Nadif didn't panic.
He kept his voice low, steady. "Yeah… but by accident," he said, meeting her eyes briefly. "You walked into the frame."
The girl studied his face for a second. Her friend narrowed her eyes slightly, still silent.
Without waiting for their reaction, Nadif unlocked his phone and brought up the photo. He held it out, arm extended carefully—not too close.
"This was the one," he said. "You walked through right as I took it. I wasn't picturing you."
He swiped left. Another photo—an empty hallway, bright sunlight slanting across it.
Another swipe—a cracked corner of a school window.
Then a close-up of shoe marks on the floor near the musalla.
He kept swiping. Quiet images of trees, textures, stair rails, the courtyard, reflections on the tile. Nothing else. No faces. No classmates. No secret screenshots. Only school. Only stillness.
His finger hovered. He didn't say anything more.
The girls leaned slightly closer, eyes scanning the gallery.
The silence stretched a little.
Then the one who had spoken—she let out a soft breath, almost a laugh, and stepped back.
"Oh."
She looked at him again. Her eyes were less guarded now. "You're… one of those people who like taking photos of empty things, huh?"
Her friend looked at Nadif's gallery again, then gave a small nod.
"Yeah," Nadif said quietly, eyes still on the screen. "I like quiet things."
He tapped the corner of the photo, held it for a second, and then deleted it without hesitation. The screen flashed briefly. The image was gone.
"No problem," the girl replied, brushing a few strands of hair behind her ear. Her tone was neutral, but not cold.
Nadif gave a small nod, slipping the phone back into his pocket. He didn't wait for more.
"If there's no issue… I'll head back," he said, voice polite, almost formal. "Thanks."
He turned and walked away without looking back, shoes tapping softly against the hallway tiles.
Behind him, the two girls remained by the path.
The first girl, the one who had been in the photo, watched him disappear into the building. She said nothing, still unsure what to make of the strange boy with soft eyes and a gallery full of silence.
But her friend Anya, slowly looked down at her own phone.
She had followed the account for months. @eclipsescript. The one with the still photos. The quote overlays. The quiet scenes of her own school, captured like no one else ever noticed them.
She had wondered many times who the person was. Some teacher? An outsider? A student with an artist's soul? Whoever it was, they had been posting since last year. And now—without even trying—she had seen him.
The camera. The gallery. The tone. The feel of it. She was sure.
Anya didn't say anything right away.
As her friend began walking again, Anya stayed behind just a moment longer, eyes thoughtful. She reached for her phone, opened @eclipsescript, and check the latest post from just minutes ago.
"I sit behind glass, eating silence, counting crumbs of time and taste." Overlayed on a photo of their courtyard. The very same light. The same hour.
She stared at it harder now, remembered the photos he swiped through—identical in tone. Identical in quiet.
She memorized the connection in her mind, storing it with quiet certainty.
Yes. It was him.
And yet, something in her hesitated.
She locked her phone and finally followed after her friend, who was already chatting about something else. Anya only half-listened.
She had decided.
Next time she saw him—not just passing by, not in a rush—she would talk to him.
Nadif stepped back into the classroom and let the door slide shut behind him with a soft klik.
He sat down, and folded his arms across his desk. His forehead rested lightly against the fabric of his sleeve.
The break had been short. The noise of people, even from a distance, buzzed more.
He didn't regret walking around. Or that odd encounter with the girl.
But now, back here, away from everything… it felt easier to exhale again.
The door rattled open.
"Wah, he's already back," Rizky said with a grin, stepping in with a plastic cup in one hand and a skewer of fried meatballs in the other.
Dimas followed close behind, holding a tray with a juice box and a packet of rice wrapped in paper.
"Immediately tired of people, right?" Rizky added, plopping into his seat and nudging Nadif's arm with the edge of his elbow.
Nadif didn't lift his head right away. Just gave a low grunt of agreement into his sleeve.
Rizky laughed. "Classic."
Dimas quietly unpacked his food, casting a glance toward Nadif but saying nothing.
The classroom filled slowly with students returning.
Nadif slowly lifted his head from the desk. The voices around him blurred into a low, harmless hum. He pulled his phone from his pocket and tapped it awake.
He opened his photo gallery.
The images he had taken earlier stared back at him with quiet stillness:
A hallway soaked in sunlight, long shadows stretching like spilled ink.
The thin, rusted edges of a window frame catching light like old glass jewelry.
A forgotten mop bucket tucked in the corner.
A pair of shoes near the wall.
Even the one he had taken just before the girl stepped into the frame. The soft hue, the filtered warmth, the silence inside it.
He nodded faintly to himself.
Satisfied.
Then he reached for his personal book again, flipping to a fresh page near the back.
Pen in hand, he let the words drift out—shaped by the corridors he walked and the windows he passed.
Corridors hum without sound,
Footsteps vanish in echoes I don't leave.
Light spills across empty tiles,
Like stories too shy to speak.
The windows hold the day in slanted pieces,
Their dust catching what time forgets.
I walk through it all like a question,
Still waiting to be asked.
He stared at the poem, feeling the lines settle like dust on his shoulders.
Outside, the final bell of break rang, short and sharp. Chairs scraped back, voices returned.
Nadif let the pen rest in the center of the notebook, fingers still light on the paper. Then he set the book aside and picked up his phone again.
He opened the gallery. One by one, he tapped the best shots from today—three, maybe four that held the right kind of stillness. Each of them had that same thoughtful tone he looked for. He adjusted the contrast just slightly, softened the shadows, cropped one to shift the balance. His fingers moved with quiet precision, no filters that screamed for attention.
For one of them—a narrow view through an open classroom door, sunlight tracing the edges of a hanging poster—he paired it with a line from the poem he'd just written:
I walk through it all like a question, still waiting to be asked.
He saved the image and added it to his draft folder. That would be tomorrow's post.
Just one.
He always posted only once a day. No more.
Let the words and image breathe, settle, stay a while in someone else's timeline.
Then he closed the app and locked the phone again, slipping it under his notebook like it had never left his hand.
The classroom had filled again. A teacher stepped in, calling for order. Rizky groaned loudly at the return to lessons. Dimas quietly flipped open his textbook.
Nadif sat back, content in his small moment of control.
Time moves on, bringing with it lessons and teachers. Each passing moment carries something that not always noticed in the moment, but deeply felt once it has gone.
Then final bell rang sharp and long, echoing through the hallways.
Chairs scraped back. Bags rustled. The low murmur of students rose quickly, full of relief, laughter, and the soft clatter of feet rushing toward freedom. Some stood immediately, others moved slower, stretching or yawning, letting the day slide off their shoulders.
Nadif didn't move at first.
He sat still at his desk, fingers gently pressing the edges of his notebook shut. His phone buzzed once in his pocket—just a reminder for his social media account. He ignored it for now.
Rizky swung his bag over his shoulder and nudged Nadif's desk with the toe of his shoe. "We survived. Barely."
Dimas offered a small nod as he stood. "Tomorrow again."
Nadif gave a faint smile, almost just to himself, and finally stood up.
Rizky and Dimas leave the classroom while discussing what film to watch at night, the classroom feels emptied around Nadif as he pack his things.
The day had ended, but the sky outside still held the warmth of late afternoon—gold dust hanging over the school walls, the kind of light that made everything look more nostalgic than it really was.
As he stepped into the hallway, Nadif's steps were quiet. He didn't talk, didn't wave. Just walked with his thoughts in place, like folded paper in his chest.
Somewhere not far off, Anya stood near her locker, half watching the flow of students. She saw him again—same quiet posture, same slow pace.
She wanted to speak, but held back — a little shy, since he's her senior. She hurriedly walk to her friend who's already at the lobby door.
Nadif walked alone, fading into the evening light like one of his own photos.
"Nadif!"
He turned.
Rara jogged up to him, hair a little messy from the day. She was holding her phone in one hand, screen still lit, probably checking messages.
"Ms. Retno wants to see you. She told me to pass the message if I saw you leaving." She tilted her head slightly. "Something about the form you submitted earlier?"
Nadif blinked, stopping just a step away from the lobby door to leave.
"The counseling form?" he asked, already knowing the answer.
"Yeah," Rara nodded. "I guess she wants to talk it over.
He didn't reply.
Rara gave a small shrug. "She's still in her office, probably won't take long. Just thought I'd let you know before you leave."
She stepped aside to let him pass if he wanted to turn around.
Nadif looked over his shoulder—back toward the school hallway, quiet now except for a few lingering students and the far-off sound of cleaning staff dragging chairs across tile.
He sighed through his nose, eyes narrowing slightly at the golden light slipping lower across the windows.
Then he nodded once.
"Alright. Thanks."
Rara nod back and walked off while typing in her phone.
Nadif adjusted the strap of his bag, turned back toward the hallway, and headed straight for the counseling room.
The school felt different at this hour—emptier. Most of the noise had drained out with the final bell. Only a few voices lingered faintly from classrooms being cleaned or students chatting as they packed their things. His footsteps were soft on the tiled floor, echoing slightly in the quiet hallway.
He reached the counseling room at the end of the corridor. The door was half-open, the thin curtain inside catching the low sunlight and glowing faintly.
He knocked twice—lightly.
"Come in," Ms. Retno's voice called gently from inside.
Nadif pushed the door open.
She was seated at her desk, reading glasses low on her nose, a soft brown mug beside her. A small radio at her desk played 80s pop music at low volume.
"Nadif," she said, looking up with that same patient tone she always carried. "Thanks for coming. Please, sit."
He nodded and lowered himself into the seat across from her desk, resting his bag on the floor.
She pulled a paper from a stack—his form.
"I read your submission from this morning," she said, folding her hands over it. "It was... sparse."
Nadif didn't respond, just waited.
Ms. Retno smiled—not unkindly.
"I don't mean that in a bad way," she continued. "But I'm curious. I'd like to know a little more, if that's alright with you."
Nadif keep silent for awhile
"That's okay," she said gently. "Just start with what you do know."
Nadif looked down, then back at her.
"I don't know what I want. Or even what I'm good at," he said. "Other than... writing, maybe. But that's not—real. Not useful."
"It is real," Ms. Retno said. "And useful, depending on how you see it. You post your writing somewhere, right?"
Nadif blinked. "How'd you know?"
"I didn't. Just a guess," she smiled. "You seem like the type."
He hesitated, then gave a small nod.
"Do people read it?"
"Yeah. A lot, I guess. Mostly foreigners."
She adjusted her glasses slightly. "So, it speaks to people. That's already something. A start."
"But it's not something I can use for future plans, I think. Not seriously." said Nadif.
"Why not?" she asked.
He didn't answer right away. Then, "Because no one around me takes that kind of thing seriously."
Ms. Retno leaned back in her chair.
"Well," she said softly, "maybe it's time you do."
Ms. Retno reached into a drawer, pulled out a folded paper, and slid it across the desk.
"There's a literature competition next month," she said. "Open to all students in the city. You should join."
Nadif looked at the paper. "Me?"
She nodded. "Yes, you."
He didn't touch it. "I don't do well with... stage things. Or contests."
"This isn't a stage. Just submission. Written only."
He glanced at the form. Simple header. Deadline. A few rules. City-level event.
"I don't even know what to write," he muttered.
"Then start with what you already write," she said. "Refine it. Shape it. Let someone else read it. Let it breathe."
Nadif stayed quiet.
"You don't have to decide now," she added. "But think about it. You might surprise yourself."
He finally picked up the paper and folded it back.
"Thanks," he said quietly.
She smiled. "You're welcome."
Nadif walked through the quiet hallway, eyes lowered to the folded form in his hand. The noise of students had faded, only the soft creak of mop buckets and distant chatter lingered. The orange light spilled in from windows along the corridor, catching his shadow as it moved.
He turned the corner without lifting his head.
A sudden bump—shoulder to shoulder.
The paper slipped from his hand. He stumbled back a step.
"Ah, sorry—"
The girl in front of him bent down at the same time. Her hand reached for the fallen form just as he did.
Their fingers nearly brushed.
He looked up.
She was already looking at him.