“Mira, Mira. Have you finished the homework yet?”

Ani’s voice cut through my cloudy morning. Half panicked, half pleading—the exact tone of someone who remembered her responsibility only minutes before the bell rang. I had barely pulled out my chair when my notebook was snatched from my desk without permission, quick and instinctive, like a starving cat finding food.

I let out a slow breath.

“Easy, Ni. That’s a notebook, not confiscated goods.”

Ani just laughed. Her hands flipped through the pages quickly, eyes scanning line after line, lips silently reading. I let her be. This had been our routine since tenth grade.

This was my everyday life.

Always considered smart by people who were lazy. Even though I wasn’t actually that smart. My grades were average. I was just diligent—and often too kind to say no. My life was ordinary. Not particularly interesting, but not boring either.

Maybe it was because of my face.

Not ugly. Just… plain. A face that didn’t make people look twice. Black hair always tied neatly. A school uniform worn in the most standard way possible. I rarely tried to stand out. Or maybe I simply knew my place.

Sometimes, in moments like this, my thoughts wandered to unnecessary things.

If only my face were as pretty as Tera’s.

If only my skin were as bright as hers.

Maybe boys in my class would sit next to me more often—not just to copy homework.

“Why are you zoning out?” Ani tapped my arm lightly. “It’s still morning.”

I flinched. “Huh? No.”

Ani stared at me for a moment, then smiled knowingly.

“Thinking about seniors again, huh?”

I didn’t answer. I just closed my notebook and took a breath.

Classes went on as usual. The whiteboard filled with writing. Chalk scratched against its surface. I took notes, Ani tried to take notes, and time slowly crawled toward the last period.

Outside the window, the sky grew darker. Heavy clouds hung low, making the classroom feel quieter than usual.

Finally, the dismissal bell rang.

It always sounded longer than the others. Students immediately moved—books packed into bags, chairs scraping, conversations filling the room again. I wasn’t in a hurry. I packed my bag carefully, then stood up and followed the flow of students out.

Ani walked beside me in the hallway.

“You going straight home?” she asked.

I nodded. “Yeah.”

She glanced at the time on her phone. “They say the basketball team has practice today.”

I shrugged, pretending not to care.

“So they say.”

We walked toward the multipurpose hall. Not because we had business there. Not because we had plans. Just because… that’s what we always did.

Ngeceng.

A Bandung slang—my city in Indonesia.

It literally means looking around at nice things.

The multipurpose hall was already lively. The lights inside were bright, reflecting off the slightly glossy court floor. From outside, the sound of squeaking shoes and bouncing balls echoed clearly, mixed with laughter and small shouts.

Basketball practice was underway.

I stopped near the entrance. Not fully inside, not too far away either. A safe distance. From where I stood, I could see almost the entire court.

Several seniors were running across the floor. Their sports uniforms were damp with sweat. Some laughed loudly, some focused intensely, some simply stood aside wiping their faces.

“Oh wow, the one wearing black shoes is handsome,” Ani whispered, nudging my arm.

I glanced in the direction she meant. “The one with slightly longer hair?”

“Yes! But the one in the middle isn’t bad either,” she replied quickly.

I smiled faintly. “Twelfth grade is dangerous. Too many choices.”

Ani laughed. “That’s why it changes every day.”

Small cheers came from the bleachers. A group of girls stood together, laughing and whispering. Names were being called—but they overlapped, mixed together, unclear who was calling for whom.

I stood still, watching from a distance.

I wasn’t looking for the most handsome one.

I was just… looking.

Their movements were fast. Loud. Full of energy. The court felt alive. But in the middle of all that noise, there was one figure my eyes kept returning to. Not flashy. Not exaggerated. And yet, somehow, always there.

I didn’t know why.

“So, which one are you looking at?” Ani asked.

I shrugged. “I don’t know. They’re all loud.”

Ani studied me for a moment, then smiled.

“You’re weird. You say you’re watching, but you’re never specific.”

I laughed quietly. “I’m just looking around.”

Practice went on for a long time. Outside, the sky darkened further. Rain began to fall—first lightly, then heavier. The sound of rain hit the roof, blending with the bouncing ball and squeaking shoes.

One by one, students started to leave. The bleachers slowly emptied.

Ani and I stepped out of the multipurpose hall. The afternoon air was cold. She opened her umbrella.

“I’m heading out,” she said.

I nodded. “Be careful.”

I stood under the roof for a moment, waiting for the rain to ease. Inside, the sounds of practice began to fade. A few seniors walked out laughing, sports bags slung over their shoulders, joking with one another.

I wasn’t waiting for anyone.

When the rain lightened, I opened my small umbrella and walked toward the school gate.

The lights turned on one by one, their reflections shimmering on the wet pavement.

The day ended like any other.

Nothing significant happened.

No important conversations.

Just a small habit, repeating itself.

I walked home slowly, carrying a simple realization—

that I often stood in the same place,

looking in the same direction,

without ever really knowing who I was actually looking for.

And maybe, for now,

that was enough.

“Aldi!”

My name echoed from different corners of the basketball court.

Not just mine, actually. Steven’s and Kevin’s names were called just as often. I never really knew when girls from other classes—even underclassmen—started memorizing our names one by one.

I also didn’t know why they always gathered whenever we practiced after school.

Was it distracting?

Maybe.

But more than that… it was tiring.

I had been watched since I was a kid. I learned not to pay too much attention to it. Sometimes I nodded or offered a small smile. The problem was, every time I did, they only got louder.

For some reason.

“Hey, Di. Mall this week?” Kevin asked, taking a long drink from his water bottle.

“Yeah, let’s go,” Steven added.

“Sure,” I replied casually, still dribbling the ball.

The mall felt warm that afternoon. Probably because sunlight poured in through the large glass windows. I sat back with a can of soda, watching people pass by.

“There,” Steven whispered, pointing. “Underclassmen.”

I looked over. Two girls were standing not far from us. I recognized them. They were often by the court. Quiet. Not screaming. Not trying to get attention.

Different from the others.

The two girls talked softly to each other, then walked toward us.

“Hi, good morning, Kak Aldi, Kak Steven, Kak Kevin.”

Kevin, who was drinking, immediately choked.

“Careful there,” Steven said casually.

I was a little surprised. “How do you know our names?”

“They get called out all the time at practice,” one of them replied with a small smile.

Steven, as usual, jumped in easily. “Hi there. You’re sweet.”

I just smiled faintly. Steven was always good at that. I wasn’t.

“Do you guys watch practice too?” Kevin asked.

Both of them shook their heads.

“We’re just walking around,” one of them said.

I realized something then—I didn’t even know their names.

“What are your names?” I asked, without much thought.

“Mira,” said the girl standing slightly behind, her voice soft.

“Ani,” the other added.

I nodded. At least now I had names to match their faces.

“Why don’t you watch?” Steven asked again.

“Too much crowd,” Ani answered quickly.

“Oh.” Steven nodded. “You could buy tickets online.”

They both just smiled.

“Um, Kak,” Ani hesitated, “can we get your IG?”

“And maybe your phone number,” Mira added, almost whispering.

We exchanged contacts. Quickly. Simply.

No promises. No long small talk.

After that, they said goodbye and walked away.

I watched their backs for a moment.

For some reason, it felt different from usual.

Steven watched the two girls disappear into the crowd, then leaned closer to me.

“So,” he said casually, “which one?”

I frowned. “Which one what?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Don’t pretend. The quiet one or the talkative one?”

“I wasn’t picking,” I replied. “They just asked for our contacts.”

Kevin snorted. “That’s what everyone says before they start replying too fast.”

I opened my phone instinctively, then stopped myself.

No new messages.

“Relax,” I said. “It’s not that deep.”

Steven laughed. “You always say that.”

We sat there for a while, the noise of the mall filling the space between us. People passed by, carrying shopping bags, laughing, talking about things that probably mattered more than basketball practice.

I glanced at my phone again. Still nothing.

It was strange. Usually, I felt relieved when things ended quickly. No expectations. No follow-ups. No reasons to stay longer than necessary.

But this time, the silence felt… noticeable.

“Let’s go,” Kevin said, standing up. “I’m hungry again.”

As we walked toward the exit, I found myself looking around—not searching for anyone in particular, I told myself. Just out of habit.

Still, I noticed how quiet the mall felt once we left the seating area.

Outside, the afternoon air was heavy and warm. The sun was already leaning west, casting long shadows across the pavement.

Steven stretched his arms. “Same time next week?”

“Yeah,” Kevin said. “Unless someone here suddenly has plans.”

They both looked at me.

“I don’t,” I said quickly.

They laughed.

On the way home, I sat by the window of the bus, watching the city slide past. Shops, intersections, people rushing somewhere.

My phone vibrated.

I looked down.

A new notification.

A follow request.

Mira.

I stared at the screen longer than I should have.

Then, without really thinking about it,

I accepted

That afternoon, after coming home from school, I lay down on my bed without really intending to sleep. I was still wearing my uniform. My bag was still on the floor. But my phone was already in my hand.

I opened Instagram.

One by one, I typed the names I had added yesterday. Kak Steven. Kak Kevin. Then I paused a little longer on one account.

Kak Aldi.

I stared at his photo for a moment. He wasn’t doing anything special. Just a normal photo. A normal smile. But somehow, it felt different from seeing him in person on the court.

The three of them really were… pleasant to look at. Like they belonged to a world that felt slightly more put together than mine. My mind drifted back to yesterday at the mall—the short conversation, the exchange of numbers, and then parting ways without any promises.

I let out a quiet breath.

My fingers hovered above the screen. A little hesitant. A little playful. But mostly… curious.

Without thinking too much about the consequences, I created a small group chat and typed my first message.

Mira: Good afternoon, Kak 🙂

The message was sent.

I stared at my phone, then turned onto my back, looking up at the ceiling. Five seconds. Ten seconds.

My phone vibrated.

Steven: Good afternoon too, Mira. What’s up?

I sat up halfway.

Kevin didn’t reply.

A few seconds later, another notification appeared.

Aldi: Afternoon, Mira.

For some reason, I smiled.

Even though it was just a simple sentence.

I typed again.

Mira: Kak Steven, could you help explain a math problem?

The reply came quickly.

Steven: Oof, sorry Mira. I’m really bad at math 😭

I stared at the emoji for a moment, then sighed softly. That made sense.

I was about to put my phone down when the screen lit up again.

Aldi: Sure. You can send the problem.

I stopped breathing for a moment.

Aldi: Do you want to do a video call, or just take a photo of the question?

I lightly bit my lower lip. Out of the three of them, only Kak Aldi replied like that. Not loud. Not overly playful. Not making me feel like a burden.

Mira: I’ll just send a photo, Kak 🙏

I got up from the bed, opened my math book, and took a picture of the problem that had been giving me a headache. Then I sent it.

A few minutes passed. I waited, not daring to do anything else. Even opening another app felt wrong.

My phone vibrated.

A photo came in.

The solution.

Neat. Step by step. There was even a small note written on the side.

Aldi: If this part is wrong, try repeating it from step two. Don’t skip ahead.

I read it slowly.

Oh.

For the first time, I understood without having to reread it over and over.

Mira: Kak… thank you so much 😭

Aldi: You’re welcome. If you’re still confused, just let me know.

I stared at that sentence for a long time.

It was simple, but it felt warm.

Since that afternoon, I started trying to message Kak Aldi more often.

Not every day. Not for long conversations. Mostly just about schoolwork.

Tuesday came again.

Like usual, after school, Ani and I walked toward the multipurpose hall.

“You’re going there again?” Ani asked, giving me a half-accusing look.

“What’s wrong with that?” I replied.

Ani snorted. “Nothing. It’s just funny.”

We stood in the same spot as last week. A safe distance. Not too close. Not too far.

On the court, the seniors had already started practice. Shoes squeaked. The ball bounced. Loud, but orderly.

Without realizing it, I started searching with my eyes.

When my gaze met someone in the middle of the court, he gave a small nod.

I nodded back.

“Hey,” Ani whispered. “That’s rare. Kak Aldi nodded at you.”

I pretended to focus on my phone. “You’re noisy.”

Ani chuckled.

Kak Steven and Kak Kevin stayed indifferent. Like people who had never even met me. And somehow, that felt normal. I wasn’t expecting anything from them.

A light rain fell that afternoon. Not heavy, but enough to make the air feel cold.

After practice ended, we went home like usual. No greetings. No waiting.

That night, like always, I casually sent Kak Aldi another message. He was always polite and never rejected my texts.

Mira: Kak, sorry, I still don’t really understand this one.

I sent an example problem along with the message.

There was no immediate reply.

A few seconds passed without an answer.

I almost regretted sending it when the notification finally appeared.

The solution to the problem.

Short. Clear.

That night, before going to sleep, I realized something.

We didn’t really know each other yet.

But somehow, for the first time, I felt… closer.

Not because we met often.

But because we talked.

Slowly.

Simply.