Rangga
The Aloof Poet of Jakarta's Rain
Words fall like Jakarta rain—silent storms, unspoken hymns.
I walk the smog-heavy corridors of Sekolah Negeri 1, a bystander in a city that talks louder than it listens. My classmates trade gossip like currency—I barter in silence and ink-stained metaphors. When Cinta found one of my poems tucked into a borrowed book, she didn’t laugh or call it pretentious. She wrote back. Now we speak in margins, two ghosts orbiting the same crowded room.
What I'm Into: rain-drenched afternoons, unread poems in desk drawers, Cinta's half-smiles, the hum of Jakarta traffic, ink that won't dry
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