Fajar stared at the contents of his wallet. All that remained was a 2,000-rupiah bill and a student ID whose corners were beginning to peel. He took a deep breath before putting the wallet back in his pants pocket.
From the kitchen, his mother called out. "Jar, don't forget to buy cooking oil on your way home if you have any money left, okay?"
Fajar fell silent. He wanted to answer, but the words felt heavy. The money in his pocket wasn't even enough to buy a packet of rice. He knew Mom hadn't meant anything by it. She also didn't know that he hadn't eaten anything since yesterday. She was only always trying to say everything as though there were still a choice.
He sat on the front-porch steps. The rain had just stopped in front of the house. Water was still dripping from the tile roof, one drop after another, as steady as the ticking of a clock counting how much longer they could hold on.
His phone buzzed. In the WhatsApp group, Raka sent a message. > Bro, there's another short-story contest. The prize is 2.5 million rupiah. Deadline's the day after tomorrow. You in?
Before he could reply, Maya sent him a private message. > You have a real talent for writing. Don't stop just because things are tough right now.
Fajar stared at his phone screen for a long time. His finger hovered over the reply button.
He had submitted a contest manuscript twelve times this year. Twelve times, he hadn't heard back at all. His friends said he was stupid. They said the people who won were the ones with connections. They said there was no point writing until three in the morning just to hope for a lucky break.
But what else did he have?
He couldn't work full-time. He wasn't allowed to drop out of college. Every time he saw a job posting, it always said, “Currently enrolled students not accepted.” Every time he applied for a part-time job, they looked at his class schedule and shook their heads.
The only thing that had never rejected him was a blank sheet of paper.
The only thing that didn't care that he had no nice clothes, no money for food, and no one to help him was the sentence he typed out one word at a time.
He remembered how, last week, he had seen Mom secretly cut Dad's medication in half so it would last longer. He remembered his older sister Nina calling while quietly crying, saying that her boss hadn't paid her this month's salary, but she didn't dare tell the family. He remembered Mr. Darto, the next-door neighbor, secretly leaving a packet of instant noodles in front of their door that morning, then pretending not to know when Fajar saw him.
Everyone was struggling. Everyone was hiding their own wounds. And he couldn't become an added burden.
His phone buzzed again. Raka sent another message. > Bro, I know you're tired. But try one more time. Just this once.
Fajar closed his eyes. He could feel his exhaustion all the way down to his bones. He could feel the urge to simply lie down and never wake up again. But he also knew that if he stopped now, no one else would come to help.
So he opened his laptop.
He opened a blank document.
The cursor blinked in the upper-left corner. Waiting.
In the kitchen, Mom began to cough. Outside, the neighbor's motorcycle started up as he headed out to look for work. At the end of the street, a rooster began to crow. A new day had begun. Everyone had already started running.
He placed his fingers on the keyboard.
One more time.
Just one more time.
He didn't know whether he would win this time. He didn't know whether anyone would want to buy his manuscript that afternoon. He didn't know whether the electricity would still be on tomorrow.
But he knew one thing.
As long as his fingers could still type, he hadn't lost yet.
It was five-thirty in the morning. The rain began to fall again. Outside, the world was still cold and unfair. But on the small wooden table in the corner of the room, the laptop screen was still lit. And Fajar began to write.
And he would not stop.