The next day, the campus atmosphere felt different.
Not just different in a vague, unexplainable way, but fundamentally altered, as if the place itself had shifted overnight. The same buildings stood where they always had. The same trees lined the walkways, their leaves rustling softly in the morning breeze. The same students filled the corridors of the Faculty of Engineering. And yet, everything felt wrong.
The air, which was usually filled with laughter, casual chatter, and the easy rhythm of everyday student life, now felt heavy. Thick. As if it pressed down on my shoulders with every step I took. Whispers floated through the corridors like invisible smoke, curling around corners, slipping between open classroom doors.
Gossip.
It had spread faster than I expected. Faster than I hoped.
The dramatic fight in the park yesterday—Akmal's raised voice, my stunned silence, the way people had stopped and stared—had become fuel for speculation. Stories grow when they're passed from mouth to mouth, and by the time I heard fragments of them, they barely resembled the truth anymore.
"…heard Akmal completely lost it…"
"…they said Randi provoked him…"
"…apparently it was about a girl…"
Every step I took was followed by eyes. Some curious, openly scanning my face as if looking for visible damage. Some sympathetic, filled with pity that made my stomach twist uncomfortably. Others, sharper and colder, barely hidden sneers that carried judgment without words.
I kept my gaze forward, pretending not to notice any of it.
Akmal?
He truly kept his word.
Not once did he confront me. Not once did he raise his voice or throw sarcastic remarks my way like he used to. Instead, he erased me.
If I entered a room, he walked out without a word. If I sat down in the cafeteria, tray in hand, he picked up his things and moved to another table. When our paths crossed in the hallway, his eyes passed over me as if I were nothing more than empty space.
His gaze was empty and cold.
And somehow, that was far more painful than his anger the day before.
Anger meant he still cared, still felt something. This—this indifference—felt like being declared dead while still breathing. Years of friendship, of shared jokes, shared struggles since high school, crushed and discarded without ceremony. As if none of it had ever mattered.
I went through the rest of the day with my head down.
Lectures blurred together. Notes were written mechanically, without meaning. My hands moved on autopilot while my mind clung desperately to a single point of light in an otherwise dark, exhausting day.
4:15 PM.
The bus stop in front of campus.
That was the only thing keeping me upright.
At 4:10, I was already standing there.
The campus bus stop was unusually quiet, the usual crowd of students nowhere to be seen. A light drizzle had begun to fall, barely noticeable at first, misting the air and darkening the asphalt beneath my feet. The smell of wet concrete rose around me, sharp and familiar.
The sky above was a dull, unbroken gray, perfectly matching my mood.
My heart pounded fast, the rhythm uneven and restless. It wasn't just nervousness. It was a complicated mix of things tangled together so tightly I could barely separate them.
There was the leftover shame from yesterday's incident, the memory of Akmal's voice still echoing faintly in my head. There was fear—real, biting fear—that she might decide this was all too much trouble.
And then there was hope.
Stubborn, irrational hope that refused to be silenced.
Would she come?
The question replayed over and over in my mind as I stared down the empty road.
Would she change her mind after seeing the "loser" side of me? After witnessing the collapse of my friendship, my inability to stand up for myself in that moment? Would the gossip, the whispers, Akmal's cold stares be enough to push her away?
I tightened my grip on the umbrella handle in my hand.
Right at 4:15, through the curtain of drizzle, her figure appeared.
Cantika.
For a second, I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. Then she stepped closer, her outline sharpening against the gray backdrop, and my breath caught.
She was wearing a dark blue hooded rain jacket, zipped up neatly, the hood resting against her back. A backpack hung from her shoulders, slightly damp from the rain. Her hair was tucked away, probably to keep it from getting wet.
Her face looked tense at first—serious, cautious—but when her eyes found me standing there, alone at the bus stop, something shifted. A small smile appeared. Not wide. Not confident. Slightly shy, almost hesitant.
But real.
She walked quickly toward me, careful not to slip on the wet ground.
"Randi," she greeted, her voice slightly trembling. It could have been from the cold, or maybe from nerves. "Sorry, I was almost late. The class ran a bit long."
I didn't even realize I had been holding my breath until I let it out in a long, shaky exhale.
"It's okay, Tik. I just got here too," I said, forcing my lips into what I hoped looked like a casual smile. Inside, my chest felt like it was collapsing and expanding at the same time. "It's raining. You still want to go?"
She didn't hesitate.
"Of course!" she replied firmly, her eyes shining with determination. "This is our idea. And… we need that data."
The emphasis on the word our hit me harder than I expected.
In the cold air, weighed down by drama and self-doubt, that single word felt warm. Anchoring. Like she was deliberately choosing to stand on the same side as me, regardless of everything else.
"I brought an umbrella," she added, reaching into her bag and pulling out a simple folding umbrella.
"Me too," I said, lifting mine slightly, already ready in my hand.
For a brief moment, we just looked at each other.
Then we both laughed softly.
It wasn't loud or carefree, but it was enough to loosen the tight knot in my chest. The tension eased, just a little.
"Let's take the bus toward Bekasi," I said. "About thirty minutes."
She nodded. "Okay."
We stood close together at the empty bus stop, just near enough to feel each other's presence without touching. The rain grew heavier, turning from a drizzle into a steady fall, forming a shimmering curtain that blurred the view of the campus behind us.
The silence stretched between us.
It was awkward—but not in the same way as yesterday. This silence didn't feel threatening or sharp. It felt… delicate. Like something new was forming inside it. Something fragile, but undeniably real.
My mind wrestled with itself for a few seconds before I finally spoke.
"I… I'm sorry again, Tik," I said quietly. "About yesterday. About everything you saw and heard."
I hesitated, searching for the right words. "That… wasn't my best side."
She turned toward me fully then, her expression softening. There was no judgment in her eyes, only sincerity.
"You don't need to apologize again, Randi," she said gently. "You're not the one at fault."
She paused, choosing her words carefully.
"Akmal… he was hurt," she continued. "But his way was wrong. And his words…" She shook her head slowly, her lips pressing together. "They were cruel. And unfair to you."
Her gaze drifted toward the rain for a moment, as if replaying the memory.
"I'm sorry too," she added. "I should've been able to stop it better. I didn't expect him to explode like that."
"It's not your fault either," I replied quickly, not wanting her to carry that weight. "He… his emotions had piled up."
The bus finally appeared at the end of the road, headlights cutting through the rain like two steady eyes approaching us.
When it stopped, we climbed on together, tapping our cards and moving toward the back seats, where it was quieter. The bus was mostly empty, the late afternoon rain keeping many students away.
We sat side by side.
Not touching—but close enough that our shoulders nearly brushed with every small movement. The engine hummed beneath us, a low, constant vibration, while the rain tapped rhythmically against the windows.
The city slid by outside, blurred and distorted through streaks of water.
Silence settled again.
But this time, it was comfortable.
I caught a faint scent drifting toward me—something clean, floral, understated. Her shampoo. It made the space feel smaller, more intimate.
"So…" I began, eager to shift the topic somewhere safer, steadier. "Your idea about using an ongoing project is really brilliant, Tik."
She turned to me, attentive.
"I thought about it last night," I continued. "We could focus on the elevated toll road's foundation structure. That's usually the most critical part. And it has the most data."
Her eyes lit up instantly.
"Yes!" she said, enthusiasm washing away any lingering tension. "I totally agree! Especially since the calculation methods must be very detailed because the soil conditions in Bekasi are a bit soft in some areas."
She leaned slightly forward as she spoke, hands subtly moving as if outlining invisible diagrams. Technical terms flowed naturally from her mouth—bearing capacity, settlement analysis, soil compaction methods.
I listened closely, nodding, occasionally adding my own ideas. The discussion felt effortless. Smooth. Like we had always worked together.
Inside that bus slicing through the rain, surrounded by the ruins of my friendship with Akmal, something new was growing.
A connection built not on shared history, but on shared curiosity. Mutual respect. Understanding.
And maybe—quietly, dangerously—something more than that.