That Dream...

The sudden chime of a school bell resonated in my mind, pulling me back to those high school corridors.

Ah, those carefree days, where dreams felt just within reach. I could still feel the leather-bound sketchbook pressed against my side, its pages brimming with my fledgling manga.

I remember sneaking to the rooftop during lunch break one day, the cacophony of the schoolyard far below providing a muffled soundtrack. The soft rustle of pages turning was the only sound as I handed my sketchbook to Putri. With every passing second, her eyes grew wider, moving from one page to the next. I held my breath, anxiously waiting for her verdict.

As she closed the sketchbook, a distant plane streaked across the sky, its contrail painting a white line amidst the blue. "You made me... a healer?" she asked, a playful smirk tugging at her lips.

"Yeah," I chuckled, scratching the back of my head. "Figured it suited you, always fixing things, always looking out for everyone. And besides, you'll be applying to medical school, right?"

"Ah, yeah." She grinned, her eyes crinkling in that familiar way. "Well, at least you got that part right."

As Putri began flipping through the pages of my sketchbook, the sun glinted off her eyes, casting a shimmering reflection. Every so often, she'd pause, tracing a particular illustration with her fingers or re-reading a section, completely engrossed. It was hard to gauge her reaction — each page flip made my heart race faster.

Was she impressed? Bored? I couldn’t tell.

When she finally closed the sketchbook, she looked up, a hint of amazement in her eyes. "Nanang," she said softly, "I really felt like I was in the story with them. Your characters, their problems... it's like they're real, you know?"

She locked eyes with me, her gaze earnest. "You've got to share this with the world. Make sure more people get to see it."

Clinging to the sketchbook, a subtle spark ignited in my eyes. "Yeah, Putri. I promise. I will become the most famous mangaka in the world!"

"You can do it, Nanang!" 

Her faith was the push I needed to make that promise, not only to her but also to myself.

One evening after dinner, with the aroma of spicy rendang still lingering in the air, I sat at the table, lost in thought. As I was about to head to my room, my dad's voice stopped me. "Nanang," he began, "With graduation coming up, have you thought about what you want to do next?"

This was it. My moment.

I'd seen scenes like this play out in movies. The ones where parents don't approve of your dreams because they hope you'd choose more traditional careers, like a doctor or engineer.

Taking a deep breath, I replied, "I want to become a mangaka, Dad." I hesitated for just a beat, then continued, "And not just any mangaka. I aim to be among the best."

The best of the best. 

The room was steeped in silence. I could feel the weight of their gazes, filled with a mixture of surprise and contemplation. Anticipation built within me, ready for their rebuttal or words of caution.

My mom's voice broke the quiet, gentle yet firm, "A mangaka? Really? Do you have a plan for that?"

"Uh–yes," I stumbled over my words. I did have a plan. Well, kind of.

"It's an unconventional path, my son," my dad began, a hint of uncertainty in his voice. "But if you're sure and have a plan..."

His gaze drifted, lost in a memory. "When I was your age, I had dreams of becoming a musician." He paused, drawing a slow breath. "Life took me down a different road, though, and I never truly had the chance to chase that dream."

A wistful smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Sometimes, late at night, I wonder if I could've been the next John Lennon had I pursued that dream. But more than the fame or the what-ifs, I remember the weight of it, the weight of dreams I never followed through on."

Meeting my eyes with an intensity I hadn't seen in years, his voice softened, "I don't want that for you. If this is what truly drives you, your heart's calling... or, as they often put it, your passion... We believe in you."

"If that's what your Father said, I will support you, too," my mom added. 

My heart swelled, emotions flooding through me all at once. For a moment, I felt like that little boy again, who'd run into his dad's arms after scraping his knee. Warmth, relief, gratitude - they all blended together, forming tears that threatened to spill from my eyes.

"Dad... Mom..." I choked out, fighting to keep my voice steady. "Thank you. This means... more than you can imagine."

Drawing a deep breath, I allowed the weight of their words to sink in. Their belief was now my newfound strength. As I looked between them, gratitude etched into every part of my being, I silently vowed to myself: I would give it my all, not just for me, but for them.

During my last semester of high school, while most of my friends were busy prepping for university exams, I took a different path. I joined a writing class and some drawing courses. My parents paid for everything. It was awesome to see my drawings get better and my writing clearer. With my family and Putri cheering me on, I felt like I was on top of the world.

My dream of becoming a mangaka seemed closer than ever.

The night of my graduation, my parents had one more surprise in store for me. As I entered my room, there it was - a shiny new laptop paired with a top-notch drawing tablet. My eyes lit up, and a huge smile spread across my face. "For our soon-to-be famous mangaka," my mom teased, her eyes shining with pride.

Around the same time, Putri shared her own news. She'd been accepted into her second-choice university, which meant she'd be moving to another town. Though I was sad about the distance, I couldn't help but feel happy for her. We made a promise that evening to always root for each other, no matter where our dreams took us.

I was determined to land a publishing deal within the year. I dedicated my days and nights to perfecting the first chapter of my manga. I drew with meticulous attention to detail, ensuring every panel was perfect, every dialogue just right. The clatter of keys and the scratch of the stylus against the tablet became the symphony of my life. I often lost track of time, working into the wee hours of the morning.

After countless sleepless nights, I finally had something I was proud of. The first chapter of my debut manga was complete.

The next step was clear. I had to get my work out into the world.

I bundled it up and sent it off to various publishers, each time with a tiny prayer. "Let them see what Putri saw," I'd whisper to myself, sending each manuscript out like a piece of my soul.

The first few months were filled with anxious waits by the mailbox, jumping every time I saw the postman, hoping for a letter with a logo I'd recognize. But days turned into weeks, and the only responses I got were silence.

I refused to be disheartened. I revisited my work, tweaked a few panels, revised some dialogues, and sent it out again. This cycle continued.

And before I knew it, weeks turned into months, and... it's been a year already.

Not long after, my parents sat me down for one of those "life talks". Over cups of warm tea and in the gentle glow of the living room lights, my mom inquired, "Nanang, how's everything going with the manga?" 

"I'm trying out webcomics now," I said, "I think it might work."

"Webcomics? How does that work?" My mom was curious.

"Well, I can upload. And... gather my fanbase there."

"Did you get paid for it?"

"Uh... not... at the moment... But! If I can get enough readers, I might!"

"It's okay, Nanang," Dad assures me, "dreams take time." 

"Or... you can try college too, you know," my mom added. 

"I don't think I can, Mom. I believe college would just take up too much of my time right now."

Yeah. That was what I think.

Weeks melted into months, and before I realized it, a whole year had slipped by. But I wasn’t about to let time deter me. I was in this for the long haul.

By the second year, my digital art folders were overflowing.

Layers upon layers of sketches, revisions, and drafts showcased a journey of resilience and creativity. The worn surface of my drawing tablet was a testament to the countless hours I poured into it. With every setback, there was a renewed sense of determination, pushing me to start afresh, opening a new canvas on the screen.

By the third year, those rejection letters had begun to form a small mountain in a corner of my room. My folks would shoot me worried glances every so often, their eyes asking questions they didn't voice. Each one a sting, but I didn't let it break me. I’d heard stories of famous authors facing rejections a hundredfold before they made it.

Because of that, the flame of hope is still alive within me.

The webcomic route seemed promising initially. I'd get notifications of new readers, and the comments section buzzed with discussions. But the revenue? It was laughable—barely enough to buy me a coffee.

My communication with Putri grew sparse. Her social media showcased her medical journey—photos of her in crisp white coats, her face lit up in accomplishment. She was soaring in her chosen field, while I continued my relentless chase.

In my heart, I knew this: when I finally get that breakthrough, every minute of my struggle will be worth its weight in gold.

But, the years took their toll.

The countless rejections began to wear me down, but I persevered. Each sketch, each line drawn was a testament to my tenacity. Each mark on the paper was a reflection of my grit.

The pages of my life, filled with so many drawings, suddenly seemed blank and meaningless.

In the quiet stillness of the night, the unbearable truth echoed. 

My dad... passed away.