(A/N: White and blue are the standar color of middle school uniform in Indonesia, white top and blue bottom.)
Let me start by telling you a little about myself. I'm a handsome guy (according to my mom), tall and big (yes, big!! but not fat!). I'm the second of three siblings and the only son in the family. My parents gave me a name that I think is unique but kind of lazy—Reka Adisubrata—a combination of their names, REno and AiKA.
Now, at 31 years old, I'm married to a beautiful wife and blessed with a little son. I work as a remote programmer in my hometown.
Today, I want to share a bit about my past, which I consider to be quite beautiful. A story of those cherished times—the days when I was still cute and innocent, untainted by coding and anime. Back when I was a high school student in my hometown, one of the well-known cities in the Priangan Timur region of West Java, Indonesia.
I don't want to ramble on about unimportant things. Honestly, I just don't want to spoil my own story.
So, from here, I'll share everything—from the end of my middle school journey to my high school graduation.
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After battling for four exhausting days with the dreadful National Exam questions that made me want to scream, the long-awaited moment finally arrived. For the past two weeks, I barely had time to talk to my girlfriend. I decided to avoid meeting her for a while so I could focus on studying and tackling the exam prep. It was a tough decision, but I believed it was the best choice. Today, after all that struggle, the weight I'd been carrying—the burden of the exam and the longing—felt heavier than ever. Now, my classmates and I could only wait for the graduation announcement—a day that tested all our nerves.
That day, the atmosphere at school was tense. Everyone looked stressed, anxious, and some were even pacing back and forth in panic. I felt the same—my mind racing with all the worst-case scenarios: what if I didn't pass? How would I explain it to my family?
The frustration reached its peak when the principal started giving an unnecessarily long speech, while all we wanted was the announcement. After waiting for nearly three hours under the scorching sun, he began venting about things completely unrelated to the exams. I felt like grabbing the mic and yelling, "Hey, old man! This isn't a therapy session! We're baking under the sun here, not waiting for your irrelevant life lessons!" But my body stayed frozen, unable to do anything but stare at the principal, who seemed all too enthusiastic about his monologue.
Despite being notorious for driving teachers up the wall with my rebellious antics, luckily, my brain still managed to cooperate this time. I held back from acting impulsively or voicing my frustration in a string of curses. If I'd said something reckless, I could have ended up paraded around the village or strung up on a cell tower as a spectacle for the locals. Scary, right? So, I chose to keep quiet, even though my heart was ready to explode.
After what felt like an endless principal's speech, we were finally herded into our respective classrooms. Imagine this: all the students, drained both mentally and physically, trudging along with resigned expressions, like sheep being herded back to their pen. I followed suit and entered my classroom, where our homeroom teacher, Ms. Rina, stood waiting with a dignified expression and a stack of envelopes in her hands—our graduation results.
The moment the first envelope was opened, the classroom's atmosphere shifted dramatically. The expressions on my classmates' faces were indescribable—it was like they'd been holding in a fart for days but couldn't quite let it out. The tension was palpable, suffocating even.
I wasn't any better. Even though I was fairly confident in my brain's abilities, that nagging sense of insecurity still loomed over me. How could it not? Sure, I had a decent track record of achievements, but my track record of mischief was just as impressive. Thanks to me, our class often bore the brunt of my antics. So, it made sense that my emotions were all over the place—somewhere between confidence, doubt, and sheer fear.
"Everyone, don't open your envelopes just yet. Let's open them together, okay? But first, let's pray for the best results. If the outcome isn't what you hoped for, I hope you can face it calmly," said Ms. Rina as she handed out the envelopes one by one. At that moment, those envelopes felt like the most sacred objects in the world, and everyone stared at them with a mix of emotions—hope, fear, and anxiety. I even saw a few classmates rubbing small charms that seemingly appeared out of nowhere.
"Don't be so tense. I'm confident all of you will pass," Ms. Rina added with a reassuring smile, trying to lighten the mood. But her smile wasn't enough to dispel the heavy tension in the room. My classmates stayed stiff, like defendants awaiting their verdict in a courtroom.
"Ma'am, I'm not tense," I replied, feigning nonchalance, though my heart was pounding like a marching band drum.
"Don't be so cocky; you're not guaranteed to pass," one of my friends chimed in teasingly, drawing a few chuckles from others.
"Pass or fail, I'm not scared," I shot back, trying to sound more relaxed than I felt.
"What if you don't pass? You gonna repeat another year?" Angga, my best friend, asked, his tone half-serious but still cheeky.
"I'll definitely pass, don't worry. But if I don't, well, I'll just get married. I remember your sister likes me, right? How about it—wanna be my brother-in-law?" I replied with a wide, cheeky grin, aiming my not-so-modest joke at Angga. My goal was simple: to break the tension and stop us all from turning into statues in a museum. The once-quiet classroom quickly shifted into a livelier vibe, with small laughs bubbling up here and there. My classmates, who had been stiff and tense moments ago, started to smile.
"You jerk!" Angga shot back, pretending to protest, but I could see he was holding back laughter. "Watch yourself, don't mess with my sister!"
"Yeah, man, you're smart. No way you won't pass," chimed in Budi, another close friend, trying to encourage me while throwing in a little jab of his own.
But before the conversation could go any further, Ms. Rina cut in. "Alright, enough chatting. Now, open your envelopes," she said in her usual calm yet firm tone.
The classroom atmosphere shifted once again—going from lively to dead silent in an instant.
I stared at the envelope in my hands. It looked so simple, yet its contents had the power to change my life in an instant. Slowly, I unfolded it, holding my breath. Everyone in the class was doing the same, and the sound of rustling paper filled the room like a small orchestra, adding to the drama of the moment.
But when I opened my envelope, I froze. Empty. My envelope was completely empty. I stared into it, hoping my eyes were playing tricks on me, but no—it was really empty.
"Uh, ma'am, my envelope is empty," I said, glancing at Ms. Rina in confusion. My classmates, hearing this, immediately turned their heads toward me with puzzled expressions. The tension in the room skyrocketed.
"Oh, yes, yours is in the teacher's office. You need to clear up some… previous issues first," Ms. Rina replied with a faint smile that, to me, felt like a dagger twisting slowly.
'Great. This is going to be a mess.' I could already guess where this was heading—it had to be something to do with my past antics that had given the teachers countless headaches.
After the "opening envelopes together" event wrapped up, I started thinking hard about my next steps. Especially since the mood in the classroom shifted from tense to somber when one of my classmates found out he didn't pass. It stung, even though he seemed way calmer about it than I expected. One by one, we offered our sympathy.
"Bro, hang in there. You'll definitely make it next year," said Angga, my best friend, patting his shoulder. Angga was always the most supportive guy in situations like this.
"Chill, man. Not passing doesn't mean the world's ending, right?" our friend replied with a cheerful tone that eased the tension a bit. "Besides, I'm a year younger than you guys anyway. I won't be too old if I repeat a year, will I?" he added with a grin.
Honestly, I admired him. Even though he had to retake the exams next year, he could still laugh and face it with incredible resilience. He didn't seem down or blame himself at all. Instead, it felt like he was radiating positive energy, lifting the spirits of everyone around him.
On the other hand, all I could do was think. What if I were in his position? Could I be as strong as he is? The image of my graduation letter still being held in the teacher's office haunted me. There was no certainty whether I'd passed or not. I felt like I was hanging by the edge of a cliff—each second felt more suffocating.