Second Place
Raka knew he had lost even before his name was called.
He knew from the way the head judge lowered his head while reading the score sheet. He knew from the applause that sounded louder for the contestant beside him. He knew from Bima's smile, which had been far too calm all evening, as if victory had been placed in his hands long before the event began.
The administration building's auditorium was filled with white light that made everyone look pale. Above the stage, a large screen displayed the competition logo: Adikara University Young Ideas Festival. Beneath it, the words “Creating the Future” shimmered whenever the spotlights moved.
Raka sat in the second row with Naya. His hand gripped the edge of his presentation folder until the papers inside crumpled.
“If they call your name, don't make a face like you're about to sue the organizers,” Naya whispered.
“I am going to sue them if I don't win.”
“You've been saying that all night.”
“Because they've been deliberately making me wait all night.”
Naya glanced at him. “Raka, this is an announcement ceremony. Not a criminal trial.”
Raka didn't answer. He stared at the stage.
Three judges sat behind a long table. A professor, a sponsor representative, and an older man he didn't know. The man wore a gray suit and had the expression of someone who had watched other people fail far too many times. Three trophies stood in front of the table.
The first-place trophy was the tallest, coated in gold, with two open hands supporting a glass ball. The second-place trophy was smaller and looked dull. Its shape was strange, like an old trophy that had been repainted over and over. Fine scratches covered its neck. Beneath the glass ball was a black nameplate with no writing visible from a distance.
The third-place trophy wasn't even interesting.
Raka only thought about the first-place trophy.
He had already imagined lifting it in front of the cameras, sending a photo to his father, then placing it on his desk so anyone who entered his room would know he was no longer an ordinary student. For two years, he had lived from one competition to the next. Scholarships, certificates, recommendations, connections—all of them felt like steps toward something he still couldn't name.
Second place wasn't a step. It was a hole.
“The third-place winner,” the host announced, “is New Script with their entry, Circular City!”
Applause broke out. Raka clapped along without hearing any of it.
“The second-place winner...”
His heart stopped for a moment.
“Raka Mahendra, from the School of Social Sciences, with his entry, The Way Home!”
The applause suddenly turned into fog. Naya patted his shoulder, but Raka didn't stand right away. He stared at the stage, at Bima still sitting beside him, then at the large screen displaying his photo alongside the title of his entry.
SECOND PLACE.
Those two words appeared much larger than his face.
“Go up,” Naya said. “You won.”
Raka stood.
His legs carried him to the stage while his mind remained behind in his seat. He walked past rows of chairs, past smiling students, past Bima, who clapped the slowest of all. As Raka climbed onto the stage, he caught a glimpse of something in the corner of the screen: documentation photos from competitions in previous years, changing automatically.
A student stood on a podium, holding the same trophy as the second-place trophy on the table.
The photo appeared for only one second.
The student was thin, with somewhat long hair, and smiled without really looking happy. Behind him, an old banner displayed a year Raka didn't have time to read.
Then the image changed.
“Congratulations,” the older man in the gray suit said when Raka reached the judges' table.
His name was printed on his name badge: Dr. Seno Wibisana.
Raka received the certificate first. His hand was cold. After that, Dr. Seno lifted the dull trophy from the table and handed it to him.
The trophy was heavier than it looked.
It wasn't the weight of the metal. There was something about the object that made Raka's palm feel as if it were holding something freshly lifted from the bottom of the water. Its surface was cold, even beneath the stage lights.
“Is this a traveling trophy?” Raka asked.
Dr. Seno gave him a faint smile. “Something like that.”
“Why doesn't it have the competition's name?”
“The nameplate hasn't been replaced yet.”
“Yet?”
“The organizers will take care of it.”
Raka examined the bottom of the trophy. The black nameplate was covered in scratches. There were traces of writing that looked as if they had once been scraped away with a sharp object, then covered with dark paint. Along the left edge, he could make out a white line resembling an unfinished letter.
“Just hold on to it for now,” Dr. Seno said. “There'll be a photo session later.”
The sentence sounded ordinary, but the way the man said it made Raka look up.
Dr. Seno had already turned to shake Bima's hand, the first-place winner. The gold trophy was handed to him with both hands and a much wider smile.
Raka stood alone at the side of the stage, hugging the dull trophy.
A photographer asked the three of them to move closer together. Bima stood in the middle with the gold trophy against his chest. Raka was on the left, holding up the nameless trophy.
“Closer,” the photographer said.
Bima moved half a step, but his shoulder bumped Raka's arm.
“Don't be so tense,” he whispered. “Second place is still an achievement.”
Raka turned to him. “Are you afraid I'll take your trophy?”
Bima chuckled. “Why would I be? Your trophy looks like it's been buried.”
The camera flashed.
In that burst of white, Raka saw the reflection of his face in the glass ball atop the trophy. His face looked elongated and pale, and he was standing far too close to someone behind him.
Someone thin.
Someone with hair covering part of their face.
Raka spun around.
There was no one there. Only black curtains and light cables.
“What is it?” Naya asked when Raka came down from the stage.
“Nothing.”
“Did you see a ghost?”
“All I saw was my trophy.”
“Your trophy is pretty horrifying.”
Naya tried to take the trophy, but Raka held on to it.
“I'll carry it.”
“Afraid I'll drop it?”
“Afraid you'll damage it.”
“That thing was already damaged before you got it.”
Raka didn't answer.
The event ended at almost nine that night. Outside the building, the rain had just stopped. The campus grounds reflected the streetlights in long puddles. Students gathered in groups to take photos, laugh, and talk about the prize money that would be distributed the following week.
Raka stood a short distance from the crowd, staring at the trophy inside its thin cardboard box.
He should have felt proud. His name was printed on the certificate. His entry had been praised. He had received enough prize money to pay his rent for several months.
Yet all of it felt like a substitute.
From behind him, Naya said, “You can still win next year.”
“No one remembers second place next year.”
“I remember you.”
“That isn't the world I want to win.”
Naya fell silent. Then she pointed at the box. “At least look on the bright side. That trophy has a history.”
“What history?”
“The organizers said it's been used since the first competition.”
Raka looked at her. “How do you know?”
“I heard it from an upperclassman. Apparently the trophy went missing for several years.”
“And then?”
“It was found again in a storage room in the old building.”
Raka gave a hollow laugh. “Campus stories.”
“Campus stories are usually more honest than official announcements.”
A car stopped in front of the gate. Raka's father texted that he couldn't pick him up. His mother still hadn't come home from the hospital where she worked. Raka eventually ordered a ride-share motorcycle.
He carried the trophy on his lap for the entire ride.
The night wind hit his face. Beneath the streetlights, the campus slowly disappeared behind him. Raka looked back once. The administration building stood dark, its windows reflecting the wet sky.
On the top floor, a shadow seemed to be standing behind the glass.
Raka blinked.
The shadow was gone.
When he arrived home, it was nearly ten. The living room lights were on, but no one was there. Two cups of cold coffee and an unwashed plate sat on the dining table. Quiet voices came from his parents' room, then stopped when Raka opened the door.
“Are you home?” his mother called.
“Yes.”
“Did you win?”
“Second place.”
No congratulations came. Only a long silence.
Raka carried the trophy to his room and placed it on his desk. He threw the box in the trash. The trophy stood crooked because one of the rubber bases underneath had come loose.
He turned on the desk lamp.
For the first time, he could see the black nameplate clearly.
The scraped-away writing wasn't just one line. Several letters remained, covered by scratches and old paint. Raka took out his phone, turned on the flash, then tilted the trophy toward the light.
A name slowly emerged from beneath the black layer.
It wasn't Raka's name.
It wasn't the competition's name either.
Only three letters could be read clearly:
ARD...
A sound of something breaking came from his parents' room.
Raka turned.
The trophy on the desk shifted slightly, even though he was sure he hadn't touched it.
Then, from inside the hollow trophy, came a soft tapping sound.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
Raka didn't move.
The tapping stopped.
His reflection appeared again on the surface of the glass ball. This time, the thin figure stood directly behind his shoulder.
And before Raka could turn around, someone whispered very close to his ear.
“Not yours.”