Late-afternoon sunlight filtered through the central university library's large glass windows, casting golden streaks of light across rows of gleaming ceramic tiles. At three that afternoon, the library was utterly peaceful, filled only by the soft sound of pages being turned now and then and the gentle hum of the air conditioner cooling the room. In the farthest corner of the second floor, among towering shelves packed with classic and modern literary works, stood a teak reading table surrounded by the warm glow of a desk lamp.
That was Aisyah's favorite place to spend her free time between classes or after taking care of academic administrative matters. But this afternoon, the library corner suddenly felt different. Sitting across from the wooden table where Aisyah had arranged her stack of reference books was Dr. Jonathan.
A thesis adviser's presence in the general student reading area was hardly an everyday sight, especially for someone as much of a perfectionist as Jonathan. The man had apparently shed his university blazer and formal dress shirt and tie, leaving only a white long-sleeved shirt neatly rolled up to his elbows. Open before him was a classic poetry anthology from the New Poets and Generation of '45 eras, its cover worn thin with age.
Aisyah, who had just arrived carrying a notebook and a small bottle of mineral water, paused for a moment beside the bookshelves. She had not expected to find her young lecturer in the classical literature section.
"Have a seat, Aisyah," Jonathan said without looking up from the page he was reading. His voice was soft, blending into the silence of the library corner. "Don't just stand there as if you're facing a thesis examiner."
Aisyah blinked, then walked over slowly and took the seat directly across from him. She adjusted her hijab before placing her notebook on the table. "I didn't expect to see you here, Professor. Usually, an afternoon like this would find you in a senate meeting or holding an intensive advising session in your office."
Jonathan slowly closed the classic poetry anthology and rested his strong fingers on its cover. He looked at Aisyah calmly from behind his thin-framed glasses. "The senate meeting ended early today. And as it happens, I was looking for a few comparative references for next week's comparative literature lecture. Without realizing it, my footsteps brought me to this classical literature aisle."
"Classic works always have their own way of drawing people in," Aisyah replied, her voice more relaxed now, though the respect in her manner remained unmistakable. "Even though my research focuses on modern postcolonial literature, reading classic poems like the works of Chairil Anwar and Amir Hamzah always gives me a strong foundation in the rhythm of language."
The corner of Jonathan's mouth lifted into a faint smile, a rare gesture he almost never showed in formal class settings. "You're right, Aisyah. Modern literature would never have taken shape if we ignored the aesthetic roots of classic poetry. Language is a reflection of its era's soul."
He then turned the poetry anthology toward Aisyah and gently pushed it across the wooden table. It lay open to a page containing an old poem about longing and the search for one's identity.
"Try reading the third stanza of this poem," Jonathan said, indicating the relevant lines with a slight tilt of his chin. "In your opinion, how does the poet's diction represent the human struggle within a time of transition?"
Aisyah lowered her gaze and read the lines of the classic poem silently, one by one. The atmosphere in the library corner suddenly narrowed into a space of intellectual intimacy. There was no undergraduate thesis advising session, no frightening red-ink marks—only two students of literature delving into the beauty of meaning hidden behind rows of profound words.
"The poet uses metaphors of night and a harbor," Aisyah began, her fingers naturally straightening the book in front of her. "The harbor here isn't merely a place where ships dock; it's a symbol of an existential search. The figure in the poem feels alienated in his own homeland, much like the alienation that often appears in postcolonial narratives."
Jonathan listened carefully to every word Aisyah spoke. His thick eyebrows lifted slightly, showing genuine appreciation for the sharpness of his student's spontaneous analysis. "That's a very interesting analysis. You see the spatial dimension in that classic poem through the third-space perspective you're examining in your undergraduate thesis—the relationship between physical space and psychological alienation."
"Thank you, Professor," Aisyah replied, feeling a small warmth spread through her chest at the academic praise. "Classic poetry often holds unexpected layers of meaning when it's read with a modern sensibility."
For more than an hour afterward, their small discussion in the library corner continued. They talked about everything from the linguistic styles of earlier poets to the evolution of free-verse forms in the contemporary era. Amid stacks of thick books and the scent of old paper, their interaction flowed with complete naturalness, revealing a powerful intellectual wavelength shared by a dedicated young lecturer and an intelligent senior student.
When the library wall clock showed ten minutes past five, Jonathan closed the anthology for good and straightened in his chair.
"Time passes so quickly when we're talking about literature," Jonathan said, glancing at the watch on his wrist. "I imagine the library will be closing this second-floor reading area soon."
Aisyah gathered her notebook as well and slipped it back into her backpack. "Yes, Professor. Thank you so much for this afternoon's discussion. Your insights into classic poetry truly helped me see a new perspective for the data analysis chapter."
"You're welcome, Aisyah," Jonathan replied.
They rose from the reading table almost simultaneously. Walking side by side, they made their way down the aisle of bookshelves toward the second-floor exit. Their footsteps fell in rhythm on the ceramic floor, accompanied by friendly greetings from several other students passing by and respectfully saluting Dr. Jonathan.
When they reached the area near the library's main staircase, Jonathan stopped for a moment and looked at Aisyah with a gentle yet commanding gaze.
"Continue your research with focus, Aisyah," Jonathan advised before they went their separate ways toward the campus exits. "Our next official advising meeting is scheduled for Thursday afternoon in my office. I look forward to seeing the revised draft of your data analysis."
"Yes, Professor. I'll do my very best," Aisyah replied firmly.
Jonathan nodded slowly and offered a brief respectful gesture before heading down the main staircase first toward the faculty parking area. Aisyah watched the man's back for a moment, feeling an ever-deepening sense of respect for her thesis adviser growing in her heart, before finally turning and walking out through the campus gate to head home.