LightReader

Chapter 3 - A Glimmer From Nothing

I have been overcome by desolation, for the woman I adored chose to depart silently, as though her presence had been but a fleeting zephyr, and not the tempest I had enshrined within the sanctum of my heart....

- A First-Year Who Succumbed to Nothingness

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

For a second, they looked at each other—faces too close. Nadif's breath caught. He blinked. Then he stood up slowly.

She stayed down a moment longer. Her fingers gently lifted the paper from the ground. She looked at it, brows pulling slightly together.

The form rustled lightly in her grip.

Nadif looked down at her. "Are you okay?" he asked. "Sorry. I wasn't looking."

She didn't answer right away.

Still crouched, she stared at the paper, eyes tracing the bold title—HIGH SCHOOL STUDENT LITERATURE COMPETITION.

Then she stood. Her gaze lifted to his.

She held the form between them now, but didn't offer it yet.

She blinked in surprise, heart skipping just a little — of all people, it had to be him.

"Oh—it's you," she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

She blinked once again.

She noticed the name tag pinned neatly to the right side of his chest "Nadif", black letters on a white strip. Just above his collar, a small silver pin glinted softly under the hallway light XII, the mark of a third-year.

"Kak Nadif, right?"

Nadif nodded, eyes narrowing slightly.

"You're… with that girl from earlier, right?" he asked, rubbing the back of his neck. "The one who walked past while I was, uh… taking the photo."

The girl tilted her head, a faint smile appearing at the edge of her lips.

"Yes," she said. "That was my friend—I was with her." She glanced at him briefly. "I'm Anya, Class XI-A."

She added "I didn't say anything back then, but… I saw."

He raised an eyebrow. "Saw what?"

"The way you reacted back then," she said, a hint of amusement in her voice. "Scrolling through your whole gallery like your life depended on it."

She let out a small laugh. "It was kind of dramatic."

He scratched the back of his neck, lips pressed, his eyes flicking up to the ceiling before meeting hers again. "I just… didn't want it to come off the wrong way."

Anya blinked, surprised by the honesty in his voice. Her gaze lingered on him for a moment.

"I figured," she said quietly, fingers brushing the edge of the paper.

Then she looked at the form again.

"You joining this?" she asked, eyes on the title.

"I'm thinking about it," Nadif said, reaching his hand out.

Anya looked at him, then handed the form back. Her fingers let go slowly, like she had been holding something heavier.

He glanced at the form, then back at her.

"You should," she said.

"Huh?" he replied, eyes narrowing.

Anya gave a small shrug. "I mean, literature's interesting."

Nadif looked at her, surprised by the shift in tone.

"You think so?"

She nodded, eyes not leaving his. "It's more than words. It's the way we make sense of being part of this messy, feeling human race — turning fleeting moments into something that lingers. Something that might outlive us."

He blinked, unsure how to respond.

"That's why you should join," she added. "Because—why not?" She smiled lightly brief.

Nadif glanced down at the form in his hand.

"You talk like someone who writes too," he said.

Anya looked away for a second, the corner of her mouth lifting slightly. "Maybe… now and then."

Unsure what to say, Nadif stay silent, gaze dropping for a moment.

"I—" she started, then stopped herself.

"I left my Tupperware in class," she said instead, already turning a little. "Didn't want to get scolded by my mom."

Then, almost as an afterthought, she glanced back. "Maybe... if fate allows, we'll meet again."

A flush crept up her cheeks. She quickly looked away. "Take care, Kak Nadif."

And with that, she stepped off, casual—but quicker.

Nadif just stood there and watched her go.

Then he turned without a word, walking toward the lobby door.

But the moment stayed. Her voice, the way she said "literature's interesting." It all echoed, quiet.

He stepped outside, into the sunlight. He looked toward the parking lot.

The sun cast long shadows over the lines of faded white paint. Most of the bikes and scooters were already gone—just a few left.

His eyes landed on one near the back. A slim, black-and-red motorbike with dull plastic panels and a single cracked side mirror—a Genza Swift. It was his. Quiet, beat-up, and reliable.

Nadif slipped his phone from his pocket.

He lifted it slowly, angling the lens to catch the parking lot—the empty spaces, the slanting shadows, the tired row of bikes, the pale sky cracked with soft clouds.

Click.

He lowered the phone without checking the result. Then walked to his Genza Swift, keys already in hand.

The seat felt warm from the sun. He slid on, kicked the stand, and started the engine. It sputtered once, then caught with a soft hum.

Without looking back, he rolled forward and pulled out of the school grounds.

As he rolled toward the front gate, the sun flicked through the school trees in lazy flashes.

Then his front tire hit a patch of loose sand—dust kicked from the edge of the dry school field.

The brake caught too hard. The wheels slipped.

His body jolted sideways with a sharp lean, the handlebars shaking.

"Anjing—!" he muttered, clutching tight, boots scraping for balance.

The Genza Swift wobbled, veering dangerously—but he steadied it. Just barely.

He exhaled hard, pulse thumping in his ears.

The guard at the gate looked up but said nothing.

Nadif didn't either. He just kept riding.

The ride home stretched into a slow, thick crawl.

Nadif joined the flow of honking cars, swerving angkot, and restless motorcycles along the major road—everyone inching forward under the weight of the late afternoon sun.

He leaned slightly, weaving when the lane gave him space, slipping past tired drivers and delivery scooters with sharp turns. Once or twice, another student-looking rider crept up beside him at a red light, their bike idling with quiet impatience. When the light changed. He surged forward, steady and precise, slipping between bumpers just enough to stay ahead when the other rider tried to pass.

And by the time he reached his neighborhood, his back was sore and his eyes dry.

He parked in front of the small gate, engine ticking softly as it cooled under the sky now turning orange.

He opened the gate with one hand, the metal creaking lightly.

With a push from his foot, he guided the Genza Swift inside, careful not to scrape the side of the wall. The yard was narrow, enough for one bike and a few potted plants that always looked half-alive.

He killed the engine. The silence felt thick.

His helmet came off, and he hung it on the side mirror like usual.

Then he stretched—arms high, back cracking, neck rolling with a low sigh.

His eyes catching the row of sandals and shoes lined neatly by the door. His mother was already home. He opened the door and goes inside.

Nadif bent down, slipped off his shoes, and tucked them into the small wooden cabinet beside the wall.

From the kitchen came the sharp hiss of oil, the rhythmic clatter of metal on metal.

The smell of garlic, soy, and something warm filled the house.

His mother peeked out, hair tied back, her face soft. "You're home?"

Nadif gave a slow nod, voice calm.

"May your sky always be clear, may your dear smile always be bright and happy, and may you be for ever blessed for that moment of bliss and happiness." Nadif recited the greeting from Dostoyevsky, as he always did when greeting his mother.

She smiled.

Then he added, more simply, "I'm home, Mom."

He leaned in and gently took her hand, pressing it to his forehead in a quiet gesture of respect.

"I can help with—" Nadif started.

"You smell like the sun," his mother cut in, raising a brow. "Go clean up first."

He let out a short breath, not quite a sigh. "I'll just put my bag down first. Cool off a bit."

"Alright," she said, already turning back to the stove. "Don't take forever."

The sound of her spatula returned, steady and familiar.

Nadif stepped onto the stairs, shoulders loosening as he moved toward his room.

Nadif stepped into his room and let the weight of his bag drop onto the floor with a soft thud.

The air was still, thick with the warmth of the day. His room looked the same as always—messy, not unclean.

Hanging shelves covered part of the wall, all crammed with books. Some leaned sideways, others stacked horizontally when they no longer fit upright. Penguin paperbacks with their iconic orange and white spines, rows of sleek black-spined Vintage Classics, weathered Oxford World's Classics with muted reds and creams, and the occasional bold blue of a Harper Perennial. Tucked between them were indie books with matte pastel covers, self-published titles in glossy finishes, and old editions by famous authors with cracked leather bindings or embossed gold lettering. A few spines were bleached from the sun that used to hit them before he finally put up curtains.

Near the far wall, a tall cabinet stood half open, shirts and pants folded in uneven piles. One sock dangled from the edge. His school uniform hung neatly on a hook, a strange contrast to the clutter around it.

Chargers tangled like vines across the desk, a notebook sat open on the chair, and two pens had rolled to the floor days ago and stayed there.

He walked to the window, slid it shut with a dry clack, then pulled the curtain closed. The light dimmed, soft and bluish now.

He reached over to his desk and flicked on the fan. It whirred alive, sending a low breeze across the room that rustled the edge of a paper near his foot.

Then he moved to the side door that led to the narrow balcony. The air outside was warmer, a little dusty, the sun already lower in the sky.

On the railing, right where he left it that morning, hung his towel—dry, a little stiff. He grabbed it.

The curtain behind him shifted again, caught in the soft breath of the fan.

Nadif stood still for a moment, the towel in hand, letting the fading sunlight touch his face. He looked up at the sky—burnt orange streaked with gray clouds. The kind of sky that felt like a sentence without punctuation.

He stretched his back slowly, bones cracking faintly. His shoulders loosened from the weight of the day.

Then he stepped back inside and dropped the towel on the edge of the bed.

His phone buzzed gently from the desk.

He picked it up, tapped the screen, and the glow lit up his face.

Notifications string of likes and new comments under his latest post from eclipsescript. Foreign usernames. Heart emojis. Words like "breathtaking," "haunting," "what school is this from?"

Next came email alerts—two from a digital novel site, pushing updates on an author he vaguely followed. One from a national news outlet. Another about an international headline he didn't open.

Then, the last one.

A red bar across the top.

"Storage space running low."

His chest sank a little. That always felt like a warning from the universe.

Nadif turned off his phone and set it on the desk beside the fan, screen still warm in his palm. He leaned forward and reached into his bag again, fingers brushing past his pencil case and notebooks until they closed around the folded form from earlier.

He unfolded it carefully.

The form headed with bold text... High School Student Literature Competition – City Level. Beneath it were lines for basic details—name, school, grade, title, and contact info—followed by a list of categories — poetry, short story, or essay. A brief paragraph at the bottom laid out the rules — open to city enrolled high schoolers, one entry per student. Submissions had to be original, within the word or line limit, and legibly written or typed. Selected works would be featured at the City Library's annual showcase, with a deadline set three weeks from the form's release.

Nadif stared at it in silence, thumb tracing the margin. Kept his eyes on the form a while longer.

The soft hum of the fan filled the silence. The paper rested lightly in his hands, warm now from his fingers. His gaze wandered across the blank spaces meant to be filled.

He let out a slow breath.

Then, he placed it on the desk beside his phone. It lay there next to the hum of the fan and the soft rustle of the curtain.

He stood, picked up his towel, and left the room.

Downstairs, the sound of water running, a cabinet door closing, and the soft voice of his mother humming in the kitchen filled the quiet.

After drying off, Nadif dressed in a loose t-shirt and soft pants, then made his way down the stairs. His hair still damp, the towel hung over his shoulder.

He rounded the corner and saw his mother plating food, steam rising gently from the rice. A bowl of stir-fried tempeh glistened on the table beside sautéed vegetables and a sambal jar.

"Smells good," Nadif said, pulling out a chair.

"Of course," his mother smiled.

He glanced over the options, reached for the tempeh first, and sat down with a sigh. The day tugged at his shoulders, but the food grounded him.

Nadif chewed slowly, the crunch of the tempeh mixing with the softness of warm rice. The sautéed vegetables brought a slight sweetness, balancing the salt and spice. He nodded to himself, satisfied.

He looked at his mother, already opening his mouth to speak. "This is real—"

"Swallow it first," his mother said without looking up. "I'm glad you like it, but I'd be more glad if you didn't talk with your mouth full."

He coughed slightly, gave a sheepish smile, and quickly chewed it down.

"Noted," he said, still half-laughing.

His mother chuckled, shaking her head.

Nadif scooped another bite, slower this time.

"How was work today, Ma?" he asked, pushing his plate slightly forward.

His mother wiped her hands with a towel, eyes softening a little.

"Mm, good. Busy as always," she said. "But one of the young editors nailed her first manuscript today. It was a mess at first, but she pulled through. Proud of her."

Nadif nodded, interested.

"Feels like own little victory too, huh?"

His mother gave a tired but proud smile.

"Always does."

The clink of spoons and plates filled the space between them, soft and familiar.

Across the table, his mother spooned more rice onto her plate, then glanced up.

"So, how was school today?"

Nadif picked at his food for a moment before answering.

"There was a form today. Guidance counselor gave it to everyone."

His mother looked at him, still chewing.

"I didn't think much of it at first," he continued. "But then Ms. Retno asked me to come in after school. We talked."

She swallowed and wiped her mouth. "Everything alright?"

He nodded slowly. "Yeah. She asked about what I like doing. Said she read my form and said it looked… kind of empty."

His mother raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

"I told her I didn't really know what to write. Nothing feels all that useful or interesting to me—except literature." He gave a small shrug, eyes on his plate. "But even that doesn't seem like something you build a future on."

His mother didn't respond right away, just watched him quietly.

"Ms. Retno said maybe I'm thinking about it the wrong way," Nadif added after a pause.

"That just because it doesn't look useful on paper, doesn't mean it isn't worth something."

He took another bite before finishing,

"Then she handed me this registration form of City-level literature competition for next month."

"A competition?" his mother repeated, her tone shifting slightly.

"Yeah. Writing only. I said I didn't know if I had anything worth submitting."

"And what did she say?"

"That maybe it's time I take what I do seriously. That I might surprise myself."

His mother gave one of those quiet, proud smiles she rarely showed. "And then?"

He scooped some sautéed greens onto his spoon. "After that, I left her office. Was heading outside when I ran into someone."

"Oh?" Her eyebrow rose, her voice teasing now.

Nadif hesitated. "There was this girl earlier. I was taking pictures near the corridor… and she accidentally walked into the frame. I thought they might think I was being weird, so I explained—and showed them my gallery."

His mother chuckled. "You do give off mysterious photographer vibes. So?"

He gave a half-shrug. "Her friend's name is Anya. Second year. She said it seemed like it suited me. I didn't even know her name until she told me."

His mother paused, spoon still in hand, then smiled—soft and knowing. "Sounds like an interesting day after all."

Nadif gave a small, thoughtful nod.

"I guess it was kind of interesting."

Nadif reached for his glass and finished the last of the water, then stood and took his plate to the sink.

"Thanks for dinner," he said quietly.

His mother smiled without turning. "Rest up."

He stepped out of the kitchen, the dim hallway quiet again, lights soft on the walls. His room waited.

But so did a thought he didn't want to admit had weight.

Anya.

The moment their hands nearly touched. She was kind of interesting. A little quiet, but not shy. Not afraid to speak, either. The way she looked at him like she already understood something he hadn't said yet.

He frowned to himself.

Interesting, sure.

But not again.

He closed his door gently behind him.

More Chapters