# Chapter 3 – What Was Never Said
Fajar didn't tell anyone.
For the next three nights, he slept no more than an hour each night. His eyes were nearly closed in class. He didn't answer the group chat messages. Every time Jalal asked when they were going to start working on the project, he only replied, "Later. In a bit. Soon."
He knew he was being awful. He knew he was letting them down. But every time he was about to open the project file, his eyes always went to the contest manuscript, already twelve pages long, and he couldn't stop typing.
Wednesday afternoon, after class ended, he hid in the farthest corner of the library. His laptop glowed dimly. His fingers had gone stiff. He had just deleted the entire final paragraph for the seventh time.
Someone set a glass of sweet iced tea beside his laptop.
Fajar looked up.
Piat stood there, his hands in his pockets, his face as indifferent as ever.
"You're here every night," he said without a hint of a question. "The librarian already knows your face. He says you're always the last one out."
Fajar quickly closed his laptop.
"I'm just working on an assignment."
"Yeah." Piat shrugged. "The assignment you hide every time someone walks by. The assignment that keeps you from ever eating lunch. The assignment that made you mute our group chat notifications."
He sat down in the chair across from Fajar. He wasn't angry. He just watched.
"We all know."
Fajar fell silent.
"Jalal has almost blown up at you three times. But last night, he saw you at the bulletin board in front of the library. You stood there for almost twenty minutes staring at that contest announcement. Then he told us."
Piat pulled out his phone and turned the screen toward Fajar.
It was their group chat—the four of them, without Fajar.
> Jalal: He's entering that short-story contest. The one with the 2.5 million rupiah prize. > Aghnia: Oh my God. Then why does he always look so exhausted? > Faqih: If he wants to win, he needs time. > Jalal: But our project is worth 40 percent. If he fails this assignment, he could be expelled. > Piat: Then let's do it ahead of time. > Aghnia: What? > Piat: We'll do his part. Don't tell him anything. Let him write. > Faqih: Agreed. > Jalal: ...All right. But if he loses the contest, we're all beating him over the head together, lol.
Fajar stared at the screen. His chest felt tight. All this time, he'd thought he was alone. All this time, he'd thought no one noticed. All this time, he'd thought everyone only saw someone they couldn't rely on—someone who was always late, always disappearing.
No one had asked why. No one had offered him money. No one had said they felt sorry for him. They had simply, quietly taken some of the weight from his shoulders without telling him.
"We've already done Chapters One through Three." Piat pulled a sheet of paper from his bag and placed it on the table. "Aghnia's notes are here. We've gathered all the references. You just need to check if anything's wrong. No need to rush."
He stood to leave. Before turning around, he paused for a moment.
"Oh, right. One more thing. Don't ever think about thanking us. If you say thank you, we'll all feel really awkward. And don't lose. If you lose this contest, we won't talk to you for a month."
Then he left.
Fajar sat alone in the corner of the library. The sweet iced tea in front of him was still beaded with condensation. He reopened his laptop.
But before he started typing, his phone buzzed.
A message came in from the group chat—the one he was actually in.
> Jalal: @Fajar it's fine. Our project is moving forward. Take care of your business first. > Aghnia: Don't forget to eat. I left some bread in your bag. > Faqih: If you need someone to read your writing, send it to me. I won't give you many comments. > Jalal: AND DON'T YOU DARE LOSE.
Fajar stared at the messages. All this time, he'd thought being strong meant carrying everything alone. That asking for help meant losing. That no one was allowed to see you fall apart.
But that wasn't true.
There was another kind of strength. One that didn't shout. One that wasn't put on display. One that simply came quietly, took some of your burden, and left without saying a word.
He deleted the message he'd typed halfway through, the one containing thousands of words of apology. The one containing a long explanation about his family's situation, his sick father, and the wallet that held only two thousand rupiah.
He replied with just one sentence.
> Fajar: Got ittt... I won't lose.
Outside, the sun had begun to set. Orange light streamed through the library windows. At the next table, people were laughing as they worked on their assignments. Out on the street, people were heading home from work.
And Fajar placed his fingers on the keyboard.
For the first time in a very long while, he didn't feel alone.
He didn't know whether he would win the contest. He didn't know whether the 2.5 million rupiah would really become his. He didn't know whether everything would be better tomorrow.
But he knew one thing.
He wasn't running alone anymore.
And that was enough.
Enough to make him type one more sentence. One more page. One more night.
Until, finally, he won.