Tricks for a Heart [mlm]

Chapter 18

What would be the best way to cope in the aftermath of an emotional collateral damage? If you ask me, it's probably resorting to committing unhealthily towards my shitty job.

"Come and see this wonderful thing, Dam! Aren't they precious? See, my daughter ... ala, the single one, the very pretty one ... sell these lovely items on Instagram, but I told her to give one to you as a gift ... totally a wife material, don't you think-"

Or apparently dealing with nosy colleagues who love to give me headaches, too. "Sure, Kak Yam," I mutter.

Maryam pushes something solid into my hand, but I'm not looking anywhere but the spreadsheets and PowerPoint report decks on my computer screen.

"Ish, take a break and look at that, Adam!" she urges me. "Isn't it lovely?"

I pull away from the screen and swivel my chair around toward her, looking at what she shoved in my hand. It looks like a shiny, bright-colored miniature sculpture of a flower. It might be a rose, or even a tulip. I'm not quite sure.

But it's actually delightful. Shiny and glittery-something adorable that can complement my desk.

"This is wonderful," I say. "Tell her I say thanks!"

As I put the flower sculpture in my stationery cup, she drones on, "She can even make a customized something for you! People actually hire her to design these things ... can you believe it? This is definitely a people-your-age thing, if you ask me."

I don't. I never ask Maryam for anything. "Sure."

"Do you want to check out her Instagram? She makes more stuff. There are ready-made ones, but most of them are pictures of what she's done for her customers. Come, come ... let me show you."

"Sure, Kak Yam," I say. I pull out my phone and let her squeeze in beside me as I open up Instagram. I'm not planning on surveying the account, but some of her creations are really cute. Apparently, Maryam's daughter freelances in receiving commissions for 3D-printed artwork. I stop at one of the videos there that shows a time lapse of her creation in the making. There are other stuff than the miniature flowers too, like Eiffel Tower replicas, jet planes, snowflakes, and each of them is created with intricate details.

"Wow," I breathe out.

"I know, right! She's my angel. Do let me know if you're interested in her number, because I would love for you two to meet-"

Just as Maryam drones on and on about how I should take her daughter out for a date, a familiar circle pops up above the screen. Maryam's voice fades out in the background, because as much as I recognize the username, the circular profile photo above it shows nothing but empty blackness.

Luqman has posted an Instagram story, which means he's somewhere with a stable connection. But that's besides the point. Will I dare myself to click on what he might post? Will I let him know that I'm still checking up on him, despite not responding back to any of my texts for nearly thirty-six hours? I'm not saying that I'm tracking the time, but still.

Do I dare to look at what he might say or post about?

Whatever. Nothing can hurt me, can it?

Except the Instagram story is a plain black post with a small text that's extremely shrunk, as if not intended to be read by anyone, but still there to catch someone's attention. I squint and it reads: I miss you.

In the background, Ariana Grande's Almost Is Never Enough is playing in the short clip.

I curse under my breath and find myself almost texting him. The thing is, sending him text messages won't be much of a problem if he read my previous one. He doesn't.