That meeting in the canteen changed something within me. The dusks that followed felt different; the silence that was once peaceful now held an anticipation. I found myself glancing toward the corridor whenever footsteps approached, and my sketchbook was more often filled with quick sketches of a girl with a ponytail than the empty basketball court.
Keyla Luvena became a presence that filled my thoughts. I started observing her more often during school hours—not with a creepy, stalking gaze, but with the curiosity of an artist who had just discovered the most fascinating subject in the world. I saw her in the library, sitting alone among the history shelves, so engrossed in her reading that she didn't notice the whispers of awe and envy from other students passing by. I saw her politely decline invitations from some of the most popular girls in school to join their table during break, preferring instead to eat her packed lunch on a garden bench while reading a book.
She was like an isolated island in a bustling ocean. Everyone could see her, but no one truly knew how to dock on her shores.
A few days after our first encounter, I dared to enter her domain: the library. Usually, I'd just borrow a book and leave, but that day I deliberately found an empty table in a corner that gave me a clear view of where Keyla usually sat. I opened my sketchbook, pretending to be busy with the shading of a banyan tree.
Sure enough, she arrived shortly after. Her steps were light, almost silent on the cold marble floor. She placed a stack of books on her table, and on top, lay her old companion: Plato's Republic.
For almost an hour, we occupied the same space in comfortable silence, accompanied only by the rustle of turning pages and the hum of the air conditioner. I stole glances occasionally, observing how her brows would furrow slightly in concentration, or how she unconsciously tapped her fingers against the book's cover when deep in thought.
Finally, the bell signaling the end of the break rang. I watched Keyla sigh, closing her book with a hint of reluctance. It was then that our eyes met. She gave me the same small smile as in the canteen, an acknowledgment that she was aware of my presence.
My heart pounded. I took it as a sign. As I tidied my books, I walked over to her table.
"Still wrestling with the ideal state?" I asked, my voice sounding more confident than I expected.
She chuckled softly, a clear sound like wind chimes. "More like, wrestling with why such a noble idea can feel so incredibly complicated. My father was right, this book gives me a headache."
"Maybe because your father wants you to think, not just accept," I said. "Rich people usually want their children to think about how to maintain wealth. Perhaps your father wants you to think about how to create something more than that."
Keyla stopped tidying her books. She looked at me, and this time her gaze was deeper, more scrutinizing. "That's... a very sharp observation, Yesaya."
"Just a guess," I deflected, though I knew it was more than just a guess. I saw her father on the news occasionally. He didn't just talk about profits and shares, but also about philanthropy, about legacy, about responsibility.
"Not many people see it that way," Keyla said softly. "They only see tall buildings and expensive cars." She paused, as if weighing her words. "My father says, wealth is a burden if you don't know how to use it for good. That's why he told me to read this. So I don't just become an heir, but a guardian."
I was stunned. Before me was no longer just a humble rich girl. Before me was someone who, since her teenage years, had been prepared to bear a responsibility I couldn't even imagine. Plato in her hands wasn't just a school assignment or an intellectual display; it was a map to her destiny.
"That's... a heavy burden," was all I could say.
"It is," she agreed. "Sometimes, I just want to be like everyone else. Worry about physics exams or a dress for the farewell party." There was a wistful note in her voice, a fleeting vulnerability that cracked the mysterious fortress around her.
"You're allowed to be that way too," I said gently. "Reading Plato doesn't mean you can't get a headache from physics formulas."
Her smile returned, this time a little wider. Her dimples were more pronounced. "Thank you, Yasa. You always know what to say."
She called me "Yasa." Not "Yesaya." A small familiarity that felt like a huge gift.
We walked out of the library together, down the corridor that was starting to get crowded with students changing classes. We didn't talk much, but the silence between us was no longer awkward. It felt like we had shared a secret, an understanding that no one else possessed.
When we reached the corridor intersection, our steps slowed. I knew this was the invisible boundary between our worlds. From here, I would turn left towards my class, XII Science 2, while she would walk straight towards her class in a different wing.
"I'm... glad we talked again," she said.
"Me too," I replied. "Sometime, when you've figured out how to build the ideal state, let me know. Maybe I can be its court artist."
She laughed again, and this time I joined in. For a moment, we were just two teenagers joking in a school corridor. Not the rich girl and the simple guy. Not the philosopher and the observer. Just Yasa and Keyla.
She waved before turning. I watched her walk away, her back straight, her steps steady, carrying the weight of her world with remarkable grace. As she disappeared around the corridor's bend, I remained standing there for a moment.
I thought about my humble home in a narrow alley, with its fading wall paint and an occasional leaky roof. I thought about my father, a contract teacher, and my mother who ran a small grocery store. Our world was made of daily struggles and small hopes.
Keyla's world was made of Plato, responsibility, and billions of rupiah in inheritance.
Yet, somehow, in this school corridor, those two worlds felt like they could meet. And for the first time, I didn't feel intimidated by the distance between them. Instead, I felt challenged. Challenged to prove that even an artist from a narrow alley could understand the language of a girl who reads Plato.