CHAPTER 2 — The Way She Looked at Me

I woke up late that morning. Last night’s rain still dripped from our tin roof, leaving the floor damp and cold on my feet. Mother was already in the kitchen with her old apron tied around her waist. She packed bread, fried bananas, and stuffed tofu into plastic bags for the school canteen.

“Eat a little first,” she said.

I took a quick bite of bread. Sari was still asleep with messy hair, Bimo rubbed his eyes lazily.

“Kak Chiko… bring bread again later?” he asked sleepily.

“If there’s leftover,” I smiled, patting his head.

Mother looked back and smiled softly—her smile always looked older than her age.

I grabbed my bag and stepped out through the narrow alley. Morning in Jakarta wasn’t cold — humid, sticky, and a bit suffocating after the rain. My uniform clung to my skin.

I caught an angkot. Inside, the smell of gasoline and sweat mixed in the cramped space. A kid complained about ice tea he couldn’t get, a man slept hugging his bag. I stared out the foggy window.

Jakarta was always like this — loud, tired, but somehow alive.

I jumped off near school, almost slipping because the pavement was still wet. I ran — and BUMP!

My shoulder hit someone. The bread packets fell from my plastic bag. I crouched down quickly. A hand helped me.

I looked up.

Alika.

The new girl introduced yesterday. Neat hair, clear face, gentle eyes.

“It’s okay,” she said softly, handing one packet back to me.

My face burned. “Thank you… I’m sorry.”

I hurried to the canteen before she could see the handwritten price on the plastic.

Mr. Hasan was arranging snacks behind the glass display when I arrived.

“Late again, Chiko,” he chuckled.

I handed him the bag. “Please sell these, Sir.”

He placed bread, fried bananas, and stuffed tofu neatly.

“Your mom gets better each day. Bring more tomorrow.”

I smiled a little and went to class.

But my mind stayed in the hallway — with that smile.

During break, Alika walked to my desk.

“Chiko… may I borrow your chemistry book?”

My hand trembled slightly as I pulled it out.

“Here…”

“Thank you,” she smiled again — small, warm, gentle.

Whispers rose immediately.

> “She’s talking to him?”

“The bread seller?”

“He’s kind of cute though…”

Two boys laughed loudly.

> “Imagine dating him — leftover bread for dinner!”

“Soy sauce for special occasion!”

I lowered my gaze. I was used to it.

But strangely, it hurt less today.

Maybe because someone saw me differently.

After school, I returned to the canteen to collect the money.

Only a little was left — today was a good day.

If there was much left, I usually had to walk around selling until night.

But today, there were only a few breads — so I could go home early.

I walked past Meranti Residence Gate — tall fences, neat gardens, shiny cars.

Just a few steps away, but a completely different world.

“Chiko!” Mr. Burhan, the guard, called from the post.

I walked closer. Only a few leftover breads were in my plastic.

“Got some bread? I’ll take two,” he said.

Mr. Aldi bought one more.

“Tell your mother her cooking is great,” he smiled.

I nodded.

Even small kindness like that felt warm.

Walking home through the alley, I passed hanging laundry, puddles, children kicking a plastic ball, the smell of fried shallots from a small stall. Jakarta was harsh — but sometimes sweet when touched gently.

Mother was bringing in the laundry when I arrived.

“You’re home? Tired?”

I handed her the money.

Her eyes brightened a little.

“Praise the Lord… enough for vegetables today.”

I changed into a clean shirt and switched my shoes for sandals.

Bimo and Sari ran toward me like chicks to their mother.

Inside the bag were a few leftover breads.

Small, simple — but precious.

I split them between my siblings.

Sari ate slowly, like it was a special treat.

Bimo smiled wide with his small bite.