Falling Upward

"Thank you," Dimas said, opening the digital file for the New Horizon project. "Now, let’s talk about why your current branding is a disaster."

He didn’t click through the slides. Instead, he walked away from the podium, pacing the length of the mahogany table. The board members, used to being hypnotized by PowerPoints, blinked in confusion.

"You’re selling a five-trillion Rupiah dream," Dimas began, his voice echoing in the silent room. "But the way you’re pitching it? It feels like a funeral for a bank account. Look at these renders. Glass. Steel. Infinity pools. It’s cold. It’s sterile. It’s a place where people go to be important, but it’s not a place where people go to live."

"It’s a luxury development, Mr. Wibisono," Aris interrupted, leaning back with a smirk. "The 'soul' you’re looking for is usually found in the price tag."

"Is it?" Dimas turned, locking eyes with him. "Because I’ve spent the last few years looking at the city from the bottom up. Not from a penthouse, but from the curb. Have you ever wondered why the guy selling satay on the corner is smiling more than the guy sitting in your lobby? It’s because that corner feels like a neighborhood. Your project feels like a fortress."

The senior board member, Pak Surya, tilted his head. "And how does that help us sell units, Dimas? We aren't building a satay stall."

"No, you’re building a 'Horizon.' But for who?" Dimas leaned over the table, his hands flat on the polished wood. "The middle-class kid who just got his first promotion? The young couple trying to figure out how to pay for a wedding and a mortgage at the same time? They don’t want a 'monolith of success.' They want a place where they don’t feel like they’re drowning. They want a home that understands they might only have fifty thousand Rupiah in their pocket on a Tuesday, but they still deserve a view of the sky."

Hana watched him, her breath hitching. This wasn't the script they’d discussed. This was raw. This was the Dimas who used to draw sketches of parks on the back of his homework.

"I spent last night in a room that smells like damp laundry and instant noodles," Dimas said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "I know what it’s like to look at a building like this and feel like the door is locked from the inside. If you want New Horizon to be a success, you stop selling the architecture. You start selling the dignity. You make it a place where a person can be broke for a week and not feel like a failure. You build a community, not a gated cage."

He stopped. The room was deathly quiet. A woman at the end of the table reached for a tissue, dabbing her eyes.

"Dignity," Pak Surya murmured. "I haven't heard that word in a boardroom in twenty years."

"It’s a gamble," Aris sneered, though his voice lacked its earlier bite. "You’re suggesting we lower the prestige of the brand?"

"I’m suggesting you increase the humanity," Dimas countered. "Because prestige is a bubble. Humanity is a market that never crashes."

Pak Surya stood up, his chair scraping against the floor. He looked at Hana, then at Dimas. "The board will deliberate. But I think… I think I’d like to see the 'soul' of this project on the brochures. Hana, your consultant is certainly unconventional."

"He’s exactly what Arkadia needs, Pak," Hana said, her voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her.

As the board members filed out, Aris lingered by the door. He glared at Dimas, his jaw tight. "Don't get comfortable, 'Berlin.' Soul doesn't pay the interest on a five-trillion loan. I’ll be watching the numbers."

"I’ll send you a calculator for Christmas, Aris," Dimas replied, not even looking up as he packed his laptop.

When the room finally cleared, only Hana and Dimas remained. The silence was different now—lighter, yet charged. Hana let out a long, shaky breath and leaned against the table.

"You’re insane," she said, a small, genuine smile breaking through her professional mask. "You completely ignored the brief. You ignored the data. You talked about satay stalls and instant noodles."

"It worked, didn't it? People like feeling things, Hana. Even corporate sharks have a tiny, shriveled heart somewhere under the Botox."

"You were amazing, Dimas. Truly." She stepped closer, her eyes searching his. "Where did all that come from? The part about the 'door being locked'?"

Dimas zipped his bag, his movements slowing. "It’s easy to write a script when you’ve lived the movie, Hana. I wasn't just being poetic. That’s my life."

Hana’s smile faded, replaced by a look of profound realization. She looked at his navy blazer—the one she’d just bought him—and then at his hands, which were slightly calloused. "I didn't realize it was that bad. I mean, I knew you were freelancing, but… why didn't you say anything?"

"What was I supposed to say? 'Hey Hana, remember me? I’m the guy you dumped ten years ago, and by the way, I’m currently deciding between a bus fare and a boiled egg'?"

"I didn't dump you, Dimas. I went to London. My father—"

"Your father gave you a choice between a legacy and a distraction," Dimas finished for her, his voice devoid of bitterness but heavy with history. "You chose the legacy. I get it. I probably would’ve done the same if I had a kingdom waiting for me."

Hana looked away, her fingers tracing the edge of her tablet. "I should have checked on you. I should have been a better friend, at the very least."

"Water under the bridge. Or in my case, water in my shoes from last night's rain," Dimas joked, trying to break the tension. "So, did we win? Or am I going back to my 'avant-garde' duct tape suit?"

"We won the initial approval. The budget is ours for the next phase." Hana stood up straight, her confidence returning. "And to celebrate, I’m taking you to lunch. And no, not at Union. Somewhere you actually like."

*

The sun was beginning to dip, casting long, orange shadows over the chaotic traffic of South Jakarta. They weren't in the sedan. Hana had insisted they walk a few blocks to a permanent roadside stall tucked into an alleyway—a place that smelled of charcoal smoke, sweet soy sauce, and nostalgia.

"Two portions of Sate Ayam, extra peanut sauce," Hana called out to the vendor, an old man who recognized her with a wide, toothless grin.

"You still come here?" Dimas asked, surprised, as they sat on low plastic stools.

"Whenever the corporate world gets too loud," Hana admitted, wiping a plastic spoon with a tissue. "My driver hates it. He thinks I’ll get food poisoning before a merger."

"It builds character. And immunity." Dimas took a deep breath of the smoke. "This is the first thing I’ve eaten today that didn't come out of a plastic wrapper. I might actually cry."

"Dimas, about earlier…" Hana paused as the plates were set down between them. "I meant what I said. I admire what you did today. You have this way of seeing the world that I… I lost somewhere between my MBA and the board meetings."

"It’s a luxury to have a 'vision,' Hana. When you’re hungry, you just see the next meal. I’m just lucky my hunger happens to look like 'creative insight' to rich people."

"It’s more than that," she insisted, leaning forward. "You stayed true to yourself. Even when you were terrified. I saw your hands shaking under the table."

Dimas laughed, a genuine, warm sound. "You caught that, huh? I thought I was being a master of disguise."

"I’ve known you since we were seventeen, Dimas. I know your 'I’m-about-to-faint' face." She reached across the small table, her hand hovering near his before she pulled back, opting to pick up a skewer instead. "I’m sorry for the way things ended. Not just the London thing. All of it. I was young, and I was scared of disappointing my father."

"Hana, it’s fine. Look at where you are. You’re the Queen of Arkadia. You’re doing exactly what you were born to do."

"Am I? Or am I just a ghost in a different kind of suit?" She looked at the bustling street, her expression wistful. "Sometimes I wish we could just go back to that summer after graduation. No companies. No boards. Just us and a bucket of stolen mangoes."

"I think we’d get arrested for the mangoes now. We’re too old to play the 'innocent student' card."

They laughed together, the sound blending with the clatter of the city. For a moment, the ten-year gap vanished. They weren't a mogul and a freelancer; they were just two people sharing a meal on a humid evening, the neon lights of the city reflecting in their eyes.

"We make a good team," Hana said softly, her gaze lingering on his. "The Ghost and the Queen."

"Sounds like a bad N*****x show," Dimas replied, but he didn't look away. "But I think I could get used to it."

The moment stretched, thick with things unsaid. The air felt heavy, charged with a sudden, electric tension. Hana leaned in slightly, the distance between them shrinking. Dimas felt his heart skip a beat, the same way it used to in the high school library.

Buzz. Buzz.

The vibration against Dimas’s thigh was violent, shattering the mood. He blinked, shaking his head as if waking from a dream.

"Sorry," he muttered, reaching into his pocket. "It’s probably just a spam call about a loan."

He pulled out his phone. The screen was cracked, but the notification was clear. It was an automated message from his property management app, marked with a red exclamation point.

[FINAL NOTICE: URGENT]

*User: D. Wibisono. Unit 4B.

Outstanding Balance: 4,200,000 IDR.

Eviction procedure initiated. Lock change scheduled for 10:00 PM tonight. Please vacate the premises immediately to avoid legal action.*

Dimas stared at the screen. The numbers blurred. The five million Hana had sent him earlier was already gone—swallowed by the debt he’d owed for his mother’s hospital bills and the 'advance' he’d used to pay off the most aggressive of his creditors. He was back to zero. Worse than zero.

"Dimas?" Hana asked, her voice filled with concern. "What is it? You look like you’ve seen a real ghost this time."

Dimas looked up at the glittering skyscrapers surrounding them, then back at the woman who represented a world he still couldn't afford to live in. He forced a smile, though it felt like it was made of lead.

"Nothing," he said, pocketing the phone. "Just a reminder that the 'New Horizon' is still a long way off."

He looked at his watch. 8:45 PM. He had seventy-five minutes before his entire life was tossed onto the sidewalk.

"Hana," he said, standing up abruptly. "I should go. I have… I have some research to do for the next phase of the pitch."

"Now? But we were just—"

"Work never sleeps, right?" Dimas interrupted, backing away. "I’ll call you tomorrow. 9 AM at the Indomaret. Don’t be late."

He turned and disappeared into the crowd before she could respond, leaving Hana sitting alone at the small wooden table, the half-eaten satay cooling between them. As he ran toward the nearest bus stop, Dimas gripped his laptop bag, his mind racing. He had won the boardroom, but he was about to lose the only four walls he had left.