Short Stories of Islamic Love
Me, You, And Mute Dusk

My name is Rona, complete Rona Orange universe. People call me a nerd, 'cause there's nowhere else but a library to hang out for my day. Actually, that name doesn't fit. I'm more diverse if it is called a nerd, because what I read in the library is just a novel, not like a nerd in general who deals with scientific books. For me, scientific books are boring. There is no drawing, monotony, the language is formal and rigid. And to me, the novel is very interesting. The execution of a slick idea, a well-arranged storyline that is able to produce millions of imaginations in the head of the reader.

Reading a novel is more fun than watching a movie. While watching the film, we drift in every scene that is displayed as the work of the director. Whereas when we read a novel, every scene we are reading will play out in a scene in our own imagination automatically. We're directors.



Other than my poles, the image attached to my next self is my quiet self. I am sure that every human being is born into the world with the gift of each nature and character. And coincidentally, God bestowed a quiet nature on me.

I'm not disappointed to be quiet, I'm grateful.

There are so many people who have an active nature to talk, but I think the liveliness of speech they have mostly invites a lot of sin. People who actively talk or can be called babble or can also be called people who can not be silent tend to speak as they please. They don't care there are so many invisible hearts that are being felt.

A man's heart who knows? Let alone for the quiet, fellow talk active only we do not know the potential that will be felt by each heart.

For example, as I accidentally heard from a fellow woman who was sitting opposite to me.

“eh, atuh sia mah eta ngetikna nohade! Meuni ruffled kieu,” said one of the glasses with the intention of correcting the results of his friend's type with curly hair.

However, it is unexpected that correction invites dislike of the curly hair. For a moment his face showed annoyance, until he said these hurtful words with half-joking insinuation, “Heleh ngke or pan will be edited! We mean, mejeuh sia mah business bae glasses scarecrow! Haha.”

I decided to move seats. I chose to sit in one of the rooms to read.

Hhh. This is much better.

From the incident, who would have thought that the criticism that is constructive will actually make you upset? And who knows, the satirical reply from the curl will hurt the glasses very much?

For that, I am grateful.

I looked at the title on the cover of a novel by Emma Grace.

RE-WRITES.

“Write” meaning “write”.

For most quiet people, writing is one medium to channel what is in their head that cannot be expressed through chatter or speech. Writing is another hobby for me.

There are many things I write. Starting from my mother, papa, brother, me, my school, my college, today's college, my turmoil, my turmoil, my happiness, and one other thing that I always write without ever forgetting a single day, which is twilight. The orange spray in the sky signifies the change of day and night. The border between tired and sound.

The twilight is always dim, and romantic. To lead me to a beautiful memory tucked between the thousands of loopholes of my heart. With him, on the evening of March 25.

TWILIGHT TWO WEEKS AGO

March 25, 2017

A novel was within my grasp as I set foot toward the stop located in front of the campus where I was studying. My goal was to go to the regional library located about 300 meters from here.

After crossing two lanes of the highway, there was a woman who was sitting in the middle position, and seemed to be waiting for transport —or motor invitation, because he was carrying a helmet.

I sat on the bench on the woman's right side. Before long, a motorbike driven by a man stopped in front of us, picking up the woman sitting next to me. With a happy face, the woman ran over to the man, and they left immediately.

I was alone at the stop. The transportation is not usually long. I stared at the building across the eyes of —kampusku—, seeing so many people going back and forth with each of his affairs. Some look rushed, some look so objected to the bag, some look casually justifying music or anything through the headset, some laugh with his friend, some look moody, some look glum, some are ordinary, some look cheerful and unpretentious.

Suddenly, I thought of a novel I had already grasped. The title, SAUJANA HATI.

To get rid of the boredom of waiting for an unfailing angkot, I decided to go page by page and start reading it.

And it lasted long enough.

There may be some or even so many angkots passing by and stopping —I heard the sound of his horn and the offer of the driver's brother to me— but, uh, I was too focused on the one thing before my eyes —novel, before I realized there was a red binder lying by my side.

“Who's got?”, my heart wonders.

Could this binder have belonged to the woman earlier? But I don't think so, because I carefully opened the cover binder and wrote the owner's name.

A name of someone my heart and I know.

For a moment, I was confused, what should I do? Mind-set to let the binder in here while I go to the regional library. After all, it's safe here, it won't be anything. But, my other inner self tells me to return it to the owner, or at least hand it over to the security guard post.

I doubt. But I finally decided to wait. Perhaps he was aware of his lost binders and looked for them here.

Fortunately, there is a novel. So, I don't have to swallow the boredom alone.

The wind was pretty cold this afternoon. The sky began to show its change. The bluish white slowly began to redden to form a beautiful yellowish orange.

I waited long enough for the owner to come, but it turned out to be in vain.

However, when my hand had already grabbed the tip of the binder, the sound of a step sounded from the end. A man who looked like a silhouette approached. His breath was stinged as it stopped exactly 2 meters away from me.

The man, blocking the twilight sunlight. Even so I can still see his face even though it is faint.

“afwan, what is a binder ana?”, Ask the man.

I know this is the binder, because I know him.

He is irfan, brother and senior of one department. The only man I admired in silence. His character exuded a sholih personality, his smile always never faded, his intelligence, and his simple innate unable to prevent this inclination of the heart to him.

Honestly, I didn't expect this to happen. I always try to avoid him. Trying as much as possible not to cross, not even see it.

I don't want to go wrong with this heart that keeps talking. And because love is fitrah, I give back that sense of whether it is love or what to Him the Most Reversing.

“what is the name aki?”, I asked it just to cover what has happened to me —I know his name, I know he is active in various organizations and I know, same as me.

“Irfan Pramudya, is it really binder ana?” the answer.

I nodded my head, and I bowed. I handed him the red binder and he accepted it.

“Syukron ukhti, syukron katsir,” I glanced at him to appreciate. And what is caught by the lens of my eye is he who is lowering his gaze.

“afwan, does not mean anything. was willing to give to the security guard post. But Alhamdulillah” , I said carefully.

“it's okay, thanks once again.”

I nodded, and stepped my feet that had wanted to run through the twilight and screamed in my heart.

THAT'S WHERE I KNOW

I made my heart come true only to Him. Holding love isn't as bad as I thought. Because do’a is even more beautiful than promises and words.

Two weeks ago, that was enough once.

Two weeks ago, from him I didn't want to repeat it.

Two weeks ago, I didn't want to see him or see him.

Because I'm afraid I'm wrong if I look at it and admit that it's love.

I took a piece of paper that I have kept ever since, whether what I did was right or wrong. Obviously, I promised to give this back to him.

Here, a piece of paper of his.

Here, a piece of paper I accidentally saw tucked behind a red binder of his.

This, the piece of paper that made more prostrations I did in the third night. Because this is the answer.

“For the twilight that always makes me blush..

Poetry and romance are not my nature, but for this, I have no power to hold back.

A holy feeling, which I only felt this time.

Hi, twilight blushes..

I secretly read what you read, and I always hope you don't realize it.

Quietly too I know that you like twilight.

And from then on, I liked the orange tinge on the western horizon when evening came. I love twilight, and to me you are that twilight.

You don't know there's dust that secretly admires you, and puts its hope in prayer for you.

Your silence. And I, in silence, hold this feeling for you.

Maybe too soon I deduce this feeling, but I think it's true that there's nothing to doubt, I know that I love a blushing twilight figure. And one day, you need to know all this.

Stay with your silence, I will come one day and be an eternal twilight for you.

In prayer I tell you,

Rona Orange Universe”