The next morning, Aruna woke with a strange feeling in her chest—not a racing heart, but curiosity, like a small bee buzzing nonstop. Last night's notification still felt warm when she thought about it. A trivial thing, yet it had made an otherwise dull day feel slightly more colorful.
At the coworking space where she usually set up her laptop, the atmosphere was already lively. Wooden tables were filled with people typing away; the aroma of coffee from the espresso machine blended with the sound of clacking keyboards. At the table next to hers, Mira was already waiting, her hair as messy as ever, her gaze full of questions.
"So, any news about Mr. Mysterious?" Mira asked bluntly, downing a gulp of her coffee.
Aruna sat down and set her bag aside. "Still mysterious. My reply wasn't even read."
Mira clicked her tongue. "Try tracing it. You're good with IT—at least according to you."
Aruna shrugged. She knew a bit about basic message header tracing, but messages from that account were completely stripped of metadata. No name, no photo, just plain text. "If it were a regular messaging app, maybe there'd be an IP. But most apps now use end-to-end encryption. Besides, this feels intentionally anonymous."
"So the cute guy at the café?" Mira teased. "Or maybe the cold-but-sweet-on-the-inside barista type?"
Aruna frowned. "You know the guy's name?"
Mira stretched. "Not in my dictionary yet, but I agree—there's a mysterious aura. The kind that makes people want to know more."
They lightly debated the possibilities: a bored hacker, a café promo account, a prank from a friend, or—more romantically—someone who simply wanted to help. Every theory was laughed off, but as they laughed, Aruna realized the smile on her face wasn't as stiff as usual. A small sense of comfort surfaced whenever her thoughts drifted back to that café.
The afternoon passed—Aruna finished several articles, edited an opinion column, and prepared revisions. Work drowned out her curiosity for a few hours, yet her phone kept pulling her attention back to the screen.
Behind the counter of Senandika's bakery section, Lila checked the bread shelves while occasionally glancing at her phone. Lila was easygoing, quick to laugh, with a small piercing in her left ear and a habit of mimicking customers' voices for fun. She was also the one managing the anonymous account.
"Lila!" Raka called out, his baritone voice carrying a half-serious tone. "You sent another message, didn't you?"
Lila shrugged. "Yup. She looked like she needed an outlet. Besides, customers like that sometimes. Makes them feel noticed."
Raka sighed. He wasn't the type to interfere. To him, Lila's actions felt like putting a mark on someone else's calendar—sweet, but also crossing a line of privacy. Yet that day, he had noticed the woman in the denim jacket sitting in the corner of the café, staring intently at her screen. There was something about the way she worked—focused yet gentle—that made him, for some reason, want to know more.
"Do you think she'll come back?" Lila asked, her eyes sparkling.
Raka lifted a glass and studied it. "Maybe. If she comes back just for the outlet, that's not romantic."
Lila slapped his arm. "Since when did you get so cynical? Who knows—maybe you'll be the next anonymous one."
Raka laughed, but something shifted in his mind. He kept replaying Aruna's expressions—the small smile, the way her lips pressed together when she concentrated, how carefully she placed her cup down. Maybe Lila meant well, he thought, and maybe that small act wasn't dangerous after all.
As evening approached, Aruna decided to walk home. Jakarta in the late afternoon had its own rhythm—motorized pedicabs, passing vendors, and streetlights beginning to flicker on. On the sidewalk, her phone vibrated again.
Unknown Account:
You left your charger by the window corner last night. Take it if you want. —
Aruna jolted. She had completely forgotten she'd charged her laptop at the café. "Oh my God," she murmured, glancing toward the café, which was still brightly lit.
She called Mira. "I'm grabbing my charger first. I'll meet you at the station later."
"Sure. Just don't call the barista 'sweet' to his face—you'll embarrass yourself," Mira joked.
Aruna laughed. "Yeah, yeah."
At the café, Lila smiled and pointed to the window corner. "Oh, the charger? We kept it for you."
Aruna took it, their fingers brushing briefly. The touch was fleeting—a tiny spark along her arm that Aruna felt more keenly than Raka did. She looked up; Raka was watching from behind the espresso machine, his expression unreadable.
"Thank you again," Aruna said, her voice softer than before.
"No problem," Raka replied shortly.
Aruna walked home with a strange mix of feelings—more questions, a bit of confusion, and a small hope she didn't quite want to acknowledge. Under the streetlights, she opened the messaging app, wanting badly to know who owned the account. But the username was still just a gray circle, like an empty hole.
Once inside her apartment, she set the charger on the table and opened her laptop. Another notification came in.
Unknown Account:
Tomorrow at seven there's a small open mic at Senandika. There's a new poffle—give it a try. If you come, sit in the corner. —
Aruna stared at the message, then at her novel draft, again and again until her eyes felt dry. An open mic? She felt both lazy and curious. Coming to a café just because of a notification felt a little silly, but she also knew—there was something about small habits that connected people without requiring introductions.
She imagined sitting in the corner of the café, listening to a guitar, watching people perform unfinished songs or short stories. The image felt warm. In her mind, the café was no longer just a place to charge a laptop; it had become a small meeting point, a place where stories could begin from the simplest things—a message, a cup of coffee, an outlet.
Aruna placed her phone beside her pillow. She knew many things could happen—feeling embarrassed, disappointed, or even judged by everyone if she suddenly became the center of attention. But there was also another possibility, a rarer one: a meeting that made life a little more colorful.
Before she fell asleep, she thought of one small thing: whoever sent those messages chose to stay anonymous. Maybe it wasn't out of fear, but because they wanted her reaction to be genuine—uninfluenced by appearances or words. It was a slightly sweet idea.
In the back room of the café, Lila closed her notebook. She glanced at her phone, then at Raka, who was busy cleaning glasses. "You going to help? They say tomorrow's open mic has to be a success."
Raka looked at her, then nodded. "We'll see. But if she comes and sits in the corner, don't—"
"Don't what?"
"Don't point me out as the account owner," Raka replied jokingly, though his eyes hinted at something else. Something faint, but real.
In Aruna's apartment, night drew the curtains closed. The notification rested on her phone like a small message waiting for a reply. Outside, the city still pulsed. In two different places—at a café corner and in a small apartment—there were two people who didn't yet fully know each other, and a nameless account quietly weaving small threads that might one day bring them together.
Tomorrow night, a small stage awaited.