But the story didn't end with a kiss. It ended with Resti pulling out her sketchbook and drawing a line down the middle. On one side, she sketched Gilang’s easy grin. On the other, Arga’s sharp jawline. She realized she didn't need to pick a storyline. She was the author now.
The corridors of SMU Harapan Bangsa were a blur of navy skirts and white shirts, but for Resti Almas Turiah, they were a stage. And in her second year of SMU (Senior High School), she was determined to stop being an extra in her own life.
On graduation day, Gilang gave her a new set of sketch pens. Arga gave her a first-edition poetry collection. Inside, he had written: To Resti Almas Turiah—the thesis I could never finish. Resti Almas Turiah -SMU Sukabumi- Sex-4u.blogspot.3gp
The first storyline began with a misunderstanding. Cinta, in a well-meaning but chaotic scheme, spread a rumor that Resti was writing a secret admirer letter to Arga. The rumor wasn't a lie—Resti was writing one, but it was hidden under her mattress, unfinished. Panicked, Resti confronted Cinta in the canteen. "I’m not some character in your drama!" she hissed.
For the rest of SMU, Resti dated neither. She remained close friends with Gilang—he taught her that love could be kind without being a cage. And she remained a fascinating mystery to Arga—he taught her that passion could be quiet and still be deafening. Her romantic storyline became about falling in love with her own voice. But the story didn't end with a kiss
On stage, under the hot lights, Resti looked at both of them in the front row. Gilang was cheering, holding up a phone light. Arga was sitting still, arms crossed, but his eyes were soft. Her poem wasn't about either of them. It was about choice—not between two boys, but between two versions of herself.
The climax happened during the SMU Cultural Night. Resti was tasked with performing a spoken-word piece. Backstage, her hands were shaking. Gilang appeared, holding her hairbrush as a microphone. "You're a rockstar," he whispered, kissing her forehead. Then Arga appeared, adjusting his tie. "Your third stanza is weak. Replace 'heart' with 'vestibule.' It's more precise." He paused. "You're brilliant, Resti. Don't prove them right. Prove yourself right." On the other, Arga’s sharp jawline
But Arga overheard. He didn't look angry; he looked curious. "So, the poet writes," he said, smirking. "I'd rather read your thesis on Rilke than a sappy letter, Turiah."