DON'T JUDGE THE BOOK FROM THE COVER
Siska adjusted her backpack and stepped off the bus, shielding her eyes from the late morning sun. The campus gate loomed ahead, familiar yet still intimidating. She had been here for three years now, studying English Literature, but somehow, this day felt different.
She walked through the crowded
pathway toward the faculty building, her steps slow, uncertain. Most students
rushed past her in casual clothes—T-shirts, sneakers, messy buns. In contrast,
Siska wore a neat navy blouse and beige trousers, her black hair tied back with
a clip. Her look, quiet and reserved, often made her invisible.
People didn’t really talk to
her much—not because she was rude, but because she didn’t try to stand out. She
preferred to sit in the back during lectures, take notes quietly, and avoid
attention. Her world revolved around books, especially Victorian novels and
postcolonial essays. She liked listening more than speaking, and thinking more
than debating.
Today, however, was group
presentation day for her “Modern Drama” class. She had been grouped with three
classmates she barely knew: Rio, Putri, and Lani. They were loud, confident,
and always hung around the campus café. Siska worried they’d think she was
boring.
As she walked into the
classroom, her eyes met Rio’s. He nodded. “Hey, Siska. We’re sitting over
there. You ready?”
Siska nodded and joined them.
The room was buzzing with
energy. Some students still rehearsed lines, while others scrolled their
phones. The group before hers was presenting a scene from A Doll’s House,
and the class laughed at their over-the-top dramatization.
Siska opened her folder. She
had written and organized the entire analysis part of the presentation. Her
role was to deliver the conclusion. It wasn’t the hardest part, but it was the
most visible—and that made her nervous.
“Guys, I printed the notes,”
she whispered to her group.
Putri took the papers and
scanned them quickly. “Wow. This is really good. You wrote all this?”
“Yeah,” Siska replied, a bit
unsure.
Lani leaned over. “I thought
you were just quiet. I didn’t know you were this organized.”
Siska smiled politely. It
wasn’t a compliment, but it felt close enough.
Their presentation began. Rio
spoke confidently about character motivation. Lani handled the historical
context. Putri gave a sharp critique of the symbolism. And finally, Siska
stepped up for the conclusion.
She took a deep breath. “In
conclusion, ‘The Glass Menagerie’ is not merely about dreams and
disappointments, but about how memory shapes our perception of reality. Each
character clings to the past to survive the present—and in doing so, they fail
to truly live.”
The room was silent for a
second. Then the lecturer nodded slowly.
“Very clear,” he said. “You
connected it to the overall theme well.”
After class, as they walked
out, Rio clapped Siska on the back. “You surprised me, you know.”
“How?”
“I didn’t expect someone who
always sits quietly to sound so—serious. And good.”
Siska chuckled softly.
“Thanks. I like analyzing things. I’m just not… very talkative.”
Putri looked at her with new
interest. “You should hang out with us at the café sometime. You’re not what I
thought you were.”
Siska hesitated, then said,
“Maybe.”
That afternoon, she sat under
a tree near the library, flipping through a book of essays. She didn’t join
them at the café—but something inside her felt lighter.
Maybe she wasn’t invisible.
Maybe she was just unread.
…
The following week, things
began to shift, though subtly. Siska noticed it first in class—how Rio would
save her a seat or how Lani sometimes turned to her for clarification during
discussions. Even Putri, who used to only nod politely, now asked about her
thoughts on the texts they read.
Still, Siska kept her
routines. She walked alone, brought her own lunch, and spent long hours in the
quiet corners of the library. She didn’t dislike company—she just didn’t know
how to be in it for too long.
One Wednesday afternoon, as
she typed notes for her “Postcolonial Literature” class, someone slid into the
chair across from her.
“Hey.”
It was Rio.
She blinked, surprised. “Hi.”
He gestured to her laptop.
“Mind if I join? I’ve been trying to get through Achebe’s Things Fall Apart,
but my brain’s fried.”
Siska gave a small smile.
“You’re not alone. The language is simple, but the ideas aren’t.”
He leaned in. “That’s exactly
what I thought! I kept thinking it would be an easy read, but I guess I was
judging it by the cover.”
Siska looked up at him,
amused. “That phrase is getting a little too real lately.”
They laughed. It wasn’t a big
moment, but it stayed with her. Maybe people weren’t as uninterested in her as
she believed. Maybe they were just waiting for a door.
…
That weekend, Siska stayed
home at her small rented room in Jetis Kulon. The room was modest—white walls,
a single bed, a small desk—but it was hers. Books were stacked high on her
shelf, and sticky notes lined the edge of her mirror.
She thought a lot about how
people saw her.
At school, she was the quiet
girl, the one who always looked serious. At home in Bojonegoro, she was the
“anak pinter” who helped neighbors write letters and filled out government
forms. She was used to roles, but not attention. Now, with Rio and the others,
it felt like the glass was cracking.
That night, her phone buzzed.
After sending the file, Siska
put her phone down. She didn’t feel left out, only... unsure. She wanted to be
part of things, but didn’t want to change who she was just to fit in.
…
Monday arrived with the usual
haze of deadlines and last-minute readings. Siska walked to campus early,
grabbing a seat at the front of the lecture hall for once. She felt more
present, more curious.
After class, Lani caught up
with her. “Hey, Siska. I’ve been meaning to ask—how do you write so clearly?
Your summaries are easier to understand than the lecturer’s slides.”
Siska paused. “I think… I just
write how I think. I try to connect ideas instead of just listing them.”
Lani grinned. “You should
totally tutor people. I’m serious. Even just editing drafts.”
Siska blushed a little. “I’ve
never really thought about that.”
“Well, think about it. Some
people pretend to know things. You actually do.”
That comment stayed in her
mind longer than she expected.
…
That week, Siska began helping
a few classmates—nothing official, just reviewing essays and giving feedback.
Word spread slowly, and before long, more students were messaging her for help.
She didn’t mind. It wasn’t
about being popular. It was about being useful.
One evening, while walking
past the campus café, she saw Rio and Putri waving her over.
“Come sit with us,” Rio called
out.
This time, she didn’t say no.
She ordered a cold chocolate
and sat with them under the warm lights and soft chatter. They didn’t talk
about anything grand—just the usual: classes, lecturers, a funny meme someone
shared.
At one point, Putri said, “You know, I used to think
you were stuck-up.”
Siska raised her eyebrows.
“I mean, you were always so
serious and didn’t talk to anyone. I thought you didn’t like people.”
Siska looked down at her cup.
“It’s not that. I just… I need more time to feel comfortable.”
Rio nodded. “Honestly, I think
most people feel that way. They just hide it better.”
Siska looked at them both,
then smiled. “Maybe. Or maybe they just never got used to being quiet.”
There was a pause.
Then Putri grinned. “You’re
kind of funny when you talk.”
That made them all laugh.
For the first time in a while,
Siska didn’t feel like she was performing. She didn’t feel like she had to be
anyone other than herself.
...
Midway through the semester,
Siska found herself walking through campus with a lighter step. She still wore
her usual neat outfits, still took quiet notes at the back of the class, but
something had shifted.
People greeted her more often.
Some even sat next to her during lectures. Once, a junior student from the
Faculty of Law approached her after class.
“Are you the Siska who helped
Putri with her essay?” he asked.
“I guess I am,” she replied,
surprised.
“Can I ask you about citation
formats sometime? I always get confused.”
She smiled. “Sure. I can send
you a guide.”
It wasn’t fame. It wasn’t even
popularity. But it was a kind of recognition—not for how she looked or how
loudly she spoke, but for the work she did, the thought she put into things,
the way she paid attention.
One Friday afternoon, the
Literature Department held an open mic event in the courtyard. Anyone could
perform—poetry, music, readings. Siska went only because Lani was reciting one
of her original poems.
She sat in the back row,
sipping iced tea from a plastic cup. The mood was warm and casual—laughter,
quiet applause, a few shy performances.
Then she heard her name.
“Next, we have a short prose
reading by Siska.”
She froze.
What?
She turned toward the stage.
Putri grinned from the microphone and waved at her. “Yes, Siska. Come on!”
There was scattered applause
and a few cheers. Rio looked back from the second row and gave her a thumbs-up.
Siska stood slowly, her heart
pounding. She walked to the front, papers trembling slightly in her hands. She
had written something weeks ago—a small piece for class that never got shared.
Apparently, Putri had found it in their shared drive.
She cleared her throat. “Um…
this is something I wrote called Things I Never Say Out Loud.”
The courtyard went quiet.
“I walk alone a lot. Not
because I don’t want company, but because I’m used to thinking before speaking.
I listen more than I talk. I read faces more than I read messages. Some people
think I’m distant. Some think I’m arrogant. But I’m just… careful.”
A few heads nodded.
“I don’t like noise, but I
love laughter. I don’t talk much, but I love words. I don’t fit in every room,
but I try to stay kind in all of them.”
The applause wasn’t loud, but
it was warm.
As she returned to her seat,
someone whispered, “That was beautiful.”
She didn’t recognize the
voice. And that made it even more meaningful.
…
The next day, as she walked
into campus, she passed by a group of students near the library steps. One of
them, a girl with bright earrings and even brighter eyes, looked up and said,
“Hey, I really liked your piece yesterday.”
Siska smiled. “Thank you.”
“You’re not what I expected,”
the girl added, kindly.
Siska gave a small laugh. “I
get that a lot.”
And she did—more and more. But
now, instead of feeling unsure, she felt grounded. She understood something
that had taken her years to realize: people often label what they don’t yet
understand. It wasn’t personal—it was just human.
And it could change.
…
One afternoon, while walking
with Rio across campus, he said, “You know what’s funny? I used to think you
were all books and no real life.”
Siska raised an eyebrow. “And
now?”
He grinned. “Now I think
you’re just better at balancing both than the rest of us.”
She looked ahead, thoughtful.
“Maybe we’re all just unfinished books.”
“With misleading covers,” Rio
added.
She laughed.
They reached the main gate.
The sun was setting, casting a soft orange glow over the path. Siska stood
still for a moment, then turned to Rio.
“I’m glad we talked that day.
The one in the library.”
“Me too.”
She stepped onto the bus, gave
him a small wave, and sat by the window.
As the city moved past her,
Siska thought about how quiet she had been for so long—not just in voice, but
in presence. And how slowly, naturally, people had started to read her
differently.
Not because she had changed
into someone louder.
But because she had stopped
hiding the pages.
