Raka Pratama had three main talents: writing travel captions that made people want to leave immediately, planning halal travel routes without getting lost, and giving love advice he never followed himself.
That last talent sold best.
“If you like her, don’t pretend you feel nothing,” he told Dimas, a coworker who had been staring at his phone for the past fifteen minutes as if waiting for divine revelation. “Feelings aren’t an electric bill. Don’t let them sit around until they’re past due.”
Dimas looked at him. “You once said love is like a suitcase. You have to carry it carefully.”
“That was before lunch.”
“So which one is right?”
“Whichever fits your problem best.”
Raka went back to typing. On his computer screen, an article titled Five Elegant Ways to Find Your Life Partner was waiting for its closing paragraph. He had already written four ways: improve yourself, broaden your social circle, keep the lines of communication open, and stop posting your sadness on social media so often.
He hadn’t found the fifth way yet because, according to Raka, life deliberately left blank spaces so content writers could keep their jobs.
His phone vibrated. A message from his mother appeared on the screen.
When are you coming home? Aunt Mira asked whether you have a potential match yet.
Raka replied quickly.
Tell Aunt Mira my potential match is still on the way. Maybe they got held up at the toll gate.
His mother’s reply arrived before he could put his phone away.
Stop joking around. You’re twenty-nine.
Raka turned off the screen. The sentence was simple, but it always managed to find the softest place inside him.
He wasn’t married because no one wanted him. At least, that was what he told people. He simply hadn’t met the right person yet, wasn’t ready, was focused on work, and had a few other reasons that sounded reasonable when delivered with a smile.
The problem was, a smile didn’t always mean someone was okay.
Toward evening, Fikri appeared in the office doorway, breathing as if he’d just been chased by a debt collector.
“Rak, are you free tonight?”
“No. I have an important appointment.”
“What?”
“Going home.”
“That’s not an appointment. That’s a habit.”
Fikri set a flyer on the desk. Across the top, it read: BERTASBIH — SHARE, GROW, AND CONNECT.
“The mosque community is holding a social program for singles,” Fikri said. “We’ve been asked to help organize the first event.”
“We have?”
“You have.”
“Why is my name written on it?”
“Because I nominated you.”
Raka rubbed his forehead. “Fikri, you’re married. Why are you still meddling in other people’s single lives?”
“Because I’ve already found the way out.”
“Marriage isn’t a way out of a traffic jam.”
“No. But you have to get on the road first.”
Raka wanted to refuse. But Fikri held out a photo of a little boy smiling as he clutched a food package.
“This isn’t a matchmaking service,” he said, more quietly this time. “They need people to organize the essential-goods distribution and the community library. You can write, organize events, and—”
“And serve as a still-functioning single exhibit?”
“At least you’ll get out of the house.”
Raka looked at the photo. There was something about the boy’s smile that made his jokes stop for a moment.
“Just once,” he said.
Fikri immediately smiled. “I knew you had a heart.”
“I have a schedule. Don’t romanticize it.”
That night, Raka arrived at the mosque in a shirt that was too formal for a social program and wearing an expression that was too relaxed for someone who was actually nervous. In the courtyard, several people were busy moving boxes. A woman stood beside a bookshelf, checking a donation list with a pen tucked between her fingers.
Fikri waved. “Rak, let me introduce you. This is Nisa. She runs the community library.”
The woman turned. Her gaze was calm, as if she could tell the difference between someone who had come to help and someone who had come because his friend forced him to.
“Raka,” Raka said, extending his hand, then hurriedly turning it into a polite greeting. “I’m part of the team that’s going to make this event look more organized than it actually is.”
“Nisa,” she replied. “I’m part of the team that’s going to make sure the reality remains visible.”
Fikri laughed. Raka didn’t. He was busy making sure he didn’t look impressed.
Nisa handed him a sheet of paper. “Please sort these books by category.”
Raka looked at the pile. “There are categories?”
“There are.”
“Religious books, novels, children’s books?”
“Not quite. Books that are still usable, books that need repairs, and books no one should read because their contents make people lose hope.”
For the first time, Raka looked at her without a joke ready.
Nisa had already gone back to checking the list.
That was where Raka’s problems began: he had met someone who didn’t laugh at all his jokes, but made him want to say something more honest.
And Raka, who was used to giving other people advice, suddenly had no idea where to begin.