LOGINToko kecil itu bernama Anak Lipat—tempat croissant hangat, isian nyeleneh, dan rahasia yang belum selesai dipanggang. Qale, gadis bermata sipit sebelah dan bergigi gingsul, menyimpan luka masa lalu : dituduh jadi penyebab kematian ibu, dicap pembawa sial, dan kini… dipaksa menikah dengan pria buta dan lumpuh demi utang budi keluarga. Tapi lelaki asing itu datang membawa lebih dari sekadar cincin. Ia tahu banyak hal rahasia di masa lalu yang membuat Qale penasaran. Syaratnya satu, menikah, tapi jangan jatuh cinta. Tapi, siapa yang bisa menolak pesona si anak lipat, si pembuat croissant manis beraroma dendam.
View More[Gia’s POV]
I watch the passing lights of the cities that illuminate the night’s sky, as James is driving us to a club, he has been asking me to go to with him for months now. I am tired, like usual. My 42-year-old, single mom, introverted self does not want to go clubbing. Doing this merely as my way to finally compromise with James, who has been frustrated that we only screw late at night, and don’t go on dates.Being taken out on a date was something I used to look forward to years ago in my twenties and early thirties. All I got out of my dating years were betrayals, toxic relationships, abuse, and lots of heartbreak. Now, I just want to get the deed done and sleep. I don’t want to deal with the relationship drama, pain, and suffering. With James, I keep my heart walled off in a massive fortress. Nothing is impenetrable, but it is all I have left to keep sane.
James’ night hustle is as a rap recording artist. Nothing mainstream yet. Mostly, he gets together with his friends to do recordings at each other’s homes. I am not into new rap music. Call me old fashioned, but I just don’t get into the newer music much anymore. He is talented though, and I like trying to be moral support for his artistry.
We met several years ago at our kids’ school. I never intended on dating anyone, even him. We started up a friends-with-benefits relationship a couple months after meeting. Neither of us has even spoken about commitment or our long-term intentions. Although, I know he sees us as more. We recently started talking again after taking a two-year break from each other.
He made me angry one day, when he snapped at me, called me names, insulted everything he could about me, all because he was drunk and misunderstood something I said about his music. I had no intention of telling him there was something I did not like about his music. He asked me what my thoughts were, and I told him it is just not my thing. Totally got blown out of proportion, and after he yelled at me for fifteen minutes while degrading me, I told him to never call me again.
He sent me a text message and social media message every month for the two-year break. He called constantly and would leave me voicemail messages about how he screwed up, misses me, and has changed. I guess you can say, he wore me down, although I remain skeptical about him changing; people rarely have enough strength of character and willpower to change.
When I finally did respond to him, he called me and told me that he has been making so many positive changes. He went on about how he was really working on himself, has a new hobby, and is happier. I don’t really need or want a relationship. I just decided to stop ignoring his communications. He still struggles with alcoholism, which bothers me, but he is a bit more considerate of me and my needs. The sex is good; not the best I have had, but it takes the edge off. It is not like he will be around much longer, as I have already unintentionally bridged him to his mate.
That is correct, I make bridges. These are spiritual and magical bridges for others to cross to that which they sometimes want, need, or desire. I only found out a few weeks ago that I have this ability. Prior to that, I had thought I was cursed. You see, every time I get involved with someone, they find the woman they end up with. They break it off with me. Oftentimes, they just ghost me. It is rude and pathetic, but most people lack bravery and basic decency.
I am a Bridge. It is a role I chose before I was born into this lifetime. My soul has reincarnated since the first human was created. Really gives meaning to the “old soul” label. To be a bridge, one’s soul must have been reincarnated for thousands of years and have mastered most of the roles they have chosen in previous lives. Few souls choose to be a Bridge. It is a very challenging soul role to level out of.
The role also has an a la carte menu of close to a several hundred different traumatic experiences that the soul must choose twelve to go through. This is to prepare the life to be able to better empathize and connect with others. It is a bit masochistic in my opinion. Think of the decision of choosing roles before each birth into a new lifetime, as choosing a video game character and their attributes / abilities.
There are pros to choosing the Bridge path. The main plus is that when you succeed at it, you get to choose to become ethereal, angel, demon, spirt guide, or other higher soul level entities. You get to choose whether you want to reincarnate again, or if you just want to live in the higher-level positions. Also, Bridges come with many different abilities such as, time manipulation, healer, telekinesis, psychokinesis, astral and mental projection, talking to animals and other living beings, manifesting from senses, hearing thoughts of others, and so much more. You really get well equipped before adventuring into the life game. Bridges walk between worlds, dimensions, and realms. They can connect with beings in any of those places.
Now for the not so fun part, the rules. I have only learned of four of the rules so far from my watchers. Watchers are a panel of diverse higher-level beings, who guide, watch over, and regulate each Bridge. The rules I have learned so far are as follows:
o Rule One: Bridges are not allowed to use magic for self-benefit, hence why I am broke.o Rule Two: Bridges are restricted in using magic or thought to cast vengeance or harm to those they have bridged, even unintentionally.o Rule Three: Bridges must endure selected traumatic hardships to better acclimate them to various scenarios of pain, fear, hope, and despair, hence my PTSD, anxiety, and depression.o Rule 4: Bridges cannot undo, tear down, or destroy, by any means, the bridges they laid for others. This basically also plays into the no vengeance or recourse allowed rule. The last thing I know about being a Bridge is that when you manifest the bridge for someone, what they are receiving on the other side, automatically puts the negative burden into the Bridge, and is placed on the person who creates the bridges, a.k.a. the Bridge. For example, every man I unknowingly was a magical matchmaker to (I had laid a bridge to their mate), I was left with pain of not finding my mate, and/or suffered extreme heartbreak, depression, etc. Another example is when I have bridged someone to financial prosperity, I received sudden loss to my finances. Why in the hell would anyone choose to be a bridge? My soul is a crazy ass who loves a challenge. Of course, she would choose to be a fucking bridge…not happy about it.Langit sore sudah bergeser ketika mereka akhirnya tiba di rumah.Qalesya tidak langsung masuk kamar. Ia duduk sebentar di sofa ruang tengah, melepaskan sepatu pelan, seperti orang yang baru selesai menempuh perjalanan jauh—padahal jaraknya tidak seberapa.Wafa memperhatikannya dari belakang, tidak bertanya, tidak mendesak. Ia hanya melepaskan dasi dan meletakkan di meja, lalu mendekat.“Kamu mau langsung rebahan?” tanyanya pelan.Qale mengangguk kecil. “Iya.”Wafa memapah ke kamar, Qale berbaring setengah duduk seperti biasa. Bantal bertumpuk di punggungnya, kaki sedikit ditekuk, satu tangan bertengger di perut. Wafa menarik selimut tipis, menyelimutinya sampai sebatas pinggang.Ia duduk di sisi ranjang. Baru bertanya setelah istrinya nyaman.“Seharian tadi… ada yang ganggu pikiranmu?”Nada suaranya datar, hati-hati. Tidak seperti menginterogasi.Qale menoleh pelan. Tatapannya ragu, seolah sedang menimbang—perlu cerita atau tidak.“Enggak,” jawabnya cepat.Wafa tidak menanggapi. Ia ha
Langit siang itu tidak mendung, tidak juga cerah—hanya berawan biasa.Qalesya melangkah perlahan di antara nisan-nisan yang berjajar rapi. Bau tanah basah masih tersisa, meski hujan terakhir turun dua hari lalu. Ia berhenti di satu titik yang sudah ia hafal letaknya, bahkan tanpa melihat nama.Rahayu.Ia duduk pelan di tepi makam. Mengatur napas. Tangan kanannya refleks mengusap perut, seolah mencari keseimbangan.Dewi tidak ikut mendekat. Ia memilih duduk beberapa meter di belakang, di bawah pohon kamboja kecil. Cukup dekat untuk berjaga, tidak ikut masuk ke ruang sunyi yang sedang Qale nikmati sendiri.“Bu…” suara Qalesya lirih. Hampir seperti berbisik pada tanah.Ia tersenyum kecil, senyum yang lebih mirip kebiasaan daripada bahagia.“Aku kok gampang capek ... Apalagi hari ini.”Kalimat itu keluar begitu saja. Tidak puitis. Tidak sok kuat. Tapi jujur.Matanya menatap nisan tanpa berkedip. Angin menyapu ujung rambutnya pelan.“Aku ketemu dosen pembimbing,” lanjutnya. “Revisinya bany
Di lapas lain, Elan berdiri canggung di depan papan pengumuman.“Unit dokumentasi… dapur… administrasi.”Pak Surya berdiri di sampingnya. “Milih itu bukan soal gengsi. Tapi soal kamu mau bertahan di mana.”Elan mengangguk. “Saya coba dokumentasi, Pak.”Hari pertama, ia salah menyimpan arsip. Hari kedua, ia ditegur karena foto blur. Hari ketiga, seorang napi mengejek, “Sok jadi seniman.”Elan menelan ludah. Dadanya panas. Tapi ia ingat wajah Mama Danisha.[Supaya kemarahanmu tidak tumbuh jadi kebencian.]Malam itu, ia duduk di ranjang besi, memandang dinding."Mungkin hidupku belum bermakna," pikirnya."Tapi aku masih di sini. Dan itu berarti masih ada kesempatan."Malam itu, setelah lampu sel dipadamkan, suara napas penghuni lain menyatu dengan dengung kipas tua.Elan tidak langsung berbaring.Ia duduk di tepi ranjang besi, telapak kakinya menapak lantai dingin.Ia teringat ejekan siang tadi.“Sok jadi seniman.”Dulu, kalimat seperti itu akan ia balas. Dengan sindiran. Dengan pembelaa
Tidak semua perubahan datang dengan perasaan ingin diakui.Sebagian hanya berupa keputusan kecil yang diulang—lagi dan lagi—sampai ia berubah menjadi kebiasaan.Pagi itu, Qalesya terbangun dengan napas pendek. Tangannya refleks memegang perutnya yang semakin besar. Bayi di dalamnya bergerak, bukan tendangan kuat, lebih seperti menggeser posisi—namun cukup membuatnya meringis.“Mas…” panggilnya lirih.Wafa yang setengah tidur langsung bangun. “Kenapa?”“Pinggang aku kayak mau patah... sesak.”Wafa duduk, meraih minyak kayu putih. Tanpa banyak bicara, ia mengusap punggung Qale pelan. Gerakannya hati-hati, seperti takut menyakiti.“Sakit banget, ya?" bisiknya. “Kita napas bareng.”Qale mengangguk. Setelah beberapa saat, ia bersandar, napasnya lebih teratur. Tapi matanya berkaca-kaca.“Mas,” ucapnya tiba-tiba. “Kalau nanti aku panik pas lahiran gimana?”Wafa terdiam sejenak, lalu tersenyum kecil. “Ya kita panik bareng.”Qale tertawa kecil, meski air matanya jatuh. “Kok jawabanmu gitu sih.






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