Since that conversation in the library, the air between us had shifted. Keyla's presence at school no longer felt like watching a shooting star—beautiful, distant, and unattainable. Now, she felt more like the morning sun; her presence real, warm, and somehow, I felt I had the right to bask in its glow.
We began exchanging greetings that were more than just nods in the corridor. Sometimes, we'd meet in the canteen during quiet hours and share a comfortable silence, each accompanied by our own books. She would ask about my sketches, and I would ask about Plato. We were building a small bridge between our isolated islands, a thread woven from genuine curiosity and understanding.
One day, the rain poured without warning, just as the school bell rang for dismissal. Yogyakarta's usually friendly sky suddenly turned gray and gloomy, unleashing a deluge that sent students scrambling for cover. I, who never bothered to carry an umbrella, could only stand under the front awning, gazing helplessly at the heavy curtain of water. My house wasn't too far, but braving such heavy rain was akin to diving into a pool.
"Waiting for it to stop?"
Keyla's voice came from beside me. She stood there, also watching the rain, her backpack neatly slung over her shoulder.
"Looks like it," I replied with a smile. "The other option is to go home soaked and catch a cold tomorrow."
"November rain is indeed unpredictable," she murmured, more to herself.
We stood in silence for several minutes, part of the crowd of other students also trapped. Their excited chatter mixed with the roar of the rain hitting the roof. I watched how the raindrops bounced off the asphalt, creating thousands of tiny circles that broke and merged again.
Suddenly, a gleaming black sedan, one I recognized instantly, pulled up slowly in front of the lobby, its headlights piercing the dense rain. The back door opened, and a neatly dressed man held a large black umbrella.
"I have to go," Keyla said. A hint of reluctance showed in her eyes.
"Of course," I replied. "Be careful."
She nodded, but didn't move immediately. She looked at me, then at the rain, then back at me. A flicker of hesitation crossed her clear eyes.
"Your house... which way?" she asked softly.
I paused for a moment, surprised by the question. "Prawirotaman Street," I answered. "Down a small alley near there."
"That's not too far from my house," she said, a decision seemingly forming on her face. "Want a... ride?"
The offer hung in the air, amidst the roar of the rain and the curious glances of a few students nearby. Part of me wanted to refuse, a reflex of pride and an acute awareness of our stark differences. Letting her drive me felt like admitting I needed help from her world.
But another part of me—the part that had felt challenged since that day in the corridor—said something different. This wasn't about help. This was about an opportunity. An opportunity to cross the small bridge we had built.
"Would it be too much trouble?" I asked, trying to keep my tone casual.
Keyla smiled with relief. "Not at all. Come on."
I followed her under the shelter of the black umbrella held by her driver. When the car door closed, all the outside noise seemed to vanish, swallowed by silence. The car's interior felt like a different world. The soft scent of leather and luxurious air freshener filled my senses. The dashboard was futuristic, with softly glowing digital screens. Everything felt clean, orderly, and quiet. Such a contrast to the public minivan I usually took, which always smelled of cigarette smoke and was noisy with dangdut music.
"Thank you," I said sincerely as the car began to glide smoothly through the rain.
"No big deal," she replied, placing her bag beside her. "Consider it a repayment for listening to my complaints about Plato."
I laughed. "Anytime."
We drove in comfortable silence for a while. I looked out the window, watching the wet streets of Yogyakarta. Inside here, the rain was just a beautiful sight. Out there, the rain was a hardship.
"So, this is your world," I said without thinking.
Keyla turned her head. "What do you mean?"
"This," I gestured vaguely around me. "This car. Quiet, comfortable. Different from my world."
I worried my words sounded like a jab, but Keyla responded in an unexpected way. She sighed, her gaze softening.
"Sometimes, this quietness feels like loneliness," she said softly. "It's the same at my house. Big, silent. Everyone's busy in their own rooms. Sometimes I envy the homes I hear about from my friends' stories. Homes that are always bustling, where the kitchen never stops smelling of a mother's cooking."
I looked at her, surprised. The girl who lived in a palace apparently dreamed of a warm home.
"My house is like that," I said. "Never truly quiet. There's always the sound of the TV from the living room, or my mother chatting with customers at the small shop out front. Sometimes it's noisy, but... warm."
"See?" she said with a small smile. "We always want what we don't have."
The car turned onto the main road leading to Prawirotaman. "Up ahead, turn left," I told the driver in front. "Then just stop at the mouth of the alley."
As the car slowed in front of a narrow alley, just wide enough for motorcycles, the difference in our worlds was laid bare. The luxurious European sedan looked so out of place among the simple house walls and the noodle cart taking shelter. A few small children playing in the puddles at the edge of the alley stopped and stared at our car with wide eyes.
"Thank you so much, Keyla," I said, preparing to open the door.
"You're welcome, Yasa."
Before I got out, she said again, "I like your story about your warm home."
I smiled. "Sometime, I'll tell you more."
I stepped out of the car's quiet embrace and back into the bustle of my world. The rain had eased a bit. I waved at Keyla before she disappeared behind the tinted car window. The car then carefully turned around and drove away, leaving behind puddles and the curious stares of my neighbors.
As I walked down the alley towards home, I thought about our conversation. About her quiet home and my warm home. About Plato and about my mother's small grocery shop.
The distance between our worlds was indeed real, as wide as the highway separating her luxurious sedan from my narrow alley. But today, for the first time, I felt that the small bridge we were building might be strong enough to cross that distance. And the challenge of understanding her, of grasping the language of a girl who reads Plato, now felt more like an invitation. An invitation to see the world from a different window.