I woke early again—too early, it seemed, though I was sure my eyes would slam shut the moment I crawled back into bed. At 5:45 AM, Jakarta's streets were still quiet, save for the occasional rumble of a delivery truck threading through the narrow lanes and the creak of my neighbor's gate as someone slipped out for a dawn prayer. I lay in bed a moment, listening to the hushed world outside my window, tracing patterns on the ceiling with my thoughts.
It was submission day. Today, I would hand my internship application—complete with statement, portfolio samples, and transcript—to Professor Hartono. Today, I would place my hopes into the hands of Everafter Wedding Planning, trusting that my architectural background could translate into designing ephemeral spaces for ceremonies. The concept felt both exhilarating and terrifying.
I rose, slipping out of my covers, and padded to the bathroom. Splashes of cold water on my face roused me fully; my reflection looked pale, as though the previous night's anticipation had drained the color from my cheeks. I pressed my palms firmly against the porcelain sink, took a deep breath, and tried to steady my racing heart. I thought of my mother's words: "Design is design. Trust yourself." I whispered that mantra silently as I dried my face and ran a comb through my hair.
In my room, I turned on the desk lamp, illuminating my neatly stacked folder labeled "Everafter Internship Application – Agung Rokhman." I tapped my fingertips on the cover—my statement, printed in clear, confident font; sample renderings of my community library project; a small selection of sketches from my portfolio. Everything was arranged precisely, each page a careful testament to my skills. Yet even as I admired my own diligence, a flutter of doubt stirred in my chest.
What if he thinks it's not enough? What if they expect more experience in event design?
I closed my eyes and forced myself to recall the conversations from the past two days—my mother's unwavering support, Raka's energetic encouragement, and the conviction I felt when I finally accepted this challenge. Each memory grounded me, dispelling a fraction of the anxiety. I slid the folder into my backpack, zipped it closed, and checked the time: 6:15 AM.
My morning routine felt mechanical—coffee brewed with barely a taste taken, toast buttered in distracted silence—but each bite helped push away the nerves inch by inch. My backpack felt heavier with the folder inside; maybe that weight carried not just papers, but the weight of expectation. As I gulped down the last of my coffee, my phone buzzed with a message from Raka:
> Raka: "Don't forget—9:00 AM. Worth making it early. Fight the crowd."
I tapped out a quick reply: "I know. Wish me luck."
With that, I grabbed my sketchbook, locked the front door, and stepped into the humid morning air. The sky had barely brightened—a soft gray that promised the sun would arrive soon. Street vendors were already setting up stalls: a woman arranging trays of steaming bakpao, a young man unfolding tarps to bake pisang goreng. The familiar symphony of existence lulled me momentarily, and I focused on steadying my breathing as I wove through the vendors' baskets and woks.
The walk to the campus felt longer than usual. Each step seemed weighted by anticipation. I inhaled the scent of coconut oil and charcoal from satay grills, letting it fill my lungs, and tried to think of anything but the folder in my backpack. At the campus gate, a security guard raised his hand in greeting; I nodded in return, flashing him a tired smile. Inside, the path to the architecture building was lined with potted bougainvillea, their bright magenta blooms offering a splash of color against the morning's muted tones.
I arrived at the front of Building C at 6:45 AM—more than two hours before Professor Hartono's office opened. Raka was already there, leaning against a column near the entrance, fiddling with his phone. He peeked up at me and grinned.
"You made it, early bird," he said, pushing off the wall. "Need any last-minute pep talk?"
I forced a laugh. "I don't know if pep talks help when my legs want to turn to jelly." My heart fluttered at the sight of him. He wore a simple white shirt and dark jeans—casual, yet neat. His auburn-streaked hair caught the faint light, and his tan skin was bright against the pastel campus backdrop.
"Come on," Raka insisted, standing straight. "Walk with me. Let's clear our heads." He opened his arms, motioning me to join him as we paced slowly toward the cafeteria courtyard.
The courtyard's brick tiles were cool underfoot, and the morning breeze rustled the leaves of the frangipani trees overhead. Tiny white flowers littered the ground like stars fallen from the sky. Raka paused, turning to face me.
"Look at it this way," he began, eyes earnest. "Today, you show them what you have. Your architectural design is your weapon. You don't need to pretend to be a florist or a caterer. They need your technical skills, your 3D rendering finesse, your sustainable design background. That folder is proof of all that."
I took a deep breath, nodding slowly. "Yeah, I know. But I just keep imagining Chandra—stern, silent, picking apart my designs. What if she thinks I'm all talk and no substance?"
Raka rolled his shoulders. "Let her pick them apart. You know they're solid. You're not here to sweet-talk her with rose petals; you're here for the math, the modeling, the structure. If she sees that you can calculate loads for a pavilion frame, she'll respect that." He rapped his knuckles on my backpack. "And if your statement is clear, she'll see your passion too."
I glanced down at my backpack, where that folder lay waiting to be unleashed. A knot in my stomach loosened just a fraction. Raka's confidence was contagious—an infectious spark that pried open a sliver of hope within me.
"Thanks, man," I said, offering a small, grateful smile.
Raka returned it, flashing two thumbs up. "Now, let's find a place to sit until the crowd starts forming. Should be here any minute."
We strolled beneath the arc of the main corridor—sunlight splattering patterns through the windows—and found two empty chairs by a small water fountain. The gentle trickle of flowing water created a soothing backdrop. I sat down, careful to keep the folder in my lap where I could see it, and exhaled slowly.
"Want a coffee refill?" Raka asked, pointing to the small coffee cart that had already opened near the student lounge.
I shook my head. "No, thanks. My heart's already racing."
Raka shrugged, leaning back in his chair. "Suit yourself. But caffeine helps, you know?"
I considered arguing, but my resolve melted at the sight of him. I shook my head with a laugh. "If I have too much coffee, I'll be bouncing off the walls."
The two of us sat in companionable silence, watching students trickle into the building as the clock in the corridor ticked toward 7:30 AM. The air was thick with anticipation—an unspoken camaraderie among early risers waiting for the doors to open.
Raka pulled out his phone and tapped rapidly, then looked up. "Hey, want to see something? I made breakfast for the class this morning." He held out his screen, revealing an app where he had posted a photo of two heaping plates of nasi goreng complete with fried egg, accompanied by text: "Made these to fuel the entire studio—hope they like mine topping ideas!"
I laughed at the photo: the rice was perfectly golden, flecked with slivers of carrot and peas, crowned by two sunny-side-up eggs. Raka must have been up even earlier to prepare that. His generosity and energy reminded me why I'd asked him to be my partner in this whole crazy venture.
But right then, there was no nasi goreng to shield me from my own nerves. I closed my eyes for a moment, picturing the folder resting calmly in my lap. I pictured Professor Hartono's office door swinging open at 8:00 AM, the rows of posters on the hallway walls, and the stack of manila envelopes waiting on his desk.
By 8:00 AM, the building's interior lights had come on, and more students were arriving—some dragging sleep-heavy eyes, others already animatedly discussing strategies for their portfolios. Raka and I stood and strolled toward the staircase, determined to claim our places in the queue early. We climbed slowly, taking wide steps to avoid overtaking anyone too abruptly, but also to get ahead of the crowd.
At the top of the stairs, the corridor stretched in both directions, doors numbered 201, 202, 203… hundreds of students pacing the hallway or clustered by the bulletin boards. We veered right, toward Room 214—Professor Hartono's lecture hall. On the door, a small hand-drawn sign had been taped the night before: "Internship Forms Here – Submit to Professor Hartono's Office." An arrow pointed down a narrow hallway to the left, where a wood-paneled door bearing a brass nameplate read: "Prof. D. Hartono, Office, Room 321."
We followed the arrow, turning left at the end of the corridor, passing a row of model display cases brimming with student work: miniature concrete bridges, laser-cut topographies, foam-core towers inscribed with precise tracings of steel reinforcements. The hallway smelled faintly of varnish and fabric glue. I swallowed, heart pounding.
Raka and I reached the wooden door to Hartono's office at exactly 8:10 AM. A small nameplate glinted in the overhead light. Below it, a glass window offered a glimpse of stacks of papers and a tall stack of manila envelopes—already several initials scrawled on each.
I took a deep breath. "I guess there's no turning back now."
Raka nodded, crossing his arms. "I'll wait out here. You got this. Just walk in, hand it over, and move on. Then celebrate." He pointed to the clock on the opposite wall—8:11.
"Celebrate?" I echoed with a laugh. "Hard to celebrate before I even know if I'm accepted."
Raka grinned. "We celebrate the act of submitting today. Graduation itself can be a later party."
I smiled, steeling myself. The door handle felt cool beneath my fingers as I turned it, pushing the door open with a soft click. Inside, the office was spacious, dominated by a large mahogany desk piled with papers, open binders, and a couple of coffee mugs—one with a faint lipstick stain on the rim. Bookshelves lined the far wall, filled with thick volumes on structural engineering, environmental design, and historical architecture. The air smelled of paper and ink, punctuated by an undercurrent of coffee.
Professor Hartono looked up from his computer, pushing his glasses higher on his nose. He wore a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, and his tweed jacket drifted over the back of his swivel chair. His dark eyes held their familiar serious gaze.
"Rokhman," he said, voice low but carrying across the room. "Good morning." He gestured toward a stack of envelopes on his desk—some already labeled, others blank.
"Good morning, Professor." My voice felt smaller than I intended, like the walls of the room had closed in around me.
I stepped forward and placed my folder on the corner of his desk. The weight of it seemed to thud into my hand as I set it down. Professor Hartono's gaze flicked to the name on the top: "Everafter Internship Application – Agung Rokhman." He paused, sealing his fingers around my folder, and gave me a small nod.
"Thank you," he said simply. I felt a strange mix of relief and emptiness, as if placing my hopes into my professor's hands had both liberated and burdened me. "I will review these today and notify you by tomorrow afternoon. You may return to your schedule."
He slid my folder into a neat stack of others labeled A–G, and the top of one labelled R's—clearly mine had landed near the end of that pile. My pulse thundered; I bowed my head slightly. "Thank you, Professor Hartono."
He nodded again, his gaze already shifting back to the spreadsheet open on his computer. The moment felt over as swiftly as it had arrived, leaving a vacuum of uncertainty in its wake.
I turned to leave, and Raka, who had been waiting just outside the door, slipped inside behind me. His grin was wide, triumphant. "Done!" he whispered, as if we were conspirators in some grand heist.
I exhaled, feeling my shoulders drop. "Done."
We stepped back into the hallway. I slung my backpack over one shoulder, the absence of the folder's visible weight oddly liberating—like I'd offloaded a piece of my future to the whims of fate. Raka guided me to a wooden bench near the hallway bulletin boards, where we collapsed beside a display of environmental design awards.
"So," he said, leaning forward, "how do you feel?"
I closed my eyes, drawing a long breath. "Like I'm walking on the edge of a cliff. I've run out of the runway, and now I'm falling." I forced a laugh, but my voice wavered.
Raka shook his head, placing a hand on my shoulder. "It's okay to feel that way. I felt it when I applied. But the act itself counts. It's out of your hands now. All you can do is prepare for Monday's orientation—should you be accepted."
"Orientation," I echoed. The word tasted foreign, two syllables that carried the weight of unknown possibilities. Suddenly, my mind raced through mental checklists:
Portfolio reviews and critiques
Introducing myself to Chandra Rokayah
Learning vendor names—florists, caterers, lighting technicians
Translating my structural drawings into something for wedding pavilions
My stomach clenched at the sheer magnitude of things I didn't know. Designing a library was straightforward in my mind compared to orchestrating a wedding—every element so personal, so ephemeral. I pictured a charismatic event coordinator asking me about table arrangements or color palettes, and my throat constricted.
Raka seemed to read my mind. "Let's not think about all that yet. Tonight, let's celebrate just having the courage to submit. Tomorrow, we'll find out if we get a seat at the table. If we do, we'll tackle the rest step by step."
I nodded, accepting his calm resolve. Somehow, his unwavering optimism always found a way to calm my swirling doubts. We rose from the bench, and Raka led me toward the courtyard again. The campus sun had climbed higher, and students hurrying between classes passed us with waves and nods. The air felt brighter now—as if handing over my application had released some hidden restraint.
---
By noon, I found myself back at the small water fountain, seated opposite Raka. I drank water more out of obligation than thirst, the plastic cup squeaking in my hand. Raka had ordered us each a plate of chicken rice from the food cart, fragrant with lemongrass and turmeric. Breaking into the tender chicken and filling my mouth with rice and cucumber, I savored the simple flavors, reminding myself to stay grounded.
We chatted about our lessons—the mechanics of load-beam connections in the first class and the history of Dutch colonial architecture in the second. But beneath every topic, my thoughts circled back to that folder, now nestled in some pile on Professor Hartono's desk. What if he had already looked at it? What if Chandra had reviewed my renderings and found them lacking? My appetite wavered as I picked at a piece of cucumber.
Raka nudged me, noticing my distracted stare. "Hey, look at me." His expression was gentle, coaxing me to focus. "Today is not the day to worry about what-ifs. Let's make the most of our day—attend lectures, finish studio assignments, live our normal lives. Decisions will come tomorrow."
I blinked and forced a smile. "You're right. I shouldn't let it consume me."
We finished our lunch in companionable silence, then returned to our respective lectures. Even as I sat in class, scribbling notes on steel trusses and moment frames, my mind flipped to the note on my door that read: "Everafter Internship: Notification Tomorrow." The anticipation felt like an invisible tether, linking my present to a future clouded in question marks.
---
The afternoon sun was low when I finally returned home. My mother was in the kitchen, stirring something in a wok—scent of stir-fried vegetables with kecap manis. I hesitated in the doorway, catching her eye in the dinner plate that steamed beside her. She offered me a warm smile.
"How was your day?" she asked, wiping her hands on a towel.
I exhaled and sank onto a stool at the counter. "Lectures were good. But my mind was somewhere else." I recounted the morning's events—submitting the application, Raka's support, the weight of anticipation. My mother listened quietly, her expression gentle and understanding.
She set a plate of steaming rice, tempeh, and greens before me. "Eat first," she said. "Then tell me your plan for tonight."
I picked up my chopsticks with renewed hunger. The first bite of warm rice and tender tempeh felt like an anchor, pulling me back to the present. My mother sat beside me, sipping hot tea.
"I plan to rest," I said, "but also to mentally prepare for tomorrow."
She nodded. "Sometimes, the best preparation is rest. Your body and mind need time to recharge. Sit with your thoughts, but don't let them overwhelm you."
I wiped my mouth and leaned back. "I'm just trying not to let fear take over. Part of me is excited—part of me is terrified I'll be disappointed."
She placed a hand on my shoulder. "It's natural. But remember why you applied. Trust that you did your best. Tomorrow, no matter the outcome, you'll learn something." Her words were soothing, like the ripple of calm water.
After dinner, I retreated to my room. The walls were now slimly lit by a single desk lamp, casting soft shadows across my sketchbook and the empty page beneath it. I sat at my desk, closing my eyes, and let my thoughts drift. I pictured myself stepping into Everafter's office: the lobby with its glossy marble floor, the floral arrangements by the entrance, the tact of satin ribbons draped over displays of sample centerpieces. I imagined introducing myself to Chandra—her crisp suit, her clipboard, the professional calm in her dark eyes.
What will she think of me? I wondered. Would my portfolio be enough? Would my background in structural analysis prove valuable? I conjured mental images of her assessing my renderings, running her finger along a line, tapping a row of notes with cool precision.
A shiver traced down my spine, equal parts excitement and dread. My hands hovered over my sketchbook, pencil poised. I could sketch, I realized, as a way to calm my mind. I drew a quick line—an archway for a wedding tent, a simple curve that opened to a vaulted canopy. I shaded it lightly and traced little doodles of hanging lanterns. Soon, a full pencil sketch of a pavilion took shape: slender conceptual beams, paper lanterns suspended on fine wires, gentle folds in fabric forming a peaked roof. Each line felt therapeutic, grounding me in the very skill I hoped to offer Everafter.
I set the pencil down and leaned back in my chair, stretching tight muscles in my neck. The clock on my desk ticked to 8:00 PM. Tomorrow was the day I'd learn if my aspirations aligned with their needs. My heartbeat drummed in my ears as I considered the possibility of having to face that folder once more—opening it to retrieve a rejection letter. But I refused to let fear define me.
I closed my eyes and thought of Raka's infectious grin, my mother's quiet confidence, and the sensation of splashing cold water on my face to chase sleep away. I repeated the mantra again: Trust yourself.
Finally, I powered off my desk lamp, allowing the darkness to drape over my room. The city outside was alive with sounds—martial cymbals of evening prayer calls, distant rumbles of buses returning to their garages, the faint buzz of neon lights waking up street signs. I crawled beneath the covers, the sheets cool against my skin. My eyes fluttered shut, and for a moment I thought I felt the weight of the folder shift in my mind, settling at the bottom of a deep well of thought.