Fikri Afryansyah, Rizal Hassan Ar-Rosyid, Nico D’
Fikri Afryansyah, Rizal Hassan Ar-Rosyid, Nico D’Angelo. Rizal dan Nico adalah sahabat khayalan Fikri. Cerita diakhiri Fikri yang meninggal dengan memeluk buku kesayangannya. Mikasa Itohara, gadis sederhana yang jatuh cinta pada Fikri mengunjungi makamnya.
The worn leather of his favorite book felt warm against Fikri’s cheek as he lay in his bed. The scent of old paper and ink, a familiar comfort, lulled him into a light doze. The world outside his window was a blur of colors, the sounds of the city a distant hum.
He was alone, but not truly. Beside him, Rizal and Nico, his imaginary friends, were always present. Rizal, the ever-optimistic one, would be cracking a joke, while Nico, the quiet observer, would be sketching something in his notebook. Fikri found solace in their company, a haven in a world where he felt increasingly isolated.
His classmates often saw him as a quiet, unassuming boy, but he was anything but. Fikri was a dreamer, a writer at heart, who poured his emotions and thoughts into the pages of his beloved notebook. He wrote about everything, from the mundane details of daily life to the grand adventures of his imagination.
Mikasa Itohara, a quiet girl with eyes as bright as the morning sun, had fallen in love with Fikri’s words. They met through a shared love for literature, and slowly, their friendship blossomed into something deeper. She saw the world through his eyes, a world filled with color and magic, despite the grey walls of his reality.
But life, as it often does, had other plans. One day, Fikri was diagnosed with a rare illness. He fought bravely, clinging to the hope of a future with Mikasa, but the illness relentlessly stole his strength.
In his final days, he lay in bed, his breath shallow, his body weak. He held his worn leather book close, a lifeline to his inner world. In his hazy mind, he saw Mikasa’s face, her eyes filled with unspoken love and sorrow. He knew he had to leave, but he couldn’t bear to let go.
He took a deep breath, a final one, and closed his eyes. His fingers tightened around the book, his heart still beating weakly. The last thing he felt was the warmth of the leather against his cheek, a familiar comfort in the face of the unknown.
Mikasa stood at his grave, her face wet with tears. She placed a single white rose on the headstone, her eyes tracing the inscription: “Fikri Afryansyah, a dreamer, a writer, a friend.”
The world was a dimmer place without him, but she knew his words would live on. And in the quiet stillness of the cemetery, she could almost hear the echo of his laughter, a comforting reminder that even in death, his spirit would continue to inspire. He might be gone, but his story, his world of imagination, would forever remain, a testament to the power of words, the magic of friendship, and the enduring legacy of a heart that loved deeply.
