Monday morning felt heavy, like carrying a sack of cement on one shoulder while pretending it weighed nothing. Even though two days had passed since the almost-kiss and the emotional wreck at the satay stall, the irritation and anxiety still clung to me like the stubborn smell of oil on a workshop shirt. It wasn't dramatic panic. It was worse—low, persistent pressure. The kind that sat behind your ribs and refused to leave.
I arrived earlier than usual, long before most students crowded the pathways between buildings. The campus air still held the coolness of early morning, mixed with damp soil and fallen leaves. I headed straight to the library, choosing a corner spot near the tall window overlooking the walkway from the main gate. From there, I could see anyone approaching without being obvious about waiting.
I told myself I was just being efficient.
In truth, I was waiting for Cantika.
The wooden chair creaked when I sat down. The old computers along the wall hummed faintly, their monitors thick and slightly yellowed with age. A librarian rearranged returned books in silence. Everything felt slow, suspended.
BRRING!
My Nokia 7610 vibrated in my pocket, the sharp buzz cutting through the quiet like a blade. I didn't need to look to know who it was.
Dea.
I pulled the phone out anyway. Her name flashed across the small screen. I stared at it for three seconds, jaw tightening, then let it ring until it stopped. She had called three times since Saturday night. Three times I ignored her.
Not because I didn't appreciate the warning.
Because every time she called, the situation felt louder, messier. Like someone shaking a ticking bomb instead of carefully defusing it.
This Akmal problem—it wasn't just a conflict. It was a device wired with pride, ego, history, and misunderstanding. And I still hadn't figured out which red wire to cut.
At exactly 8:10, I saw her.
Cantika appeared from behind the side of the library building, walking at her usual measured pace. Her ponytail was neatly tied, dark blue sling bag across her shoulder, steps steady and controlled. From a distance, she looked exactly like she always did—calm, organized, composed.
But I noticed the small things.
Her brows were slightly furrowed. The smile she gave a passing lecturer was polite but thin, stretched just enough to be respectful, not genuine. Her shoulders were straighter than usual, almost rigid.
She was tense.
When she reached the table, she didn't waste time. "Morning," she greeted, voice flatter than usual. Not cold. Just focused. She placed her bag down carefully, sat, and immediately turned on the library PC. The machine roared to life, its fan rattling like an old sewing machine struggling through thick fabric.
"Have you gotten feedback from Pak Dani?" she asked without looking at me. "My group presents next Friday."
"Not yet," I replied, pressing the power button on the even older PC in front of me. The screen flickered reluctantly. "Did you sleep well last night?"
She shook her head once, eyes fixed on the monitor as the desktop loaded painfully slow. "Revising the SPT graphs for the appendix. A lot of Pak Andi's data needs cleaning up."
Her fingers began moving across the keyboard with quiet precision. I watched the numbers reflect in her glasses for a moment. Soil layers. Penetration resistance values. Technical details that most people would find boring. But to her, they were a puzzle to solve.
"We need to discuss this together before the presentation," she added, narrowing her eyes slightly as she scrolled.
"Later at twelve?" I suggested. "Lunch at the canteen. We can continue the discussion there."
What I meant was: I need space to talk about something bigger than bearing capacity equations.
She nodded without hesitation. "Can. But now…" Her typing slowed. Then stopped.
She lifted her face toward me.
"I found something," she said quietly. "Or more precisely… heard something."
My heartbeat quickened instantly. "What?"
"This morning on the Bikun-red: Yellow Bus" she whispered, referring to the campus bus. Her eyes briefly scanned the library—still relatively empty, safe enough for low voices. "Two Architecture girls were sitting behind me. They were talking about Akmal and Vina."
My jaw tightened. "Talking about what?"
"They said Akmal is super protective of Vina now. Doesn't want anyone approaching her." She paused, inhaled slowly. "Then one of them said he had a 'bad experience' with a former best friend. Someone who acted nice but stabbed him from behind."
Each word landed heavier than the last.
"They said that former best friend took something very valuable from him."
The morning breeze slipping through the open window suddenly felt icy. My stomach tightened.
So it had started.
Not directly naming me. Not explicitly accusing.
But carefully shaping a narrative.
Dea had been right. Akmal wasn't just venting. He was building a story.
"And?" I forced out.
Cantika's voice lowered further. "One of the girls asked… 'They say he's from Civil Engineering, right? The one who's good at calculations?'"
That was the punch.
Not speculation anymore.
Identification.
A department. A reputation.
Me.
Cold sweat formed along my temples. I felt exposed in a way that made my skin itch. Civil Engineering wasn't a huge faculty. Reputations traveled fast. One label could follow you for years.
"Tik, that's not true—" I started.
"He didn't mention your name," she cut in calmly, but her gaze sharpened. "But the context is identical. The timing. The description."
I looked down at my hands. They were steady, but inside I felt the tremor building.
"I didn't take you from him," I muttered. "That's not what happened. Our problem was complicated. Miscommunication. Ego. But I never betrayed him."
I replayed everything in my head—late-night arguments, assumptions, pride swallowing clarity. Had I handled things perfectly? No. But betrayal? No.
Cantika slowly turned her chair toward me fully. Her eyes, usually bright and warm, were darker now. Like clouds gathering before rain.
"I know that," she said softly. "And I don't even have any relationship with Akmal. Just junior and senior. That's it."
She paused.
"But gossip like this spreads fast. It's like fire in dry grass. It doesn't ask for evidence. It doesn't wait for clarification."
Her fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the desk.
"And what scares me is not just people talking. It's what happens if this reaches the wrong ears." She looked straight at me. "Pak Dani. Pak Andi."
That hit harder than pride ever could.
Pak Dani—known for being strict, uncompromising, allergic to drama. If he heard rumors that I was involved in personal conflict over a girl, that I had a reputation for betrayal, it could color how he viewed my academic seriousness.
Pak Andi had entrusted us with sensitive company data. Real foundation reports. Confidential files.
If my integrity was questioned, even informally, that trust could vanish instantly.
My chest felt tight.
"I have to meet him," I said finally. The decision formed before I consciously made it. "I have to talk to Akmal directly. Clarify everything."
Cantika's eyes widened slightly. "Alone?"
"Yes."
"I'm coming," she said immediately.
"No." The refusal came faster and firmer than I intended. Heads might have turned if the library were fuller. I lowered my voice. "This is between me and him. If you're there, it'll complicate things. He might twist it into something else."
"But what if he—"
"Please, Tik." I leaned forward slightly. "Let me handle this first. If I bring you, he'll think I'm hiding behind you. Or worse—he'll use your presence as proof for his narrative."
She exhaled slowly, looking away toward the window. I could see the conflict in her expression. She wasn't afraid for herself. She was worried about escalation.
Finally, she nodded once. "Okay."
Relief mixed with tension.
"But promise me something," she added, turning back sharply. "If things get out of control, you don't try to be a hero. You leave. You call me."
A faint, almost ironic smile touched my lips. "You're the one telling me to run?"
"Yes." No hesitation. "Because pride destroys more than reputation."
That sentence lodged itself deep in my chest.
"Promise," I said.
She studied my face for a second longer, as if measuring whether I meant it. Then she returned to her screen, reopening the spreadsheet.
The rest of the morning blurred.
In Finite Element Method class, I sat in the third row, notebook open, pen in hand. Pak Dani's voice echoed across the lecture hall, explaining stiffness matrices and boundary conditions with his usual precision.
I wrote nothing meaningful.
My mind ran simulations of a different kind.
Should I call Akmal? Text him? Would that make me look defensive? Desperate?
Should I go to his boarding house in Margonda? Show up unannounced? That could escalate things.
Or wait for him to appear on campus—maybe with Vina—and confront him publicly? That would be reckless.
Every option carried risk.
Confrontation might stop the rumors—or amplify them.
Silence might protect dignity—or look like guilt.
For the first time since this started, I understood something clearly: this wasn't about convincing everyone. It was about confronting the source.
And the source was someone I once called my closest friend.
The weight of that realization pressed heavier than the sack of cement I'd imagined earlier.
By the time the lecture ended, I hadn't absorbed a single formula.
Only one conclusion circled in my head:
The longer I waited, the stronger his version of the story would become.
And if I wanted control over my own name, I would have to risk stepping straight into the fire.