The dark-polished wooden door closed tightly behind Aisyah, leaving only the faint creak of its hinges, which continued to ring in her ears. The hallway in the east wing of the Faculty of Humanities seemed even quieter now. Aisyah's footsteps against the white tiles echoed softly, keeping pace with her heartbeat, which was still pumping blood at an abnormal speed. She hugged the orange folder containing her undergraduate thesis proposal tightly against her chest, as though the thin plastic object were the only shield protecting her from the tension she had just experienced inside.
Aisyah drew a deep breath, trying to fill her lungs with as much oxygen as possible. The air outside the lecturer's office felt far lighter, even though traces of Earl Grey tea and old paper still clung to the edge of her senses. Just moments ago, behind that wooden door marked with the number thirteen, she had stood face-to-face with Dr. Jonathan Wijaya, M.A., the most respected and most feared young lecturer in the Indonesian Literature Department.
The man was known not for his youth, but for his extraordinarily high academic standards and uncompromising strictness. For senior students, entering Dr. Jonathan's office without thorough preparation was like walking onto a battlefield without a weapon. And Aisyah had just passed her first test. The revision of the first chapter of her undergraduate thesis proposal, titled Deconstructing Identity and Social Reality in Postcolonial Novels of the 1990s, had officially been approved for continuation into the next chapter.
Aisyah quickened her pace, leaving the building's east wing for the open walkway connecting the main building to the central library. The blazing midday sun immediately greeted the skin of her face, contrasting sharply with the cold air-conditioning in the lecturer's office. She walked down the concrete stairs, her gaze slightly unfocused. Her mind was filled with the red-ink correction notes covering the margins of her manuscript, tangible proof of how carefully and meticulously the lecturer had read every line she had written.
At the end of the corridor, near a large angsana tree, Rian stood leaning against a concrete pillar while playing with his phone. The moment he saw Aisyah emerge from the east wing with the orange folder in her arms, Rian straightened, slipped his phone into his pants pocket, and walked over to her.
“Aisyah! Thank goodness you finally came out,” Rian called, his anxiety barely contained. “How did it go? He didn’t chew you out over that structuralism theory we argued about the other day, did he?”
Aisyah blinked several times, trying to pull her awareness back into the real world. She offered a faint smile to dispel her friend's concern. “No, Rian. Everything went fine.”
Rian studied Aisyah's face closely, clearly not entirely satisfied with her brief answer. “Seriously? But you still look so tense. Did Professor Jonathan reject your revision? If he wants you to overhaul the whole thing, just say the word. We can work on it together at the library.”
Aisyah slowly shook her head as she straightened her square hijab. “He didn’t reject it, Rian. Quite the opposite. He fully approved my first chapter revision. He said I could start drafting chapter two this week.”
At that, Rian's eyes widened for a moment before a broad smile spread across his face. “Wait, seriously? Alhamdulillah! Nice work, Aisyah. In less than a month, you managed to get your first chapter past Dr. Jonathan's ‘perfectionist’ standards. You know how it is—so many students in our cohort have to go back and forth up to five times just to get their problem background approved.”
“I was nervous too,” Aisyah admitted honestly, exhaling in relief. “He really is incredibly thorough. He checked every footnote, every bit of paragraph cohesion, and every word choice, one by one, without missing a thing. It felt like I was being tested by a comprehensive-exam examiner, even though this was only a regular advising consultation.”
“Well, that's Professor Jonathan's reputation for you,” Rian remarked as he walked beside Aisyah down across the campus grounds. “He earned his doctorate overseas and holds academic discipline in extremely high regard. So it makes sense that our department places great expectations on every student he advises directly. But speaking of which, you don't have another class scheduled, do you? Are you heading straight home, or do you want to stop by the cafeteria first?”
“I'll go straight home, Rian. My mother is waiting for me, and I want to organize these revision notes before I forget,” Aisyah replied.
“All right, then. Be careful on your way home. Good luck with chapter two!” Rian called, waving as Aisyah headed toward the campus exit to find public transportation.
Throughout the ride home in the city minibus, Aisyah's thoughts remained fixed on the academic discussion she had just had in the lecturer's office. Dr. Jonathan certainly had a distinctive way of interacting. The man almost never offered empty praise. Whenever he approved of something, that approval was always accompanied by critical questions designed to spur his students' critical faculties and make them think more deeply.
“The stylistic analysis you've used here is quite sharp, Aisyah.” Jonathan's deep voice echoed in her ears once more. “But make sure the theoretical foundation in chapter two is strong enough to support your main argument about the protagonist's shifting identity. Don't let the theory float in the air without grounding it in the literary text you're analyzing.”
The instruction was professional, firm, and entirely confined to academic matters. There was no room for anything beyond the business of literary research. Aisyah realized that under the young lecturer's guidance, she was expected to step outside the comfort zone of conventional thinking. As an Indonesian Literature undergraduate, the opportunity to be advised by an expert in modern literature was both an honor and a formidable challenge that she would have to prove herself worthy of through hard work.
When she arrived at the modest row house in the middle of a densely populated neighborhood, Aisyah unlocked the small gate with the key in her hand. The house was quiet. From the kitchen came the trickle of running water and the sounds of her mother preparing things for the afternoon.
Aisyah stepped inside, removed her canvas shoes on the small wooden rack near the door, then placed her backpack and the orange folder containing her undergraduate thesis proposal on the living-room table.
“Aisyah? You're home, sweetheart?” Fatimah's voice came from behind the kitchen curtain. The middle-aged woman appeared wearing a clean white prayer garment, having just finished her Asr prayer.
“Yes, Mom,” Aisyah replied as she approached her mother and respectfully kissed the back of Fatimah's hand.
Fatimah gently stroked the crown of her daughter's head, her affection plain. “How did your thesis advising go today? Did that young lecturer of yours give you a lot of difficult notes?”
Aisyah smiled sincerely, the weariness in her body seeming to evaporate at the gentleness of her mother's voice. “Alhamdulillah, it went smoothly, Mom. Professor Jonathan approved my first chapter revision. This week, I can start working on chapter two, about the theoretical foundation and literature review.”
Fatimah's face immediately lit up with joy. She hugged Aisyah for a moment, full of gratitude. “Alhamdulillah... I'm proud of you, sweetheart. All your hard work at school has finally paid off. Your father would be so happy wherever he is if he could see how determined his daughter is to finish college.”
At the mention of her father, Aisyah's heart grew warm. She nodded slowly, grateful that the day had gone well without any significant problems. There had been no strange tension, no arguments beyond the bounds of academia—only a professional meeting between a lecturer and a student who were both dedicated to the world of literature.
“Yes, Mom. I'll do my best to finish this thesis on time so I can graduate soon,” Aisyah said firmly.
“Then go take a shower and get some rest. After that, pray, and then continue reading your book,” Fatimah advised, her concern evident, before heading back toward the kitchen.
Aisyah obediently nodded. She walked to her small but immaculate bedroom. Neatly arranged on her study desk were various literature reference books, dictionaries, and stacks of small notes from classes over the past several years.
She sat in her wooden chair and opened the orange folder containing the proposal she had just brought home from campus. Her eyes moved from page to page, taking in the neat red-ink marks written by Dr. Jonathan. She read every correction and small note carefully, one by one, absorbing each constructive suggestion from her thesis adviser.
For Aisyah, a new chapter in her academic journey had just begun. Before her now lay the blank pages of chapter two, waiting to be filled with sharp analysis, solid scholarly arguments, and complete devotion to the Indonesian literary world she loved so deeply. Under the guidance of a highly perfectionistic and dedicated young lecturer, she was determined to prove her capacity as an independent and competent senior student.