Akmal never learned how to wait.
That was not because life was cruel or chaotic, but because life, for as long as he could remember, had always responded to him promptly. Needs were met quickly. Wants were negotiated lightly. Discomfort rarely lasted long enough to become a lesson.
From childhood, the world bent.
His house was never quiet, never tense. It was warm, loud with conversation, full of movement and reassurance. His parents worked hard, but they worked hard for him. Their pride in him was visible, spoken aloud, repeated often. Akmal grew up knowing—without question—that he was loved, wanted, and central.
When he cried, someone came.
When he asked, someone answered.
When he complained, someone adjusted.
It did not make him cruel.
But it did make him certain.
Certain that expression produced results.
Certain that dissatisfaction required correction.
Certain that the world was responsive if you were loud enough.
As a child, Akmal was not denied much.
Not because his parents were careless, but because they believed abundance was a form of security. They had grown up with less, and they promised themselves their son would not feel the same constraints. Toys were replaced quickly when broken. Clothes were upgraded before they wore thin. If Akmal grew bored, something new was introduced.
Stimulation was constant.
And so was affirmation.
"You're special," his mother would say easily, brushing his hair before school.
"You're smart," his father would add, ruffling his head.
"You'll go far."
These words were not wrong.
But they were never balanced.
No one taught him that being special did not entitle him to outcomes. No one taught him that disappointment could be instructional rather than unjust.
When Akmal sulked, adults rushed to soften the mood.
When he argued, they laughed and called it confidence.
When he interrupted, they said he was expressive.
Boundaries existed—but they were flexible, negotiable, always open to persuasion.
And Akmal learned quickly how to push them.
School came easily to him.
Not because he was disciplined, but because he was encouraged relentlessly. Teachers liked him. He was charming, engaged, energetic. When he forgot assignments, excuses were offered on his behalf. When he misbehaved, it was reframed as personality.
"He's just passionate."
"He's just expressive."
"He's got leadership potential."
And so Akmal internalized a dangerous idea:
Intent mattered more than impact.
If he meant well, then outcomes should align.
If they didn't, the problem lay elsewhere.
Friendships followed the same pattern.
Akmal dominated conversations without realizing it. He chose activities, set directions, decided moods. His friends adapted around him because it was easier than resisting. When someone objected, Akmal pushed harder—smiling, joking, persuading.
He was not malicious.
He simply assumed agreement would arrive eventually.
And usually, it did.
The world trained him well.
Adolescence sharpened his entitlement, even as it polished his charm.
Akmal discovered early that he was attractive—not just physically, but socially. People liked being around him. His energy filled rooms. His confidence drew attention. Girls responded to his openness, his willingness to say what others hesitated to voice.
He interpreted this as validation.
If he wanted someone, he approached them.
If he liked someone, he said it.
If he felt something, he expressed it fully.
Restraint felt unnecessary.
Why hold back when honesty had always been rewarded?
Rejection, when it happened, felt temporary—an obstacle rather than a verdict. Akmal believed persistence was romantic. That clarity was admirable. That continuing to push meant caring deeply.
He had never learned the difference between wanting and respecting distance.
At home, consequences remained soft.
If Akmal failed, explanations followed.
If he overstepped, intentions were defended.
If he hurt someone, apologies were smoothed over quickly.
"Dia nggak bermaksud begitu."
"He didn't mean it."
"He's still learning."
And so Akmal learned the wrong lesson.
That harm could be undone by explanation.
That discomfort could be erased by reassurance.
That accountability was optional if sincerity was present.
And then he met Randi.
Randi unsettled him from the beginning.
Here was someone who did not rush.
Who did not announce himself.
Who did not push to be seen.
And yet, Randi was deferred to.
People trusted him instinctively. His words carried weight not because they were loud, but because they were measured. He did not demand space.
Space was offered.
Akmal could not understand it.
He tried, unconsciously, to outpace Randi—speaking more quickly, joking more loudly, asserting more openly. But the harder he pushed, the more apparent the difference became.
Randi did not compete.
And that, for the first time, made Akmal uncomfortable.
Their friendship formed anyway.
Akmal liked Randi because Randi didn't challenge him directly. Randi's restraint felt like permission. Where Akmal filled silence, Randi allowed it. Where Akmal rushed, Randi waited.
Akmal mistook this for alignment.
He did not yet realize that Randi's silence was not absence—it was choice.
University was the first place where the world resisted him.
Not dramatically. Not immediately. But subtly.
People were less accommodating. Time was less flexible. Authority figures were less impressed by enthusiasm alone. Yet Akmal still carried his childhood assumptions into this new environment, expecting the same responsiveness he had always received.
He spoke first.
He acted quickly.
He assumed access.
Cantika entered Akmal's world quietly.
And that should have warned him.
She did not react the way others did. She did not lean into his confidence or retreat from it. She listened. Observed. Considered.
Her responses were measured.
Her expressions restrained.
Her boundaries implicit rather than declared.
This confused him.
Akmal was used to feedback—approval or rejection, enthusiasm or distance. Cantika offered something else: ambiguity.
And ambiguity, to Akmal, felt like invitation.
He liked her immediately.
Not because she validated him, but because she didn't. Her calm felt like a challenge. Her distance felt temporary, something to be bridged with effort and sincerity.
So he did what he had always done.
He moved closer.
He spoke openly.
He made his interest clear.
He believed honesty would carry him through.
He did not consider timing.
He did not consider context.
He did not consider that not all silences were waiting to be filled.
Because his entire life had taught him that persistence worked.
There was a moment—small, unremarkable to others—when Akmal filled out an administrative form late at night. The task was dull, mechanical, something he wanted to finish quickly. When he reached the line requesting his full legal name, he hesitated briefly, then wrote it in clean, confident strokes.
Akmal Fajar Ramadhan.
The name had always felt powerful to him. Strong. Bright. Forward-moving.
"Fajar," his mother once said proudly, meant dawn.
"Ramadhan," his father said, meant discipline.
Akmal smiled at the irony.
He had inherited the first.
The second had never been required of him.
He did not yet understand that the world does not owe alignment to intention.
That desire does not equal entitlement.
That love is not a reward for boldness.
He believed—deeply, sincerely—that wanting something openly made him deserving of it.
And when that belief finally collided with reality, it would not be because the world was cruel.
It would be because the world had finally stopped saying yes.