The morning sky was still gray as Dimas stepped through the gates of Bintang Nusantara High School, an old institution standing proudly in the heart of the city, surrounded by tall trees shedding their leaves slowly. The air carried the scent of damp earth and faint traces of fresh paint. Despite the building's worn corners, there was a certain dignity about it that made anyone who stepped inside feel like they were entering a different world.

  Dimas took a deep breath. He tightened the straps of his backpack and tried to ignore the nervous flutter in his chest. High school wasn’t unfamiliar to him—he knew the lessons would be tough, the teachers possibly boring, and the classmates? He couldn’t guess just yet.

  His steps led him to the second floor, to class X Science 2. The room was half-empty, with only a few students seated—some on their phones, others quietly chatting. Dimas walked down the aisle of desks until his eyes landed on an empty seat near the window. He sat down, letting the morning light warm his face. From there, he could see the schoolyard still glistening with dew.

  “Dimas?”

  The voice was soft, almost drowned by the quiet bustle of the class. Dimas turned quickly. The girl was standing beside his desk—standing uncertainly, a small smile tugging at her pale lips.

  Dimas’s eyes widened. “Ayla?”

  She smiled wider. Her hair was a little longer than he remembered. But those eyes—dark, sharp, and mysterious—hadn’t changed at all. Dimas stood up instinctively.

  “No way. Is it really you, Ayla?”

  “Yes,” she said softly. “Looks like we’re in the same class.”

  They sat far apart now, unlike in elementary school when Ayla always took the seat beside him, drawing little houses in the margins of her notebooks and sneaking into the library after school.

  Dimas couldn’t hide his smile. He never thought he’d see Ayla again, even though their seats now were so far apart that one of them would have to make the effort if they wanted to talk. Her family had moved away when they were in sixth grade. After that, they lost contact—until today.

  “How did you end up back in Jakarta?” Dimas asked.

  “We moved again. Dad’s working here now,” Ayla replied. “Do you... still write?”

  Dimas nodded. “Yeah. These days it’s mostly short stories. I keep them on my laptop.”

  Ayla smiled. “You used to write those weird mystery stories.”

  “And you were always the main character,” Dimas added with a laugh.

  Ayla looked at him for a moment, then nodded slowly. “I remember.”

  The bell rang. The teacher entered and introduced himself. The lessons that day were fairly standard—Math, Indonesian, Biology. But for Dimas, time flew by. He often glanced at Ayla, and occasionally, they exchanged notes, chuckled quietly, remembering the childhood they once shared.

  During the break, they sat on a concrete bench under the angsana tree, away from the crowd. The wind blew gently, rustling the yellowing leaves above them.

  “You’ve changed,” Ayla said suddenly.

  Dimas turned to her. “Changed how?”

  “You’re quieter now. You used to tell me everything. Now... you barely speak.”

  Dimas paused. He didn’t know what to say. Maybe he had changed. Or maybe the world had forced him to.

  Ayla watched the leaves fall around them. “I’m glad we’re in the same class again.”

  Dimas nodded. “Me too.”

  Then, something strange happened.

  When they returned to the classroom, Dimas found a folded piece of paper in his desk drawer. No name. No signature.

  Curious, he opened it quietly. The handwriting was unfamiliar.

  “Don’t get too close. She’s not who you remember.”

  Dimas stared at the note for a long time. Ayla was beside him, flipping through her book and doodling in the margins with a black pen. She looked calm—too calm.

  “What is it?” Ayla asked, noticing his long stare and walking over, curious.

  Dimas quickly crumpled the paper and stuffed it into his pocket. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

  Ayla gave a faint smile. “Still keeping secrets, huh?”

  Dimas forced a laugh, but his mind was drifting to the past. To faint memories of little Ayla disappearing for three days and coming back with no explanation. To that day in the library, when she cried without a sound, and all the books around them fell from the shelves as if pushed by a sudden gust—though all the windows were tightly shut.

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  Maybe he was imagining things. Maybe they were just childhood memories twisted by imagination.

  Or maybe... not.

  Since that afternoon, Dimas couldn’t stop thinking about the note. The words echoed in his head like a voice with no place to return to:

  “Don’t get too close. She’s not who you remember.”

  He tried to match the handwriting to anyone in class, but it didn’t resemble anyone’s. Ayla still looked normal—too normal. She laughed, doodled like nothing had happened.

  But the curiosity hung over him like a shadow refusing to fade.

  Second break came. Students rushed out of the classroom—some to the canteen, others to the yard or library. Ayla said she was going to grab a drink.

  This was his chance.

  Dimas took a small slip of paper from his book. Hesitating for a moment, he wrote two words:

  “Who are you?”

  He folded the paper and slid it beneath his desk drawer—into a narrow gap no one would find unless they were looking for it. He held his breath as he closed the drawer and stood up, pretending to be relaxed.

  But for the rest of the break, his mind was in turmoil. He sat with Ayla on a garden bench, listening to her stories about her new house and strange neighbors, but every word sounded distant. He could only pretend to listen.

  The bell rang.

  Back in class, Dimas tried not to look nervous as he took his seat. A few minutes into the lesson, he discreetly pulled open the drawer.

  His note was gone.

  In its place was another—folded neatly, placed exactly where he had left his.

  He glanced around quickly. Everyone was busy taking notes, including Ayla. No one seemed to notice him.

  Heart pounding, Dimas slowly opened the new note under the desk.

  The handwriting was the same. Cold. Straight. Like a whisper directly in his ear.

  “You know my name.”

  Dimas clenched the paper tightly. The words felt like an accusation. As if there was something he had forgotten... or had chosen not to remember.

  He looked to his side. Ayla had her head down, scribbling in her notebook like always. But then, she slowly lifted her head. Looked at him with concern. Again, she approached and asked:

  “Dimas, what’s been going on with you lately?”

  Dimas held his breath. “It’s nothing... just tired.”

  Ayla watched him for a long moment. Her gaze was gentle, but beneath it... there was something else. Something hard to explain. Like the eyes of someone carrying too many secrets. But she remained silent, only observing—because Dimas

  refused to be understood.

  School had just ended when Dimas slung his bag over his shoulder and started walking through the crowded schoolyard. The air was warm, and the late afternoon sun cast golden shadows across the pavement. His mind was still replaying the words from the mysterious note, and Ayla’s silent gaze lingered in his memory like a question mark that refused to disappear.

  He wasn’t paying much attention when it happened.

  Thud.

  He collided hard with someone just outside the school gate. The impact knocked both of them to the ground, and Dimas’s bag hit the asphalt with a loud thump.

  “Sorry—are you okay?” the boy asked quickly, getting up and offering his hand.

  Dimas groaned slightly as he sat up and accepted the hand. “Yeah, I think so…”

  The boy looked around their feet and picked up Dimas’s bag. He noticed the zipper slightly open, and the edge of a silver laptop peeking out. A faint crack ran along the casing.

  Dimas’s eyes widened. He unzipped the bag and pulled it out. The screen was slightly bent. He tried turning it on—nothing. Just a faint flicker and then black.

  “No, no, no…” he muttered.

  The boy rubbed the back of his neck, guilt written all over his face. “Crap. That’s my fault, I wasn’t looking either. Let me make it up to you—I’ll pay for the repairs.”

  Dimas hesitated. He didn’t even know this guy. But something about the way he spoke—firm, sincere—made it hard to say no.

  “You sure?”

  “Of course. Come on, there’s a repair place I know not far from here. I’ll walk with you.”

  They started walking side by side. The boy introduced himself along the way.

  “I’m Raditya. Class XI, Social Studies.”

  “Dimas. X Science.”

  The boy nodded, his tone casual. “I’ve seen you around. You’re the quiet one who always stares out the window, right?”

  Dimas laughed dryly. “Guilty.”

  The repair shop was small, tucked into a side street between a stationery store and a noodle shop. They handed in the laptop, and the technician promised to check it within a few hours.

  “While we wait, want to grab something to eat?” Raditya offered.

  Dimas hesitated again, but his stomach grumbled louder than his caution. “…Sure.”

  They ended up at a cozy café nearby. Warm lights, wooden furniture, soft jazz music in the background. The boy ordered for both of them and paid without question. Dimas tried to protest, but the boy just waved it off.

  “I broke your laptop, man. Let me at least buy you a sandwich.”

  They talked. At first, it was small things—favorite subjects, annoying teachers, the chaos of school life. But somehow, it didn’t stay small. Raditya had a sarcastic sense of humor that caught Dimas off guard. In return, Dimas’s dry wit made the boy laugh so hard he nearly choked on his drink.

  By the time they finished eating, they were laughing uncontrollably over something stupid—something about a classmate’s ridiculous hairstyle and a pigeon that once flew into the teacher’s lounge.

  Their laughter echoed through the café. For a moment, Dimas forgot everything—Ayla, the notes, the questions in his head. Just for a moment, things felt normal again.

  Then he noticed it.

  A few people in the café were staring at them. Not with amusement. With… discomfort. One girl whispered something to her friend. A man behind the counter raised an eyebrow.

  Dimas slowly fell quiet. The boy noticed the shift in his expression and followed his gaze.

  “People are staring,” Dimas said under his breath.

  The boy leaned back in his chair and shrugged, smiling. “Let them. We’re just two guys laughing. Nothing illegal about that.”

  Dimas nodded, but a strange feeling stirred in his chest. Not fear exactly, but something colder—like being reminded of how quickly people judge what they don’t understand.

  And nobody understand somebody.

  Still, when the boy smiled again and raised his glass of iced coffee like a toast, Dimas clinked his own cup against it.

  Maybe it didn’t matter what they saw.

  Maybe this was the beginning of something unexpected.

  The sky was already tinted with orange and purple by the time Dimas and the boy parted ways in front of the repair shop.

  “They said it’ll take two or three days to fix,” Raditya said, handing Dimas a small claim slip. “They’ll replace the screen and check the hard drive too.”

  Dimas nodded, slipping the paper into his wallet. “Thanks again, seriously.”

  “Don’t mention it.” Raditya gave a casual salute before turning toward the bus stop. “See you at school.”

  Dimas waved as he watched Raditya walk away, then turned in the opposite direction, heading home on foot. The wind had picked up slightly, carrying with it the scent of wet soil and burning leaves. The streets were quieter now, save for the hum of motorcycles and the occasional barking of dogs.

  He cut through a shortcut he rarely used—a narrow alley between two buildings that led to a row of old houses shadowed by overgrown trees. That’s when he saw her.

  An old woman stood near the edge of the road. Her back was slightly bent, and a faded scarf covered her gray hair. Her eyes were pale, almost cloudy, but they locked onto Dimas with uncanny clarity.

  “You shouldn’t be walking alone this late,” she said, her voice dry like leaves.

  Dimas froze. He clutched the strap of his bag. “I—I’m fine, thank you.”

  She took a small step forward. “If you need a place to rest… you can stay the night at my home. It’s just over there.” She pointed at a dimly lit house barely visible behind a curtain of trees.

  Dimas’s heart skipped. Something about her felt… wrong. Not threatening, exactly, but off.

  “No, really. I’m okay,” he said quickly, backing away.

  The woman tilted her head slowly, eyes never blinking. “Are you sure, Dimas?”

  He didn’t wait to ask how she knew his name. His instinct say thay this old man is dangerous for him.

  He ran.

  His footsteps echoed off the walls of the alley as he burst onto the main road again, panting. His legs burned, but he didn’t stop until he saw the familiar outline of his house down the street, its porch light glowing like a beacon.

  As he neared the gate, a small figure ran toward him.

  “Dimas!”

  His little sister, maria, 14 years old stood barefoot on the front step, still wearing her middle school uniform. Her eyes lit up when she saw him. “You’re late! I waited and waited!”

  Dimas forced a smile, ruffling her hair. “Sorry. I had to fix something.”

  Inside, laughter drifted from the living room. His parents were seated on the couch, cups of tea in their hands, chatting about something on TV. Warm light spilled across the floor, and for a moment, the strange encounter faded into the background.

  “There he is!” his father called. “Your mom was about to send a search party.”

  His mother looked up, smiling. “Dinner’s almost ready. Wash your hands first.”

  Dimas stepped inside, the warmth of the house wrapping around him like a blanket. The scent of home-cooked food filled the air, and Lala tugged at his hand, already chat

  tering about her day.

  He cast one last glance out the door, toward the dark street beyond the gate.

  The old woman was gone.

  But something about her eyes stayed with him.

  And somehow… he knew this wouldn’t be the last time he saw her.