I blinked awake to the faint glow of dawn filtering through my curtains. The chirping of pigeons on the rooftop and the distant hum of morning traffic seeped into my consciousness like a gentle nudge. For a moment, I lay still, savoring the residual warmth of my futon and the lingering dream of last night's design brainstorm. Then, with an almost instinctive groan, I slapped the alarm off its nightstand perch.
"Another day as Agung Rokhman, architecture student extraordinaire," I mumbled to the empty room, rubbing my eyes. My sneakers leaned neatly by the door, ready for me to seek new inspiration on campus. My sketchbook waited on my desk, its pages already filled with half-formed concepts of facades and floor plans. Life, at least for now, seemed peaceful—a comfortable rhythm of lectures, studio sessions, and the occasional late-night coffee run with friends.
Rolling out of bed, I stretched. My muscles protested, remnants of yesterday's long hours spent hunched over CAD software, searching for that perfect structural curve. It felt good, in a weird way—the ache of creative exertion and the knowledge that I was inching closer to something meaningful. Architecture was more than just buildings to me; it was a language, a way to balance emotion and function. Each sketch, each line, carried a piece of my heart.
I shuffled to the window and drew the curtain aside. Jakarta's skyline greeted me—rows of concrete and steel rising toward the pale morning sky. Between the high-rises peeked specks of green from neighborhood parks, and to the west, the haze of the horizon hinted at a sunrise I hadn't quite caught. The city buzzed awake, its pulse quickening. Somewhere below, street vendors began to set up their stalls, the aroma of freshly fried tempeh creeping upward to my nose.
"coffee," I muttered, the word rolling off my tongue like a mantra. Without a second thought, I grabbed my phone and tapped a message to my friend Raka: Meet me at Bakoel Kopi in fifteen? Almost instantly, a thumbs-up emoji popped back. Raka was already a step ahead of me—typical. I flashed him a grin, even though he wasn't here. The warmth of friendship settled in my chest.
In the bathroom, I splashed cold water on my face. My reflection stared back: dark hair tousled, pale skin still clinging to sleep. I ran a hand through my fringe, shaking away the remnants of dreams. Architecture might be my passion, but life required some semblance of presentability. I brushed my teeth, combed my hair, and shrugged into my usual attire—a crisp white shirt paired with dark jeans, sleeves rolled up to forearms that bore faint pencil smudges. On my wrist, a simple leather strap held my analog watch, its ticking a comforting constant in a world of digital chaos.
Downstairs, my mother's cooking aromas greeted me. She was already at the stove, humming a familiar folk song. I inhaled deeply, the fragrance of sautéed garlic and simmering broth weaving into my consciousness. Even thousands of kilometers from home, I still craved her cooking. With promise in my eyes, I joined her in the kitchen.
"Morning, Ma," I said, sliding onto a stool. She smiled, patting the seat beside her for a moment before returning to her pan.
"Good morning, Nak," she answered, flipping a piece of tofu with practiced ease. "I made your favorite—mie goreng and sambal for an extra kick." She glanced at me through the steam, teasing. "Don't let all that studio energy go to waste."
I laughed, memories of late-night ramen bowls and shared jokes flooding back. "I'll need the energy. Today's studio session is on load-bearing columns. Ugh."
Her expression softened. "You've always loved a challenge. Eat first, study later."
I nodded, picking up a pair of chopsticks. The first bite was a symphony: chewy noodles, spicy sambal igniting my taste buds, and the light sweetness of fresh tomato. It felt like home in each mouthful.
"Thanks, Ma," I said between bites. "I'll bring home album cover-worthy designs soon."
She chuckled. "I know you will. Just remember to take care of yourself." Her eyes flicked to the clock on the wall. "And don't be late for class."
I smiled and finished my breakfast. By the time the sun had fully peeked over the horizon, I was known by my stomach to have finished my breakfast, and by my mother to have one more kiss on my forehead before I dashed out the door. My sketchbook nestled under my arm, I headed toward campus, the hum of the city wrapping around me like an old friend.
---
The walk to the university took twenty minutes—a ritual I cherished. The avenue lining campus was alive with activity: students on bicycles, coffee stalls peddling strong java, and the distant call of a street preacher. I hopped onto a motorbike taxi (ojek), giving the driver the address and mentally sifting through the morning's lecture schedule.
Architecture faculty was housed in a sprawling, modernist building—glass facades reflecting the morning light. Tall columns supported cantilevered walkways, and inside, model apartments and structural mock-ups lined the corridors. I felt a thrill of anticipation at the sight. Every corner held inspiration: a scale model of a sustainable housing complex, a wall of post-it sketches illustrating city planning ideas, and a long table scattered with student portfolios, each a glimpse into someone's creative soul.
I waved to familiar faces as I entered the studio. Some were sketching on massive drafting tables; others huddled over laptops, adjusting 3D models. The soft whir of printers and the chatter of brainstorming sessions formed a comforting backdrop. At my desk, I pulled out my mechanical pencil and opened my sketchbook to the last page—a careful rendering of a community library I'd been working on. The design incorporated open-air reading nooks, a green rooftop with solar panels, and shaded pathways that encouraged visitors to linger. In my mind, every line had purpose, every shape a resonance with its environment.
Beside me, Rico was already hunched over his laptop, headphones and all. He waved without looking, motioning me to plug in. "Got the new texture pack for the CAD software," he said, voice muffled. "We can finally get realistic brick patterns."
I grinned. "Perfect timing. I need to finalize the façade for Professor Hartono's review."
Rico smirked. "Professor Hartono has been tough on us lately. But if anyone can show him something fresh, it's you."
I laughed but felt a flicker of nerves. Professor Hartono's reputation for being exacting was legendary. His criticism could be as sharp as a laser beam. I concentrated, focusing on the delicate interplay between glass louvers and concrete columns on my digital model. Sunlight angle adjustments, load-bearing calculations—each tweak felt like a puzzle piece clicking into place.
Minutes later, a bell chimed, signaling the start of the morning lecture. I saved my file and slung my sketchbook into my tote. Time to pack up and head to the lecture hall—Building C, Room 214. Rico gave me a thumbs-up, returning to his own work, and I made my way through the bustling corridor.
Inside the lecture hall, desks rose in a gentle amphitheater curve. Half the seats were already taken by expectant classmates. Blackboards flanked a large projection screen, and models of iconic buildings were displayed on pedestals near the front. The smell of chalk dust lingered in the air, mingled with the faint tang of sanitizer. I slid into a seat near the front row, pulling out my notebook and adjusting my pen.
Professor Hartono entered precisely on time, clad in his trademark tweed jacket and thick-rimmed glasses. He surveyed the room with a practiced eye—tall, stern, yet fueled by an unmistakable passion for design. At his side, a stack of papers thumped onto the podium. Whispers rippled through the students. He tapped the microphone, and the meter flashed green.
"Good morning," he said, voice clear and resonant. "Today, we will discuss the principles of load distribution in cantilevered structures." His gaze drifted across the sea of faces until it landed on me. "Rokhman, is your project ready for review?"
My heart skipped a beat. "Yes, Professor. I have my façade design—optimized for both sunlight control and aesthetic flow." I met his gaze, trying to hide my anxiety.
His lips curved slightly—perhaps a hint of approval. "Very well. Present after the lecture." Without further ado, he launched into a lecture on moment forces and structural tension, illustrating with diagrams of bridges and skyscrapers. I scribbled notes furiously, occasionally glancing at my watch. Ten minutes to presentation time. My mind raced over the details I planned to highlight: the use of cross-laminated timber, the integration of passive ventilation, and the importance of local context in material selection.
Finally, the lecture drew to a close. As students began filing past to exit, I waited until the crowd thinned, then approached the podium, laptop in hand. My palms felt clammy as I plugged in the USB drive. The screen flickered, and my digital model appeared in full color: sleek glass panels framed by slender concrete beams, dappled sunlight casting shadows on a verdant courtyard below.
I cleared my throat. "Professor Hartono, this is my proposal for the sustainable community library façade. The design emphasizes energy efficiency through shading devices, while maintaining an open, welcoming atmosphere for pedestrians." My voice wavered slightly but strengthened as I clicked through slides showing daylight simulations and structural analyses.
The professor watched intently, occasionally nodding. At the end, he tapped the screen, pausing on a close-up of the timber elements. "Rokhman, you have considered local materials—a commendable choice. The integration of passive design is solid. However, I question the load calculations on that cantilevered section. Have you recalculated for seismic loads?"
My heart sank. Seismic loads—a region like ours could shake a structure apart if not accounted for. But I had indeed run those calculations. I opened my notebook and pointed to a slide. "Yes, Professor. I accounted for a return period of 475 years—approximately 5% probability in 50 years. Here—my calculations include a dynamic response spectrum based on SNI code. The steel reinforcement has a safety factor of 1.5."
He leaned forward, peering at the projected spreadsheet. For a long moment, silence stretched. My classmates shifted in their seats, curiosity sparking in their eyes.
Finally, he straightened. "Impressive. You've done your homework thoroughly. The design holds potential for further development. Continue refining the connection detail between beam and column—ensure proper ductility. Otherwise, well done." He paused, then folded his arms. "You may return to your seat."
A wave of relief washed over me. I closed the program and packed my laptop, heart still pounding. As I walked back to my desk, Rico shot me a thumbs-up, mouthing the words, Nice job! I managed a weak grin.
---
By mid-morning, my head was swirling with thoughts of structural details, but I reminded myself that today's highlight lay elsewhere. After finishing my final class—a studio critique session—I gathered my things. The sun was high now, its warmth seeping through the windows. I considered grabbing a quick lunch on campus but decided to head straight to Bakoel Kopi. Raka would be waiting with our usual table by the window. The aroma of roasted beans and warm pastries offered a comforting balm to my still-racing nerves.
At Bakoel Kopi, Raka was already there, sprawled across the wooden bench with a steaming cup in hand. "Agung!" he called, waving. He wore his signature mischievous grin. "Survived Hartono's grilling, I hear?"
I slid onto the bench and ordered an iced latte for myself. "Barely. He questioned my seismic calculations, but I had the data." I heaved a sigh and sipped the coffee. Rich, dark, and bittersweet—just how I liked it.
Raka leaned forward, eyes bright. "That's awesome. I saw the look on your face when he paused. I was almost ready to throw you a rescue line. But you nailed it."
I shrugged modestly. "It was nerve-wracking, but I guess all those nights of calculations paid off." I paused. "By the way, something weird happened earlier."
Raka's eyebrows shot up. "Weird how?"
"Professor Hartono announced an internship opportunity," I said, unfolding the circular flyer from my bag. "Everafter Wedding Planning. Apparently, they're looking for architecture students to help with event design. Honestly, I never thought architecture applied to wedding planning, but Professor said our skills would be useful."
Raka took the flyer and scanned it. "Wedding planning? Seriously? That's unusual. But, hey, a paid internship—good experience, some pocket money. Are you going to apply?"
I bit my lip. "I'm not sure. On one hand, it's a chance to broaden my skill set—designing venues, layouts, structural support for tents and stages. On the other hand, is it really architecture?" I traced the logo on the flyer: a stylized infinity sign entwined with a wedding ring. "I mean, I love designing functional spaces for public use. But weddings? Temporary structures that vanish in a day?"
Raka shrugged, his long fringe falling over his eyes. "You never know until you try. Could be fun. And think of all the networking—meeting clients, learning the business side of design."
I nodded slowly, eyes drifting to the window. Outside, people bustled past, some clutching bouquets, others wearing suits. The city felt alive with possibility. "Maybe," I said.
Raka sat back, sipping his cappuccino. "Whatever you decide, I'm behind you. Just don't sell yourself short. You've got talent."
His words warmed me, like the midday sun. I glanced down at my watch: lunchtime had come and gone, and the day was half-spent. Soon, I'd return to the studio to resume work on my community library project. But for now, I savored the moment—sipping coffee, joking with my best friend, watching the world unfold outside the café window.
After a few more minutes of banter—Raka extolling the virtues of street food down Jalan Sabang and me teasing him about his hopeless crush on that economics major—I rose and stretched. "I should head back," I said, stashing my now-empty cup. "Lots to do before the evening studio session."
Raka nodded, standing too. "Right. I'll see you later at the model workshop?" He gave me a thumbs-up.
"Wouldn't miss it," I replied, stepping out into the warm Jakarta afternoon. The city's energy accompanied me back to campus, each breath perfumed with asphalt heat and blooming frangipanis.
---
The architecture studio bustled with renewed activity when I arrived. A group of juniors clustered around a large table strewn with foam board and balsa wood, constructing scale models of modernist homes. One table over, a student carefully applied foam core to a skeletal model of a bus terminal. The air smelled of glue, cardboard, and ambition.
I found my desk, placed my sketchbook, and powered up my laptop. My community library façade lingered on the screen, eager for refinement. But as I prepared to dig into beam connection details, my phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number:
> "Dear Agung Rokhman,
Everafter Wedding Planning is pleased to inform you that you have been selected for our internship program. Please attend the orientation on Monday at 9:00 AM at our Jakarta office, Jl. Merpati No. 23. For further details, contact Ms. Laras at 0812-3456-7890.
Congratulations and welcome to Everafter!"
My breath hitched. Selected? Me? I stared at the glowing screen, heart pounding like a runaway metronome. An immediate flurry of thoughts crashed over me: a new environment, meeting professionals outside academia, designing structures meant to celebrate love and union. Would I fit in? Would my architectural approach matter in wedding planning?
I tapped the message, reading it again. The words glowed like a beacon of possibility. Memories of that flyers resurfaced: Professor Hartono's urging to explore unconventional paths. Maybe this was the push I needed—a chance to apply structural knowledge to real-world events.
My pulse steadied. I closed the CAD program and shut my laptop. Whatever lay ahead, I decided, I would embrace it. Life seldom offered invitations so unexpectedly.
Gathering my belongings, I stood and stretched, the afternoon light slanting through the studio windows. In the distance, the Jakarta skyline shimmered—buildings reaching for the sky, each a testament to human ambition and ingenuity. Somewhere in that mosaic of concrete and glass, a new path awaited.
I touched my sketchbook, fingers grazing the rough pencil marks of my community library design. Yet now, a new blueprint formed in my mind—one of wedding arches, cascading floral arrangements, and the delicate interplay of light and structure on a couple's special day. It felt surreal, exhilarating.
I tucked my sketchbook under my arm and headed toward the exit. The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across campus. My footsteps echoed on the tiled floor as I walked past fellow students engrossed in models and mock-ups. For them, today was another ordinary day. But for me, it was the threshold of something different—an adventure beyond textbooks and drawing boards.
As I stepped out into the warm evening air, I gazed up at the sky tinged with orange and pink hues. Jakarta was alive with possibility, and so was I. A normal morning—yes, but a morning that had led to an extraordinary opportunity.
I inhaled deeply, letting the scent of street food, gasoline, and blooming bougainvillea fill my lungs. With each breath, a silent promise formed: to seize this chance, to merge my passion for architecture with the art of celebration, and to discover what awaited when I walked through Everafter's doors. Tomorrow, or rather Monday, would bring orientation. But tonight, I was content to be simply Agung Rokhman—a regular student, standing on the cusp of change, ready to sketch the next chapter of his life.