Short Story

Name : Nur Dini Zahrotus Sholikha

NIM    : 230511100027

The Empty Chair 

Rain was falling quietly over the campus that evening. From the large second-floor library window, the droplets looked like tiny needles stitching the sky to the earth. The soft tapping on the roof created a steady rhythm, the kind that blended into the background and accompanied students buried in books and laptop screens.

Nara sat in her usual corner, right beside the linguistics section. The tall bookshelves stood silently like old guards that had watched generations of students come and go. The smell of paper and the cool air from the AC wrapped around her in a way that felt familiar. In front of her, her laptop was turned on, but the screen was still blank, a white page waiting patiently for the first sentence to arrive.

Just one table across from her was a chair. Empty. Too empty. The kind of empty that kept drawing her eyes back, as if a spotlight had been set on it. It hadn’t always been empty. That chair had once belonged to someone whose presence still felt vivid in Nara’s mind: Gara.

Gara, with his slightly messy black hair that somehow always looked intentional. Sharp eyes, warm smile. He always sat with a cup of fresh coffee in hand, steam still rising from the lid. Nara could still imagine the faint smell of bitter coffee drifting all the way to the nearest shelf.

His greeting was always simple.

“Studying again?”

But now the chair sat alone. Yet, to Nara, it wasn’t entirely unoccupied. She could still feel Gara’s presence as if the air around that seat carried echoes of him.

Nara put her fingers on the keys and typed a few words, but her mind wasn’t fully on the work. Her focus kept sliding away every time her eyes drifted back toward that empty chair. Maybe it was the rain. Maybe it was memory. Or maybe some part of her still waited for him to show up with that same small grin and a comment she didn’t ask for. Then, suddenly, she heard a voice in her head. Clear. Familiar.

“Still can’t focus?”

Nara didn’t turn. She didn’t need to. She knew that voice anywhere. She kept her eyes on the screen and answered in silence, as if talking to herself

“I’m trying.”

“Trying? Since when did trying mean just staring at the screen? You usually start working after getting snacks.”

Nara’s lips tugged slightly upward. Gara had always been like that—appearing with a remark that was light but accurate.

“If you were here,” she thought, “maybe I’d be more focused.”

“I am here.”

Nara finally glanced at the chair. It was still empty. But in her mind, she could see Gara sitting there, leaning back comfortably with that half-smile. She knew this wasn’t real. Gara had gone home a month earlier. His mother had fallen sick, and there was no one else to look after her. It wasn’t part of any class schedule, but still a responsibility he couldn’t ignore. Yet the chair still belonged to him.

Sitting there in the warm space between memory and imagination, Gara seemed almost alive. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table like he always did.

“What are you reading?” his voice asked.

“Pragmatics theory,” Nara answered inside her head. “I need to prepare data analysis for next week.”

“Still using that thick brown book?”

“Yes.”

“Brick,” he commented dryly.

Nara suppressed a chuckle. They used to call it a brick because it was large enough to break a toe if dropped. She opened the book again and tried to focus. The text was dense and full of terms, but somehow, with Gara’s imagined presence, it felt less suffocating.

“So,” Gara’s voice returned, “what’s an example of spatial deixis in your data?”

Nara answered internally, just like she would if they were still studying side by side.

“Expressions like ‘I’m here’ or ‘You go there.’ They rely on context to make sense.”

“Mhm,” Gara replied. “Sounds like a first-year answer.”

Nara almost rolled her eyes. “You want a longer explanation?”

“You’re not a first-year anymore.”

Fair enough. Nara adjusted her analysis, adding more detail, stronger examples, and some reference points. And unexpectedly, her fingers began moving more confidently. Gara, real or not, was still pushing her the same way. Students came and went. Some hurried with piles of books, others scrolled through their phones without opening a single page. The library was like a narrow stream—people flowed in, stayed for a while, and continued downstream.

Outside, the rain grew heavier. The sound thickened like a curtain of water shut against the world beyond. In that moment, Gara’s voice softened.

“I miss this place.”

Nara paused. “I know.”

“I want to come back.”

“You will. Once everything at home is settled.”

Silence hovered. The rain filled it.

“Are you waiting for me?” Gara’s voice asked.

Nara swallowed. She looked at the empty chair again. Her chest felt tight, but she inhaled slowly and answered in her thoughts:

“I’m walking forward. If you come back later, I’ll pause long enough for you to catch up.”

A response that didn’t cling, but didn’t push away either. They were adults now. Choices had weight. Sacrifice takes shape. And some pain lives quietly rather than loudly.

Gara chuckled. “Sounds like a language student answer.”

“It’s an answer from someone who knows that life doesn’t stop just because someone leaves.”

Silence again. But not a suffocating one. Instead, something gentle settled around her. Like a blanket. Nara typed again. Every few minutes, Gara commented.

“That sentence could be clearer.”

“Give a real example.”

“Try supporting it with data.”

And strangely, it helped. Even if he was only there in memory, Gara was still a good study partner. Hours passed. The rain eventually softened. At around eight, the library speakers crackled to life. A calm announcement echoed:

“The library will close in fifteen minutes.”

Nara took a final look at her draft. Not finished, but moving. Much better than when she arrived. She closed her laptop, stacked her books, and looked again at the empty chair. Gara was there in her mind, giving her that same small grin.

“Don’t stop, Na.”

She smiled gently. “I won’t.”

Gara stood up in her imagination, giving her shoulder a light, familiar pat. “See you later.”

Nara nodded. “See you.”

His presence faded like mist, but the warmth of it didn’t disappear.

Outside, the campus glowed under quiet yellow streetlights. Nara slipped her hands into her jacket pockets. The rain had died down to a soft drizzle. The air was cool, and she exhaled slowly, feeling something in her chest settle. That empty chair wasn’t a symbol of loss. It was a page waiting to be filled.

One day, maybe Gara would come back, sit there again with his coffee and a new comment ready. Or maybe life would lead them in different directions. Either way, Nara would keep moving forward. Because on this campus, everyone was writing their own chapters. And some chapters were written at the library table, under the sound of rain, beside a chair that was never truly empty.