The rain came slowly that afternoon.
Not heavy, not a lazy drizzle either—but the kind of rain that seemed to understand that the world didn't always have to be loud to mean something.
Andini sat in the corner of the library, at a table facing a foggy window. Books lay open before her, but her eyes followed the trails of water sliding down the glass.
There was peace she was trying to find there—or maybe just an escape from the campus noise that grew louder, more indifferent each day.
Then, that sound returned. The familiar wheels.
"Mind if I sit here?"
Fani. Gray jacket, book on her lap, eyes full of hesitation.
Not because she felt unworthy, but because she knew too well how often people welcomed your presence without truly wanting you there.
Andini turned her head. She didn't smile, but moved her books to the side.
"Sure. Go ahead."
That was enough. Enough to brighten the sky within Fani, just a little. Minutes passed. No conversation. Only the soft sound of pages turning and the slow ticking of time. Yet for the first time, the silence didn't feel cold.
"You like classic literature?" Fani asked softly, pointing at Salah Asuhan on the table.
Andini nodded. "I do. Sometimes it's more honest than people."
Fani let out a small laugh, quiet but warm. "Yeah… sometimes the words in books understand us better than our own friends."
And just like that, two girls, both a little lonely, began to share presence.
***
Days passed slowly after that, but something had changed.
Between the lectures, the indifferent professors, and the shallow laughs echoing through the halls—there was one corner that began to feel warm: the table at the edge of the library.
They didn't always arrive together, but somehow always ended up in the same place. As if the universe had grown tired of seeing them alone.
Andini was still quiet, but her eyes no longer held the same distance.
Fani still sat in her wheelchair, but her heart dared to laugh—just a little louder.
Sometimes, they became the center of whispers. Passing glances, subtle murmurs.
But in between judgment and stares, they kept sitting, opening books, and creating space in each other's lives.
One afternoon, after a painfully dull literature class, Andini waited by the elevator.
She usually left without a word, but today felt different.
She stood beneath the flickering corridor light, waiting for the sound of wheels.
"Didn't expect you to wait," Fani teased gently.
Andini shrugged. "Got tired of being alone."
Fani chuckled softly. "Finally, you get it."
The elevator arrived. They stepped inside. No small talk. But the silence didn't feel awkward.
In the mirror reflection of the elevator door, their faces sat side by side. Two young women—each with a quiet world now learning to listen to another.
Andini stared ahead, then asked quietly, "Do you ever… get angry at everything?"
Fani paused. "Often."
Then smiled. "But if you stay angry forever, you get tired. It's easier turning pain into stories."
Andini turned to her. For the first time, a thin smile touched her lips.
"You might just become a good writer."
The elevator opened.
The soft light of dusk greeted them like a gentle hug from the sky. The world outside remained the same—crowded, cold, sometimes cruel. But between words and silence, they were beginning to build something unseen.
Something that, perhaps one day, they would call home.
***
Saturday came without much fanfare. The sky was clear, but not exactly kind.
On a quiet campus, Andini stood at a small bus stop behind the garden. She looked at her watch, then around.
Silence.
Until the sound of wheels returned— like an unspoken promise, always kept.
"Sorry, took a while. Had trouble finding a ride," Fani said, slightly breathless.
Andini nodded, then opened the door to the ride-share that had just arrived.
No words were needed— their smiles said enough.
Their destination wasn't a mall, nor a café, but Fani's home.
Down a narrow alley filled with children's laughter and the smell of fried snacks, stood a small house with a garden of potted plants. Not large, but filled with stories.
"Sorry it's a bit messy," Fani muttered as she wheeled herself in.
"Mom's at the market, so… this is it."
Andini looked around. Old photographs lined the walls, books stacked in corners.
The scent of aging wood and paper mixed with a kind of silence that somehow felt alive.
"This is… a living house," she murmured.
Fani smiled. "Small house, full of words. Campus is big, but it often feels empty."
Andini sat on the floor, leaning against an old sofa. Beside her, Fani opened a book on her lap.
"Wanna read together?"
Andini nodded. There was no reason to say no.
Because sometimes, what we seek is not a grand place, but a quiet space that makes us feel less alone.
Fani shuffled through a pile, then handed Andini a thick, worn book.
"Found this at a flea market. It's full of poems. But this one… it stayed with me."
Andini opened to the marked page. A small handwritten note lined the margin:
"I don't write to be heard. I write to remember how it felt to feel."
She looked at Fani. "You wrote this?"
Fani gave a shy smile. "Sometimes it's easier writing for myself than talking to others."
And in that little house, two girls who once only exchanged glances began to discover a new language—the language of presence.
As the sky grew dimmer,
Fani asked, "Why are you always alone?"
Andini was quiet, then replied, "I got close to someone once… but when they saw I wasn't what they hoped, they left."
Fani said nothing. She simply reached out, her hand gently touching Andini's. "I know how that feels."
Silence.
But not the kind that suffocates— the kind that accepts.
***
The next morning, the sun rose reluctantly. The sky was grey, and the campus buzzed with its usual noise.
But for those without a place, it always felt empty.
Andini and Fani sat side by side in class. There was a group presentation, and as always, Fani's name was missing from everyone's list.
"Fani can join our group, right, Din?" Rina chimed, too cheerfully.
But her tone was a trap, not an invitation.
Andini glanced at Fani. Hesitation.
She knew.
They didn't want her help—they wanted to laugh when she stumbled.
"No need, Rin. We already made our groups yesterday," Andini said calmly.
Rina smiled with a bite. "Oh, right. You're Fani's bodyguard now, huh?"
Laughter—quiet enough to excuse, but loud enough to hurt.
Fani looked down, fingers trembling on the rim of her wheels. Inside, words begged to be spoken.
But she stayed silent—she had learned her voice rarely mattered.
Andini took a deep breath. Her voice wasn't loud, but it carried steel.
"If your joke doesn't make anyone laugh, maybe it's not a joke. Maybe it's just cruel."
The room fell silent. Rina forced a smile, then looked down at her laptop.
No one said anything else.
Fani didn't speak, but her eyes shimmered—tears wiped before they fell.
In her silence, she knew: sometimes protection isn't about standing in front, but standing beside.
***
That afternoon, they sat on the back stairs of the literature building, where no one else ever went.
The sky was tinged orange, birds echoing somewhere in the distance.
"I didn't expect you to say that," Fani whispered.
Andini gazed at the sky. "Neither did I. But… enough is enough, right?"
Fani chuckled softly. "You were kind of cool."
Andini shrugged. "Nothing special."
Fani looked at her, then said,
"Not everyone can be quiet and still listen. But you… you do."
Andini turned to meet her eyes. And for the first time, they laughed—together.
A soft, honest laugh, free of masks.
In a campus that often felt unfamiliar, they found a space. Not a big one,
but wide enough to be real.
And slowly, like unhurried rain, they became one.
As they parted ways, Fani turned back with a quiet smile.
"Thank you, Din. Not for standing up for me. But for never seeing me as a burden."
Andini answered with just one sentence, quiet, but full.
"We're friends, Fan. Friends don't need a reason."
That day, beneath an orange sky and the worn-out stairs of their campus, two once-strangers began to believe that maybe, just maybe—they weren't as alone as they thought.