I arrived at campus just as the morning sun was spilling golden light over the ivy-covered walls of the architecture building. The air had that familiar mix of heat and humidity—a subtle reminder that Jakarta's weather never truly cooled down, even in the early hours. I paused for a moment at the base of the grand staircase outside Building C, inhaling deeply and letting the warm air slide down into my lungs. In that instant, I felt both exhilaration and unease.
My mind replayed the internship acceptance message I'd received last night. I could almost still feel the soft buzz of my phone in my hand, the glow of the screen with its carefully worded congratulations. Everafter Wedding Planning—an entire new world of design challenges. But also, a world entirely unrelated to the skyscrapers and public spaces I'd spent the last two years of my life perfecting. I reread the message one more time, mentally reciting Ms. Laras's phone number and the address of Everafter's office. Orientation would be Monday at nine. For now, though, I needed to focus on the lecture. Professor Hartono's classes had a way of drowning my other worries beneath a sea of structural equations and meticulous critiques.
I hefted my backpack, feeling the slight weight of my sketchbook and laptop digging into my shoulder. Sliding a hand into my pocket, I checked my watch. I had fifteen minutes before the lecture started. Perfect timing—just enough to grab a quick drink from the coffee cart outside, which I'd grown strangely fond of. I still craved that mid-morning jolt of caffeine, even though it sometimes left my heart pounding in protest.
"Agung! Wait up!"
I turned to see Raka speeding toward me, nearly tripping over a cluster of fallen leaves. He wore his usual grin—crooked, playful, like he'd stayed up half the night debating the best topping combinations for mie ayam. He'd always been the fuel to my methodical engine, which sometimes fizzled out without his electric energy.
"Morning, dude." I waved, offering a lopsided smile. The sunlight caught in his hair, highlighting streaks of auburn that he'd dyed last semester—his latest attempt to push the boundaries of both fashion and personal expression.
"Morning," he puffed, brushing hair away from his eyes. "Professor Hartono's going to drop some surprise today. Word is, he's offering an internship opportunity for our entire class." Raka's tone teetered between excitement and a challenge—like he couldn't wait to see if I'd sign up.
I raised an eyebrow. "Internship? He told us last week he was coordinating with banks for funded research, but I didn't hear anything about internships beyond the usual ones for construction firms. What's the catch?"
Raka shrugged nonchalantly. "That's all I know. But I heard it's something big—like, actually useful for design portfolios. Maybe a firm that builds low-cost housing? Or a sustainable materials lab?"
I grinned at the prospect. If it was indeed something related to sustainable community design, I'd be all in. But my mind flicked back to last night's message. "You don't know what it is," I said. "So how do you know it's relevant?"
Raka's grin only widened. "Raka-knowledge. Entirely unreliable but addictive. C'mon, I'm thirsty." He veered toward the coffee cart, and I followed, letting his confidence buoy my own.
The line at the cart was short—just two other students waiting for their drinks. The barista, an older woman with an apron dusted in espresso grounds, nodded to me as I approached. I leaned on the counter, feeling the morning heat already glistening at my hairline.
"I'll have an iced cappuccino, please," I said, and she nodded without needing to ask for my name. The iced cappuccino was my go-to—a perfect balance of milk and espresso, cold enough to quench my thirst but strong enough to keep my brain alert.
"Making extra strong today, for Nyoman?" the barista teased, pouring dark liquid over ice with practiced efficiency.
I gave a playful salute. "Something like that."
Raka watched me with a smirk, crossing his arms. "You know, I heard he's holding a mandatory meeting. Attendance is required. If you miss it, you're on your own for the semester. Something about this being part of our final requirement."
I cocked an eyebrow, sipping the iced cappuccino. Creamy, chilled, with the bitter bite of espresso hitting all the right notes. "Mandatory, huh? More reason to check it out." The caffeine woke me fully, buzzing under my skin like a swarm of tiny bees.
With our drinks in hand, we headed for the staircase. The staircase was flanked by potted plants—lucky bamboo and ferns, their leaves unfurling in the warm light. On either side were windows that looked out onto the courtyard below, where students lounged under benches and some practiced sketching trees and lamp posts for their urban design class.
We climbed the stairs two at a time, bounding up until we reached the door to Room 214. Already, a crowd was forming—first and second years clustered near the back, some making last-minute notes in their sketchbooks, others scrolling through phones. I slipped into my usual seat in the front row—third seat from the left—and set my backpack down. My laptop nestled against my leg, the iced cappuccino resting in its cup-holder. Raka flopped into the seat beside me.
"Looks packed," I commented, watching classmates funnel in.
Raka shrugged. "Hartono's reputation alone would do that. But now with a mystery announcement, everyone's extra-curious. Some are betting on overseas scholarships. I don't care about that—I just want some real-world design experience."
I nodded in agreement. Even without last night's message, this felt like a pivotal moment. For years, I'd immersed myself in theoretical models and sanctioned critiques, but I knew the real test would come when I had to apply my skills under real-world constraints—budgets, client preferences, city regulations.
As the clock neared 9:00 AM, the room quieted. I closed my laptop, tucking it into my backpack, and straightened in my seat. A few people in the back whispered excitedly, and I could feel a subtle energy humming through the students—electric, expectant.
Moments later, the door swung open, and in walked Professor Hartono. He held a stack of papers in his left hand, his right hand brushing the sleeve of his tweed jacket to straighten it. His dark hair, streaked with a few silver threads now, was immaculately combed back. He moved with a quiet authority that demanded attention. Whispers died instantly as he placed his papers on the podium and cleared his throat.
"Good morning," he said, voice low but carrying. He adjusted his glasses, scanning the room. "I trust you have all completed the assigned readings on load transfer matrices and continuum mechanics." He paused, letting the question hang in the air.
"Yes, Professor," came a chorus of voices, though a few students exchanged sheepish glances, clutching dog-eared photocopies of last night's notes.
Hartono nodded curtly. "Very well. We will begin with a brief discussion of the matrix transformations from Chapter 4. Then, at the end of this discussion, I will have an announcement regarding an internship opportunity available to our cohort. Attendance is mandatory. If you are not present, you forfeit the chance to participate."
I sat up straighter, surprised by the emphasis on "mandatory." An internship for the whole cohort? And announced during a lecture? This was clearly more than a routine opportunity. My pulse quickened as I flashed back to last night's message from Everafter. Could it be that? Or something else entirely?
The professor clicked his remote, and the projection screen lit up with a slide titled "Transformation Matrices in Structural Analysis." Bony frameworks of equations and diagrams scrolled by, and the lecture commenced. I let my pen dance across my notebook, jotting down each matrix equation and corresponding graph. But my mind drifted, dancing at the edges of the upcoming announcement.
I listened to Hartono's articulate explanations of diagonalization and how stiffness matrices could be manipulated for faster computational modeling. He demonstrated the process on the screen with crisp animation: pink and blue bars morphing into a canonical diagonal form. I scribbled notes, but part of me was scanning his face for hints—any subtle twitch of the corners of his mouth or a brief hesitation that might signal the nature of this internship. I found none. He seemed as composed as ever.
Thirty minutes passed in a blur of formulas and queries. A few students raised hands to ask detailed questions: what if the boundary conditions changed under dynamic loading? How to reconcile nonlinearity with the elasticity matrix? Hartono addressed each one with measured confidence, deferring some until the next class. Then, just as my pen hovered above a half-formed diagram, he raised his hand and said, "That will conclude our technical discussion for today. Before you leave, however, I have an announcement regarding an internship opportunity."
An audible gasp rippled through the room. Heads snapped up, eyes widening. Pens halted mid-scribble. The tension was palpable. Raka nudged me and whispered, "See? I told you. Now we see what it is."
I leaned forward, perched on the edge of my seat, sipping the last of my iced cappuccino. Hartono cleared his throat and extended a thin arm, revealing the stack of printed flyers on the podium.
"This internship is unlike any you have applied for before," he said, his gaze sweeping across the classroom. "You will not be working for a conventional construction firm or a large-scale architectural office. Instead, you have been offered the chance to intern at Everafter Wedding Planning."
A collective "What?!" echoed in unison. I felt my heart jump into my throat. The room's temperature seemed to spike, as though the air spontaneously ignited around us. Raka's eyes lit up with disbelief, and I realized I was grinning even before Professor Hartono had finished speaking.
"Everafter Wedding Planning," Hartono repeated, as though to emphasize that these words needed to be digested slowly. "They are a premier wedding coordination company—known for their elaborate designs, high-profile clients, and meticulous attention to both aesthetic and structural detail. They specialize in planning and executing large-scale weddings, including stage design, venue layouts, lighting, and all the supporting structures. They contacted me last month, seeking students from our department to contribute architectural and structural expertise to their upcoming projects. This internship will run for three months, starting next Monday. You are expected to spend two days a week at their offices, working under Chandra Rokayah, a senior coordinator who graduated from our program three years ago."
A murmur of awe rolled through the class. It wasn't every day that a wedding planning company specifically sought architecture students, and for those who knew of Chandra's reputation—her engineering precision and creative flair—this news was even more electrifying.
Hartono continued, "These internships are paid, and the experience will count toward your practicum requirement. If you choose to apply, you must fill out the form I will pass around, and return it by the end of the day. I will collect them personally. Note that the number of interns is limited. Submissions will be reviewed, and acceptance is not guaranteed. If you do not submit a form, you will not be considered. Is that clear?"
A chorus of "Yes, Professor" punctuated the air. I exhaled slowly, my brain scrambling to process everything. Everafter Wedding Planning. Chandra Rokayah. Three months. Paid internship. Worked under a senior. Limited slots. I could feel a surge of excitement roiling in my chest, with a twinge of nerves knotting in my stomach. My palms moistened around my pen.
Hartono tapped the podium again. "Now, quickly, the form." He began distributing stapled sheets down the row. Each sheet had lines for name, student ID, email, phone number, expected hours per week, and a brief section: "Describe in 250 words how your architectural training can contribute to wedding planning." The deadline: end of today.
I picked up my form and traced my finger over the blank lines. My mind whirled. Architecturally, wedding planning was an exercise in spatial design—but temporary. Could I write convincingly about how I could design load-bearing trusses for an open-air wedding pavilion? Or propose sustainable bamboo structures for an eco-themed ceremony? I glanced at Raka—his cheeks were flushed, and he was already scribbling down his student ID at the top of the page.
"Raka, is this really for you?" I whispered. He glanced at me, eyes shining.
"Have you seen Chandra's work? She's like this legend around here—architect turned wedding guru. If I could work under her, I'd learn how to combine engineering with event design." He tapped the paper. "Plus, it pays. I could finally afford that new graphics tablet I've been eyeing."
I nodded, heart fluttering. I, too, had visions of crafting ingenious structures—arches that could change color with adjustable LED panels, skeletal frames that doubled as supports for floral cascades. Suddenly, wedding planning didn't seem like frivolous party design; it felt like a challenge to fuse my architectural values—function, sustainability, beauty—into something ephemeral yet impactful.
The rest of the lecture ended in a blur as students scribbled hurried notes on matrix computations, but most everyone's attention was fixed on the internship form. A few friends exchanged ideas:
"Could we suggest sustainable bamboo lattices for seating arrangements?"
"Do you think they'd let me handle the landscaping design? I've been studying Japanese rock gardens."
"I heard the pay is actually decent—enough to cover rent for the semester."
When the bell rang fifteen minutes later, signaling that class was dismissed, the room erupted into excited chatter. I gathered my things and, alongside Raka, headed toward the back exit. Students trudged past, their hands clutching the internship forms like precious artifacts.
Once outside, the sun felt even hotter—its heat magnified by the narrow corridor of buildings. The midday air shimmered, and the sound of motorbikes weaved through distant traffic noise. Raka fanned himself with his form.
"I'm going for it," he declared, tucking his pen behind his ear. "What about you?"
I stared down at the blank lines where I would write my student ID and name. In the space for my explanation, words formed in my mind. I could mention my passion for designing community spaces and argue how wedding venues were an exercise in communal gathering. I could propose studying structural loads for temporary installations, optimizing both safety and aesthetics. I could even mention that my community library project had incorporated sustainable materials—local bamboo and rammed earth—and I believed those principles could translate to outdoor wedding structures.
I closed my eyes for a moment, picturing Chandra—a senior who, I had heard, demanded perfection. I remembered the way Hartono had said her name: precise, almost reverent. My chest tightened. A surge of determination blossomed. Yes, I wanted this.
"Count me in," I said at last. Raka high-fived me, and we headed to the vending machine near the main foyer for water. I leaned against the machine, turning over the form in my hands.
---
Back at my desk in the studio lab, I powered up my laptop. The rest of the afternoon's schedule was a design critique for our group project: a transit hub concept merging public flow and green spaces. But even as I logged into the CAD software, my mind kept drifting back to the internship. I minimized the transit hub file, opened a blank document, and began brainstorming bullet points:
Experience designing structural supports for temporary event spaces
Expertise in sustainable materials—bamboo, recycled steel—for eco-friendly weddings
Understanding of local building codes to ensure permits for outdoor venues
Ability to create 3D renderings to present design concepts to clients
Passion for combining functionality and aesthetics in communal gathering spaces
I paused, reading over the points. It read more like a resume than a heartfelt explanation. I needed something that conveyed both technical skill and genuine enthusiasm.
I closed my eyes and pictured that moment in the lecture hall when Professor Hartono had announced my name among the interns. I imagined Chandra greeting me in her crisp blazer, her eyes assessing my portfolio with cool intellect. I felt the flutter of anticipation in my chest—like opening night of an exhibition. This was my chance to push boundaries.
I retyped the introduction:
> "My name is Agung Rokhman, a third-year architecture student at Universitas Jakarta. Since childhood, I have been fascinated by how built environments shape human experience—how a well-designed library can inspire quiet reflection, how an open-air pavilion can unite a community under one shared purpose. Now, I wish to extend this fascination into the world of event design, specifically wedding planning, by interning at Everafter Wedding Planning. I believe my architectural training can bring innovative, sustainable approaches to designing temporary structures—everlasting in memory, if fleeting in presence."
I let that sit for a moment, rereading it. It felt warm, earnest—more than a dry list of skills. I continued:
> "During my coursework, I have specialized in sustainable design, incorporating local materials such as bamboo and recycled steel to reduce environmental impact. In my most recent project—a community library—the structural canopy was crafted from laminated bamboo, supported by steel trusses designed to withstand seismic activity. I believe these same principles can translate to designing wedding pavilions and ceremony arches that are both beautiful and eco-friendly.
Additionally, my proficiency in 3D modeling and rendering allows me to create detailed visualizations, helping clients and colleagues understand spatial flow and lighting effects before installation. I am adept at applying theoretical knowledge of load distribution and dynamic forces to real-world scenarios, ensuring both aesthetic vision and structural integrity are balanced.
Ultimately, I view wedding planning as an extension of architectural storytelling—crafting a space that embodies a couple's values, cultural traditions, and desired atmosphere. I am eager to learn from Chandra Rokayah and the Everafter team, contributing my technical strengths while gaining practical insights into event logistics, vendor coordination, and client presentation. I am confident that this internship will sharpen my design skills and expand my understanding of how architecture can shape human celebration."
I sat back, exhaling. It felt honest, passionate, and grounded in my background. Perfect. I saved the file as "Internship_Application_Agung_Rokhman.docx" and printed a copy on crisp white paper. The stack of sheets, warm from the printer, sent a slight electric charge through my fingers.
Raka nudged me, eyes bright. "Done already? You're a machine."
I retorted with a mock glare. "Not a machine—just hungry for experience." I tucked the printed form into a folder, along with copies of my portfolio highlights and transcript. In my mind, I pictured the moment I would submit it to Hartono: handing him the folder and reciting my name, heart pounding in response to his cool appraisal.
---
Later that afternoon, I met Raka again outside the architecture building. The sun had softened to a mellow glow, and a gentle breeze drifted through the courtyard. Students milled around—some practicing clay models under shade, others sprawled on benches, sketching. I spotted Raka leaning against a column, scrolling through his phone.
"Done?" he asked, barely looking up.
"Done," I answered, pulling my folder from my backpack. "Printed and ready." My pulse skipped a beat as I held the folder. Turning it over, I noted the clean, professional printout of my application form on top. Below it lay a few pages of my portfolio—sketches of libraries, renderings of pedestrian bridges, photographs of my previous projects.
Raka smirked. "That's going to blow their minds."
I laughed, trying to quell the butterflies in my stomach. "Let's go find Professor Hartono. Last place I saw him was near the glass display of student models."
We navigated through the corridor of open studios, each bursting with creativity. To my left, a group of second-year students tested cardboard models of disaster relief shelters. To my right, a third-year group debated color palettes for a cultural center facade. Every corner of this building pulsed with energy. It felt like the beating heart of my aspirations.
Near the display case—where models of towers, community centers, and art galleries vied for attention—stood Professor Hartono, inspecting a sleek reconstruction of a hyperloop station. He lifted his glasses and peered at a cross-section of the model, nodding imperceptibly. A young woman—one of his research assistants—stood by, holding a clipboard.
Raka and I approached quietly until I finally cleared my throat. "Professor Hartono."
He turned, setting his gaze on me. His expression was unreadable, as though he were a panel of inscrutable stone. He adjusted his glasses and offered a curt nod.
"Agung Rokhman," I introduced myself, forcing my voice steady. "I'm here to submit my application for the Everafter internship."
He gestured to the small table behind him, where a neat stack of manila envelopes already sat—presumably the first few applications. I slid my folder across the table with as steady a hand as I could manage. Raka placed his own folder beside mine. Professor Hartono glanced at my name on the top of the folder, then flicked through my documents with swift, practiced fingers: my application form, portfolio pages, transcript, and a neatly handwritten letter of recommendation from my studio instructor.
I held my breath. The silence lengthened, stretching like taffy. Finally, Professor Hartono closed the folder and looked up. For a moment, his dark eyes locked onto mine, and I wondered if he could see the rapid flutter of my heart.
"Thank you," he said quietly. "I will review these along with the others this afternoon. You may return to your regular schedule."
"Thank you, Professor," I replied, bowing my head slightly in respect—an almost automatic gesture I'd picked up from years of observing my older cousin navigate academic formalities. Raka shot me a triumphant grin, as though I'd just cleared the final hurdle in a relay race.
Professor Hartono nodded again, returning his attention to the hyperloop model. I exhaled a shaky breath, the tension easing from my shoulders. Raka punched me lightly on the arm, and we turned toward the exit.
"Dude, you should've seen your face," he teased. "Like you were about to faint."
I shoved him playfully. "Quit it. I'm just… anxious. You know? Doesn't matter how confident I am—handing over an application to someone like Hartono is nerve-wracking."
Raka slapped the side of my knee. "Exactly. And that's why you'll stand out. Confidence under pressure. Now, let's celebrate this moment—lunch at our usual spot?"
I smiled. "Sounds good." In my backpack, I felt the slight weight of my folder—a tangible reminder that I had taken a significant step. The day had begun with structural matrices and ended with the submission of my future.
---
The afternoon passed in a haze of lectures and studio critiques. I found it hard to concentrate on the transit hub project when I kept glancing at the clock, as though willing time to fast-forward so I could find out if I'd been accepted. By the time the final bell rang at 4:30 PM, I was exhausted—both from academic exertion and the undercurrent of anticipation that had bubbled in my chest all day.
I packed up my sketchbook, laptop, and the remains of my lunch—just a few bites of fried rice and some wilted greens. Outside, the sun had dipped lower, casting a warm amber glow across the courtyard. I spotted Raka near the bike racks, tinkering with his bicycle chain. He looked up as I approached.
"Lunch?" he asked, and I nodded.
We headed toward the little warung nasi padang by the roadside—the one that served steaming plates of rice topped with curried chicken, tofu rendang, and spicy sambal. The scent of turmeric and coconut milk drifted out, making my stomach rumble. We found our usual table—two plastic stools tucked under a flimsy umbrella contraption—and settled in as the evening breeze picked up, rustling the leaves overhead.
Our conversation drifted from trivial gossip about the latest K-pop group scandal to more pressing matters—the internship, of course. Raka plopped a spoonful of rendang into his mouth and sighed.
"Man, I hope I get in," he said through a mouthful, his eyes narrowing with determination. "Working under Chandra Rokayah would be insane experience. I hear she's all precision and no-nonsense. Perfect for a control freak like me."
I laughed, spooning rice mixed with curried chicken into my mouth. The flavors hit my tongue like a carnival—spicy, savory, with just a hint of sweetness from the coconut milk. "Just don't boss everyone around, okay? Last thing Chandra needs is another control freak."
Raka snorted. "I'll try to rein it in. What about you? Are you expecting to get in easy? You've got the technical side down. They'll love your structural insight."
I shrugged, though my heart stuttered. "I hope so. I think I've got enough experience with sustainable materials and 3D modeling to contribute something unique. But Chandra's reputation—she's practically legendary. I'm more nervous about proving myself than anything else."
Raka cocked his head. "Then you'll be perfect. You work best under pressure. Nine times out of ten, you'll blow everyone's minds when they least expect it."
I smiled, letting his confidence seep into me. The sun sank lower, turning the sky a molten orange. Motorbikes whizzed past, their headlights flickering on like fireflies emerging for the evening. I scooped a final bite of rice into my mouth, savoring the moment—the setting sun, the spicy warmth of the warung's offerings, Raka's infectious optimism.
Only a few days remained until Monday. I would hear back from Professor Hartono by then—or maybe sooner. Either way, I felt a new current swirling through my life. What began as a normal morning, immersed in matrices and library designs, had become something entirely different: a chance to step into a world of wedding pavilions, floral arches, and high-stakes client expectations. It felt like standing at the edge of a bridge, about to leap into unknown waters.
As I finished my meal, I realized I was smiling broadly, chest warmed by anticipation. This was more than just an academic detour. It felt like destiny—an invitation to stretch beyond the familiar blueprints of libraries and transit hubs, toward a thrilling design frontier where every structure celebrated love, culture, and personal stories.
I wiped my mouth with a napkin, sliding off my stool. "Ready to head back?" I asked Raka. He nodded, hoisted his bicycle onto his shoulder, and we headed toward campus once more.
In the fading light, the architecture building's steel and glass facade shimmered, as though applauding our ambitions. I touched my backpack strap, feeling its steady weight, and let my mind drift toward Monday—the first day of something new, something unpredictable. My heartbeat quickened with excitement and a hint of trepidation. Yet deep down, I knew this was where I needed to be: poised between the known and the unknown, ready to build something extraordinary—one wedding arch, one load-bearing truss, one dream at a time.
And with that, I walked on, toward a future that shone as brightly as the evening sky.