Exhaust fumes, a chorus of blaring horns, and road dust clinging to my windbreaker were my second breakfast after Mom's fried tempeh.
I rode Red, my affectionate nickname for Dad's 2012 underbone motorcycle, whose engine had begun to sound like a coconut grater. That bike had been with me since my college internship days, and now I was working as an operations staffer at a company that distributed logistics supplies for the baking industry.
My job wasn't glamorous. My main responsibilities were making sure shipping documents matched the goods in the warehouse, dealing with courier complaints, and listening to Mr. Bambang, the warehouse manager, who loved to blow up whenever he was in a bad mood.
"Ghan, why hasn't the manifest for the shipment to Tangerang been printed yet? The courier's about to leave," Mr. Bambang scolded as soon as I set my helmet on my desk.
"Yes, sir, just a second. The printer was acting up yesterday afternoon. I'll check it first," I replied, immediately turning on the old computer with its obnoxiously loud hum.
That was my world every Monday through Friday. Yellow documents, the smell of damp cardboard, and the aroma of cheap instant coffee brewed with water from a dispenser that wasn't hot enough. Monotonous? Absolutely.
But this was where the smoke from our family's kitchen came from. My monthly salary, even though it didn't quite reach double digits, was the anchor keeping my family from being dragged under whenever the storm of bills arrived.
Around one in the afternoon, during our late lunch break—we called it that because our office break ran a little late—I sat on the concrete steps beside the warehouse. I opened the blue lunch box Mom had packed for me. Inside was something simple: white rice, stir-fried water spinach that had gone a little limp, and a thinly sliced omelet to make it look like there was more of it.
For me, it was more than enough. My phone rang in my pants pocket. Letta's name appeared on the screen.
"Hey, Let?" I greeted her after swallowing my first bite.
"Ghani! I just finished my thesis advising!" Letta's voice sounded incredibly cheerful on the other end, a stark contrast to the warehouse, which was roaring with the sounds of loading and unloading. "My advisor approved chapters four and five right away. She said all I have to do is clean up the formatting, and I'll be able to register for my defense next month."
I grinned, sharing in her relief. "Thank God. That's great. What did I tell you? Your advisor was bound to love the financial statement analysis you put together."
"Yeah, luckily you helped me tidy up the tables in Excel yesterday. To thank you, I'll pick you up this afternoon, okay? We can find dinner near your office," she said sweetly.
I fell silent for a moment, staring at my blue lunch box, which was only one-third empty. "Sure. But let's take my motorcycle, okay? You can leave your car parked at campus or at your dad's office."
"Yeah, easy. I really want the cart-style chicken noodle place near that traffic light, Ghan. I've been craving it," she replied without hesitation.
That was Letta. She never minded eating by the dusty roadside, wearing my spare helmet with its slightly scratched visor, or smelling the sun on my jacket. Sometimes, the fact that she was so down-to-earth only made me feel guilty. She deserved somewhere more comfortable—a restaurant with air-conditioning and dim lights, not a tented food stall that street performers often passed by.
"Ghan? Why are you quiet?"
"Huh? No, it's nothing. Yeah, sure. Just let me know when you're on your way here," I answered quickly.
"Okay. Oh, right, Dad called earlier. He said that after my defense, he's sending me straight into an internship in the internal audit department at headquarters," Letta told me. Her voice sounded casual, but to me, the sentence felt like a gentle reminder of the invisible line between us.
She was getting ready to move up to the top floor of a skyscraper. Meanwhile, I was still here beside the warehouse, tidying up an empty lunch box with the leftover water-spinach sauce between my fingers.
"That's good, Let. It'll be a great chance to learn firsthand," I said softly.
"Yeah, I guess. Anyway, I need to put away my books. See you this afternoon, Ghani."
"Yeah. Bye, Let."
I ended the call. My gaze fell on the toes of my shoes, where the leather had begun to peel. Being the middle child had taught me to hold myself back. I couldn't let myself look insecure in front of Letta, but I also couldn't forget who I was.
Suddenly, a message came in from Ghea in the family group chat.
Ghea: "Ghan, what time are you coming home tonight? Please pick up Dad's usual cough medicine, okay? Use your own money for now. I'll pay you back when I get my turn in the rotating savings group."
I let out a short sigh, then typed a brief reply.
You: "Okay, Mbak. I'll pick it up on my way home."
I slipped my phone back into my pocket. There was no time to daydream about the difference between my world and Letta's. Right now, the most immediate things were making sure I filled Dad's prescription that night and making sure Red didn't break down when I went to pick up the future successor to a major company that afternoon.