The lecture hall of the Faculty of Economics was packed that morning. The lecturer, Mr. Hartono, was announcing the results of the midterm exam.
"Arkan Pradipta, 78. Good—keep it up," Mr. Hartono said as he handed out the exam papers.
Arkan accepted his paper with a faint smile. He remembered how he had studied for that exam—at the food stall while waiting for customers, on public minibuses during his commute home, in his rented room under a dim light because electricity had to be rationed. He had slept only four hours a night for an entire week.
"Rendra Wijaya, 82. Excellent! You really are talented," Mr. Hartono praised.
Rendra took his paper casually, replying to messages on his phone. He had barely studied—just skimmed the material the night before while relaxing in his comfortable room. No pressure. No burden. Even if his grade had been bad, it wouldn't have mattered. His future was already secured by his father's company.
Arkan stared at the number 78 on his paper. Those two digits were the result of sacrificed sleep, time, and energy. Meanwhile, Rendra earned an 82 with a fraction of the effort he had put in.
"This is how the world works," Arkan murmured softly.