Fikri announced the ta'aruf like someone selling concert tickets.
“Saturday night,” he wrote in the Bertasbih group chat. “Guided introductions. Limited spots. Please bring good intentions and a pen.”
Raka read the message three times.
He replied: What’s the pen for?
Fikri: Filling out the compatibility form.
Raka: What if we’re not compatible?
Fikri: You still get to take the pen home.
Nisa didn’t write anything in the group chat. But the following afternoon, she handed the form to Raka.
“You’re participating?” Raka asked.
“I’m an organizer.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“For now, it’s the answer available.”
The event took place in the mosque’s small hall. The tables were arranged with space between them. On each table sat a glass of mineral water, a sheet of paper, and a blue pen.
Raka stood at the front, holding the microphone with the expression of someone who had just found out he was about to become the subject of conversation.
“Welcome,” he said. “Please be honest. Don’t write that you enjoy reading if the last book you read was a restaurant menu.”
Several participants laughed.
“Don’t say you like traveling if the traveling you mean is from your bed to the refrigerator. And don’t ask the other participants when they’re getting married. We all have families to do that for us.”
The laughter grew louder. Even Nisa lowered her head to hide a smile.
The event began. Each participant had five minutes to talk before moving to the next table. Raka was in charge of keeping time, but Fikri had secretly put his name on the participant list.
The first table was occupied by an accountant who explained his life like a financial statement. The second had a woman carrying a two-page list of questions. The third was empty because its participant had wandered into an alumni reunion by mistake.
“Fikri!” Raka whispered.
“It’s part of the dynamic.”
“It’s part of the confusion.”
In the final round, Raka sat across from Nisa.
“You did this on purpose?” he asked.
“I’m an organizer.”
“That’s your old answer.”
“Then you’re not satisfied.”
Five minutes felt shorter than usual. Nisa looked at the plastic cup between them.
“First question,” she said. “What are you most afraid of?”
Raka gave a small laugh. “Shouldn’t we start with our favorite food?”
“We’re adults.”
“Adults need to eat, too.”
“Answer.”
Raka rubbed the side of the cup. The thin plastic crinkled beneath his fingers.
“Disappointing people,” he said.
Nisa didn’t interrupt.
“That’s why I prefer giving advice. When someone else fails, I can tell them they have to try again. But when I’m the one who fails…” He stopped. “I don’t know what to say to myself.”
The atmosphere in the hall seemed to recede. For the first time that night, Raka didn’t sound funny.
“What about me?” Nisa asked.
“What are you afraid of?”
“Being assumed to be fine just because I don’t say much.”
Raka looked at her.
Nisa gave a faint smile. “Turns out this question isn’t entirely terrible.”
“Don’t say that. Fikri might get a big head.”
A bell rang. Their time was up.
Yet neither of them stood right away.
At the far end of the hall, Faris watched them. His face remained calm, but his hands were clenched at his sides.
After the event ended, heavy rain began to fall. The participants waited on the terrace. Nisa stood alone, hugging her folder to her chest. Raka opened his umbrella.
“I’ll walk you to the library,” he said.
“You only have one umbrella.”
“This umbrella is emotionally spacious.”
“Physically?”
“Big enough for two people who don’t move around much.”
Nisa looked at the rain. “I can wait.”
Raka nodded. “So can I.”
They stood side by side, not really sheltered but not really getting rained on, either. Water dripped from the edge of the umbrella like seconds that hadn’t dared become a decision yet.
“Raka,” Nisa said, “don’t make me an excuse to avoid your own life.”
Raka turned to her.
“I don’t understand.”
“You always joke when the conversation starts getting close to you.”
“Joking is how I survive.”
“Maybe. But don’t let it become how you hide.”
The rain kept falling. For a moment, Raka wanted to ask whether Nisa still loved Faris. He wanted to know if he had a chance. He wanted to ask for an answer that would make everything easy.
But all he said was, “If I stop joking, will you still stay?”
Nisa looked at him for a long moment.
“Try it first.”
Then she stepped beneath the umbrella.
The next morning, Raka found a message from a number he didn’t recognize.
I’m Faris. We need to talk about Nisa.
Raka read the message while sitting on the edge of his bed. Outside, his mother’s voice called for him not to be late for work.
He typed a reply, deleted it, then typed again.
In the end, he wrote only:
About what?
Faris’s reply came immediately.
About why she left me.
Raka set down his phone.
That day, for the first time since joining Bertasbih, he wasn’t afraid of the possibility that he might like Nisa.
He was afraid of the possibility that Nisa still had a reason to go back to someone else.