The promise I made in the canteen that afternoon changed everything. Like paint dropped into clear water, that promise spread, coloring every interaction we had afterward. Our hand-holding was no longer hesitant. Our laughter mingled more often. We became "us" not just in my head or in the pages of my sketchbook, but in the real world, under the gaze of the entire school.
We became Yasa and Keyla. The most improbable yet perfectly matched couple at Tunas Bangsa High. The rich girl who read Plato and the simple boy who loved to draw. Our different worlds were no longer a chasm, but two shores now connected by a sturdy bridge we built from shared glances, late-night phone calls, and promises of a future.
I began to fulfill my promise. Every day, there was a new sketch for her. Keyla laughing until her eyes crinkled, Keyla pouting in frustration at a math problem, Keyla with her hair blowing in the wind as we rode on my old Vespa. I borrowed my uncle's Vespa, the only motorized vehicle in my family, just so I could drive her home, feeling her arms wrap around my waist, stealing a few more minutes with her.
"This is more fun than a black sedan," she said one afternoon, her voice muffled by the helmet and the rush of wind. "I can feel the city's heartbeat."
I smiled behind my helmet. I didn't tell her that what she felt wasn't just the city's heartbeat, but also my own heart racing every time she leaned a little closer.
Those days felt like the most beautiful dream. Yogyakarta's sky seemed to celebrate our happiness, stretching out bright blue almost every day. We spent weekends exploring corners of the city we had never visited. We ate ice cream under the scorching sun, sat at ancient temples imagining the stories behind their stones, and spent hours in used bookstores, searching for hidden treasures.
One afternoon, we sat by the edge of a reservoir on the outskirts of the city. The sun was beginning to dip west, turning the water's surface into a carpet of molten gold. I was finishing a sketch of her face as the golden light washed over her cheeks.
"Finished," I said, showing her the result.
She smiled. "You always manage to capture the light," she praised.
"Because you are the light," I countered.
It was then that I felt it. A sharp throb behind my right eye, coming suddenly like a lightning strike on a clear day. My world spun for a moment, and the golden color on the reservoir's surface blurred into a single indistinct line. I squeezed my eyes shut tightly, one hand unconsciously gripping the grass beside me.
"Yasa? Are you alright?" Keyla's voice sounded anxious.
I forced myself to open my eyes and smile, hoping my smile didn't look like a grimace. "Of course," I said, my voice slightly shaky. "Just the glare. The afternoon sun is truly amazing."
She looked at me suspiciously, but the throbbing began to subside, and the world came back into focus. I quickly diverted her attention, pointing towards the sky. "Look, the colors are starting to change."
The sky, which had been bright blue, was now beginning to be adorned with sweeps of orange and pink. Beautiful, but also a sign. A sign that the day would soon end.
From that moment on, those small attacks began to come occasionally. Sharp throbs that lasted a few seconds. Sudden dizziness when I stood up too quickly. Brief moments where the world felt slightly tilted. I became an expert at hiding them. A smile, an excuse about fatigue, or a quick distraction. Each time I succeeded, I felt like a master liar and the biggest coward in the world.
The lie felt heavier as time went on. Final exams were approaching, and conversations about the future could no longer be avoided. For everyone else, the future was a vast horizon. For me, the future was a wall.
"Father has already taken care of all my registrations in Leiden," Keyla told me one day, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "He says the philosophy program there is one of the best in Europe. I can't wait! You have to promise you'll visit me there. We can explore the canals of Amsterdam, go to the Van Gogh museum. I'll show you all the places in his paintings."
I just smiled and nodded, while inside my heart felt like something was cracking. I held her hand tightly. "Of course," I said. "That will be a great adventure."
Every word about the future from her lips was a beautiful melody and at the same time the saddest lullaby for me. I wanted to be a part of her future more than anything in this world. But I knew, I was just a chapter in her book. An important chapter, perhaps. A chapter full of sketches and laughter. But still, just a chapter. And that chapter would soon end.
That night, after driving her home, I didn't go straight back. I stopped my Vespa on a bridge facing east. The night sky was clear, but its color was no longer deep blue. On the eastern horizon, clouds gathered, reflecting the city lights below into a sickly gray tinge. The sky was changing color again.
I took out my sketchbook. Under the dim streetlights, I didn't draw Keyla's face. I drew that night sky. A vast sky, full of stars, but with gray clouds slowly creeping in, ready to swallow everything. In the bottom corner of the page, I wrote two words: Future.