It's So Nice to be Alive at the Same Time as You

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You know how sometimes people wonder about living in some other centuries or decades, and I could not help but think I wouldn't want to live in other period of time, or any other parallel universe. Because what if, what if there is no you, or our paths don’t cross like it is now — out of the chances attending the same high school or college, or being at the same music festival out of so many other events, places to go, and bands to see. Or you would be in different form of you, be better or worse than you are right now — charmingly funny, sometimes quiet and moody, so mysterious I want to shake the gold off your body. Because does it matter? I love you now, and I don’t wish for another version of you, even though maybe I would still love the other kind of you anyway.

Inspired by this.

A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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Maggie and the Mice

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It's the place in the corner of Cherry Street, Margaret said. I know it’s there on the map, but I cannot seem to get around it. The Mice listen, its fur shine in bright grey. Both of its eyebrows wrinkled, trying to figure out Margaret’s problem. She is twenty five, in her little red riding hood coat, her petite posture often made people mistaken her as a high school student while actually she works at the American embassy in Malaysia as communication officer. Her pale skin outcast her from the rest of the people, while most of Malaysian have darker olive skin, which she envy ever since she knew the (wrong) impression of beauty when she turned fifteen. Her parents are expats, she was born in Malaysia, but originally from the good ol’ England. But I think in my past life, I was French. She told the Mice once, and it nodded. Maggie, that's how most of her coworkers called her, but her boss, Alex called her with full name Margaret. She liked Margaret better, of course she doesn’t tell anybody else but the Mice about this. Alex is her boss, and his blue eyes should not get into her way, it’s not just his blue eyes though it’s the way he says please and thank you and the smile that comes afterwards, she told Rebecca, but she rolled her eyes. Rebecca is her best friend, the one who booked her in advance to be her bride’s maid even though Becca is still single and her hobby is go on dates different dates, mind you, every weekend. Yes, Maggie has friends, too, just as every one else and the joggers around the park anybody would find on a Sunday morning. Although, she thought none of them is normal because who would give up three hours of sleeping for a run? In her case, she’s different. She is trying to find something, to get her head around.

So how do I get to the Centre? She asked the Mice again. The Mice was holding a leftover apple from the bin, as good as pizza, or gin and tonic for Maggie, while thinking. Mice? It dropped the apple and raised its shoulder, Maggie and the Mice have no clue. I could probably go from there, she pointed the map. Do you think I should ask someone? The Mice nodded again. There was a lady in her late forties in her Nike running shoes and Adidas tight trousers walked by, excuse me, said Maggie and the lady stopped while mildly jogged without any intention to linger in the conversation longer, have you ever seen this part of the park? If yes, do you know how to get there? With a quiet panting breath, the lady shook her head and jogged away. Maybe she’s new, maybe she’s in a hurry or a tight schedule, she’s not rude, Mice. But it’s Sunday morning, no one should be in a rush on a Sunday morning. But you are, said the Mice. Yes, because I have been trying to find the centre of the park for over one month! Maggie raised her voice, and quickly apologies to the Mice, she hates being aggressive. The Mice said, it’s okay, people have done worse things. Maggie’s attention is back on the map, and she had a thought of giving up. But Mice could see the hint of her hesitation, and stopped her before it becomes a settled idea. Margaret? She looked up. Alex, her boss, suddenly showed up in front of her, instead in his shining armour, he was wearing his plain dark blue, the colour of the deepest ocean, t-shirt and basketball jersey knee-length short. What are the odds? He smiled. Some, she said and giggled. What are you doing? She immediately explain and said she’s trying to find Cherry Street. Alex squinting his eyes as if the bright sun piercing through his eyes. Maggie on the other hand feeling hopeful, maybe this could be the end of her search to get around her head, but sooner than sunrise, Alex said he doesn’t know. Maggie smiled, hoping in return maybe he could stay for a little while, with the Mice, but then Alex broke her thoughts. Do you know how many thoughts a human can have in one second? Perhaps up to thousands! I have to go, I got a date today! He said excitedly, I’ll see you tomorrow at work. She smiled, it was a bitter smile, but nobody could tell because she was good on making up smiles, and she’s afraid of that, afraid of herself.

She sat down again, the bench feels wet from morning dew. Tomorrow, said the Mice, let’s try again tomorrow. Maggie now nods, and close up her map.

A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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The Crooked Bookshop: Part I

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You told me to come by tomorrow before noon, find a copy of George Orwell’s 1984, on the top shelf of the crooked bookshop. It’s my favourite, you said. Your tomorrow is today, and it is a pleasant day, I say. The sun hangs high in the sky, although it is a bit too windy for summer but perfect to read a book. I listened to you and decided to come round. I tried to look on the top shelf. The white paint looked worn out, as if too many hands were trying to reach the top. I cannot find the book, but a moment later, I found you entering the shop. I smiled. You have a bright smile, I noticed. You greeted the man on the counter, telling him what a nice day it was. You must have seen me, but you did not say anything. You sat on the table next to the window, the one with the red chair and cushion. The sun melt on your skin, and on your bronze-lit hair.
I approached you slowly, 'Hi, Tom.' I do not know why my voice sounded shaky.
'Hey.' You replied, it is polite but it sounds too light. Like, you have never seen me before.
'I couldn't find the book.' I said. You looked confused as you left a little pause before answered, 'What book?' It was just yesterday when you told me about the book I should definitely read, on the top shelf, I remember it clearly, '1984.'

'Oh it's my,' I interrupted and said at the same time, 'Favourite.'

We are both standing in silence. You looked at me as if I was a psychic.
'Yes!' You said enthusiastically, but you forgot about me. Not a slightest hint in your face show any recall of me, or anything you said. I wonder, but how could I remember you clearly. Everything about you – your face, your small lips hiding behind your well-shaved beard. The colour of your eyes, lightest shade of caramel-brown. Even your voice, you know when in books they usually describe soothing-like, mysterious kind of voice as husky, I couldn't really put my fingers on until I heard yours. I could listen to it on repeat.
The guy on the counter suddenly interrupted us, 'Is this the book you're looking for?' He flagged up 1984 by George Orwell book on his hand. I nodded. So, I left you alone in your seat, while I can still feel your eyes on me when I walked away,
He has a beach-blonde hair and thinner beard than yours, but just about enough to give him the look of masculinity in his tall posture. He then leaned forward towards me, and said in a low voice, 'He has a funny memory disorder.' Referring it to you. I was shocked, but then listened intently to what he got to say.
He told me, you have a suffered a rare memory syndrome from a car accident happened a year ago. There was a romantic movie about it where a guy had to go through 50 first dates with a girl with this kind of disorder, apparently it was not entirely fictional. You could not remember anything the next day after you fall asleep at night. Traumatic brain injury, he said.
I stared in blankness, well, at you, too. I glanced at you and thought how normal everything looked. The guy on the counter broke the silence, as if he could read my mind.
'You have a funny memory disorder, too.' He said it so casually, I almost forget to react. It is not a shock. I wonder. He carried on explaining. In my case, the disease is more unpredictable, the length of my memory can vary. Three days, two weeks. Three months, the longest. He said I was in a car crash twelve months ago, with you, on our way to Seattle. Apparently, you were someone I held dear. I did not remember. Neither the car crash nor our relationship. But it explained the tingling feeling when I see you, both today and yesterday, and why I remembered you clearly. Everybody has different last memory, and mine is you. The last memory I could remember was when the first time I met you, at the bookshop – but not this one. This crooked bookshop was not a bookshop; it was a rehabilitation centre for those who have funny brain disease, like us. The guy behind the counter is Matt Bowen, staff who works in the rehabilitation. I looked around. The world I thought I know seem so distant and strange now.

---

A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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Baby, I Was Made to Break Your Heart

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Oh, bless you, he said with half moon smile just as I told him his performance was amazing. And I never felt so blessed. I did not make that up, of course. The part where his band was amazing. His band was genuinely smashed the night at the Auction House where the usual local gigs was held. It was not the first time I saw him perform, after being introduced through a friend months ago, I had been going to see the band for several times now, reliving the old days when I barely sixteen and nerdy.

Their soulful funk-slash-contemporary-reggae music might have been off the track of the usual music I listened to, but there was something about them as a band that put everyone in an inevitable spell. Zac, the vocalist with sun-coloured wavy curl hair with thin well-shaved beard, was the one I had a conversation with ten Saturdays ago. He was the charming one. His look reminded me of Australian surfer down under that live life as it happen. Except, he was English and in a band.
Funny that I used to joke with Marjorie, could not help being all girly, about which of the band members that we were attracted to the most.
He's too blonde for my taste, I told Marjorie without taking my eyes off of the stage.
Oh, it doesn't matter to me, she replied cheekily. I really like the vocalist.
With that, we settled that she would go for the vocalist and I would go for the dark haired, bearded bassist as we laughed ourselves into the night
They used to stick around after their performance for a beer or two. I often saw them smoking cigarette, looking so normal yet my eyes would believe they glow amongst others as if they had halo circling above their heads. Zac often threw very friendly smiles when he passed by. He has that with him at all times, as if it was his best accessory. It was, it definitely was. While I had zero interaction with anybody else in the band, unless eye contact counted.
Our recognition of each other stood still between two seconds greeting and the stage until three weeks ago. They had another gig at the Auction House after a very long hiatus. If anything, their music made me strangely, you know, happy.
When they got off the stage, I stood still with a pint beer on the side of the room with Marjorie still clapping and whistling. A little while after, Zac came over and said hello. Surprised, his voice sounded as beautiful as he was on stage. And he finally he cleared up our anonymity and asked for my name.
I did not know where Marjorie gone to, but I got into the conversation with Zac that I thought would not have lasted longer than ten seconds. Ten minutes in, still with the loud music on the background, my knees started to feel weak and butterflies kicked in. The preference I thought I stood for disappeared. Of course, I have heard rumors about him. How many hearts he had break over the short span of intense fling, as it became really clear to me as he got all that he needed to do so. But for the whole conversation with occasional hit on the arms, his words and looks, I did not mind for him to break my heart.
I leaned closer to his ear, it's getting very crowded here. Do you want to go for a cigarette?
He looked at me instantly and replied with a smile, Yes, sure. Let's go outside.

I could hear my heart is about to break from two blocks away in the future.

A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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Unlike Yours

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Does her love make your head spin? She asks. He turns aside, a silence gives away the ugly truth that says I’m sorry, but it does. And there she falls and break into a million little pieces.

♫

A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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Grey

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Katerina just finished working at one small coffee shop around the corner where she lived. On her way home, which only took seven minutes walk even with her small steps, she thought that her life was different. She was walking the usual route, a straight path next to a cemetery that looked rather agonizing than full of horror. The tombstone carved gracefully, only the wilted flowers from the loved ones and the faded color claimed its gloom.

She felt she had lost touch to whatever that kept her alive, the sugar to the tea. She wished she could have known what was missing, but everything happened so gradually she barely noticed her fingers stopped typing, her lips rested flat instead pulling the half-moon shape smile and her eyes lost its flicker.

She did not know what happened - she could only guess in the dark. If the world was an ocean, she must have been the coral reef that eroded every time the waves hit. Although her steps were not heavy, but the hollow grew stronger. She was just there. Walking, and nothing else.

She felt the world had gotten into her. The thirst of validation from others crept down her sleeve, she was no longer live for herself but through others. It was a terrifying circle; now, she felt her self-worth defined by validation of others as she constantly seek for attention, living with the customed standard. And when it was deemed to be non-existent, even in the slightest bit, she devoured to the ground, at the lowest.

Suddenly, she had the urge to smoke. Smoking was good distraction. Her hand reached out down her Turkish-patterned sling bag, but she remembered she did not have the pack of cigarette with her. She kept it hidden on her bedside drawer. For emergency only, she thought once. She felt agitated more than ever.

She was less than fifty steps away from her front yard, but she felt like it was the longest, darkest and tiresome walk she ever had. She knew she had to get out of there soon before she faded, grey.

A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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For Some Strange Reasons

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"I have never really given much thought about marriage," Said Becca, looking elsewhere. The conversation had gone a little too deep as the sun set behind the horizon. George was sitting in front of her, leaning back to the suede-blue arm chair at the coffee shop as he comfortably listening to her.

George and Becca had gone through long history of friendship, often disappear from each other radar when one was in a relationship with another party, then break ups and hang ups. But they always found a way of reconciling as two ends of red strings that all they need was invitation for coffee and it would tied them both back again.

They were good friends, in secrecy of each other's mind, they both thought their relationship was pretty much based on attraction and constant flirtation hidden in platonic narration. Becca continued, "But if I had to, I could only imagine being married to you." George did not seem to be surprised, more because her straight tone of voice conflicted the intended meaning of the sentence as if there her statement was natural. If it had meaning, George thought while waiting for Becca to carry on.

She took her caffe mocha that almost empty and took a little sip before putting it back gently on the round-shaped table. Becca continued as if she was leaking words, "I can imagine living with you, in an apartment in the Central with small balcony, which probably you wouldn't agree in the beginning but you'd say yes with the promise of buying a house by the beach in the future. And all the other domestic things in marriage life portrayed in a book, or films."

It almost looked like she was high, he thought. But he enjoyed this. No, he loved it. He loved watching her drifting off to her bizarre world of hers, saying everything she wanted, taking him into her thoughts behind her eyes. He observed that she liked to play with her hair once she was in too deep, curled it around her finger like a spiral and once she let it off, it would form small curls at the end of her hair. He thought she looked pretty, without realising so.

"I imagine we would lead a very passionate life, we would create art every day, we would make love in every room in the apartment and all the kind of passion," But then suddenly her sentence stopped in a cliff hanger.
"But?" George was caught way too deep into her thoughts now he curiously wanting, waiting for her to continue.

"But, I'm not sure whether it would last." She said with inaudible sigh, as if it brought her back to the reality. There was some part of him that withered, realising that was not something that he wanted to hear, but nevertheless, at the back of his head, he knew that it was probably true.
"Fuck it." He said hastily, not with anger but almost with heavy ounce of determination to proof it wrong.
It shook her off from her narrated daydream, "I can propose to you now and we'll get married." There was a sudden hit that at first he thought was joking, but the more words flowed through his mouth and sunk in, the more he felt like he was not - he meant it.

"Are you going to propose me now?"
"Do you want to get married with me?"
"Is that your proposal?"
Everything seemed to fall on to each other so fast. A mixture of dare, and a little bit of truths. The next thing she knew, he was on his knees. "Will you marry me?" He asked, sounded surprisingly sincere.

Becca stopped playing with her hair, now frozen, fixated into his hazel eyes. This guy is crazy, she thought. But for some strange reasons, whatever it was, the affirmative word fluttered through her mouth, and as if for reassurance she repeated it once more with soft exclamation point, "Yes!"

He smiled and immediately took out a pen out of his pocket. "Give me your hand," He said almost impatience. She reached out her left hand to his safety, and with his pen he drew a diamond ring with both of their initial in the middle of her ring finger.

"I'm going to marry you, Rebecca Isabelle Rowe." He said it with absolute certainty, and oddly, she did not even have the need to object, or question the authencity in any kind of form. This idea might seem crazy, they both probably would run to the arcade in a minute and win a plastic ring and tell both of their parents right away. They might change their minds in the next two hours, or believed the whole proposal was a joke, but whatever it would be, that moment, for some strange reasons, they both felt as if they have found whatever they had been looking for.

They exchanged glances as smile rose on both of their faces like flower that blossom in the Spring.



It is at that moment when the screen fades to black and the credit rolls.

---

A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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For Him, Beach House by Thirty

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For him, beach house by 30

I used to love the idea of loving him, so dearly to the core of my organs. Beating like a heart, natural and simple, like breathing. I used to admire the idea of him, of us: two people that have not seen each other in a very long time but thought of each other in between the time difference and geographical sequence. The way words were flown easy in safe distant conversations,  hopes and dreams of having a beach house by the time he turns thirty, shaping an almost perfect prose for a poetry. A story of him and me: all the way from the swings when we barely be, small hands and lousy hair cuts to adulthood - coffee shops and cinema seats. I used to love how pretty the idea of him, like a daydream, 'til his mouth flutters the dirtiest words that even brush unable to clean, because there is no dust, only lust. Now everything is like the wind that sends shiver between my thighs. Drop of water on a golden-coated pipe, wet, inches away from corrosion. I now no longer sure to love the idea of him, as the innocence of make-believe upon the gentleness of his great self melted along with his sweat, my sweat, and panting breath. All the child-like smile has rested in peace as the ravens claim all there is, is just fuck to give.

A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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Sit Down With You

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I would like to sit down with you, perhaps over a cup of hot green tea freshly brewed at the chained coffee shop with the greatest window display, facing the over populated city. They said New York never sleeps, but have they seen Jakarta? It is never still. There is a constant movement of lights, words as if it was earth.

Again, I would like to sit down with you and have a little conversation. We can start with the days that we have missed, separated different densities of ocean. We can start at small - the way your hair naturally changed into two shades lighter, it is now copper black and you returned the mere observation that my cheek looked few ounce heavier. I said, it was probably the tenderloin steak I had two weekends in a row. I had not been home in years, I had to try every new restaurants in town.

You would laughed and even though you lived two hours drive away from the Capital, you said you have not had the chance to try the new places that the hipsters gone to. We both shared alienated feeling when it comes to the place we were taught as home. Not to the certain extent where we were entirely disconnect with the city, but only seen as someone outside the picture as if we were visitors in a gallery and the city were the painting.

Perhaps, it would be one of the reasons why we get along very well as not many people would share the same abstract concept of home. Through the conversation, soon I would notice that you have changed in the best possible way - it seems that you finally able to let go of whatever that shackles you still and weary. The grey cloud, the gloom that follows you has finally disappear, although it is not exactly all-rainbow now, but I could see the traces of joy appear as your lips curls into this kindest smile.

Then we would realize how naive we were and how did we end up talking about fundamental aspects of life, like religion and God. So subtle, we would laugh at ourselves. What we have seen as sins has shifted. Maybe, the subject of marriage would arise, too. We would have the opposite point of view yet we both know we were hopeless romantic at heart. How did we grow up so fast?

The question would linger until we drive ourselves home, realizing that we have left the phase of naivety and youth. We are (un)fortunately, adults now.

A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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Like Everything is Alright

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I love the way you make me feel — like I was in love. Like this is how I want love to feel like. Tomorrow does not seem so scary, the past does not feel as bad and now is good. Like I don't need more. Everything is enough. The sound of your voice is the safest haven, where all my worries are flushed, melt to the ground, non-existent. My sins are forgiven and all the bad choices are amendable. Like lone wolf that has finally found its home. Like the night for fireflies. Like,

everything is alright.

A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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Remember to Forget

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At the age of twenty-two, Sophia is starting to forget things. She is - or perhaps was now, remarkably good at remembering things. She thought, if she ever been good at something, it is definitely to remember. She remembers where she put last winter's receipt of jumper she bought in Topshop on the second drawer on her beside table. She remembers she put the loose screw from her shoe rack that she unable to put it back in the red tin where she keeps all her small jewellery and spare buttons. She remembers her best friend, Rosie's mother birthday on the 31st of January. She remembers her local bartender's goldfish name. She used to remember all the littlest things. But yesterday, she forgot whether she had turned off the stove after making her scrambled egg or not. She forgot where she put her favourite raincoat when it was actually raining outside. And this morning, Sophia forgot to close her bathroom window after left it wide open to let the steam out, resulting she had to walk back to her house and late for her first morning lecture of the new term. But nevertheless, she realised one thing today: that after a very long while, she finally forgot that Joe was once meant love to her.

A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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Mine

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The subway from Bank smelled like Friday night – a mixture of alcohol, piss and tube engine waste. I was not complaining. I did not care. I loved it. I was with him. What’s there to be afraid of? Daniel was next to me, with our hands interlock. As we walked through the faded white porcelain ceramic wall, the other late Thursday commuters were just dots. We reached the end of the tunnel and ended up in front of the Bank of England. Maybe majestic was the right word to explain what stood before me. It represented lavish culture and enunciate wealth, prosperity almost to the sense that it made me sick. The pillar stood tall with the perfect amount of dimmed lighting on the ceiling and occasional car’s headlights passing by beaming just about the essence of London, gloriously. Just a little across the street, there was a statue in front of a posh restaurant that I would not even dared to enter wearing ripped black stocking and knitted cardigan, not to mention wet red converse from the puddle I accidentally got into next to the sidewalk in Shoreditch. I looked around, then finally at Daniel that seemed rather laid back seeing what’s in front of us. He took his eyes off the statue and returned to mine, “It’s beautiful.” I was not trying to whisper, but my voice sounded smitten and probably with slightly hazy eyes. His thumb stroke the palm of my hand that still in his and replied, “I know.” He leaned forward and kissed me. I could feel London was immersing in me, in his soft lips, in the background noise of London’s traffic. I felt like I was in a love-drunk fiction book. That moment was very intimate almost I feel I did not want to share it with anybody else. It was mine. It was not even his. Everything was just mine.

But then if I was part of a book, I was afraid there might be a plot twist in the next chapter.

I want the story to end here, where everything is almost perfect. 

A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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Touch the Rain

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All she ever wanted to do was to touch the rain. It was Sunday, thin air breathing through the gap of the window sill. She desperately waiting for the sun to set. Not that she has anything against the sun, but her favorite time of the day is when the bright blue sky slowly shifting into another form of creature, unseen. When the color bleeds into one another, when it finally gets dark and there is nothing else but the place she lives and the Moon. She heard there is another place down there, so distant called Earth. It looks like a small blue dot, and she heard that it rains there. There are things grow from the ground, something green and sly. It dances with the wind! She thought enthusiastically. It is not just stones and glittering dust like where she lives.

But her sister used to say, it never rains in the Stars. It rains on Earth because the sky is sad so it cries. The sky can cry? She asks. Yes, of course. Don't be stupid. Says her sister. She never asked her again, she does not believe her. She thinks rain is beautiful - droplet of water falls down from above together all at once. She keeps waiting for the sky to cry. But she waited, and waited so long, she is starting to believe her sister that it will never rain here. Although sometimes she would stay wake at night with a little hope that it would rain, she is afraid that she might missed the rain. Until one night she gave up, and swore to never wait for the rain again.

She did not know that a lot of things can happen between now and never. 

And that night, it rains.

A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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The Beginning and The End

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I assume, you would say it was a meeting of two friends. I was not sure, I never asked. We were, or are, probably friends, to say the least. We were never settled anything, not then, now or ever. But you were not quite a friend to me, you were something more. I had not seen you for over five years and we barely exchange words for the last two years, but when I received your message on Facebook whether or not I was in town the other day, of course I agreed to meet you; as if your disappearance two years ago never happened.

To see you in flesh brought your fading existence firmly back on the ground. I thought you were gone. I am so close to convinced myself to forget we were never happened. Again, I did not know why I said yes to meet you at this freshly refurbished coffee shop in South Jakarta. This place seemed to be the best place to meet; a safe place where we are not bound to stay too long but just about to have enough hour to talk.

We started off with light conversation. A series of what you have been up to. You said you are working on a project back home. The other home which has been yours for over ten years. You inherit the same cultural background and race as I do, but the definition of home stretched far apart across the map. I can also hear through your accent, you pick up the accent that sound apparent in few words. I like accent, it tells a different story in a language.

One thing lead to one another, we ended up sitting in an American fast food restaurant, nibbling chicken chunk out of orange-pink plastic plate and a bowl soup for comfort, lasting longer than I thought. But we had gone quiet for the last three minutes. I hid behind every spoonful of carrots and corns, "I've figured it out now." Your eyes brighten up as you put down a bottle of Coca Cola on the table. My silence gave away the question and a shock, waiting for you to proceed. "I know how human mind's work. They remember best what happens in the beginning and the end."


You continued, "You know, even though nothing really happens, they will remember the day as it is. That matters, and that too." you glanced to your left, pointing at a family of four on the table across us having their crispy chicken dinner then at the waitress with purple-orange hat that was sweeping the floor after cleaning the table next to us. Before your eyes went back to mine, and said, "As if suddenly, everything matters."

The warm soup traveled funny down my throat causing me a mild cough. Tonight is your last night before a morning flight calls you to work. This is the end of your short trip back to the South East, this is the end that you were talking about. I have been trying to keep my thoughts not to misbehave the whole night, but bits and pieces of memories I have got of you, flashing in ruptured montage. I was nine and you were fourteen when the first time I saw you. Your hair was sleek with the colour of dark raven's wings. It built up to the point that struck me silent. I remember why I wanted you.

If they matter, would that leave me under the same umbrella, too? Am I part of  everything? Are you saying that you will remember me as I am, as we are tonight sitting across each other on your last night before home calls you to work? Feeling slightly off my feet, I give myself away in a nod. Showing no intention to argue, I would settle to be remembered as your last night in Jakarta because I have missed you too much. And knowing, for once, I matter.

A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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Three Hours Later

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Tom was a journalist. I met him at a friend's party, where strangers from a friend of a friend all gathered in one room and crazy conversations. It was one of those nights where I thought it would be a short and quiet, but it turned out the opposite. I sat next to him by chance, the rest of the room was full and the only convenient place to sit was next to him on that blanket-covered sofa. He had this scruffy look, not quite a rebel but just about enough to get my attention.

Maybe, I deliberately chose to sit next to him, after all.

In the beginning, I thought the reason why he started talking to me because he had to. I was the closest person around him while others were engaged with their own crazy conversations. I was his only option, and he was my only option. As if our seating arrangement was just convenient for us to talk. He asked where did I come from, and I asked his. It turned out to be a geography games we played, until he figured out I was not from the northern part of the world, and he was born at the hospital just around the corner.

A moment later, there was a thin paper with five lines of white powder passed around the room. I politely declined, while he snorted half of the line, then looking back at me. He carried on. As the conversation prolonged, I had not seen such a sparks in someone eyes in a long time as if they were talking about the constellations. I did not get to say much but admiring him in nods and yeses. His passion in his writings and alcohol were the shooting stars I admired to see.

He told me history about rum, and there was a vodka made out of milk. He then asked me what's my three favourite drinks. I feel he was about to test me, he could tell someone's personality through their favourite drinks. I answered carefully: Chardonnay and Desperados. "Oh, so you like something that slightly sweet," he said, squinting his eyes, probably trying to remember how the white wine or tequila-mixed beer tasted like. He did mention his. It was Whisky.

"I have to write a lot about this, so I know a lot of stuff about the history and everything about it, really."

We then somehow started to talk about the hills by the sea side an hour drive from this town. He said he took his friends from South America once and they loved it. The later the night got, he told me he would like to take me there, too. He said I would love it, with the a resounding tone of certainty as if he had known me for years. I nodded, excited with his hypothetical thoughts as much as I knew it would not happen, I could feel my cheek redden.

I liked the way he told his stories. There was genuine passion present upon his eyes, burning bright like what Jack Kerouac said in his book, like a yellow Roman candles.

We finally caught an intermission pause where none of us were not talking just staring at the space. He seemed rather tired, and because we sat quite close, he then leaned forward as I responded accordingly, and rested his head on my neck. I could feel his thin beard stroke against my skin and that was when I wished nobody else was in the room because I'd bury myself in his kisses. Almost like a receptor sensors, I adjusted myself back to straight position. He woke up and for a second our face were less than three inches apart.

I immediately looked away at the rest of the people in the room chatting their stories away over a lighted spliff. Tom and I were somehow distant from them, as if we were a small island next to the mainland. I could still feel his eyes were on me like silent plea to come closer. I wanted to, but I held myself back. I could not look at his eyes either, because I know I'd be smiling and could not keep my eyes still, that soon would shift to his lips.

I chuckled in between the comfortable silence. As if it was contagious, he could not help to grin and touched my arms, "What's so funny?"
I shook my head lightly, "It's just," hesitated to be frank, "I barely met you less than three hours, but I've wanted to kiss you badly."
I could see his eyes gleaming with mutual feelings, and said, "Well, imagine what could happen three hours later," He leaned forward, almost like waiting for me at the other end to join his invitation.
But I just smiled.

There was something funny about instant attraction. I never believed in it, in myself, nor in anyone else. That this, should have not happened. That there was something wrong about it. The only attraction to trust was the one that happened through process. That happen gradually. Although at the same time, I underestimated the way this universe works. That I limited the possibility that honestly exceed this vast blue sky. I did not give the universe a break and see what could happen, see that maybe, instant attraction could have been the best thing that could ever happened.

But still. The sun was creeping in through the curtain, bringing the night to an end. And that was my cue to leave, letting the attraction dissolve into thin air.

A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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Piece

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"I may not actually miss you," she says as she reclined back to the sofa booth with a glass of white wine on her hand. This is her third glass in the last hour at the Pub. They have been there since the night was young and quiet until it grows into a wild, wise old self. Two past(s) are sitting side by side, connected with drink at the present. He rests his arm to the backrest, behind her neck. In the midst of contemporary upbeat music and distant conversations in the room, they are recollecting memories of the past over a bottle of Chardonnay, "Maybe I miss our story, how good we were, how, in love we were." She stops briefly as if memories of them flashes before her eyes, then continued, "I do miss you, but as part of the story." He listens carefully as he watches her expression changed. He cannot put his own thoughts whether to agree or disagree. All that he knows that he is there, with her, after so many seasons apart. She is staring at nothing. Her eyes are lost in her own words, and perhaps a little in the sips of bitter sweet wine. While his, lost in her reddened cheek. How much wine has she had? he thought. She then continued, "I know if we were to stay together, it would be like placing the wrong pieces of the puzzle, two pieces that don't fit together, doesn't matter how bad you tried to work it out." 

"But we were a part of a damn good puzzle." Words are pouring out of her heart, like droplets of rain from the grey clouds. She feels a stroke of summer breeze out of her loud retrospective thoughts almost as if the wind wipes her sweat off, removing an ounce of worry. We're the wrong piece of the puzzle? Or are we the perfect piece but belongs to a different puzzle? He murmured to himself. It gets difficult for him to pay attention to her as his stare keeps drifting to her wine-kissed lips, remembering how good it felt when it belong to his.

A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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I Fell In Love Once Part I

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I fell in love with a boy once. I did not remember how it began. All I remember it was sunrise and I was wide awake in front of the computer screen talking with him for hours.

I know him through my mum. He was the son of one of our family friends. When I was seven and he was eleven, he used to babysit me when the adults were having a conversation downstairs. I remember him as a fairly quiet boy. I didn't think we ever talked. He would just turn on the TV and we would watch whatever the daytime program that was aired. Other than that, I did not remember much but I knew I had a crush on him. I held his hand once on a family dinner at this outdoor seafood restaurant in the Central. And I remember he held my hand back.

Little did I know, it was a farewell dinner before his family moved to the Middle East. With that, he sunk to the bottom of my childhood memories. I didn't remember whether or not I noticed his departure. I probably did, and asked my mum where did he go, but I was certain I did not fret nor ever long for his presence soon after he left. I assumed as a child I was too busy minding the colour of my lunchbox and fighting with my baby brother. Perhaps, I would have forgotten him entirely if Mark Zuckerberg had not created Facebook five years ago where I stumbled upon his profile.

It was one simple click that changed the course of our paths that might not need to intersect again. I was seventeen, and he was twenty one. He still lived in the Middle East while I was stuck in the South East. Afterwards, ten years worth of conversation tightly packed in a short messages with the assumption we wanted to fill in the gaps of each other background that were lost and seemed unnecessary when we were children. Short messages turned into long, extensive and intensive conversations. And for the first time in my life, I could feel the connection at heart with someone that was far apart.

Maybe it was because our relationship grew based on the very one thing I treasure the most — words. He was so good with words I could have made it into a book. He crafted most of the sentences like art which weaken my heart, all wrapped with his vulnerability, arrogance and selfishness. We exchanged stories daily along with hopes and dreams, also sometimes faux-promises. We promised to eat Roti Bakar together by the street when he visit home. He also introduced me to films about that giant blue species that speaks Na'vi and conversation-rich American drama set in Vienna, which then became my favourite motion picture. 

Everything developed gradually until we stranded in a conversation when he just got out of a relationship with this girl. I questioned whether or not he was okay, he then replied, "It takes love to kill love, Fiya." There, he had me by the end of the sentence. He was not okay, but he would. Soon. Most of his words were glitters I mistakenly thought as gold, but nonetheless, it felt perfect. We could talk for hours, even days without a tint of boredom. He soon resurfaced from childhood memory to the present.

We would blame the distance, the time difference as if they were the ones responsible with the brutal fact that we were not in the same city and we couldn't be together. I remember he said, if only we met sooner, we might have worked perfectly. I hated this sentence since. The context was useless yet it blossomed the fleeting hope that, we could have been together. And years ago, that could have been for me was more than enough. He won me without notice, and there I fell hypothetically into the idea that if we could have been years ago, maybe, days from then, someday we could be together. 

We did meet eleven years ago but none of us knew yet how to twinkle the words sweetly to sweep one another's feet. Our mutual interest in films had not yet exist to base his imaginary invitation to Pandora as if it was an island that we could visit one day. I suppose, just like our relationship, it was not real, none of us were real, nor build to last. Soon, I became secondary, not that I ever been the priority, but nevertheless what was immediate always win. The intensity of our conversations deteriorate and just like eleven years ago, he disappear. Only this time I long his presence dearly. Sometimes in between empty moments his words would still echo in my head, "I think it's not about how long we have been with someone that counts, it's about how deep we fall for them."

I fell in love with a boy once. I did not remember how it ended. All I remember was it was sunset and he was not there anymore. 

A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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I'm Sorry

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I am sorry that I cannot love you when you hate your job and most of your friends are one step ahead of you, leaving this small town to the big city in search of whatever you are looking for, too. I am sorry that I do not know when you always rambled about everything that you hate, is actually the way how you showed me that I may be the only thing that's left for you to, even in the least bit, love. That it is the way how you let me in, and maybe, the way you asked for help. I am sorry that I cannot push away these spineless thoughts of you and me, and stay; to see you as a human, not a knight in shining armour. Don't you know you have the potential of a thousand suns yet you only let the light shine less brighter than a single candle in a dark room? I am sorry that I cannot see beyond the three hours past midnight phone calls when you are few drinks in. I am sorry that I cannot save you because I am still finding myself, too. I am sorry that I chose not to love you — although I would like to love you; hell, maybe I should, but I'm afraid I couldn't. 

A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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Growing Apart

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This what's on my mind: We are quiet now, a lot more quiet than we were. I don't think it is because we don't have anything to say, I think it is quite the opposite. It is because the weigh of our worlds are almost unbearable so we choose to stay silent. I don't think it is because of the distance. It is just a scale pin point different cities on a map, but nothing more. We have known each other for almost a decade now, when everything was light as feather, we have never running out of things to say. I thought I'd go along this time, being quiet, considering this world has enough scraps of darkness to hear, might as well caged it inside my ribs. I thought this is what you want, too. To stay silent. But won't you agree with me, if we keep everything within, it will slowly, maybe gradually almost unnoticed, destroying ourselves then the world eventually? Stretching us far apart as an individual and less as a team. I do not want that, if anything has to shackle me I do not mind being tied in a life-time relationship with you. You are my best friend.

If they say that love is just an illusion, then same it goes to fear, isn't it? I need you, out of anybody else, as my best friend to tell me so. The fear of tomorrow starting to get a hold of me. I'm trying to let go, but I cannot run away. I remember you jumped out of excitement when I told you our favorite band is coming to the city where I live while I stood still, did not seem to find the excitement; it may be because the love I had towards the band had lessen to the tipping point of nothing, or maybe because I know that I am near, I am starting to lose the interest. Tomorrow, on the other hand, scares me. The uncertainty, the risk, the chances are like shadows that even follows in the dark. I wish I can just hide it under my blanket, let it be forgotten and lost in the sheet.

I am not telling you this because maybe you have listened enough. Given the assumption, I do not want to pull you down. You seem you are doing alright, better than alright. You seem to have figured it out. As the days piled up, the longer we stop communicating, the greater the feeling of shyness that was very much absent when we used to spent weekends figuring out the chords of The Weezer songs. I'd phone you in an instant to spill every single details I just went for a coffee with the guy I had a crush on. Sometimes, I would repeat the story over and over again just because I could not handle the excitement. Now, I'd think twice before sending you a text to tell you the worse date I have ever been, afraid I might disturb you in between your busy schedule. There must be something going on. Or is it just a brutal truth that we are, apparently, growing apart?

I hope we are okay. I hope we'll be okay.

A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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A Case of Me

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When the day has fallen asleep, the sun rests and let the night take over, awake in the dark, people will march in here like a bunch of blood-thirsted vampires. In this place, the lights are always dimmed; it is never been bright, as if eyes are not meant to see traces of abstract arches drawn on the ceiling. The floor is often slippery and full of heavy steps. It is loud, so loud screams sound like whispers and whispers are as golden as silence. The music wraps everyone in rhythm, warmth and present. Here, nobody needs to listen, just a mind to forget. This is the place where people run away to. For some, this is their sanctuary. Anything, everything, can happen here – the opposites emotions devour like collision between two seas with different densities, while I stand at the back, waiting to be served.

Here, love can grow and end, hope and regret breathing down each other’s neck. Sincerest confession and arguments slurring like river in a church, a place where sometimes nobody can tell the difference between love and lust. Nonetheless, they do not care. Everyone here is present, to their bodily self; not necessarily to forget, but just to be here, not to be alone. They are looking for the a case of me – preserved happiness in a form of liquid in a bottle pour into thin shaped glass, and sometimes spilled over a friend or on the bar that soon wiped, just like those tears on her pink blushed cheek as her heart just got broken, so I have heard.

With the help of the hero of the night behind the bar, serving, mixing the best of me; I would dance in their hands swing me into the air and pour me elegantly, almost perfect. In their hands, I am safe. People would grow the best sense of honesty through every pour of me. I can be sweet, bitter and sometimes I would burn like flames down their throat. But then again, they don’t mind as long as they get their salvation. In the morning, they will blame me for the mistakes, regrets, heavy-head that risen up along with the sunshine. And some will thank me, for giving them the confidence they are longing to seek.  Of course, all of those reigned after they had consumed me, like love that slowly, gradually take some part of me, until I am running out of myself, empty. And their momentary happiness, lightness and laughter will be the death of me.

A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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