MISTERI RUMAH ASHWABIMA

MISTERI RUMAH ASHWABIMA

last updateLast Updated : 2024-09-25
By:  Dee Rahayu Completed
Language: Bahasa_indonesia
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Synopsis

Radi Ashwabima tumbuh bak budak dalam asuhan keras ibu angkatnya yang merupakan tuan tanah berkuasa di desa. Namun tanpa disadari, ia jatuh hati pada Kinanti, salah satu saudari angkatnya yang memperlakukannya dengan baik. Sayang, Kinanti mendadak menghilang setelah Radi menyatakan cinta. Radi pun berusaha keras untuk bangkit. Dia bahkan pasrah untuk dinikahkan dengan Andari, anak lain sang ibu angkat. Setelahnya, semua berjalan normal, sampai suatu hari ia menemukan ada gubuk rahasia di sudut halaman belakang rumah Artiyah! Ada pula suara orang memanggil namanya dari gubuk itu..... Penasaran, Radi pun mulai mencari tahu. Siapa sangka, ia akan menemukan banyak rahasia mengerikan yang sepertinya disembunyikan oleh sang ibu angkat? Dari misteri hilangnya Kinanti, hingga teka-teki tentang orangtua kandung Radi yang tewas mengenaskan 30 tahun lalu!

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Chapter 1

1. Radi Sang Menantu

The first man on my screen was holding a fish.

Not eating it. Not cooking it. Just gripping it by the tail like it was supposed to impress me. I don’t know who told men that dangling a dead animal on their profiles screamed “provider,” but clearly, it was a widespread delusion. My rent wasn’t that late. Yet.

I swiped left.

Second guy: sunglasses indoors, polo shirt two sizes too small, bio shorter than my patience. Swipe left.

Third? Shirtless bathroom mirror selfie. Swipe left so fast my thumb nearly cramped.

This was my first day here, and already the landscape was bleak. These were supposed to be the men who could buy me time, comfort, options and they looked like half of them couldn’t buy toothpaste. And look, I wasn’t judging. Not really. Everyone’s entitled to their little delusions, their ways of showing off. But I was confused. Wasn’t the point of this platform to be aspirational? Wasn’t the trade supposed to be obvious? They get beauty, charm, and whatever else they project onto me. I get stability, indulgence, freedom. Why, then, did it feel like I was standing in a dusty thrift store, pawing through discount bins, hoping for silk?

I swiped again.

One man had decent shoes, which was already a minor miracle. Another had a smile that didn’t scream “hidden bankruptcy.” A third one he didn’t look like much, but he had words that hinted at ambition, and I was starving for even a hint of that. I tapped the heart on a few profiles, just to keep my algorithm guessing.

Still, the frustration curled in my chest. The truth is, I’m not used to being broke.

I’ve had tight months before, who hasn’t? The kind where you skip brunch to cover your electricity bill, or you convince yourself you don’t even like lattes anymore. But this was different. This was no spontaneous ice cream run with my sister. No ordering that dress I saw last week on a whim, just because it made me smile. No impulsive road trip because the sunset looked good from I*******m.

This was watching my life shrink into lists of things I couldn’t do.

Couldn’t treat my family to dinner.

Couldn’t take my sister shopping.

Couldn’t even replace my phone case without checking the price twice.

That’s the thing; I’m not poor. Poor is a cage you’re born in, the kind with bars so tight you grow around them. Broke is different. Broke is more like waking up and finding the walls have moved in overnight, pressing against your ribs, stealing your breath. It’s temporary, or at least you convince yourself it is. But temporary or not, it eats at you.

Still swiping.

Some of these men looked nice enough, in the way a department store mannequin looks nice: clean, forgettable, vaguely human-shaped. Some were disasters in profile form: blurry pictures, bad angles, bios full of emojis and no actual words. Some… I couldn’t even describe, because my brain short-circuited halfway through reading their nonsense. One even wrote “no drama” four times in a row, which only screamed drama.

By the time I’d liked four or five profiles, my thumb was tired and my stomach was rumbling. I closed the app, more out of boredom than hope, and promised myself I’d check it again in the morning.

When I woke up, I was logged out.

No matches.

No messages.

No “hey gorgeous, let’s change your life.”

Just a blank login screen and the distant sound of my pride laughing at me.

Maybe tomorrow, I told myself. Maybe tomorrow I’d find the kind of man who could pay for my silence and my shoes. Maybe tomorrow, the app would actually deliver on the glossy promises of its ads.

But until then, I was still broke but never poor.

Because poor meant surrender. And me? I was still swiping.

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