overthem00nz

[overthem00nz]

Kasur, Kesabaran, dan Kekacauan dalam Satu Kardus Besar.

Kami tidak butuh kasur baru.

Aku ulangi: kami tidak butuh kasur baru.

Yang lama masih bagus. Masih empuk. Masih menyimpan jejak banyak kenangan.

Tapi suatu malam, ketika aku sedang rebahan sambil nonton video TikTok soal aesthetic couple bedroom transformation, aku menyeletuk, “Rin, kasur kita kayak udah nggak vibey.”

Dan Suna Rintarou, si manusia dengan IQ blocking 150 tapi EQ furnitur 12 menjawab, “Kalau kamu udah bilang begitu, berarti besok aku cari kasur baru.”

Aku kira dia bercanda. Sampai dua hari kemudian, dia berdiri di pintu apartemen dengan ekspresi letih dan kardus besar bertuliskan Noctis® CloudTech Hybrid - Soft Pastel Series.

Aku tidak penasaran dengan harganya. Yang pasti, uangnya dari rekening Suna sendiri. Dan itu bikin dia jadi sok penting sepanjang hari.

“Kamu yang ngerakit. Aku capek keliling toko furnitur.” Ia meletakkan manual ke pangkuanku.

“Excuse me? Emang aku keliatan kayak tukang rakit?”

Dia mendengus. “Siapa suruh pengen kasur baru. Warna pastel pula. Susah carinya.”

“Kasur lama kita warnanya abu-abu zombie, Rin. Sekarang lebih terang.”

“Dan gampang kotor.”

“Itu mah emang kamunya yang jorok.”

Dia tidak membalas dan mulai membuka komponen rangka kasurnya. Aku bantu menyusun sesuai prosedur. Tapi seperti biasa, pembagian tugas ala kami itu absurd.

Step 1: Bongkar Rangka Lama.

“Jangan diseret, Rin! Itu bisa lecet!”

“Kalau kamu bantuin angkat, nggak bakal aku seret.”

“Masa kamu angkat sendiri nggak kuat, sih?”

“Oke, aku berusaha angkat. Kalo aku bisa, cuma aku yang boleh tidur di sini. Kamu di toilet.”

Aku hampir melempar obeng ke jidatnya.

Step 2: Merakit Rangka Baru.

“Kamu yakin baut ini masuk ke slot yang itu?”

“Rin, aku emang nggak kuliah teknik mesin, tapi aku bisa bedain kiri dan kanan.”

“Yakin?”

“... Stop underestimate aku???”

Suna mendecih. Masih ngenyek. Tapi lima menit kemudian, dia pasang satu penyangga kebalik.

Aku balas ngenyek. “Masang baut emang bukan keahlian semua middle blocker, ya?”

“.... Mulut kamu butuh di-bolt juga nggak?”

Step 3: Kasur Naik ke Atas Rangka.

“Rin… berat,” keluhku sambil mendorong bagian tengah kasur.

Suna membantu, tapi dia seperti mengangkat karung beras. “Dikit lagi. Kurang ke kiri.”

“Ini udah kiri banget! Aku nggak mau nempel dinding! Nanti spreinya juga susah dibersihin kalo mepet tembok. Terus matrasnya—”

“Kalo masih bawel, aku refund kasurnya buat diganti semangka 20 kilo.”

“Kamu tega ngomong gitu ke aku? Aku ini terlahir sebagai manager yang harusnya dihormati.”

“Manager yang mulutnya paling aktif, tapi kerjannya paling dikit.”

“RINTAROU.”

Akhirnya... kasurnya terpasang.

Pastel. Mulus. Dengan headboard melengkung yang softly screams luxury on a budget.

Suna membuka kausnya dan mengelap keringat pakai tisu. Aku langsung rebahan dan menggeliat seperti kucing kekenyangan.

“This is nice,” gumamku.

Dia ikut rebahan. “Kita beli kasur baru cuma karena kamu bosen.”

“Tapi bagus, kan? Fresh, kan?”

“Iya. Empuk juga.”

Aku tersenyum penuh kemenangan. “That’s why you love me.”

“No. I love you despite this pastel propaganda.”

“Ih?! Cheesy!”

So guys, jangan meremehkan kekuatan TikTok aesthetic room tour. Dan jangan pernah merakit kasur bareng cowok yang jago nge-block—karena dia juga akan nge-block semua argumenmu pakai muka datarnya yang ngeselin.

Tapi ujung-ujungnya, kamu akan tidur di kasur pastel dengan orang yang kamu sayang, yang bisa benerin baut dan hati kamu sekaligus.

Literally the softest war zone I’ve ever been in.

[overthem00nz]

He Buys Wagyu Like It's Candy, and Somehow I Still Think He's the Love of My Life.

Monthly grocery shopping is, in my humble opinion, a form of devotion to domestic economics.

I know that sounds dramatic—but it’s true.

Every single yen that goes out needs to be tracked accurately. Because if it’s not, who’s going to take responsibility when the account balance suddenly dips faster than a foreign exchange rate?

“What’s our budget this month?” I asked, pushing the cart down a supermarket aisle filled with products wrapped in packaging that made zero sense.

Suna Rintarou walked beside me, casually, with both hands tucked into the pockets of his black hoodie. His half-lidded eyes glanced at me before he picked up a bag of edamame and tossed it into the cart without an ounce of guilt.

“We have a budget?” he asked flatly.

Huft….

Four years in a relationship and he still thinks I’d let our monthly spending go unchecked?

Sure, I work at the tax office—but financial responsibility is a universal principle, okay?

“We absolutely need a budget,” I explained patiently. “Otherwise, we’ll end up auditing ourselves and discovering a surprise deficit by the end of the month.”

Suna raised an eyebrow, then casually dropped a box of Meiji Almond Chocolate into the cart. “Is this deductible?”

“If you can convince the tax office it’s a basic necessity, then maybe.”

He chuckled and kept walking toward the meat section.

I sighed and started mentally recalculating our shopping list.

Ever since we moved in together, I’d braced myself for a few things—like his socks always mysteriously losing their partners, or his habit of sitting on the kitchen floor while waiting for the microwave to beep.

But nothing prepared me for the very real struggle of managing expenses with a professional athlete who shops on impulse.

He stopped in front of the wagyu section—of course—and picked up a tray of premium cuts. “Let’s get this.”

I looked at the price per gram and immediately felt like an auditor uncovering suspicious spending in a corporate report. “Rin, that’s three days’ worth of budget,” I said, trying not to sound like the fun police. “We can’t allocate the entire fund to one item.”

“It’s for Valentine’s dinner,” he replied. “Special expense.”

“Since when do you care about Valentine’s?”

He shrugged. “I care.” Then casually dropped the wagyu into the cart. “So… are we paying cash or card?”

And that’s when I gave up.

“Rin, the real question is: does this qualify under this month’s financial plan or should I file it as an unplanned expenditure?”

“Call it an investment in our happiness?”

I stared at him for a long moment, then exhaled in defeat.

Well... maybe sometimes, a little flexibility in the budget is okay.

After all, if there’s anything that can balance logic and love in a relationship, it’s small, silly moments like this—where I’m counting numbers, and Suna Rintarou makes sure I don’t forget how to enjoy life along the way.

[overthem00nz]

Above the clouds, you wander. A soul who always knows the wind, even if the stars don’t show you where it ends.

Your little plane is not just metal and wings. It’s your heart, stretched wide in the sky, calm in the height of silence, yet carrying storms only the sea and sky would dare to hold.

Today, I offer you a cake, beneath the view you love most. Cotton clouds that drift like whispered hopes, and oceans wide enough to mirror your heart’s quiet ache.

Around you bloom orange blossoms like fire softened into sunlight.

They remind me of you. Your laughter, your presence, how you arrive like summer, and leave memories that linger like scent on skin.

You fly high.

But down here, someone still looks up with eyes full of longing, and a wish that the wind might carry your heart home.

Happy birthday, my skybound one.

Fly as far as your dreams allow.

Just promise me this....

That when the sky grows heavy, and your heart seeks stillness, you’ll remember where peace once waited for you.

[overthem00nz]

That time I accidentally sexualized my boyfriend’s defensive move.

Dating an athlete is fun—sometimes.

When he’s not in the middle of a tournament, not stuck in two-a-day practices, not whining about muscle cramps while asking for a massage with that fiery balm that smells strong enough to exorcise ghosts from two miles away.

But dating a middle blocker? Now that’s something else.

Because on the court, he’s a damn wall.

And for some reason… that’s ridiculously hot.

━━━━━━。゜✿ฺ✿ฺ゜。━━━━━━

It all started as a random moment.

He’d just gotten home from practice. Hair still damp with sweat, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, and his jersey basically giving up trying to cover a guy that tall.

I was lounging on the couch, casually scrolling through Instagram, when I came across a clip of Suna Rintarou doing a perfect block.

Right on time. Arms up. Eyes focused. And then—“Denied.”

I paused.

Zoomed in.

Replayed.

Zoomed again.

And then I said out loud, “Rin, why is your blocking weirdly sexy?”

He walked out of the kitchen holding a cold soda, brows raised. “Sexy?”

“Yeah. I mean, it’s just defense. But you look like an assassin casually rejecting a bullet.”

“It’s volleyball.”

“Exactly. And still, it’s hot. You look like you could block someone from falling in love too.”

He blinked. Twice.

“Be honest. How are you so good at blocking?”

He paused. Then shrugged. “I read the ball. Good timing. My hands just follow my instincts.”

“That’s it?”

“And, being tall helps.”

“Rin. You just boiled down the entire art of blocking into three vague phrases. I need details.”

He let out a deep sigh—the kind that says ‘I’ve already argued with my coach for two hours and now I’m stuck explaining my job to a girlfriend who treats volleyball like a sensual performance art.’

“You wanna learn?”

My brain: Wait what? Here? Now? In this tiny living room with IKEA plants and leftover grilled sausages?

“How exactly are you teaching me?”

He stood up and reached for my hand. “I’ll be the spiker. You try blocking me.”

And suddenly, things got physical.

He lifted his arms like he was about to spike, and I instinctively raised mine—

But he didn’t move. Just stared. “If you lift your arms like that, the ball’s already in your mouth.”

“Wow. Rude.”

Also… kind of graphic?

“Yeah. But true.”

I tried again. This time properly. Arms stronger, form better.

He gave a small smirk. “Better.” Then he took a step forward. And another.

Now we were standing way too close. Just a couple fingers apart. He didn’t touch me. Didn’t move. Just looked straight into my eyes.

“That’s what it feels like when the ball runs into my block.”

Okay, I’m not a volleyball.

But I think I just got destroyed.

━━━━━━。゜✿ฺ✿ฺ゜。━━━━━━

Since that day, whenever I watch him play, I barely look at the score.

I just watch him.

The way he reads the ball. The way his steps are so sharp. The way his arms rise like they own the air above the net. And his eyes. That cold, focused stare.

Right before the ball touches him, it’s like he already knows: “Mine.”

Sometimes I wonder, if he can block a spike that precisely, maybe he can block my ex too?

Of course, I don’t say that. Instead, I go with, “If you could block my brain from liking you, life would be so much easier.”

“But you still like me.”

“I do.”

“Then you’re easy.”

“Rintarou?!”

“I’m just stating facts.”

That night, he came home early, dropped his jacket, walked into the bedroom, and flopped down next to me.

He held out his arm. The other side of the bed was empty. “Wanna practice blocking again?”

“Where?”

“Here.”

“But I don’t have a ball.”

“That’s fine. This time, I’m blocking you. So you don’t run away.”

And my ovaries immediately screamed in five languages.

Moral of the story : Don’t fall for a middle blocker. Because they don’t just block spikes. They block your sense of logic, too.

And worst of all, you’ll love every second of it.

[overthem00nz]

The Dress Code Was Trouble, And I Understood the Assignment.

Ini cuma tentang memilih dress di toko mahal untuk dinner, sementara pacarku sibuk di rumah sakit.

Pertama, kenapa aku harus tanya pendapat seseorang yang bahkan nggak ada di tempat? Zayne itu perfectionist, dan aku tahu dia bakal kasih masukan seperti, “Maroon gives you that elegant look, but peach complements your skin tone better.”

Kedua, mari kita bahas pilihan warnanya. Maroon. Bold and sultry, tapi terlalu berat buat dinner yang bukan royal gala. Purple. Kesan misterius, tapi bisa juga kelihatan terlalu gothic kalau nggak di-mix dengan makeup yang pas. Peach. Safe choice, tapi apa itu menggambarkan aku? Peach feels like “I’m trying to fit in,” sementara aku lebih suka sesuatu yang bilang, “I don’t care, but you’ll look anyway.”

And Zayne probably overthink my overthinking. Karena, ya, dia Zayne. Tapi aku juga tahu, no matter what I choose, he’ll still manage to call me “stunning” with that annoyingly smooth tone of his.

Dokter bedah elite nggak usah jadi smooth-talker juga, kan? It’s unfair.

Jadi, aku mungkin tetap kirim foto semua dress itu ke dia, karena I like watching him squirm when he has to pick. Call it my twisted little way of flirting.

Ketiga, mari kita bicarakan soal konsep “trying things on for fun”—fun, of course, berarti menyiksa Zayne secara psikis dengan foto-foto yang dikirim di tengah jam operasinya. Aku tahu betul dia bakal baca pesanku di sela-sela pasien pingsan dan isi pikirannya cuma : “You’re making this unnecessarily hard for me.”

Yes, I am.

Because, knowing that somewhere in that sterile, cold operating room, a man with surgical precision and a terrifyingly expensive watch is pausing just to look at my picture in a peach dress that’s 60% backless… feels like power.

Keempat, Zayne itu tipe yang, “Pick the one you’re comfortable in,” padahal otaknya udah crash antara maroon yang kasih sexy mature vibes dan purple yang kasih kesan I-might-hex-your-ancestors-if-you-stare-too-long. Tapi dia lebih suka yang tersirat. Semacam, “Peach makes you look softer.”

Softer seperti bantal, atau seperti “you look like you won’t stab someone tonight”? I need details, Doctor….

Dan kalau aku sanggah dengan, “You’re no fun,” dia bakal jawab: “But I am. You’re just dressed to kill, and I’m the victim.”

Cue: me silently throwing pillow ke dinding karena kenapa sih dia bisa se-smooth itu?

Kelima, dia nggak pernah bilang mana yang paling dia suka. He plays the long game. Bikin aku kirim satu foto lagi dan dia komentar, “Can you turn around in that one?”

Tiba-tiba aku cosplay content creator dadakan dengan lighting dan angle yang lebih niat dari konten endorse. Padahal ya, satu bagian otakku negur, “Dia capek!” Tapi bagian lainnya nyahut, “Exactly. He needs a break. I am the break.”

Zayne doesn’t even complain. He just leans back in his leather office chair, reads every caption, saves none of the photos (he's too classy for that), and still somehow makes me feel like I’m the one in trouble.

Padahal akulah dalangnya.

And he… the poor surgeon with impeccable taste... who’s secretly into it.

Jadi, setelah seharian main fashion show virtual, aku akhirnya pilih satu. Yang peach. Bukan karena paling cantik, tapi justru yang paling deceptively dangerous. Like, "Oh, aku manis kok," padahal beberapa detik kemudian bisa berubah jadi, "Surprise, I bite."

Dan di momen yang sangat sinematik, Zayne pulang. Tepat ketika aku lagi buka kulkas, pura-pura nyari air, padahal sebenernya nyari timing. Dia buka pintu, taruh tas, lepas jas, dan freeze.

Satu alisnya terangkat. “You picked the peach one.”

Ugh. That voice.

That unfairly calm, dangerously hot tone yang bikin aku pengen lempar high heels tapi juga pengen duduk manis di pangkuannya sambil bilang, "Yes, Daddy~"

“Oh? You noticed?” Padahal dress ini practically painted on me dan backless-nya nyampe pinggang.

Dia jalan mirip pemburu vampire. “If you wore that to dinner, I wouldn’t even taste the food.”

Seketika, aku pengen teriak, “Sir, this is a Wendy’s!”

Tapi aku tahan karena aku harus menang. Jadi aku jalan ke dia, kasih tatapan yang sedikit too much untuk wanita normal. “So... you do think I’m stunning?”

“No. Stunning is what you call sunsets. You, in that dress, are a goddamn catastrophe.”

And THAT, is the moment I knew…

This man doesn’t just know how to use a scalpel—he knows how to ruin a woman for anyone else. Tolong. Somebody call the fashion police. Or maybe a therapist.

Anyway. Dinner. Canceled. He devoured with his eyes first.

And me?

Still pretending I didn’t plan the whole thing from the start.

[overthem00nz]

Silence is the eternal curse of those who choose to be blind.

Dachau tidak pernah membanggakan langitnya. Awan-awan kelabu menampung jeritan yang tak pernah diberi tempat di bumi. Di balik pagar kawat berduri yang berdesis di pagi hari, tubuh-tubuh tanpa nama berdiri, membatu, dan menunggu perintah untuk mati.

Suguru Geto datang sebagai manusia yang telah dilucuti dari segala mantra, segala kebenaran, dan segala harga diri. Nomornya tertulis di dada dengan besi panas yang merobek arteri. Ia dulunya percaya pada kebebasan. Tapi di sini, bahkan desir pun tak pernah berani menyentuh nadi.

Sel-sel di Dachau tidak berbicara. Dan dalam keheningan itu, Suguru menjadi arsitek dari delusi yang disulap menjadi doa.

Ia bernegosiasi dalam pikirannya kepada yang mati—kepada ayah, kepada ibu, kepada semua roh yang mungkin masih mendengar.

"If you still see this place from the veil… don’t look too close. I’m not him anymore."

┈┈┈┈․° ☣ °․┈┈┈┈

Eksperimen itu datang tanpa aba-aba. Mereka menyuntikkan sesuatu ke dalam urat nadinya. Memaksa paru-parunya tenggelam dalam es, seperti membekukan kenangan agar tak pernah kembali.

Lalu ia berdiam di barak. Raganya dibungkus selimut bau kematian. Namun matanya masih hidup.

Ia mulai mencatat di dinding dengan ujung paku yang dicuri. Satu mantra. Satu pengingat. Satu nama. Dinding itu menjadi altar terakhirnya. Dan setiap malam, ada kalimat baru yang ditorehkan:

“If this is God's silence, then He is not worthy of prayer.”

Kemudian di suatu pagi, ketika kabut belum terangkat, seorang penjaga menemukannya dalam posisi duduk. Mata terbuka. Napas tak lagi berembus.

Namun di dinding, dengan darah yang nyaris mengering, tertulis ironinya dalam bahasa Jerman: Das Schweigen ist der ewige Fluch derer, die sich entscheiden, blind zu sein.

┈┈┈┈․° ☣ °․┈┈┈┈

Suguru Geto tidak pernah keluar dari Dachau. Tapi cerita tentang seorang pria dengan rambut kusut, mata gelap, dan suara penuh mantra, tersisa di antara tiupan angin Bavaria yang dingin.

Mereka menyebutnya The Cursed Monk.

Dan di malam paling sunyi, beberapa penjaga bersumpah selalu mendengar suara berbisik dari lorong barak tua.

“Don’t forget me. Or I’ll return where silence dares not dwell.”