The deepening hue of the Jakarta sky that afternoon bore a striking, almost palpable heaviness, as if it were intentionally mirroring the unexpressed, tumultuous emotions swirling within those who navigated the city's congested streets. Nestled in a cozy, small cafe located in the Tebet district, a man named Bima found himself positioned strategically near a window, providing him with an unfiltered view of the vibrant yet chaotic tapestry of traffic that stretched endlessly before him. As he observed the constant movement of vehicles jostling for space on the road, his mind was flooded with a cacophony of thoughts, each more disruptive than the incessant honking of car horns that punctuated the air. On the warm, natural wood table in front of him lay two significant and contrasting objects, each representing divergent pathways that life could fork into. The first was a printout of the Bochum II contract, its surface splashed with colorful highlighter marks that underscored particular points of interest, while the second was a glossy brochure for a doctoral program at the esteemed University of Indonesia, sporting a yellow sticky note that had been affixed by none other than Prof. Harris. This note conveyed a brief but emphatic affirmation: "You'd be great here."
As Bima absentmindedly stirred the iced tea resting on the table — the cubes having begun to melt and dilute the sweetness of the drink — his anxious gaze remained fixated on the small screen of his phone, anticipation mingling with nerves. He had received a message from Clara, one he had yet to read, which chirped cheerfully: "I'm on my way, but there's terrible traffic. Don't leave yet, you indecisive striker." A faint smile crept onto Bima's lips as he read her words, each sentence offering a flicker of warmth that melted the tension surrounding him. Clara's playful reference to him, a term rooted in their shared history, invoked feelings of affection and camaraderie, a reminder of their warm relationship that time and the physical distances separating them had somewhat frayed. However, what appeared to be a new maturity in their connection hinted at the potential for renewal.
The moment that the cafe door creaked open, Clara breezed in, her hurried steps cutting through the cafe's ambient noise. Clad in a loose-fitting white shirt paired effortlessly with casual blue jeans, she exuded an effortless charm that even the thin sheen of perspiration forming at her temples could not diminish. Her hair, tied back with casual abandon, evoked a sense of simplicity in her style that only enhanced her allure. As soon as she spotted Bima, her welcoming smile brightened the room, instantly making him feel at ease amidst the frantic energy of the city outside.
"Sorry, the traffic was insane," she exclaimed, gracefully settling into the chair across from him and allowing herself to unwind in its comforting embrace.
"Jakarta is never reasonable when it comes to traffic," Bima remarked humorously, attempting to lighten the atmosphere. "But in my mind, you're always right on time."
Clara raised her eyebrows in playful disbelief, eliciting a laugh from Bima. "Wow, you're starting to get all academic and romantic. Come on, show me your two 'loves'." With a playful finger, she gestured towards the items splayed across the table, drawing his attention back to the contract and the brochure.
With a measured but gentle motion, Bima pushed the two pivotal documents toward Clara, revealing their significance. "Here they are. One: Bochum II, a one-year contract, a chance to be a potential starter, a decent salary, and the thrill of playing in Europe. Two: the doctorate at UI, a fast track toward becoming a lecturer, ripe with opportunities for research in green bridge initiatives alongside top professors. My mother would undoubtedly champion the second path; she sees education as an unassailable foundation. While I sometimes lean toward academia too, my heart…" He allowed out a profound sigh, wrestling with his thoughts to express an intricate truth. "My heart simply cannot let go of the love I have for soccer."
Clara scrutinized the papers with an intensity that suggested she was searching for a glimmer of certainty amidst the contradictory aspirations they encapsulated. When she turned her gaze back to Bima, her expression was both curious and affectionate. "And your heart also doesn't want to leave Jakarta, your family, and..." she hesitated, letting a teasing smile play at the corners of her lips, "And me, right?"
Bima's gaze locked onto Clara's, his eyes penetrating through to the very essence of her being. "Yes. Since our time at the Pulau Seribu, everything has crystallized for me. I can easily envision a simple life—teaching at the university, engaging in enlightening projects, returning home each day to be with you. But every time I close my eyes, I still see that small stadium in Germany, the Bochum jersey proudly worn, and you cheering enthusiastically from the stands, wrapped up warmly in a thick jacket."
Clara leaned back in her chair, her thoughts momentarily drifting outside the window into a world shaped by possibilities and uncertainties. "I'm at a crossroads much like yours, Bim. I'm just waiting for the final word on my Dutch scholarship. If I receive it, I'll be leaving in a few months, but if not..." She attempted a smile, one laced with the sweetness of hope yet tinged with bitterness. "I'll be right here, setting up a clinic and possibly sliding into a role as a guest lecturer. But now there's an additional variable: you."
With newfound clarity, Bima shifted his chair slightly closer to Clara, lowering his voice to a hushed tone. "Have you ever contemplated the notion of us potentially getting married, Clar? Not just playfully discussing it during our trip to the Pulau Seribu. If I opt for UI, everything aligns more neatly. I could propose to you, and together we could forge a life right here. But if I go to Bochum, I fear you'll carve out a life of your own in the Netherlands, and we might only exist as a fleeting footnote in the story of our youth."
Clara fell silent, her heart racing in rhythm with the gravity of Bima's words. Her gaze fixated on the wood grain of the cafe table before finally returning to meet Bima's earnest eyes. "I… have. In fact, I've thought about it even more deeply than 'have'. I imagined that if we were officially together, we could tackle these choices collectively. No longer a separate 'me' and 'you', but a steadfast 'us'."
"Then why does it sound like you're holding back?" Bima inquired, a hint of concern creeping into his voice, acknowledging the uncertainty lingering in her tone.
Clara released a slow, deliberate breath. "Because I harbor fears myself. Marriage isn't a panacea for every issue, Bim. I wouldn't want to be the one who urges you to give up on your dreams of Europe, and equally, I don't want you to weigh me down by preventing me from pursuing the doctorate I've aspired to for so long. We both had our dreams long before 'us' entered the picture."
Bima fell silent, the weight of Clara's words resonating within him, filling him with introspection as he nodded slowly, grappling with a sense of defeat. "So what do you wish for, then?"
Clara carefully picked up the papers that had been the center of their discussion, placing them side by side as she considered their implications. "I believe we must first confront the truth within ourselves before we can be candid as a couple. Ask yourself: if I weren't in the picture, which would you choose right now? Bochum or UI?"
Bima sat in contemplative silence for what felt like an eternity, the cafe gradually filling with the hum of espresso machines blending harmoniously with the patrons' animated conversations. Finally, with a soft voice that carried the weight of his heart, he confessed, "If you weren't here… I'd choose Bochum. One year, two years—I'd give everything I have to soccer. If I fail, I could always come home and chase my doctorate then. I refuse to live with the regret of not having pursued my professional dreams."
Although the sting of sadness pierced Clara's heart, she nodded, granting an understanding that the realization demanded. "Alright, now it's your turn: in an alternate reality without me, I… would choose to go to the Netherlands. Three to four years dedicated to researching trauma within the community, working alongside international NGOs. I would return filled with knowledge and connections, ready to establish an impactful clinic here."
Bima swallowed hard, grappling with the painful reality of their aspirations. "So our true dreams... lead us to drift apart, huh?"
"For the time being," Clara replied softly, her eyes reflecting a mixture of understanding and regret. "But that doesn't signify we can't reconnect in the future. The truth is, if we were to become a couple now, our choices might be clouded. We could convince ourselves it's 'for love,' yet one of us might ultimately be left feeling a sense of loss and regret."
Bima leaned in closer, searching deeply into Clara's eyes for reassurance. "You... if you faced the choice of pursuing your dreams or being with me, what would you choose, Clar?"
Clara's gaze locked with Bima's, tears pooling at the corners of her clear eyes. "I wish for both. However, perhaps the path to achieve that doesn't involve forcing a resolution right now. Maybe it's about bravely choosing our individual journeys first while still holding onto this red thread that connects us."
"Red thread?" Bima echoed, intrigued by the metaphor's depth.
"Our relationship," Clara clarified without hesitation, her tone earnest. "Not solely whether we're classified as boyfriend and girlfriend, but rather the essence of how we support one another and maintain honesty amidst this uncertainty. You venture off to Bochum as your true self, and I go to the Netherlands—if I gain acceptance—as the complete Clara. If we are truly meant to be together, one day, this red thread will guide us back to a shared intersection."
Bima let out a bitter laugh, trying to navigate the profound implications embedded in Clara's words. "It sounds like something from a melodramatic Korean drama."
Clara chuckled as well, quickly wiping away the remnants of unshed tears. "Perhaps. But it's also the conversation of two adults, each grappling with their fear of losing their individual selves."
An extended silence engulfed them, and unexpectedly, Bima reached for Clara's hand, clasping it meaningfully with a sense of purpose. "In that case, may I request one promise?"
Clara raised an inquisitive eyebrow, intrigued by his request. "What promise would you like to make?"
"Whatever path we choose down the line—whether I go to Bochum or UI, and you go to the Netherlands or stay here—I propose that we commit to speaking every week. Not just on updates concerning our careers but heart-to-heart updates too. If you ever feel burdened, you must share it with me. If I start feeling adrift in Europe, I'll talk to you about it as well. I don't want distance to serve as an excuse for pretending everything is fine between us."
Clara's smile radiated warmth as she responded, "That's a perfectly reasonable promise. I wholeheartedly agree."
She added softly after a moment of contemplation, "And... please allow me to make one small promise in return: I won't pretend to forget you, Bim. Regardless of the city I find myself in, I will always hold onto the memory of the striker—or perhaps a future professor—who once made me grapple with the choice between love and ambition."
"And I," Bima replied, infused with the same unwavering determination, "will forever remember there was a psychologist who showed me that real courage is not merely about scoring goals but also about letting go of something beloved in order to protect one's true self."
As they delved deeper into their conversation, the soft glow of dusk enveloped the cafe, and the city lights sparkled on one by one, illuminating the streets that were slowly transitioning into nighttime. Inside the cafe, their hands remained tightly clasped over the two defining pieces of paper that held their futures—the Bochum contract and the doctoral brochure. The metaphorical red thread that connected them hadn't severed; instead, it implied a new knot had yet to be tied, shaping an uncertain yet hopeful bond between them.
Without warning, Clara's cellphone vibrated on the table, signaling the arrival of an email. A quick glance at the screen registered on her face, eliciting an immediate tension that hung thick in the air. "Bim..."
"Why? What is it?" Bima inquired, sensing the palpable unease that tightened around them both.
"It's an email from the Netherlands. The results of my scholarship," Clara murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, laden with apprehension.
Bima leaned closer, searching Clara's expression more than the text on the screen, his heart racing in synchronization with the moment's charged stillness. "Are you ready to open it?" he prompted softly, his concern bridging the distance between them.
Clara took a deep, steadying breath, her gaze meeting Bima's once more before shifting back to her phone. "I'm ready... but only if you stay here beside me no matter the outcome. Whatever it says."
Bima nodded, his sincerity unwavering. "I'm here."
Gradually, Clara unfolded the email, a process that felt fraught with tension and suspense. As the seconds elongated, Bima's eyes remained fixed on Clara's face, deciphering every flicker of emotion rather than the written words before her. In that charged instant, their entire future hung precariously in the balance, waiting for the pronouncement of either "congratulations" or "we regret to inform you"—leading them to ponder whether the red thread would weave its way towards the Netherlands, drift towards Bochum, or perhaps forge an altogether new pathway through the uncertain woods of life ahead.
***
The research laboratory nestled within the confines of a quaint small town in Germany emanated an exceptionally distinct atmosphere on that particular day. The environment felt far removed from the usual efficiency and industriousness typically associated with a workplace; instead, it carried an ambiance more akin to that of a waiting room where anticipation hung thick in the air—a palpable tension emanating from the collective nervousness of individuals who were on the cusp of receiving life-altering news. Outside, delicate flakes of light snow began their gentle descent, softly accumulating on the expansive windows that provided a direct view of the serene campus grounds, creating a calm yet soothing tableau for anyone lucky enough to gaze out upon it. Inside the lab, Aiden found himself seated alone in front of not one, but three monitors that were brimming with intricate performance graphs detailing the latest modeling he was meticulously developing. Alongside these data visualizations, a disorganized pile of conference invitation emails awaited his attention, each one an important event that required his presence, while beside the emails lay the presentation slides that he had exhaustively refined, polishing them to a high sheen, hoping to achieve a level of perfection that would impress his colleagues.
In a shadowed corner of the room, there rested a pair of his old soccer shoes, seemingly forgotten relics of a bygone era, casually leaning against the wall as if quietly bearing witness to the passage of time and the many changes that had unfolded within the laboratory. The soles of the shoes were slightly cracked and scuffed, reflecting years of wear, their once bright white hue now faded to a muted shade reminiscent of nostalgic days gone by. However, for Aiden, every time his gaze flickered towards those shoes, memories of vibrant soccer matches on the lush green field would suddenly erupt in his mind, painting vivid mental pictures of exhilarating moments that felt as fresh as if they had just transpired yesterday.
He drew a deep, contemplative sigh, a mixture of emotions swirling within him, as nostalgia enveloped him in its warm embrace. And so, with renewed focus, he returned to the task at hand, typing a few important lines into a document bearing the ambitious title: "Personal Roadmap: Post-Master Life." Within this document, he meticulously outlined his various aspirations and plans for the future: "Secure a full-time position at a cutting-edge AI-based health technology company, ascend to the role of research lead where I can direct core strategies… Earn the opportunity to present as a keynote speaker at the prestigious NeurIPS conference, even while still considered a junior speaker… spearhead a groundbreaking pilot project in collaboration with leading hospitals across Europe, and genuinely strive to make a meaningful impact..."
However, in a moment of spontaneity, he paused, allowing a line to flow from his heart that he had long contemplated adding: "Rediscover the joy of playing soccer again in an amateur club, taking on the role of a playmaker."
Amidst his solemn deliberation, the cell phone lying quietly on the table vibrated gently, sending ripples through the quietude of the room as it chimed with a new notification from a group chat titled "Bima - Clara - Aiden." Bima, a cherished friend, had sent a vibrant selfie from a popular cafe nestled in the Tebet area of Jakarta, where Clara was seen beaming beside him, her head tilted slightly downward in a sweet smile. Bima's accompanying caption, brimming with laughter and camaraderie, read: "The indecisive striker and the psychologist with an open schedule. Jakarta is buzzing with debates about the future, Den."
Despite being worlds away in a foreign country, an involuntary smile crept across Aiden's face as he read through his friends' messages, the warmth of nostalgia flooding over him. "They look… different," he mused quietly to himself, a swirling mix of curiosity and longing coursing through him before he quickly brushed the thought aside, determined to maintain his concentration on the matter at hand.
With a playful spirit that underscored their enduring friendship, Aiden responded: "Just be cautious not to get entangled in a predicament; your future should be the focus of a psychology conference, not a debate on street food. I just wrapped up a meeting, so I'll give you a call later tonight. I even miss the cacophony of Jakarta's traffic jams."
Almost immediately, Clara replied, her message succinct but laden with support: "Stay focused, future AI professor. Work comes first." Her words felt like a gentle nudge, encouraging him to remain committed.
A moment later, Bima added to the exchange with a familiar humor: "I'll send you a video of the village kids playing soccer. You must be pining for the grass, right?"
Aiden found himself staring at his phone's screen for a beat longer than he probably should have, a deep sense of longing filling his chest as he whispered softly to himself, "Yeah… I miss it," even while his fingers typed a message that veiled his true emotions somewhat: "I miss Padang rice, to be precise."
As that day wore on, enveloped in contemplation about various possibilities for the future, Aiden made his way towards the company's internal conference room, which had become an integral part of his daily routine. Today was particularly significant because he was set to present the beta version of the ethical AI project that had consumed hours of diligent work and unwavering dedication. This innovative project was designed to create an intelligent model capable of accurately predicting the potential for burnout and early signs of depression through data collected via wearable devices, all while respecting and ensuring user privacy remained securely protected.
Inside the conference room, he was met by a gathering of product managers and directors eagerly awaiting his presentation, alongside the comforting presence of Prof. Elena, who sat in the corner with a warm and assuring smile that conveyed her support. "Alright, Aiden, the floor is yours," announced one of the directors, his English laced with a thick German accent, a clear indication of his faith in Aiden's abilities.
With a newfound poise, Aiden stood before his colleagues, initiating his presentation. Slides filled with complex graphs showcasing steadily rising accuracy rates, intricate diagrams reflecting the carefully structured architecture of his model, and detailed data encryption schemes that illuminated the advantages of his approach flashed before them. "This model doesn't merely predict burnout risk with an accuracy rate exceeding 90%; it also delivers explanations that can be easily grasped by medical practitioners and psychologists," he asserted with infectious enthusiasm. "Each recommendation isn't just a figure, but a tangible action: 'rest,' 'seek counseling,' or 'evaluate workload,'" he emphasized, highlighting the critical significance of each directive.
Seeking clarity, one manager posed a probing question, "What about the potential for misuse? Companies might leverage this data to terminate employees deemed vulnerable rather than extending the necessary support."
Aiden nodded knowingly, his smile unwavering as he confidently unfolded the answer he had meticulously prepared. "That's precisely why our system has been crafted with stringent limitations: access to predictive data is exclusively reserved for internal medical teams and authenticated third parties, leaving human resources without direct access to this information. Technically, we've fortified certain endpoints, and ethically, we've incorporated explicit clauses in the agreements."
Prof. Elena, who had been beside Aiden throughout the project, chimed in, her tone laced with conviction, "Aiden has diligently constructed the ethical framework for this initiative from its inception. This represents a monumental step forward that could establish a new standard for how technology aids human mental health rather than exploits it for profit."
As the presentation drew to a close, enthusiastic applause erupted, the directors' faces alight with satisfaction and admiration—a clear indicator of the high regard in which they held Aiden's work. "If this pilot project proves successful, Aiden, we envision you leading a new research unit next year. This could herald a remarkable and promising commencement to your career," remarked one of the directors, presenting an offer that was anything but trivial.
Once the meeting concluded, in the quieter atmosphere of the hallway, Prof. Elena approached Aiden, her gaze piercing, filled with gravity. "Do you recognize this moment as a pivotal juncture in your journey?"
Aiden, despite the exhaustion weighing on him, managed to smile and replied earnestly, "Yes, Prof. That's why it feels somewhat… heavy."
"Why is it so difficult?" Prof. Elena prompted, seeking to understand his inner turmoil more deeply.
Aiden took a reflective pause, carefully choosing his words before admitting, despite the vulnerability it required, "Because deep down, there exists a version of myself yearning to run on that green field, not merely navigating through lines of code."
Prof. Elena chuckled gently, offering a perspective that felt refreshing, "No one is preventing you from running on that field, Aiden. What truly matters is that you come to understand what you'd like to center your life around, and what serves as a sufficient space for you to breathe freely."
That evening, as Aiden made his way down the corridor towards the small field located not far from the campus complex, he noted that the light snow that had previously fallen had gradually melted away, leaving only a cold, damp blanket of grass. The field now lay deserted, its desolation accompanied solely by dim spotlights that cast faint illumination. In his possession, Aiden carried the soccer shoes he had discreetly appropriated from the lab that very morning, treating them as a symbolic key to a new phase in his life.
Taking a seat on a bench perched at the edge of the field, he transitioned from the running shoes he had been wearing to his faithful old pair of soccer shoes. Standing on the somewhat sodden grass, he experienced an unusual yet familiar sensation, a convergence of two emotions that were distinct yet inherently complementary.
"The air is crisp and cold, devoid of cheering fans, no Bima with his enthusiastic yells… but this feels like... another home," he murmured quietly to himself.
He began to move, initiating simple touches as he controlled the ball with the deftness he still possessed, honed from years of practice, even after such a lengthy hiatus from the game. He expertly dribbled the ball past a series of plastic cones that stood as obstacles on the field, his movements remaining fluid, although perhaps not as agile as they once were. After a few minutes of focused practice, he came to a stop, placing the ball precisely where he envisioned the center of the field to be.
"Playmaker," he declared to himself, determination igniting his eyes. "You're no longer just a goal scorer. You are the strategic mind of the game."
He conjured the image of Bima racing in front of him: the number 9 striker, dutifully positioned at the offside spot, waiting for a pass. With a gentle nudge, he directed the ball, envisioning an imaginary playtaking shape and accompanying it with a renewed sense of satisfaction. "Bima, make a run to the right... cut inside... just like that," he strategized, a smile creeping across his face as he orchestrated the game in his mind.
Suddenly, a vibration emanated from his cellphone tucked inside his thick jacket—an incoming video call from Jakarta: Clara. He answered promptly, still slightly breathless from his workout.
"Den! Why do you look like you've just been exercising?" Clara immediately inquired, her keen observation detecting the flush of his cheeks.
Aiden quickly turned the camera away, half-jokingly hiding the field from her view. "Just a quick stroll. The chilly air is quite biting tonight. What's up with you?"
Clara chuckled, her voice resonating with the lively backdrop of Jakarta's vibrant energy. "Still at the cafe with Bima. He's currently in the restroom. Today, we're grappling with our futures again. It's deep stuff, but… well, you get the gist."
Aiden nodded, fully understanding the gravity of their shared circumstances. "And how about you? Any news on the scholarship?"
Clara drew in a steady breath, as if steeling herself for what she was about to reveal. "The announcement email just arrived this afternoon. I haven't dared to check it yet."
"What? Seriously? Why haven't you opened it?" Aiden responded, both surprised and intrigued.
"I promised Bima I'd reveal my results when he returned from the bathroom—together. So... after this video call is finished."
Aiden smiled faintly, genuinely admiring Clara's blend of bravery and camaraderie. "That's wise, you're incredibly courageous. No matter the outcome, reaching this point is an achievement to be proud of."
Clara's gaze lingered on the screen, her expression slightly hesitant as if on the brink of articulating something important but ultimately choosing to hold back. "You too, Den. I caught wind of some news from your campus; many seem to be discussing your project—the lecturer mentioned, 'there's an alumnus from Indonesia poised to revolutionize AI standards in the health sector.'" Clara conveyed the information with a tone that rang with pride and admiration.
Aiden scratched the back of his head, feeling a mix of embarrassment and pride swell within him. "That's quite an exaggeration. But… I'm glad to hear it; it does ease my mind somewhat."
Clara glanced toward the cafe's door, keenly observing her surroundings. "Oh, Bima's back! I'll keep you posted about the scholarship results later, okay? And you—don't stay up too late!"
"I'll hold out for your news, hoping it's all good," Aiden replied earnestly. "And… Clara?"
"Yes?" Clara answered softly.
"Whatever path you choose, be it the Netherlands or staying in Jakarta, know that you will always be... a fixed point on my map."
For a moment, there was a silence, a heavy pause before Clara broke it, smiling emotionally. "You too, Den. A point I will forever keep in my memory."
As the call ended, Aiden found himself lost in thought, staring at the now darkened screen of his phone before shifting his gaze back to the field that was slowly succumbing to the encroaching darkness of night. An elusive feeling lingered in the air—an amalgamation of warmth and a kind of melancholy that he found hard to articulate.
"You haven't the faintest clue, do you?" he mused to himself, reflecting on the evolving dynamics of Bima and Clara's relationship, which had recently felt intriguingly different. "Or are you merely pretending to be oblivious?" he pondered thoughtfully.
He nudged the ball gently, sending it into an easy bounce off the vacant billboard at the field's edge. Another question suddenly drifted into his mind, disrupting the fragile peace within his heart: "If I were to return to Jakarta one day, would… the three of us still share the same bond we once had?"
The night wore on, cloaked in darkness, leading Aiden back to his dorm room where he opened his laptop. There, he revisited the document titled "Personal Roadmap," and at the bottom of his structured plans for research projects and future conferences, he added several new points, recalling what he truly missed most:
- Summer: plan a short vacation to Jakarta.
- Play soccer with Bima once more, truly embrace the playmaker role.
- Meet Clara, daring to inquire: "Are you truly satisfied with the course you're on?"
He paused, momentarily ensnared in thought before he inscribed the last phrase, which carried a weight of honesty previously unspoken: "My real turning point may not lie in a grand conference, but rather on a small field in Jakarta—should I one day find the courage to ask the questions that have long remained unvoiced."
Outside, the snow began to fall more heavily, veiling the footprints he had left on the field. In Jakarta, perhaps at that very moment, Clara was steeling herself to open her scholarship email with Bima, preparing for a tremendous leap forward. Though miles apart, Aiden could sense an electrifying current humming in the air, a recognition of his absence during their pivotal moment. And thus, Aiden's narrative concluded at a mellow juncture: poised at the pinnacle of an ascending career, caught between the advancement of AI technology and his enduring passion for soccer, while grappling with the uncharted territory of friendship's evolving boundaries—secrets that, in time, would inevitably test the very foundations Aiden had long steadfastly relied upon, leaving indelible marks on his well-constructed world.