The fundraising meeting began with coffee that was far too sweet and ended with Faris showing up.
He arrived at exactly seven that evening, wearing a flawlessly pressed white shirt. His hair was neat. His shoes were clean. Even the way he set his folder on the table looked rehearsed.
Raka disliked him immediately.
Not because Faris looked arrogant. If anything, it was because he looked like the kind of man who never chose the wrong size of shirt, the wrong words, or the wrong time to arrive.
“Faris Mahendra,” he said to everyone. “I represent my family’s foundation. We’d like to help with this program.”
He named the donation amount. The room fell silent.
It was enough to buy Mr. Harun’s medicine, repair the library, meet the residents’ needs, and still leave enough money to replace the mosque fan that sounded like a boat engine.
Fikri looked at Raka. Raka looked at Nisa.
Nisa didn’t look surprised. Just quieter than usual.
“Thank you,” the head organizer said. “Of course, we’ll need to discuss a few things.”
“Of course,” Faris replied. “I don’t want to run the show. I just want to make sure this assistance reaches the right people.”
The words sounded good. Too good.
After the meeting, Nisa asked Raka to help her check the needs list. They sat in the nearly empty reading room.
“You know him?” Raka asked.
Nisa kept writing. “I used to.”
“That’s a broad answer. It could mean you went to the same school, rode the same bus, or sent each other good-night prayers.”
“That last one’s a stretch.”
“So one of the first two.”
Nisa sighed. “Faris used to be my fiancé.”
Raka gripped his pen so tightly that the tip snapped.
“Sorry,” he said. “The pen wasn’t ready for such heavy news.”
Nisa looked at him. “We called off the wedding a year ago.”
Raka didn’t ask why. Not because he didn’t want to know. He simply saw the way Nisa arranged the papers—too neatly, too carefully—and understood that some questions weren’t doors. They were wounds that hadn’t finished closing.
“Does he still want you back?” Raka finally asked.
“I don’t know.”
“That’s a very safe answer.”
“I’m learning to be safe.”
Outside, children’s voices reciting in Quran class drifted in from the main room. Raka lowered his gaze to the broken pen in his hand.
“If I’m being honest,” Nisa said, “I don’t want this program depending on anyone’s feelings.”
“Donations have feelings too?”
“The people making the donations do.”
Raka nodded. He was beginning to understand. Faris’s help wasn’t just about money. Behind it was the possibility that Nisa would once again become someone forced to answer for the past.
The next day, Raka’s fundraising post began making the rounds. He wrote about Mr. Harun, the damaged books, and the children who needed a place to study. He didn’t use dramatic numbers or guilt-inducing photos. He simply wrote things as they were.
Within two days, the funds raised had exceeded the goal.
“You’re famous,” Fikri said, showing him the comments on his phone.
“Don’t call me famous. I once had three readers, and one of them was my mother.”
“Now you have hundreds.”
“Hopefully they didn’t read the article about life partners.”
That afternoon, Nisa arrived with the news that the library would be repaired. She smiled. This time, for a little longer.
“Thank you,” she said.
“To me?”
“To your writing.”
“In that case, can my writing take you out to eat?”
Nisa raised an eyebrow.
Raka quickly corrected himself. “I mean, the whole team needs to eat. For productivity.”
“Does productivity have a restaurant name?”
“In this city, everything has a restaurant name.”
Nisa almost laughed when Faris appeared in the doorway.
“I need to talk to Nisa,” he said.
Raka stood. “We were talking about—”
“Nisa,” Faris cut in, gentle but firm.
Nisa looked at Raka. “It’s okay. You go ahead.”
Raka wanted to stay. But he had no legitimate reason, other than a discomfort he had no right to feel yet.
He left at an unhurried pace. From behind the door, he heard Faris say, “I didn’t come just to help with this program. I want to fix everything.”
Raka stopped.
Then he forced his feet to keep moving.
In the mosque courtyard, Fikri was already waiting, wearing a victorious expression.
“What?” Raka asked.
“Nothing.”
“You look like you just found a huge discount.”
“I’m just saying, you’re jealous.”
Raka gave him a sharp look. “I’m concerned about the program’s stability.”
“That’s called jealousy.”
“That’s called professionalism.”
“That’s called Raka.”
For the first time, Raka didn’t have a comeback.
Because he knew the easiest joke to make was denying something he wasn’t ready to admit.