Fajar walked through the campus gates in shoes whose soles had already begun to peel away. His steps were slow. He had slept for only two hours the night before. His eyes burned, his head throbbed, and Raka and Maya's words were still buzzing around in his head like flies that refused to leave.
He hadn't replied to either of their messages. He didn't know what to say.
Laughter could already be heard from a distance in front of Classroom 301. As soon as he appeared in the doorway, one of them waved.
"Jar! Come here, come here. There's still an empty seat!"
Jalal. The first person to greet him on his first day of class, the one who didn't care that Fajar always wore the same clothes, the one who always shared his candy without asking. He sat at the end of the row with his legs stretched into the aisle, drawing a cat on the cover of his notebook.
Beside him, Faqih merely nodded as he slowly turned a page. He never talked much, but if you forgot to bring a pen, he'd hold his out before you even asked. He never said anything. He just extended his hand.
Aghnia was straightening a stack of notes. She saw Fajar, smiled, and moved her bag off the chair beside her. "You're five minutes late. The professor isn't here yet. Lucky you."
And Piat, in the back, had his head lowered over the desk, his fingers moving quickly across his phone's screen. Without looking up, he said, "If you want to borrow money for coffee, don't ask first. I only have five thousand too. We can split it."
Fajar sat down. He let out a long breath. For a moment, he forgot. Forgot about the wallet with only two thousand rupiah inside. Forgot about the cooking oil that had run out at home. Forgot about the twelve rejection emails he still hadn't deleted. Here, at this wooden desk covered in graffiti, for ten seconds, he was just an ordinary student.
The conversation flowed as usual. Jalal complained about the statistics assignment. Faqih said the professor definitely wouldn't show up. Aghnia passed around stickers she'd gotten from the book stand yesterday. Piat was still playing on his phone, but every so often he interrupted with a comment that made everyone laugh.
No one asked why his eyes were red. No one asked why he never bought food in the cafeteria. No one knew that every night he sat in front of his laptop until three in the morning, typing sentence after sentence that no one might ever read.
And that was what Fajar liked most about them.
Suddenly, the classroom door opened. The professor came in, set his bag on the desk, and started speaking without any preamble.
"All right. For this final-semester project, you'll work in groups. Five people. No fewer, no more. It's due next week. It carries a grade weight of forty percent of your final grade."
The entire class erupted.
Jalal immediately turned toward Fajar. "What do you say? You're in with us. We've already got five, right? No need to find anyone else. Okay!"
Fajar fell silent.
Forty percent of his final grade. That meant he'd have to spend at least the next ten nights working on this project. That meant he wouldn't have time to write his contest manuscript. That meant the deadline the day after tomorrow would simply pass him by.
While he was still frozen, the phone in his pants pocket buzzed.
A message from Raka. > Bro, I just checked the contest requirements. You can submit it by 11 p.m. the day after tomorrow. Don't forget, okay?
A few seconds later, another message came from Maya. > I read your latest piece. The one about the rain. It's really good. Don't delete it, okay?
Fajar stared at his phone's screen beneath the desk. A faint smile appeared at the corner of his lips. But his chest felt heavy.
He could choose his grades. He could choose the safe option. He could stop hoping for some stupid thing that hadn't given him anything in the past year.
Or he could risk everything one more time.
Class ended half an hour later. Everyone streamed out. Fajar walked slowly behind them, passing the main bulletin board in front of the library.
He stopped.
Amid all the announcements about seminars, internship openings, and concert posters, there was a yellow sheet of paper taped up with clear tape.
NATIONAL SHORT-STORY CONTEST 2024 DEADLINE: MARCH 17 AT 11:59 P.M. GRAND PRIZE: 2.5 MILLION RUPIAH
Fajar stared at the paper for a long time.
Then he took out his wallet.
He opened it.
There was only a single two-thousand-rupiah bill. And his student ID. Nothing else.
People passed in front of him. The sounds of laughter, footsteps, and motorcycle horns from outside the gates all seemed far away.
He looked at the contest announcement. He looked at the two thousand rupiah in his hand.
And for the first time in a long while, Fajar no longer hesitated.
He knew what he would choose.