The morning sky was too clean. A blue nearly without flaw, like the face of someone skilled at hiding their cracks.
Study tours always carried the illusion of freedom. Buses lined up in the school yard, laughter and music blending with teachers' half-ignored instructions. Teenagers felt the world was no larger than a one-day trip.
Kafka stood at the edge of the crowd. He had never felt suited to the center of attention. Since childhood, he had been used to being the background, not the main character.
"Elara's looking for you."
The voice was steady, light, almost friendly.
Arga.
He stood with a straight posture and a smile that always convinced people everything was fine. A smile he had practiced for a long time.
Kafka gave a small nod. "Where is she?"
"The library."
Arga patted Kafka's shoulder. Warm. Natural. Flawless.
Yet behind that smile, something had changed. And only Arga knew when that change had begun.
The library that morning was filled with soft light. Tiny specks of dust floated like memories unwilling to settle. Elara stood between the history shelves. When she saw Kafka, her face brightened slightly.
"You always come here before going somewhere far," she said softly.
"Habit," Kafka replied.
"A habit since the orphanage."
That word carried them years back. Three orphans in an old building that creaked at night. Three children who learned to survive in different ways.
Arga always stood in front when someone tried to cause trouble. Kafka quietly helped anyone who was struggling. Elara… became the reason the two of them kept smiling.
"You're still the same," Elara said.
"In what way?"
"You never change. Even as a kid, you were like this. Quiet, but always the first to move when someone was hurt."
Kafka fell silent.
"I also know, you know… about how you used to stay hungry when I was sick, so you could use your allowance to pay for my medicine, right?"
Kafka lowered his head again, silent.
There was something more he wanted to say. But he held it back. Because certain feelings feel too fragile to be released in a quiet space like this. The bell rang in the distance.
"The bell's ringing," she said lightly. "Let's go before Arga gets naggy."
Kafka nodded. They walked out together, unaware that for a long time someone had been standing between them, even if never truly seen.
A few weeks earlier. The school rooftop was wrapped in a slow, fading sunset. Elara stood beside Arga. The wind moved her hair, and the sun framed their silhouettes in golden light.
"I want to be honest with you," she said.
Arga already knew where the conversation was heading even before his name was spoken. Yet he still turned with a nearly perfect smile.
"Kafka," Elara said softly. "I like him."
The sentence was like a thin needle sliding into Arga's chest without a sound. He showed nothing. No change in his expression. Because since childhood, Arga had learned one thing: Pain did not need to be shown.
"Has it been long?" he asked gently.
"Yes."
The answer was simple. Honest. And enough to plant something dark inside him.
Arga loved Elara. Since the orphanage. Since the nights they slept squeezed together on a thin mattress. Since he silently promised that one day he would make the world safe enough for her.
But Elara chose Kafka. Not because of strength. Not because of protection. But because of quiet kindness. From that day on, Arga smiled as usual. And from that day on, a small hatred began to grow.
Not toward Elara. But toward Kafka.
Among the noise of school, there was one name rarely spoken loudly.
Nadia Pramesti.
She was not the smartest student. Not the prettiest. Not the most popular. Her body was fuller than most of her classmates. Her cheeks were round, her eyes large and honest, yet never considered captivating. She was used to being in the background of group photos, smiling politely, standing in the second or third row.
She lived with her mother, who worked until late at night, and a younger sibling she often took care of alone. Since middle school, Nadia learned one thing: do not expect too much attention from people. But feelings never ask permission to grow.
She began noticing Kafka in her first year. Not because he was handsome. Not because he was strong. But because he was different.
One rainy afternoon, when everyone ran to avoid puddles, Nadia saw Kafka kneeling near the drainage ditch behind the cafeteria. A kitten was trapped inside, its body trembling from the cold. Kafka took off his shoes.
Without hesitation. He stepped down, letting his uniform get wet and dirty. He carefully lifted the kitten and wrapped it in his own jacket.
No one praised him. No one recorded it.
He did it as if it were ordinary. And perhaps for Kafka, it was. From that day on, Nadia began to see more. Kafka helping the janitor carry boxes without being asked. Kafka enduring mockery without fighting back. Kafka lowering his head, yet never losing the softness in his eyes.
Nadia fell in love slowly.
Quietly.
Without courage. She knew she would never become the center of Kafka's attention. She knew there was another light shining brighter around him.
Elara.
She saw the way Elara looked at Kafka. The way her smile softened when she spoke to him. And Nadia knew. She did not possess that kind of light. She only had feelings she kept to herself, tight, deep, never spoken. Because some loves are destined to live in silence. And perhaps she would have remained silent… if only she had not seen something she was never meant to see.
The sports storage room was silent in the afternoon.
Satrio fell to the floor. Adam panted. Ilham stood trembling.
Arga stood in front of them, expressionless.
"You failed."
Adam tried to defend himself. "We almost—"
BAM!
"Almost what?" Arga's voice remained flat.
"You almost broke him?"
No. What made him angry was not their failure to hurt Kafka.
What made him angry was one thing. "You almost touched Elara."
The atmosphere froze.
Adam swallowed. "She interfered—"
BAM! BAM! BAM!
A hard punch struck his face. Arga did not shout. He did not need to.
"Never," he said quietly, "go near her again."
Satrio tried to get up. "But weren't you the one who told us—"
BAM!
The second punch cut him off. Yes. Arga had directed them to pressure Kafka. To make him small. To make him unworthy of standing beside her. But Elara was not part of that game. Elara was his. At least in his mind.
"I don't like failure," he said.
And more than that, he did not like losing.
Behind the slightly open door, Nadia witnessed everything. She saw the side of Arga he never showed anyone. The smile was only a mask. And the mask cracked under the dim light of the storage room.
Arga's gaze briefly shifted toward the door. He knew someone was watching. But he did not care. Some secrets grow stronger when left to live inside fear.
The study tour bus moved away from the school. Laughter filled the air. Songs played too loudly. Phone cameras captured simple-looking happiness.
Kafka sat by the window.
Elara in the seat ahead, occasionally glancing back.
Nadia silent, her thoughts crowded with what she had seen.
Arga stood, helping the teacher hand out drinks.
His smile was whole again. No one would suspect that the hand holding the water bottle had struck someone's face without hesitation.
The ancient ruins stood in the hills like the remains of a primordial creature. Huge stones towered, their carvings nearly erased by time. The teacher began explaining their history. But when Kafka's foot stepped past the stone gate.
something changed.
Not the light.
Not the color.
But the pressure.
The wind stopped. The birds fell silent. The sky remained blue… yet felt too vast.
Kafka looked up. There was a strange sensation, like a whisper that used no sound.
Elara held her chest softly.
Nadia felt a chill crawl along her neck.
Arga stood frozen. For the first time that day, his smile disappeared completely. Inside his chest, something trembled. Not fear. But… recognition. As if the sky was looking at him.
Not at Kafka.
Not at Elara.
But at him.
And far above, behind the overly deep blue sky, a consciousness slowly opened its eyes.
The sky felt unusual. As if the world had just chosen who would become its center.
~TO BE CONTINUED ~