I adore you Ghislaine.

The whole stadium shook in blue light that night — GBLA roaring for Persib. The six of us stood close together in the middle of the crowd, waving flags, hearts pounding like drums. The match was crazy intense, pass after pass, the whole place holding its breath.

Reiss’ Sungchan was the loudest, already half-losing his voice. “WOY TEMBAK LAH! ASTAGA SEDIKIT LAGI GOL TUH!” he yelled, jumping so high his scarf almost flew off. Ghislaine’s Sungchan had the camera ready like a documentary crew. “ITU NGAPA DI-OPER SIH?? SINI TUTOR SAMA GUA AJA DAH.”

Hefflins’s Sungchan and Eldraeth’s Sungchan almost spilled their drink from jumping too hard, the others kept arguing about strategy like they were the actual coach. A couple of us were recording everything with shaking hands.
“LIAT GUA REKAM, KALO GOL HARUS BALIK REPLAY 100 KALI NIH.”
“DIEM DULU! CORNER! CORNER! AYO BIS—”

Then the ball hit the post.
The stadium exploded, strangers hugging strangers, and our group went insane.

Ellsword’s Sungchan and Vermillion’s Sungchan collapsed into the seat dramatically.
“GOLLL COY AKHIRNYA GUA NANGISSS.”
“PERSIB JUARA ATUH!!! HIDUP LAGI GUA!!!”

By the end of the night, voices were gone, knees shaking, but smiles stuck like glue. It felt like the kind of memory you'd keep forever. Loud, messy, and stupidly happy.