the same girl I had often glimpsed here before. From the very beginning, I had silently admitted her beauty.
(Perceptions of beauty may differ for everyone. But the honest instinct of any man, I believe, is the same when confronted with it. Beauty strikes first through the eyes—a natural art of its own.)
She was slender, graceful, with long straight hair that fell to her shoulders. Her skin was smooth, sun-kissed bronze. Her face, calm and captivating, was framed by large round eyes, thick brows, and long lashes, matched with a sharp nose and lips as red as pomegranate. Everything about her appearance deepened my astonishment.
Though it was only a brief moment, I had seen enough to be spellbound. Why deny it? I was mesmerized.
And so, against my usual nature, I felt the urge to greet her. The words came out clumsy, but they marked the beginning of our acquaintance.
"Whoa, the vase broke, huh?" My voice was heavy, nervous. I forced a smile. For a moment, I waited anxiously for her reply.
She finally looked my way. "Ehm… yes, I wasn't careful."
Her answer brought a faint smile to my lips. Embarrassed though I was, I felt a small surge of joy just to have exchanged words with her. Even if she hadn't really looked at me, I bent down, picked up a few orchids, and handed them to her.
"Oh, thank you…" she said softly, her delicate fingers brushing mine as she accepted them. I stole another glance at her face—but something about the way she avoided my eyes left me wondering.
Then, heavy footsteps came from inside the shop. A man's voice followed.
"Didn't I tell you not to bother with the chores here? Now look, you've hurt yourself again."
He appeared—a tall, slightly heavyset man with an air of authority, though his face also carried warmth.
"Sorry, Papa… I tripped," she replied.
"Come, let me take you inside." The man guided her gently back into the shop. Then, as if remembering something, he turned back toward me, smiling kindly.
"Thanks, kid," he said.
Assuming his words were meant for me, I smiled back. "Oh, sure. You're welcome, sir."
And just like that, they were gone. A young man came out to sweep up the shards of glass—probably a worker at the shop.
---
That morning, traffic bustled in front of Kembang Setaman. The street connected the campus, the market, and nearby offices.
I continued on my way, quietly drawing a simple conclusion from what had just happened: the man must have been her father. Their resemblance was clear.
But then another question rose unbidden in my mind…
Ah, never mind.
(Maybe she was embarrassed, maybe guilty for breaking the vase. Or maybe it was me—my nervous glance, my clumsy words. Still, why would a girl like her feel awkward looking at me? Surely she'd save her shy smiles for a man who truly fit her standards. And that was not me. So I let the thought go.)
"Besides," I chuckled to myself, "the idea is a little ridiculous anyway."
By the time I reached the campus gate, the questions had faded. Though in the days that followed, I often found myself watching her and that man—her father. Occasionally, he and I even exchanged greetings.
But it was always casual, nothing more than the way I socialized.
(I was still the kind of person a little aloof, greeting people around me awkwardly and stiffly. Somehow, I was never good at making small talk—especially with people I'd just met.)
2
That afternoon, the weather seemed less than friendly. A veil of dark clouds summoned drizzle, its droplets slowly wetting the earth. People around me quickly adjusted, preparing themselves as if rain was inevitable.
I wasn't too pleased with the timing, since my rented house was still several meters away.
"DRUSSS…"
All of a sudden, the expected downpour arrived. I hurried into a small run, searching for shelter from the rain.
As I quickened my pace, a voice called out—apparently directed at me.
(With my eyes fixed on a spot of cover not too far away, I had completely forgotten that I was now right in front of Kembang Setaman, the flower shop.)
"Hey, son, come take shelter here with me!"
The call came from the man I had often exchanged brief greetings with lately whenever I passed the flower shop—the same man I had once seen with the girl.
"Ah, yes, sir. Looks like there isn't any closer shelter," I replied at once.
(Kembang Setaman was arranged like a small roofed garden. Several other people had already gathered there for cover. After accepting his invitation, I joined them inside, and once again reached the conclusion I had drawn before: This flower shop must belong to this man.)
He gestured for me to sit beside him. With a warm smile, he started our first proper conversation.
"Well, if you'd kept running just now, you'd be soaked, son."
"True, sir. Especially this bag—its fabric is so thin, it gets wet easily," I answered flatly, brushing raindrops from my bag and clothes that had splashed from the shop's awning.
"I don't get it, yesterday was so sunny, and now suddenly it's raining again," I added, forcing myself to make a little small talk.
"Yeah, in these months, the weather's hard to predict," he said with a smile.
Our conversation began to flow more naturally. Somehow, I felt like I'd known him for a long time, though usually I only felt at ease speaking with familiar people. Maybe it was because of his calm and friendly manner.
Judging from his age, he must have been in his forties. Yet from the way he spoke, his expression, and his sturdy posture, he could easily have passed for someone not much older than me.
After a long round of polite exchanges, we finally began to ask more personal questions.
"We've run into each other so often, but only with quick greetings. I still don't know your name, son," he said.
"Oh, that's my mistake—I forgot to introduce myself. Just call me Gibran, sir," I replied, trying to hide the lingering awkwardness in my voice.
"What a fine name. Sounds like that famous writer I've heard of."
"People say that… but ah, it's nothing special, really."
He extended his hand and I shook it. "My real name is Suprapto Hasadi, but everyone around here just calls me Pak Ato. You can do the same."
The conversation kept rolling. Most of the topics were led by him, perhaps because he was more skilled at the little things that make up everyday talk.
Though I was more of a listener, I tried to be a pleasant conversational partner—not showing the cold, indifferent side of me that so often slipped out in talks with others.
The rain gradually lightened. One by one, the people who had taken cover in Kembang Setaman departed, some smiling at him on their way out. Clearly, they were neighbors or familiar customers.
Meanwhile, I lingered, strangely unwilling to leave. I felt comfortable chatting with him among the displays of flowers.
But in the middle of our talk, my eyes strayed to another corner of the shop.
There—someone else was sitting quietly, listening to music from a portable device.
I immediately recognized her. She was inseparable from my first memory of this shop and of Pak Ato. She was the girl.
I asked the new question that formed in my head. "She's the one who dropped that vase the other day, right, sir?" I said, pointing toward her.
Pak Ato followed my gaze and was silent for a moment. "Ehm… yes. Her name's Nina, my niece," he answered briefly.
Hearing that, I quickly revised the conclusion I had made before about her.
"Oh… I had thought she was your daughter," I said.
But my words seemed to go unanswered. His eyes were fixed on the beautiful flowers nearby. The conversation fell quiet for a while, until he turned back to me.
"Yes… but since childhood, she's called me Papa. Anyway, son, looks like it's almost midday prayer time…"