Night settled slowly over Depok, the campus lights glowing faintly through the haze like lanterns in a muted dream. In one of the boys' dorm rooms, Ardan sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the lines of code scrolling on his laptop. They filled the screen in neat blocks, perfectly structured, but his attention had already left the digital world behind.
The fan above rotated lazily, its soft hum stretching the silence thinner, almost reverberating against the bare walls. Ardan leaned back, one arm folded across his chest, the other spinning a pen between his fingers with the kind of idle precision he reserved for moments when thought refused to focus. His face remained calm, controlled—unreadable. Always unreadable.
Yet tonight, something was different.
The corner of his mouth lifted, just slightly. Almost imperceptible.
"So the girl studies here…" he murmured.
The words slipped out before he could stop them, curling in the air like a quiet confession.
He couldn't shake the image of Aisha—the way she had collided with him in the corridor, the panic written across her face before she instinctively fought back, entirely unafraid even after realizing who he was. And then there were her eyes, sharp and unyielding, that had locked onto his with a spark of recognition he wasn't prepared to confront.
Ardan exhaled sharply.
It should have been nothing. A minor disruption in a meticulously scheduled day. A five-second anomaly—ignorable, deletable.
But the memory refused to vanish.
He closed the laptop with quiet finality, the soft click loud in the suddenly empty room. Without the glow of the screen, the space felt colder, emptier.
"Focus," he muttered again, firmer this time. "She's just a transfer student."
Structure was his sanctuary—lectures, coding projects, competitions, deadlines, goals. No room existed for distractions, and certainly not this one.
Still, when he lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling, the faint curve of his lips returned.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
For the first time in months, his day hadn't been entirely dull.
The next afternoon, the girls' dorm was quiet save for the thud of bodies collapsing onto beds. Aisha and Prilly fell back in perfect synchrony, releasing all tension accumulated from classes. Ten minutes later, the room's silence broke with a synchronized groan.
"I'm starving," Prilly declared dramatically, eyes fixed on the ceiling as though it had personally failed her.
"Then go buy food," Aisha said, unimpressed.
"You go," Prilly countered, clutching her stomach.
Aisha snorted. "The sky's about to explode. It's going to rain."
Prilly stared down at the floor. "Better wet than dead from hunger."
Aisha sighed, her patience thinning. "Unbelievable."
Her phone chimed suddenly. She glanced at the screen and blinked at the notification. Allowance transferred. From her parents.
Her exhaustion evaporated in an instant. She sat up so fast the mattress squeaked beneath her.
"ATM first. Food mission after. Bye."
Prilly's protests were immediate. "Oi! Buy food! I'm serious!"
"Yeah, yeah!" Aisha said, already halfway to the door, grabbing her small black folding umbrella.
Prilly called after her again. "Ruq!"
"What now?"
"It's literally about to pour. Take an umbrella."
Aisha paused, glanced at the sky darkening with clouds rolling low and heavy, then adjusted her umbrella strap and stepped outside.
By the time she reached the ATM near the courtyard, the world had transformed. Rain fell hard and sudden, drumming against the pavement and rooftops, washing the usual chatter from the campus into quietude. The scent of wet soil and concrete filled the air, sharp and clean.
Aisha unfolded her umbrella, small and black, and stepped into the rain.
Then she noticed someone to her left.
Ardan.
His hoodie was already damp, the fabric darkening under the rain in blotches that spread with his slow movements. One hand remained tucked in his pocket, the other swinging slightly as he walked. His face, as ever, hovered between indifference and mild annoyance, but his eyes flicked toward her—curious, assessing.
Aisha pressed her lips together, unsure whether to retreat or approach. She took two small steps forward.
"Hey," she said cautiously.
He stopped. "What."
"You heading back?"
"No. I'm planning to start farming," he replied flatly. "Of course I'm heading back."
She rolled her eyes but said nothing. Instead, she shifted the umbrella slightly, making space.
"Here. Sharing. Don't get the wrong idea—it's just paying back a favor. I don't like owing people."
Ardan glanced at the umbrella—not casually, not briefly, but as though he were studying a puzzle that might explode at any second.
Then his brows knitted.
"Who? You talking to me?"
Aisha blinked in disbelief. "Are you serious?"
He pointed at himself with exaggerated confusion. "Me? Helped you? When?"
"On the bus. Two years ago," she reminded him.
He rolled his eyes but stepped a fraction closer, still keeping the umbrella partially off.
"Heh. You still remember that," he muttered.
"Obviously."
A beat of silence passed between them, rain drumming sharply around their feet.
"You don't need to pay me back," he said flatly.
"I'm counting it as settled. End of discussion," she replied, tilting the umbrella toward him.
He didn't argue. Didn't thank her. Didn't accept either. But he moved fully under the narrow cover, shoulders brushing against hers.
They started walking, the rain hitting the umbrella in loud, staccato bursts. Their footsteps found an accidental rhythm, the sound of splashing puddles accompanying them.
"…Thanks," he muttered quietly, almost swallowed by the rain.
Aisha blinked. "What was that?"
"I said—watch the puddles. The splash is annoying," he replied, eyes forward, expression back to stone.
"Everything's annoying to you, huh?" she said softly, a smile tugging at her lips despite the damp.
No answer.
They passed through the rain-soaked campus garden, leaves trembling under the weight of water, petals glistening with droplets. The air smelled of earth and rain, heavy and grounding, washing over them with a gentle insistence that slowed everything else.
The space under the small black umbrella was cramped. Their shoulders brushed, a closeness neither had intended but could not deny. Something subtle had shifted—the air between them, the cadence of their steps, the faint warmth of shared shelter against the cold rain.
And in that quiet, ordinary storm, neither of them could name it yet, but the distance between them had shrunken, as naturally and quietly as the rain itself.