Days at Nusantara High School passed in the rhythm of routine. Each morning, the first bell rang, and students scattered toward their classrooms, some still chewing their bread, others frantically flipping through notes they should've read the night before. On the surface, everything looked ordinary.
For Sinta, that routine felt flat, almost silent. She moved through her days as if inside a muted film, watching people, but never quite belonging among them.
Her only bridge to the outside world was Nina, her cheerful deskmate who loved to chatter about everything and nothing.
"Sinta! Come on, let's go to the canteen! They've got new meatballs!" Nina's eyes sparkled with excitement.
Sinta smiled faintly and shook her head. "You go ahead, Nin. I'll stay here."
Every break, Nina would invite her. And almost every time, Sinta chose instead to sit on the long bench in the second-floor corridor by the window. From there, she could see the school courtyard, notebook open, pen moving softly.
She found small happiness in watching the world from a distance.
"The morning wind is cold today," she wrote.
"The birds in the mango tree still sing even in the rain. I like sitting here. It feels… safe."
But in the last few months, something else had made her heart beat faster than the rain and the wind ever could: Mr. Armand.
He had only been teaching English for two years, not yet thirty. Always neat, but never stiff. His eyes were warm, and whenever he spoke, it felt as though he truly listened. To Sinta, his smile was gentler than any hymn she knew.
One afternoon, during class, Sinta found herself writing in her blank notebook instead of the lesson book. Her thoughts wandered far from recount texts.
"Does he like the rain like I do? Has he ever felt lonely, too?"
Then, his voice, suddenly close.
"Sinta?"
She flinched. Her notebook nearly slipped from her hands. Mr. Armand stood beside her desk, his eyes soft.
"Do you understand the lesson?"
"Y-yes, Sir," she murmured.
For a fleeting second, his eyes dropped to the notebook on her desk. It was only a glance, but it sent a rush of blood to her cheeks.
She knew that if that book ever opened, her secrets would come tumbling out like spilled rainwater.
Drizzle began to fall as the final bell rang. The schoolyard slowly emptied, the laughter fading into the sound of rain.
Sinta stayed behind, sitting on her usual bench by the small garden, her secret place. From there, she could see the teachers' office across the field.
A single light glowed inside.
Through the glass, she saw Mr. Armand writing. His hand moved steadily, his eyes fixed on the paper. Every now and then, he lifted a cup of coffee to his lips.
Sinta watched from afar, too shy to approach, too drawn to leave.
"I just want to see him," she wrote in her diary.
"Just like this. From here. Why does it feel both calming and terrifying at once?"
The rain eased. She decided to go home, but before stepping through the gate, she turned back.
He was still there, still writing.
And in her chest, that quiet warmth grew a little stronger.
That night, she opened her blue-covered diary again.
"I know this is just admiration," she wrote.
"But somehow I want to write about him every day. I know it's wrong… yet my life feels more alive because of it."
She hugged the diary to her chest.
In her dreams, the sound of rain and Mr. Armand's smile blended into one.
The following days pulled Sinta deeper into the whirlpool of her feelings. She began noticing small things, the way he straightened his back while writing on the board, the faint tiredness at the corners of his eyes, even the gentle way he laughed at a student's joke.
But Nina started to notice, too.
"Sinta, you've been daydreaming a lot lately. Are you crushing on someone?" she teased, half-serious.
"No, I'm not," Sinta replied quickly.
"Hmm…" Nina smiled, but her eyes were searching.
That night, for the first time, Sinta couldn't write calmly.
Her sentences stumbled, restless like the rain that refused to stop. Guilt stirred somewhere deep inside her, but above it all was a strange kind of joy she couldn't destroy.
One afternoon, in the library, she saw Mr. Armand reading alone. Gathering courage, she walked toward him.
"Sir, I like fantasy novels," she said softly. "Do you have any recommendations?"
He looked up, thoughtful. "Try this one." He handed her a book with a dragon on the cover. "George R. R. Martin. Strong story, vivid imagination."
Their fingers brushed.
The world stopped for a heartbeat.
"You have talent, Sinta," he said gently. "You should try writing your own story."
The words touched her heart like a prayer.
That night, she wrote again, not about the rain this time, but about a girl who loved something she was never meant to have.
And in every line, his face appeared between the words.
A few days later, it rained again.
Sinta waited in the corridor as students hurried home. Mr. Armand passed by, a black umbrella in his hand.
"Not going home yet?"
"Waiting for the rain to stop, Sir."
"In that case," he said, smiling, "come on. I'll walk you to the gate."
He opened the umbrella and stood beside her.
The sky was gray, the scent of wet earth filling the air.
"Do you like the rain?" he asked.
"Yes, Sir. It makes me feel… peaceful."
"I do, too," he replied. "But sometimes, rain makes us forget the time."
The words hung in the air, part warning, part tenderness.
They walked in silence. When they reached the gate, Sinta returned the umbrella, her hand trembling slightly.
"Thank you, Sir."
"You're welcome, Sinta. Don't stop writing."
Then he was gone.
Sinta stood there for a long time, beneath the fading drizzle.
She knew something inside her had changed, no longer just admiration, but love.
A love soft, beautiful, and dangerous, like rain falling without the sky's permission.