Cinta Sang Pembuli

The eraser hit the back of his head with a soft thwack, and I watched it bounce off, leaving a gray smudge on his collar. Ghalib didn't flinch. Didn't turn around. Just kept sweeping, the broom moving in these slow, even strokes across the classroom floor like he was painting something only he could see.

"That's three points for Ibnu," Rafi said from behind me, keeping score in a notebook he carried everywhere. Nobody asked him to keep score. He just did it.

I didn't feel like celebrating. The eraser was a weak throw anyway. My arm was off today, and the afternoon light coming through the windows made everything look washed out and tired, including Ghalib's skinny shoulders and the way his uniform hung loose on him like it belonged to someone bigger.

The classroom smelled like chalk dust and the lemon cleaner the janitors used. Most of the desks were pushed to the walls, legs up, waiting for tomorrow. Only Ghalib's desk remained in place, because he was the one who had to clean up after everyone else. That was the deal. He stayed late, he swept, he wiped the board, he took out the trash. And we stayed late to watch him do it.

"Why do you even bother," I called out. "Nobody's gonna check. The teacher left already."

He didn't answer. He never answered. That was the thing about Ghalib. He moved through the world like a ghost who'd decided to stick around out of habit, not because anyone wanted him there.

Fajar leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "Maybe he likes it. Some people like being useful."

"Some people like being doormats," Rafi said, and laughed at his own joke.

I should've laughed too. That's what I usually did. But today the sound stayed stuck somewhere in my throat, and all I could do was watch Ghalib's hands, the way his fingers gripped the broom handle, knuckles pale.

He reached the back wall and turned, sweeping the dust into a neat pile near the door. His bangs fell over his eyes, and he didn't push them away. Just kept working.

"Hey." I walked over and stood in front of him. Close enough that he had to stop or walk into me. "I'm talking to you."

He looked up. His eyes were dark and calm, like deep water. No anger, no fear. Just this flat patience that made me want to shake him.

"I heard you," he said. Quiet voice. Always quiet.

"So why didn't you answer?"

"Because there's nothing to say."

Fajar snorted from the doorway. "He's got a point. What's he supposed to say? 'Yes, Ibnu, you're right, I'm a loser'? That's not how it works."

I ignored him. Ghalib's gaze hadn't moved from my face, and something about that made my skin prickle. Most people looked away when I got close. Stepped back. Found somewhere else to be. But Ghalib just stood there, broom in hand, waiting for me to do whatever I was going to do.

I grabbed the broom and yanked it out of his grip. He let it go without resistance, and that made me angrier. I threw it across the room. It clattered against the wall and fell.

"Clean it up," I said. "Without the broom."

For a second, something flickered in his eyes. Not fear. Something else. Annoyance, maybe. Or disappointment. Then it was gone, and he walked over to where the broom had fallen, picked it up, and started sweeping again.

Rafi was still keeping score. "That's a foul on Ibnu. Unsportsmanlike conduct."

"Shut up, Rafi."

"Just saying."

The afternoon bell had rung twenty minutes ago. The school was mostly empty now, just a few clubs meeting in far-off rooms and the janitor somewhere downstairs. This was our time. The quiet hour. When the halls belonged to us and the rules belonged to nobody.

I'd been staying after school like this since the beginning of the year. Not because I had anywhere better to be, but because this was the only time things felt clear. During class, there were teachers watching, other students, expectations. After school, there was just this. Just me and whoever I decided to keep around.

Ghalib had been staying late since before I started. He was always here, always cleaning, always alone. At first I ignored him. Then I noticed him. Then I couldn't stop noticing him.

He was too quiet. Too still. It bothered me in a way I couldn't explain, like a song stuck in my head that I didn't even like.

"You know," I said, walking over to him again, "you could just leave. Nobody's making you stay."

He paused. The broom stopped moving. "Yes," he said. "Someone is."

"Who?"

He didn't answer. Just started sweeping again.

I wanted to hit him. Not hard, just enough to get a reaction. But I didn't. I never did. That was the line I hadn't crossed yet, and I wasn't sure why. Maybe because I knew if I did, he'd finally look at me differently. And I wasn't ready for that.

Fajar pushed off the doorframe. "I'm bored. Let's go get something to eat."

"You go ahead," I said.

He raised his eyebrows but didn't argue. Fajar never argued. He just did whatever was easiest, and arguing with me was never easy. He grabbed Rafi by the collar and dragged him out. Rafi complained about missing the rest of the show, but the door closed behind them anyway, and then it was just me and Ghalib and the sound of the broom.

I sat on one of the desks near the window. The sun was low now, orange light spilling across the floor like someone had knocked over a bottle of it.

"Why do you let me do this?" I asked.

He kept sweeping.

"I'm serious. You could tell a teacher. You could fight back. You could do something."

The broom stopped. He stood there for a long moment, back to me, shoulders rising and falling with his breath.

"You want me to fight back," he said.

"Yeah."

"Why?"

I didn't have an answer for that. Not one I wanted to say out loud.

He turned around. The dust pile was at his feet, neat and forgotten. His face was unreadable, but his voice, when he spoke, was softer than I'd ever heard it.

"You don't want me to fight back," he said. "You want me to give you a reason."

"A reason for what?"

He didn't answer. Just picked up the dustpan and knelt down to sweep the pile into it, movements careful, precise. Like everything he did.

I watched him. The curve of his neck. The way his hair fell forward. The small, sure movements of his hands. And I felt something shift in my chest, a crack in something I hadn't known was there.

"You're weird," I said.

He stood up, dustpan in hand, and looked at me. Really looked. And for the first time, I saw something in his eyes that wasn't patience or resignation.

"You're the one who stays," he said. "Every day. You could leave. You don't."

"I stay because I want to."

"Then we're both here because we want to be."

He walked past me to empty the dustpan into the trash. I didn't move. Couldn't. My heart was doing something strange, beating too fast, and my hands felt cold.

"Same time tomorrow?" he asked from the doorway.

I turned. He was standing there, dustpan in one hand, the other holding the door open. The light from the hallway made him look almost like he was glowing.

"Are you asking me out?" I said, trying to make it a joke.

He didn't smile. "I'm asking if you'll be here."

I should've said no. Should've laughed it off, called him something, reminded him who I was and who he was. But the words wouldn't come. All I could do was nod, a small, stupid nod, and watch him walk away.

The door closed behind him. The classroom was empty now, just me and the desks and the fading light. I sat there for a long time, longer than I meant to, until the orange turned to gray and the janitor's footsteps echoed up the stairs.

I got up. Walked to the door. Stopped.

On the blackboard, in small, careful letters, someone had written: "See you tomorrow, Ibnu."

I stared at it. My name. In his handwriting. I didn't know how I knew it was his, but I did. The same precision as his sweeping. The same quiet.

I picked up the eraser and wiped it away. But the words stayed in my head, clear as if they'd been carved there.

See you tomorrow.

I walked home in the dark, and for the first time in a long time, I didn't feel like I was alone.