OWNER OF HEART

Eps 5's

After I found the account with the profile photo of the backpack I thought belonged to the Traveler, I had absolutely no chance to hold the phone. My time is really to work. Downstream customers

entering the material store. Followed by others and others.

Working in a material store even though it looks relaxed, it is also heavy. Apalgi if the orders of the customers are piling up. But that's not what's in question. Sometimes dust from the sand piled in front of the store

until it slips into my throat. Especially in summer like this and with the wind. That address dust not only enters the esophagus, but also likes to kiss both of my cheeks. It seems like my face has been stained by the dust flying in the material shop area.

We closed the material store fifteen minutes from the official hour. I also immediately went home with a heavy head, as well as a sore back and hands. Passing through the angsle seller whose fragrant scent tickles my nose feathers, and makes my saliva seem to drip mercilessly. I love to sip angsle. But because today the date is still kembis, I also do not intend to turn to the angsle maker. For me inhaling the aroma is enough to make the stomach a little full, full of eating angsle wind. After passing the angsle, now I passed a stall to know the eggs that the seller was busy mengolek seasoning.  And passed the grilled corn cart with several people clustered around the hot burning charcoal.

“Mheta, banana chips are delicious.” My hostel friends were still sitting in the hallway while eating banana chips.

“Recard only.”

“Serious?”

“Sagittarius, seriously! In fact, if only the banana chips that nganter here directly the child of the mother who made the chips, I would have told you to eat the same as you.”

“Hah? Meaning!”

“No intention, already spend it, do not forget the traces are cleaned so as not to be scolded Mbak Atun.” I pointed at some banana chips that were seen scattered on the floor, then I entered the room.

I took the phone out of my pocket, it turned out that the battery was only three percent. Immediately pummel with charger. I want to turn on the laptop, but my eyes are heavy.

****

Early in the morning I woke up, opened the window, letting the scent of morning air blend in with the rest of the drizzle overnight. I turned on the laptop, reread the short story about the ride.

I deleted some parts that seemed a lot of repetition words. I removed the overly rambling part. And I looked at a paragraph that I thought was too long. Then I remember Stephen King in his book On

Writing: in fiction, the paragraphs are not very structured –which is important

it's the rhythm, not the melody.

Mamas Stephen's On Writing is one of the books that is always there beside my laptop. Reading it when the idea starts to stumble, it feels like reading the advice of a teacher. I even often suggested to some of my literary friends, to have the book.

So, back to my short story. Unlike the fact that Pengelana died her mobile number. I actually ended the story that the Travelers separated just like that without knowing their respective identities.

Isn't it in this life that most of us encounter such things? Change smiles on the street. Shake each other at the counter. Sitting on a city bus without getting to know each other? Everyone is indeed the main character for himself, but for others it could be just a figure or a glimpse of a faint shadow that crosses each other but does not look at each other.

Do I really hope between the characters and the traveler as well? What if a traveler finds my story one day and reads it? Does he remember our meeting? How's she? Do you feel harnessed? I don't think so, because he himself decided to open up the story to me. Even it was clear I did not respond to him, but he still with his PD told me about his heartbreak.

But I really need to find him. At least the traveler needs to know. And if he doesn't accept me making short stories, I'll change a bottle of mizone on that rainy day.

I closed my eyes, said a prayer, “Yes Allah, give the best for this manuscript,” next press the send button.

Next I sent six poems and one reviewer to another. I also sent one article for paid content. Although I limit only sending one article per week, it is enough to buy an internet package for a month.

I started to stretch both hands. The dawn is long. So I reopened social media. There's something I haven't finished. An account with a photo of that backpack.

The first thing I open is self-information: nothing is shared with the public . stopover there are some beaches, likes: movie Colossal, there is a book of poetry I man Mustofa Bisri. He also loves news and

newspaper.

I began to switch to seeing friendships, unfortunately none of them were shown. My God, this guy's totally covered. Then I went to the sign, one post with public settings.

“memories are only about how one chooses what he wants to remember.”

The post was posted about five days ago. There are twenty-seven names that like and seven comments. Three thumbs sticker unrequited, one comment, “no time to repeat,” also not reciprocated. One comment

“Gas bro,” not reciprocated. One comment, “patient Bro,” not replied. And one comment

“copy bro,” whom he replied “OTW!”

I'm looking for another post on it, but nothing. I'm trying to open a publicly-arranged profile photo album. There is only a photograph of a backpack, beach, train and a flip-flop brand Swallow full of sand.

Is he really a traveller? I'm not the only one who thinks so. “Oh Lord, why would I bother to find out who is a Traveler. What really pervades my soul.” But the other side of my heart

also voiced, “doesn't you at least ask for permission or say thank you?” what kind of a heart is that!

“Mheta?” my friend looked out the door.

I lifted my face from the front of the screen.

“Do not forget, today leave early in the morning.”

“Oh, yes, thanks for being reminded, San.”

I got an interview call from one of the hospitals, not far from where I live. If accepted, my plan would be to stop working in the material store and undergo medical experience

for the first time. Irritated clothes hanging that have not been ironed.

Adzan's voice has begun to echo. Again, I touched

phone screen towards that name. Enough of this guy to really shake my mind.