That morning, the lecturers' office felt colder than usual, even though the sun was already high outside the window.
Andini sat at one of the desks, facing two faculty advisors assigned to oversee student programs.
In her hands, a folder holding a proposal titled Student Forum for Anti-Bullying Awareness and Safe Spaces for Expression. Her fingers clutched the edges tightly, as if it were the only thing keeping her grounded.
"Your idea is... rather ambitious," one of the lecturers said, flipping through the pages. "But are you sure it's necessary? This campus is relatively peaceful. We don't have many cases of overt bullying."
Andini swallowed hard. She looked him straight in the eye, trying to keep her voice steady.
"That's exactly the problem, sir. It's not out in the open. People stay quiet. Not all wounds are visible."
The second lecturer sighed softly, exchanging a glance with his colleague. "Do you have concrete data? Proof? Testimonies we can verify?"
Andini paused. She didn't want to drag Fani's name into this directly. But without voices like hers, the system would never budge.
"I have a few," she said at last. "But most want to stay anonymous. They're scared."
"Scared?" the first lecturer raised an eyebrow. "Scared of whom?"
Andini didn't answer. Because the answer was right in front of her—those who were supposed to protect, now asking for evidence instead of showing empathy.
***
The days that followed grew heavy. A quiet pressure began to build around her.
Some lecturers stopped greeting her with warmth. Classmates started avoiding her. Whispers floated—calling her dramatic, attention-seeking, just trying to make noise with her proposal.
Fani barely came to campus anymore. Her replies to Andini's messages were short—sometimes a single word, sometimes just an emoji. But Andini knew. Behind every curt response, something was falling apart.
That afternoon, Andini found herself again in the small garden behind their faculty building—a place they used to frequent, just to sit in silence.
Fani was there, sitting with her knees hugged to her chest. No jacket, no book. Her hair messy, dark rings beneath her eyes.
"I can't take this anymore, Din," she said, her voice almost inaudible as Andini sat beside her.
Andini lowered her head. No advice. No hollow encouragement. Just her hand, gently placed on Fani's. Warm. Real.
"Everyone thinks I'm just being dramatic. Even the lecturers say I need to grow up, not be so sensitive."
Andini tightened her grip. "They're wrong, Fan. You're not dramatic. You're just hurting. And that's okay."
Fani closed her eyes. Her cheeks trembled, but no tears came. As if her body had run out of ways to cry.
"I'm so scared all of this is for nothing."
"No," Andini said, softly but firmly. "Even if no one's listening right now... we've already started speaking. And that matters."
Fani didn't reply. But slowly, her head leaned against Andini's shoulder.
They sat like that, in a silence more honest than any word.
Between all the things left unsaid, something brave was beginning to grow. Slowly. But surely.
***
Three days after submitting the proposal, there was no response from the campus.
No follow-up. No questions. Not even a sign that the document had been read.
As if the voices they had carefully built had simply evaporated into the stale air of administration.
Andini sat beneath the ketapang tree. The campus grounds had begun to empty. Fani was next to her, her worn-out jacket still wrapped tight around her like armor in a world that had never been truly kind.
"I thought they'd at least ask something," Andini murmured. "But maybe... they're more afraid than we are."
Fani didn't answer right away. She watched a leaf fall gently to the ground.
"I read somewhere," she said quietly, "systems that are comfortable hate being disturbed. They prefer silence—so they don't have to be accountable."
Andini turned to her. "But this is a university, Fan. A place where we're supposed to learn how to be human."
Fani stared ahead, as if her eyes could pierce through the walls around them.
"Maybe... they're just teaching us how to survive. Not how to understand."
Andini said nothing. Fani's words hovered in her mind like a long, slow shadow.
***
That day, Andini was summoned back to the faculty office.
The room felt cold—not because of the temperature, but the way her advisor looked at her.
Blank. Detached.
"This is about your proposal," he said, sliding a clear folder across the desk.
"We've read it. But honestly, it's too sensitive. Too personal. The campus is not the place for private agendas."
Andini frowned. "It's not about me, sir. It's about the students who—"
He raised a hand, cutting her off.
"Do you have verified data? Official reports? Not just feelings or anecdotal stories?"
She held her breath. Her voice trembled at the edges, but she fought to stay composed.
"If we wait for official data before we start listening, then when do we ever begin?"
The lecturer offered a thin smile. The kind that wasn't really a smile, just a tired line on a weary face.
"I understand your intentions. But academia runs on logic, not emotion."
Andini lowered her gaze. It felt like being hit—not once, but over and over in the same spot.
That evening, she walked home heavy-footed.
In the little garden, Fani was already waiting. Her face pale. In her hands, crumpled papers with red marker scribbles.
"I found these in my locker," she whispered, handing one over.
Andini read it. 'Pretending to be strong, but it's all just cheap drama.' Another said, 'The eternal victim. Craving attention.'
Her hands clenched. But there was nothing she could punch.
"Fan... we can't keep doing this."
Fani looked up at her. "I know. But if the system's deaf, and others stay quiet, we've got one thing left, Din..."
Andini nodded slowly. "Stories."
Fani smiled. Fragile. But not defeated.
***
That night, Andini opened her laptop. Not to write fiction. But to gather voices.
She created a small platform—a simple blog where anyone could share anonymously.
The page was titled: We're Still Here.
Beneath it, one sentence: For the voices that were once silenced. Now it's your turn to speak.
She didn't know if anyone would write. But she believed—somewhere, someone was waiting for the chance.
And if no space existed, they would build one.
***
A week passed.The blog began to breathe. First one post. Then two. Then three.
Some anonymous. Some signed with just initials. Stories of mockery, of pressure from seniors, of jokes that weren't jokes. Of words so small they cut like knives.
Andini read them all every night. Sometimes she cried. Sometimes she just stared at the screen for a long time, silent.
Fani hadn't posted. But Andini knew—she was reading.
One morning, someone dropped the blog link into their class group chat. No context.
Just a link, hanging between assignment reminders and schedule updates.
People began to read. Quietly. While pretending to type up their reports.
The silence felt different that day. As if everyone was carrying something unspoken: a guilt they hadn't named, or a pain they had once ignored.
But not everyone welcomed it.
Some faculty began to talk. In meetings, in hallways.
They called the blog a disruption. A negative influence. Unverified.
And then came the letter. A summons from the Vice Dean.
The office was larger. But colder.
"Miss Andini," the voice was deep and even.
"Your activities... have raised concerns. We've received complaints. Some lecturers feel you're sowing distrust toward this institution."
Andini held her breath. But she didn't tremble.
"I'm simply offering space for voices that were never heard, sir."
"Don't you think this could harm the university's reputation?"
Her gaze was steady. Her voice calm, yet cutting.
"If the only way to protect a reputation is by silencing pain—then maybe that reputation deserves to fall."
***
That day, she walked out with tight lungs, but a steady stride.
Outside, Fani was waiting. A piece of paper in her hand.
"Someone finally wrote about me," she said softly.
Andini took the page. Her eyes blurred as she read the first line:
I'm the girl who always sat in the corner. Never called on, always judged. And every night, I wondered—why is the world so cruel to someone just trying to learn how to live?
It was Fani. But this wasn't a complaint. It was a resurrection—of a part of her long buried.
"I thought... if I can't speak in the real world, at least I can say hello through words," she whispered.
Andini squeezed her hand. No words needed.
In that long silence, they knew: their voices had broken something.
Maybe not the system.But the small walls that had caged the people within it.
***
Weeks passed. And something started to shift.
Not drastically. Not magically. But just enough.
A poster appeared on the bulletin board: Student Forum for Expression and Awareness—Fridays, Room 2.12.
Only five showed up to the first meeting.
But each brought a story. And from that, the space began to grow—not because the system opened its doors, but because someone knocked louder.
Andini no longer hoped everyone would understand.
But she believed—as long as one person was willing to listen, their voice would never truly disappear.
That afternoon, in the same quiet garden, Andini and Fani sat side by side. Leaves rustled in the breeze, like a melody only the two of them could hear.
"I joined the contest," Andini said suddenly.
Fani turned to her. "The short story one?"
Andini nodded. "I wrote about you."
Fani smiled. Not a forced one this time. But a smile that had come home from a long road of pain.
"I think you've already won, Din," she said softly. "Because you never let our voices fade."
Andini looked up. The sky had turned a soft amber. Sunset brushed their faces with gold.
In the distance, the faint sound of children playing echoed through the air.
The world may not change overnight.
But that day, beneath the same sky, two girls knew:As long as words remained,as long as someone dared to speak,no voice would ever be truly forgotten.