Maybe This Time

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There is certain kind of relationship where you know as clear and pure as Heisenberg's blue crystal meth, that both of you are not working well. Thus, it leaves the best option: to end it. But there is a part of you that so stubborn and dominant, invading your mind saying that you don't want it to end. You still want him; over and over again. Because you thought this would work -- this should have worked as you had put a great deal of effort and feelings. Feelings that you are not easily give away to, that you used to keep in a safe-deposit box behind 1000 feet tall brick of wall but somehow he managed to climb and figured out the secret code or the feeling that you think you may not be able to feel it again. And what's worse is the past keeps playing a magic trick on you; as subconsciously turns everything that you see or hear will remind you of him. But solely reminding about the good things, like your first date at your favourite Japanese restaurant, spontaneous trip to the amusement park, the first kiss. Not the spilled drink over your favourite shoes when you were trying to convey your point in the middle of an intense argument or the unreturned texts that made you worried to death. And all of those interrupt you to make sense of everything.


You are too focused on the fact that you are no longer with him not why you are no longer with him. All you remember is you were once shared good memories together. Your current self is blinded to foresee a long way ahead that moving on is actually possible. Not just some myth or a fairy dust waiting to happen, but a concrete outcome hiding in space and time. You forget that you will meet someone, by chance, not having enough common things to like but enough to start off a conversation which lead to the stage where you are no longer strangers; you will learn to understand the other half of his interest that is apparently completely different than yours or what you thought he would be; he likes to write poems, his favourite movie is a Korean cold-blooded action-thriller film with a lot of killings and bloody scenes and he listens to British Rock from the 60s but regardless, you will still like him. The kind of movie he'd like to see or the kind of music on his Most Played Playlist does not matter. What matter is he makes you feel like more than a diamond ring; he makes you feel wanted and belong. He fills in the void. There, you will realise that it is possible -- to move on. Or maybe, just a tiny bit of a hopeful maybe, you will grow older in a few years time as so does he, and your path will come across with his again, and the older version of you may turn out to be far more compatible with each other. And maybe, this time both of you will get it right.

A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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The Last Phone Call

fiction

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We were sitting on the table for two in one of the most crowded restaurant in town. It was a farewell lunch before his departure to the land up north. It had been a while I have not seen his face. His exquisite jawline made him stood up among others. At that moment, it felt like we were never went wrong. Everything was in place. As if no scratch or broken heart was ever happened. I was not sure whether it was a good thing or the opposite. All I knew was I was glad to see him again.

He sat before me in his favourite black sweater. The sweater that reminded me of him. He did not change a bit. Only perhaps, he lost few pounds judging by his thinner cheek. He was still the best friend he claimed to be; all loud and pretty much attractive. During the second plate of main course, we stumbled upon the conversation about plane crash regarding his irrelevant research on the internet about the recent history of his choice of airline to South Korea in three weeks.

‘It’s not about the idea of dying alone that scares me. I just don’t want to die with bunch of foreigners and strangers.’ He said as he raised his shoulder to show his objection and his typical arrogance. ‘I would probably just get out of the plane before it crashed, and sky dive a little.’ His eyes drifted away from me. Staring empty towards the table next to us, ‘Feel the air pressing against my skin, and probably will get a boner at some point.’ I chuckled. His pervert side never failed to amuse me.

I was busy forking the remaining paprika bits to the side of the plate while listening to him. Before I got the chance to comment, he put his two fingers by his ear as if he was holding a phone, and said, ‘Oh, and I’d call my girlfriend and say, “Hello? Katherine? I love you. Bye.” Then I can die in peace.’ I stopped; giving all of my attention to him. I did not expect to hear what he just said. It was a good thing that I was not chewing anything because I might have just spill it out all over the place.

I was not sure what that was – the shocking nerve as if I just got tasered. Was it the unspoken affection I felt towards him that never been mutual, shared and should have ever existed or a genuine amazement to acknowledge after all, he could feel love too? Under our undefined relationship half a year ago, he tried to imply he was capable of everything but loving. Just now, he sounded the opposite. Maybe, he was just incapable of loving me. Slowly I ate the last bit of my grilled chicken with dry throat, idly processing thoughts more than the food.

The fact that he is in a relationship with someone always involuntarily missing under my consciousness. I had to keep reminding myself, he was not mine. Never was and never will. We were together at that moment though; but only within the literal meaning of our presence in the same space and time. Then I smiled. They both were just so lucky to find one and another. It would be nice to have someone who loved you that much they would choose to call you in the last moment of their lives. I was never been that jealous.

A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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I am Under Your Skin

letter

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To: Bournemouth, June 2013.

I am about to leave you in less than ten days. Not forever, I know. I will be back as soon the leaves touch the ground in September. It's just, I have not been home for more than a year. I feel this odd jitters about going home because you have made me forget how home feels like -- I am still familiar with the language and food, but the mundane routine of the utmost traffic or others have lost its familiarity. Things have changed. I have changed. Now, I am stuffed with you and your indecisive weather. I have been through the worst and best with you in the brightest and gloomy days. Even though you are still strange, and I have not adapt your sweet accent, yet, I am under your skin.

A lot of things has happened over the year. I remember it was not easy to get along with you in the beginning. Especially after returning last Summer. I went through the toughest time away from family and the place I used to call home. I almost hated you back then. For a split second, I thought you were the wrong decision. The reality once slapped me hard on the face, but you kept me still; nearly content with the vast life of youth from dusk till dawn. In December, where the season hit the lowest temperature, I found comfort in one small local pub next to a Chinese restaurant. There, I was immediately reserved to another bit of this world that I fall in love with. Slowly and gradually, I gathered the conclusion I was actually happy.

The initial plan to have you as a rebound obviously did not stay long because since then I felt you started to give me life on a silver platter. You were growing on me. I made friends with the coolest bunch whom I am proud of and I wanted to tell my mum about. The comfort had turned into an exciting weekend routine. And most of all, I met a guy with the greatest accent whom I have always wanted since I was able to think that  I could be in love. However, that was also when I realised that any of this was not on a silver platter. I fell apart again before you as he made his exit. Everything seemed like a cycle. Only this time, I was stronger as I only needed to cry once at 3 in the morning by the bus stop.

Nevertheless, I cannot ever hate you. Just like any other relationship, the more things and memories I have had with you, I don't want to leave you entirely. I have fall in and out of love around you. You gave me plenty in return of my innocence. If the definition of home is about familiarity, you are my home now. Not that I love Jakarta any less, believe me it never been any stronger, but it is not where familiarity lies any longer. Jakarta will always be the place where I'm from but most of the things there are no longer within my grip. I know you better now. The streets, bus routes, attractions, the good deals in local restaurants, like 50% off in Revolution and Slug & Lettuce every Monday; or maybe, you are home because the boy I want is still here with you.

I have a feeling you may be able to keep me for a very very very long while.

Take a good care of yourself. I'll miss you for the rest of the summer.

A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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