Dusk in Yogyakarta has its own way of celebrating farewell with the sun. Its colors are never the same; sometimes a fierce, burning orange, at other times a soft, resigned purple. That afternoon, the sky chose the hue of spilled honey, slowly seeping through the gaps in the leaves of the old mango tree that shaded our school canteen. Most students had already scattered home, leaving behind echoes of laughter and hurried footsteps, now replaced by the rustle of the wind and the monotonous sweep of the Canteen Lady's broom in the distance.
I, Yesaya Emanuel, was still there. Sitting on the furthest corner of the long bench, its green paint peeling, facing the empty basketball court. For me, these hours were a luxury. When the school returned to silence, when I could breathe without having to measure every social interaction, when I could simply be myself—an observer.
On the table before me, a worn A5 sketchbook lay open. The tip of my 2B pencil hovered over the paper, suspended between the urge to draw and the reluctance to disturb the quiet with its scratching sound. I wasn't drawing the scenery. I was trying to capture a feeling—a strange warmth from chosen solitude, a peace I rarely found at home.
"Excuse me."
The voice was as soft as a breeze, yet enough to make my pencil slip, leaving a stark black line that marred my sketch of the evening sky. I looked up, slightly annoyed, ready to offer a perfunctory apology.
But the words caught in my throat.
Standing before me was Keyla Luvena.
At our school, Tunas Bangsa High, the name "Keyla." Everyone knew who her father was—a conglomerate whose face occasionally appeared in business magazines. Everyone knew the gleaming black European sedan that dropped her off every morning precisely at the gate, never a minute late. Yet, that knowledge seemed to stop there. Because the Keyla they saw every day was a different girl.
She wore the exact same white and gray uniform as every other female student, perhaps a little looser on her frame. Her black loafers were standard, without conspicuous brands. Her long, jet-black hair was always tied in a simple black ponytail. There was no luxurious watch, no jewelry, no designer bag screaming status. She was the most captivating girl.
"I'm sorry, did I startle you?" she said again, her large, clear eyes looking at the fresh pencil mark with genuine remorse.
"Oh, no, it's fine," I replied, my voice a little hoarse. I quickly closed my sketchbook, a reflex to protect my most private world. "Just... just doodles."
Keyla offered a small smile. A smile that never quite reached her upper lip, but enough to make a faint dimple appear on her right cheek. "May I sit here? The other benches are wet, seems like spilled iced tea."
I shifted my body, giving more than enough space on the long bench. "Of course."
She sat with a graceful yet unpretentious movement, placing a thick, dark-covered book on the table. I glanced at its title: Republic, by Plato. Not a common read for an eighteen-year-old girl amidst the hustle of national exam preparations.
Silence enveloped us again, but this time it felt different. No longer peaceful, but filled with the awareness of each other's presence. I could catch the faint scent of baby powder from her uniform, mixed with the old paper smell of the book she carried.
"You're Yesaya, right?" she asked, breaking the silence first. "From Class XII Science 2."
I nodded, surprised she knew my name, let alone my class. I was a nobody. I wasn't the student council president, nor the basketball team captain, nor one of the genius students who frequented the Olympiads. I was just Yasa, who usually spent recess in the library or in this corner of the canteen.
"And you're Keyla," I retorted, feeling foolish for stating the obvious.
She chuckled softly. "That's right."
She opened her book, but her eyes weren't on the lines of philosophical text within. Her gaze swept towards the darkening basketball court, towards the remnants of the twilight painting the sky.
"You're often here alone," she remarked, more of a statement than a question.
"I like the atmosphere," I answered honestly. "When everyone else has left."
"Me too," she whispered. "It feels like this school belongs to us, if only for an hour or two."
I looked at her. The way she spoke, the way she saw the world... there was a depth there I never expected. People often whispered about her, guessing what her life was like inside that luxurious house surrounded by high walls. They imagined parties, overseas vacations, expensive things. They never imagined a girl who found beauty in an empty canteen at dusk.
"Why Plato?" I asked, daring to point at her book.
Her eyes sparkled, as if I had just asked a question she had long wanted to answer. "My father says if you want to understand the world, start by understanding how humans think about organizing it. He said this is a good book to begin with." She paused for a moment, then added in a softer tone, "But honestly, I often get a headache reading it. Too many big ideas."
I smiled. "Maybe that's the point. To give us a headache, so we stop thinking everything is simple."
Keyla looked at me intently, her small smile returning. "I like the way you think."
My heart beat a little faster. That compliment, coming from her, felt like a gold medal.
"It's... just my opinion," I said, trying to sound casual.
"No, it's more than just an opinion," she gently countered. "It's understanding. Most people would just say, 'Wow, that's heavy reading,' and then leave."
We fell silent again. The Canteen Lady had finished sweeping and was now wiping the tables one by one, her movements slow and rhythmic. The sound of the Maghrib call to prayer began to drift from the mosque across the street, echoing melodiously in the cooling air.
"I have to go home," Keyla said, as if waking from a reverie. "My driver is probably waiting."
"Yeah, me too," I replied, though I knew my journey home would only take fifteen minutes on foot through small alleys, not in a comfortable European sedan.
We stood up simultaneously. For a moment, we just stood there, amidst the empty benches and the dying twilight. There was so much I wanted to say, so many questions I wanted to ask. About Plato, about solitude, about why a girl like her would talk to someone like me.
But all that came out of my mouth was, "Be careful on your way."
Keyla nodded. "You too."
She turned and began to walk away. Her steps were unhurried. Each stride seemed measured, calm and full of certainty. I watched her until her back, clad in the gray uniform, disappeared around the corridor's bend.
I returned to the bench. The canteen now felt emptier than before. I reopened my sketchbook, to the page marred by the pencil mark. I didn't try to fix it. That mark, born from my surprise at her presence, now felt like the most important part of the drawing.
I picked up my pencil. Below the honey-colored sky sketch, I began to draw a long canteen bench. On it sat a girl with a ponytail, holding a thick book. I drew her from memory, trying to capture the serenity on her face, the gentleness in her smile.
At that moment, I knew nothing. I didn't know that afternoon was the beginning of everything. I didn't know that the memory of the gray uniform and dusk in the canteen would become an anchor I would hold tightly, even when the fiercest storms of my life came raging.
All I knew then was one thing: for the first time, I didn't want dusk to end.