The following morning, I awoke with my mind already tangled in questions. The sunlight that filtered through my curtains carried no comfort. Instead, it seemed to spotlight the anxiety swirling in my chest. Outside, the usual sounds of Jakarta drifted upward: distant honks, the hum of scooters, the sizzle of street-side vendors preparing breakfast. To everyone else, it was just another Tuesday—students rushing to lectures, merchants yelling their wares, life pulsing forward in its steady rhythm. But for me, everything had shifted. The "Everafter" internship was no longer an abstract idea; it was real, waiting for my response.
I rolled over, staring at the ceiling as if it might reveal some hidden guidance. My sheet, tangled around my legs like a restless ghost, smelled faintly of yesterday's coffee. I blinked several times, brushing a strand of hair off my forehead. The thought came unbidden: What am I even doing? An architecture student interning at a wedding planning company? My eyelashes fluttered as I clutched the edge of the mattress—
—and then flung myself upright, a sudden jolt of determination propelling me from under the covers. Perhaps if I got up and faced the day, the knot in my chest would loosen. I swung my legs to the floor, feeling my feet sink into the cool wood before shuffling to the window. Outside, a street vendor balanced trays of nasi uduk on his shoulder, the aroma of coconut rice angling through the morning air. Motorbikes zipped past, and I watched a group of students in school uniforms crossing the street, their laughter bright as birdsong.
I let out a shaky breath and rubbed my temples. The internship acceptance letter still lay open on my desk, its words glowing in the soft morning light: "Congratulations and welcome to Everafter Wedding Planning." I had read it five times already, but each time it felt like a dream—too surreal to be real.
Was I ready for this? My coursework in structural analysis had prepared me to design load-bearing beams and calculate seismic forces. In my portfolio lay sketches of public libraries, bus terminals, eco-friendly housing. But wedding pavilions? Floral arrangements? Color schemes? My mind recoiled at the unfamiliarity. Yet somewhere beneath my hesitation, a spark flickered. Designing spaces that would cradle people on one of the most important days of their lives—a space that would be remembered in photographs, whispered about at family gatherings, replayed in the hearts of newlyweds for years—didn't that matter?
I stole a glance down at my wristwatch: 6:15 AM. I had two hours before my first lecture. Enough time to wrestle with uncertainty, or to gather courage. I straightened, pulling a loose shirt over my head, then jogged to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face. My reflection stared back bleary-eyed, dark circles underlining the uncertainty that had invaded my dreams. I clenched my jaw. "Focus," I muttered, rinsing my face again.
Emerging from the bathroom, I grabbed my sketchbook, tracing the embossed cover with my fingers. Perhaps the act of sketching—of transferring thoughts onto paper—would untangle my scattered mind. I perched on the edge of my bed and flipped to a blank page. My pencil hovered. A simple diagram of a pavilion took shape: four slender posts supporting a peaked canopy, lanterns dangling like fireflies. But I choked on the idea, erasing the lines. That design belonged to a school campus, not a wedding.
A firm knock sounded at my door. Startled, I spun around to see my mother leaning in, her expression calm but concerned.
"Are you awake?" she asked gently. "Breakfast in ten minutes."
I offered a small nod. "Thanks, Ma. I'll be right there."
She smiled and retreated. I exhaled, closing my sketchbook. The unfamiliarity of wedding design gnawed at me, but leaving my portfolio behind, I couldn't imagine convincing a manager at Everafter that my architectural perspective was valuable. What if they looked at my sketches of reinforced concrete and said, "This has nothing to do with our sugar-sweet floral arches"?
I shoved my thoughts aside and headed toward the kitchen. My mother had laid out a simple breakfast: a plate of warm toast, a boiled egg, and a small bowl of fruit. I ate slowly, lost in thought, my fork idly stirring the egg yolk.
"Everything all right?" she asked, pouring tea into a delicate porcelain cup. Her movements were precise, almost ritualistic—much like the way she always prepared our meals, with measured care.
"I'm… thinking," I admitted. "About the internship at Everafter."
She set the tea on the table and sat across from me. Her kind eyes searched mine. "You've thought about it a lot."
I nodded, staring down at the steam curling from my toast. "It's just… architecture is everything I've worked for. Designing public spaces, community buildings, sustainable housing—it's what I'm passionate about. Weddings… well, I know they matter, but… are my skills even relevant?"
My mother took a slow sip of tea. "Agung, design is design. You learned to think about space, about how to guide people's movements, how to balance form and function. Those principles can apply anywhere—even in wedding planning. Think of each wedding as a temporary city, with its own flow, its own needs. Aren't you curious to explore that?"
Her words settled in my mind, offering a small comfort, but the doubt remained, flickering beneath the surface like a shadow.
"I know," I whispered, pushing my plate away. "But it's so different. The environment I'm used to is academic, controlled. At Everafter, they'll expect me to work with flowers, fabrics, and event logistics. I have no experience in that."
Her gaze softened. "When I was your age, I didn't know anything about business. I learned on the job. You're strong in design; trust yourself." She sipped her tea again, then patted my hand. "Whatever you decide, I'll support you."
I managed a small smile. Her faith warmed me, but I still felt adrift.
---
As I prepared to leave for campus, I stuffed my backpack with notebooks and my laptop. The acceptance email was still open on my phone, peeking out of my back pocket like a secret invitation. I slid on my sneakers and jogged out of the house, locking the door behind me.
The walk to campus was a mix of crowded sidewalks and pothole-ridden pavement. Vendors had opened their stalls, items ranging from batik scarves to skewers of sate. Motorcycles swerved through the morning rush, their exhaust rumbling underfoot. In the midst of this chaotic beauty, I tried to find my center.
I reached the familiar arched entrance of the architecture building—smart glass panels reflecting the amber sky. Inside, the temperature dropped immediately, a welcome relief from the humid street. I passed by the display of student models: cardboard mock-ups of bridges, polymer clay reconstructions of ancient temples, a half-finished foam-core tower shimmering under fluorescent lights. Each creation carried its maker's sweat, frustration, and pride.
But none of them hinted at weddings.
I found my spot in the study area, a communal table near the wall of windows. The sun lit up the campus courtyard, where trees swayed and students practiced sketching the facades of nearby buildings. I laid my backpack on the floor and opened my laptop, ready to start the lecture notes. But my fingers hovered over the keyboard; words wouldn't come. Instead, I stared at the blank screen, the cursor blinking at me in mocking patience.
My thoughts drifted: What if Everafter doesn't even accept me? What if they look at my application, thumb through my portfolio, and say, "We need someone with floral design experience"? Anxiety prickled my throat.
Just then, a voice interrupted my reverie.
"Agung!" I looked up to see Raka bounding toward my table, a blueberry muffin in one hand and a steaming cup of coffee in the other. His auburn-streaked hair glinted in the interior light.
"Raka," I replied, attempting a grin as he dropped both treats in front of me. "Morning."
He sunk into the chair across from me and popped the muffin into his mouth, crumbs tumbling onto the table. "You look like you've seen a ghost. Spit it out—internship anxiety?"
I blew out a breath and pushed the muffin aside. "I'm trying to work on my lecture notes, but I can't focus."
Raka set his coffee down and studied me with a curious tilt of his head. "Let me guess: that application form floating around campus is haunting you?"
I managed a weak laugh. "Something like that. I've been thinking about it nonstop—whether I should be interning at a wedding planning firm or not. It sounds ridiculous even saying it out loud."
He leaned back, crossing his arms. "Why ridiculous? From where I'm standing, it's an opportunity." He leaned forward conspiratorially. "Look, let me be blunt. Your architecture skills are exactly what Everafter needs. Think about it: they plan high-profile weddings with extravagant stage designs, massive tents, elaborate lighting rigs. Who else but an architecture student knows how to calculate load-bearing beams for temporary pavilions? You're golden."
I rubbed my temples. "I know, I know. I can handle structural calculations. But that's only a small part of it. What about all the rest—choosing color schemes, working with florists, handling client whims? I've never done anything like that."
Raka took a long sip of coffee, then leaned back as though imparting some ancient wisdom. "Every field has its learning curve. In our studio, we had to learn wood joinery for that pavilion project, and none of us had done it before. We survived, right?"
I nodded slowly. The memory of late nights spent sanding joints and hammering beams came rushing back. Our pavilion design had been a disaster at first—joints that splintered, beams that sank under weight—but by the end, we had crafted a sturdy structure that withstood the professor's sudden load test. That success had taught me that even unfamiliar tasks could be mastered with determination and patience.
But wedding planning felt more… intangible. There was a performance aspect—managing timelines, coordinating vendors, working under tight deadlines, and dealing with clients who, in my mind, always seemed capricious. I pictured a bride hysterically calling two days before her wedding, demanding pink carpeting instead of ivory. My palms grew clammy at the thought.
Raka patted my shoulder. "So? That's part of the challenge. Besides, you'll be working under Chandra Rokayah. She's a rock—no-nonsense, smart, and extremely organized. If anyone can teach you how to wrangle clients, it's her."
"Hm," I murmured, my appetite for the morning's lecture waning. The edges of my anxiety softened as his words sank in. If Chandra was as formidable as Raka claimed, maybe I could learn from her. I thought of Professor Hartono's mention of her: "Chandra is a graduate who consistently broke design barriers. She's not one to indulge whimsy—she wants results." The challenge of matching her expectations both excited and frightened me.
Raka noticed my gaze drifting. "Seriously, man, this is perfect for you. Think of the professional connections—photographers, caterers, lighting specialists—you'll have a network faster than you can say 'architectural rendering.' Plus, your portfolio will stand out: 'Designed structural framework for high-profile weddings.' Not everyone can say that."
I sipped some coffee, the rich bitterness rippling across my tongue. My chest felt lighter, as though Raka's enthusiasm had carved out a small space for possibility. He was right—experience was experience. Designing with steel and glass for a library didn't differ so fundamentally from designing with steel and fabric for a wedding tent. Both required calculations, floor plans, an understanding of movement flow. More than anything, I craved practical experience, and this internship promised exactly that.
But the last straw of doubt teased the edges of my mind. What if I get in and realize I hate it? I thought. What if I learn that wedding planning's whimsical chaos is nothing like the controlled logic of architecture, and I regret losing time I could've spent in a more traditional firm?
Raka followed my gaze down to my laptop screen, where a blank Word document glared up at me. "Look," he said softly, "nobody can tell you the future. The only way to know if you like it is to try. And if it doesn't work out, you're still an architecture student with a fresh perspective. You'll learn something either way."
His voice, earnest and unwavering, grounded me. I took a slow breath, feeling the rhythm of my heart settle. "You're right," I said, closing the laptop. "I'll do it."
Raka exhaled triumphantly. "That's the spirit! Now—finish your notes and then we celebrate. I heard the new pancake stall set up near the studio. Pancakes with mango and coconut syrup—my treat."
I laughed, the tension finally dissolving into something light. "Deal. But only if I survive today's lecture."
Raka grinned, slinging an arm around my shoulder as we packed up.
---
The day's lectures passed in a comfortable haze. Each time my mind drifted toward the internship, it landed on the same thought: Prepare to learn, to adapt, to create something entirely new. By the time my final class ended—a history of Indonesian vernacular architecture—I felt a calm determination replacing the morning's unease.
Outside the classroom, Raka and I strolled along the university walkway, a shaded promenade lined with frangipani trees. Their white blossoms dotted the ground like fallen stars. The late afternoon light cast a warm glow across campus, and a gentle breeze rustled the leaves, scattering petals in our path.
"So," Raka said, hands tucked in his pockets, "you're really going to submit that form by tomorrow?"
I nodded, brushing a petal from my notebook cover. "Yes. I'll write my statement tonight—why I want to apply, how my architecture background can help. Then I'll hand it in to Professor Hartono before he leaves for the day."
"Don't overthink it," Raka advised. "Just tell them what we just talked about—design skills, desire to learn, willingness to work under pressure. Trust yourself."
I inhaled deeply, letting the frangipani scent fill my lungs. "Thank you, Raka. I honestly don't know what I'd do without you."
He laughed, tossing a petal into the air. "You'd probably be curled into a ball somewhere. Now, let's celebrate with pancakes before you go home and write that essay."
We turned a corner, and I caught sight of the pancake stall—a simple wooden cart with a crimson umbrella, smoke drifting from a cast-iron griddle. Two students in makeshift aprons flipped pancakes with practiced ease. The aroma of sizzling batter and sweet coconut syrup was intoxicating. Raka ordered two plates of the stall's specialty: fluffy pancakes topped with fresh mango slices, drizzled with coconut syrup and a sprinkling of toasted coconut flakes.
We carried our plates to a nearby bench, where the setting sun slanted through the trees, casting dappled patterns on the cobblestones. I cut a forkful of pancake, expecting simple sweetness—but the first bite was layered in complexity: the soft tartness of mango, the creamy sweetness of syrup, the slight chew of toasted coconut. I closed my eyes, letting the flavors mingle.
"This is amazing," I murmured, swallowing. "How did I not know about this place?"
Raka grinned around a mouthful of pancake. "Beginners never explore the hidden spots. But you—new intern, founder of a potential pancake empire."
I laughed, shaking my head. "Don't jinx it. I haven't even started the internship yet."
He nudged me playfully. "You will. And then you'll see—life is like these pancakes: unpredictable, a mix of textures and flavors. You never know what combination will surprise you."
His words lingered inside me, like a promise. I thought of the form I would write tonight, of how I would describe myself as a student of space, of emotion, of function. The thought buoyed me, filling my chest with warm resolve.
---
That evening, I arrived home with the sun sinking toward the horizon. The sky was a canvas of pastel oranges and purples—Jakarta's version of twilight. My mother hummed softly in the kitchen as she prepared dinner, the scent of sautéed vegetables mingling with the lingering aroma of carboned rice left over from lunch.
I settled at my desk, opened my laptop, and stared at the blank document awaiting my internship statement. The soft hum of the refrigerator and my mother's distant humming formed a comfortable soundtrack. I tapped my fingers on the keyboard, recalling every conversation from the day—from my mother's encouragement to Raka's confident assurances.
My gaze drifted to a small framed photograph on my desk: a younger me, standing beside a model of my first ever architectural project, a miniature community center I had designed in high school. My teacher, smiling proudly, held my shoulder. In that moment, I had known nothing could stop me. The memory reminded me how far I'd come—and how much farther I could go if I embraced this new opportunity.
I began typing:
> Internship Statement
My name is Agung Rokhman, a third-year architecture student at Universitas Jakarta. I have always been passionate about the ways in which built environments shape our daily experiences—how light, space, and structure work together to influence mood, behavior, and memory. Over the past two years, I have immersed myself in designing community buildings and sustainable structures, focusing on materials that reduce environmental impact while creating inviting, functional spaces for public use.
When Professor Hartono announced the opportunity to intern at Everafter Wedding Planning, I was both surprised and intrigued. Wedding planning may seem distant from traditional architecture; however, I believe the principles I have honed—understanding spatial flow, calculating structural loads, and creating cohesive design narratives—are directly applicable to designing memorable, yet structurally sound, wedding venues.
In my recent project—a community library—I utilized laminated bamboo beams and recycled steel supports to create a lightweight, earthquake-resistant structure. By conducting rigorous load analysis and collaborating with local craftsmen, I ensured that the building was both resilient and aesthetically harmonious with its surroundings. I envision applying these same sustainable methods to wedding pavilions, designing temporary structures that leave minimal environmental footprint while honoring the couple's vision.
Beyond structural expertise, I have refined my skills in 3D modeling and rendering to communicate design concepts effectively. I understand that in event planning, clients rely on clear, visually compelling presentations to visualize their special day. By providing detailed renderings of ceremony layouts, lighting scenarios, and floral integration, I can help clients understand how each element contributes to the overall atmosphere. My technical background in load distribution, diaphragm action, and foundation design will ensure that every structure, from the wedding arch to the reception canopy, meets safety standards without compromising on elegance.
I am eager to learn from Ms. Chandra Rokayah and the talented team at Everafter. Through this internship, I hope to gain practical experience managing vendor logistics, understanding client preferences, and translating architectural concepts into event realities. I am confident that my strong work ethic, collaborative spirit, and passion for design will make me a valuable contributor. Ultimately, I view wedding venues as ephemeral stages where unforgettable memories unfold, and I am excited to apply my architectural knowledge to create spaces that celebrate love, culture, and togetherness.
I paused, reading over the words. Each sentence felt like a step into the unknown, a bridge between the world I knew and the new frontier awaiting me. I added a final line:
> Thank you for considering my application. I look forward to the possibility of contributing my skills to Everafter Wedding Planning and growing as both a designer and a collaborator.
Satisfied, I saved the file and printed it on crisp, white paper. The printer hummed, and the pages slid into the output tray. I gathered them neatly, alongside a small stack of sample renderings from my portfolio. In my mind, I replayed the moment I would hand these to Professor Hartono: my heartbeat steady, my gaze confident.
By the time I finished dinner—a simple stir-fry of vegetables and grilled tempeh—the sky outside had darkened to midnight blue, dotted with faint pinpricks of stars. My mother flicked off the stove, wiping her hands on a towel. She glanced at me with a gentle smile.
"Long night?"
I nodded, wiping my mouth. "Just finishing my internship application."
She reached over, placing a hand on my shoulder. "I'm proud of you. No matter what happens, you'll learn."
Her faith settled around me like a warm blanket. I felt ready. Tomorrow morning, I would make the walk to Professor Hartono's office, folder in hand, and declare my intent. In that moment, I wouldn't be the anxious student who once doubted how an architect could help at a wedding. I would be Agung Rokhman—designing spaces, weaving structural integrity with beauty, ready to embark on a new chapter.
With that determination in mind, I closed the door to my room and crawled under the covers. The ceiling above me was a deep indigo, and in the quiet, I could almost hear the echoes of possibilities whispering through the darkness.
Tomorrow, I begin something new. I allowed that thought to cradle my mind into a steady calm. I will learn. I will grow. I will design a wedding that people remember forever.