Putri Aliya and the Clinic Notes That Broke Me Gently"
Because sometimes, we pretend to be sick
just to meet the person who makes us feel healed.
---
At the Islamic boarding school, there are three places that are always crowded:
the bathroom, the kitchen, and the girls' clinic.
But only one place could cure two kinds of pain at once ..
the clinic, where Putri Aliya was on duty.
She wasn't a real doctor, of course.
But every male student knew one thing:
Her smile worked faster than paracetamol.
And among the hundreds of boys who faked headaches just to peek through the window…
I was the most loyal patient.
Yes ...me, Pak Nuel.
The single ustadz whose heart had been broken three times,
yet still taught tafsir every Friday night like my life was perfectly stable.
---
I first met Putri after a cleaning day with the students.
I got stung by a wasp on my neck. Just a bit swollen—but let's be honest,
I only needed an excuse to talk to her.
"Putri, could you treat this..?"
"It's just a little swollen, Ustadz. You're fine."
"Yeah, but the swelling is actually in my heart."
"Oh? So it wasn't the wasp that stung you… it was your ex?"
And that was how it started.
She answered quickly, effortlessly,
and every time her hand brushed my skin with an alcohol swab,
my heart felt like it was being swab-tested by old memories.
---
After that, I came to the clinic… often.
Sometimes claiming a sprained ankle.
Sometimes "catching a cold."
Sometimes the most ridiculous reasons:
"Putri, I think I'm suffering from spiritual anemia."
"Spiritual anemia?"
"Yes. Lack of… your smile."
She laughed, but still cleaned my hand with the care of a serious nurse.
And from that day on, the clinic wasn't just a place for treatment .
it became the place where I learned what healing meant.
---
Putri Aliya .
daughter of Ustadz Kusnandana and Ustadzah Maulida Hasanah.
A religious family.
Polite. Noble. Respected.
And me?
The absurd ustadz whose lectures sometimes included questions like:
"Kids, do you know the difference between patience and soap?"
"What is it, Ustadz?"
"Patience is for the heart. Soap is for the bath."
They laughed, but deep inside, I always knew:
I wasn't the type of man who deserved a girl as good as Putri.
But love doesn't care.
It grows quietly, like mushrooms in rainy season—
except this one smells romantic.
---
Our connection started with silly jokes in the clinic,
then grew into long talks about life, books, dreams.
She once said:
> "Ustadz, I want to study medicine one day."
"That's amazing! What kind of doctor?"
"A doctor who can heal people's hearts… not just their bodies."
"Wow. Then you'll treat me too someday?"
"You? You need the ICU version."
Sometimes we joked.
Sometimes we fell silent.
And in that silence, love grew without permission.
---
One afternoon, she brought tea and peanut bread to the clinic steps.
We sat together, listening to boys play soccer outside.
"Ustadz, why do you like hanging around here so much?"
"Because whenever I come here… all my pain disappears."
"Aww… modus detected."
"No, really. If you knew how often I pretended to feel dizzy
just to see you smile… you'd probably be mad."
"Mad why?"
"Because you'd know I was never actually sick."
She stared at me, calm and warm.
> "Ustadz… if love could be cured,
this clinic would be full every day."
I didn't answer.
But in that silence, we both knew our feelings were real.
---
Days passed.
We grew closer.
Even some students whispered:
"Hey, Ustadz Nuel goes to the clinic a lot."
"Yeah. I heard it's mild psychological issues."
We ignored them.
We knew boundaries,
kept our distance,
but our hearts felt like two books opened on the same page.
---
Then one night, Putri suddenly came to the teachers' room.
Her eyes were swollen.
Her hands trembling.
"Ustadz… I got accepted into medical school. In Kalimantan."
I froze. "Are you serious?"
"Yes. Full scholarship. The letter came this afternoon."
"That's… incredible, Putri."
"Then why doesn't it feel that incredible, Tad?"
I was silent.
It felt like someone pushed down on my chest from the inside.
"When do you leave?"
"Two days."
"That fast?"
"Yeah. I'm scared if I stay longer…
I won't have the strength to leave the school…
or you."
She cried softly.
I just looked at her, trying to smile,
but my face felt stiff.
"Ustadz…"
"Yes?"
"We can't… continue this, right?"
"Putri…"
"I know. You're an ustadz. I'm just a student.
You teach. I'm supposed to learn.
Our worlds might touch… but they can't stay together."
I wanted to argue.
To tell her love doesn't need logic, status, approval.
But I stayed quiet.
Because love also requires letting go.
---
She handed me something —
her old clinic notebook.
"This is for you."
"Why give it to me?"
"So you'll remember that once…
there was a patient who pretended to be sick,
but made my heart beat for real."
I laughed softly. "I'll keep it, Vi."
"My name is Putri, not Vi."
"Yes, but you're Putri… the angel of this school."
"And you're the absurd ustadz who always finds excuses to fall in love."
We laughed together,
then fell silent.
No one dared to say goodbye.
Because between laughter and tears,
there is always a little space called unspoken longing.
---
The next morning, the clinic felt empty.
Students asked:
"Ustadz, where's the clinic girl?"
"She left for college."
"Wow, that's cool."
"Yeah… really cool."
But inside me,
cool turned into cold.
I opened the notebook she'd given me.
At the last page, in her neat handwriting:
"One day I might heal many people.
But I'll always keep one wound —
the one shaped like your smile, Tad."
"Don't come. Don't look for me.
Just pray — the way I pray for you
every time I put down my stethoscope."
— Putri Aliya
---
I closed the book.
But my chest remained open — wide and aching.
Days became absurd again.
I taught.
I joked.
But every time a student said he had a stomachache,
I instinctively looked toward the clinic door—
locked, silent, unmoving.
Sometimes I pretended to be sick again.
I sat on the clinic steps,
hoping for one impossible miracle:
that the door would open,
and she would walk out holding eucalyptus oil.
But miracles didn't come.
Only the afternoon wind and a row of sarongs
fluttering like hands waving goodbye.
---
One evening, I sat at the veranda, writing in my journal.
Student voices reciting Qur'an echoed softly.
The sun dipped behind the mosque tower.
Absurd Ustadz's Notes — Day 180
"True love isn't about who stays.
It's about who keeps praying
even after leaving."
I remembered her last words before she left:
> "Ustadz… when I become a doctor someday,
can I come back to this school?"
"Sure.
Just don't bring your stethoscope,
or I'll fake illness again."
"Hehe… okay.
But don't ever recover from me, okay?"
She left laughing.
A laugh that still echoes on the clinic walls.
---
A week later, a letter arrived from Kalimantan.
From: Putri Aliya
To: Ustadz Nuel
Just one thin sheet.
But every word felt heavy:
"Ustadz, classes start next week.
Life here is different,
but whenever I help a patient,
I remember the clinic… and you."
"You used to fake illnesses.
But I know what you were really looking for:
the courage to love."
"I'm learning the same thing now —
loving without asking to be kept."
"Stay absurd, Tad.
From your absurdity,
I learned that love doesn't need to make sense."
I read it again and again
until the ink nearly smudged from the tears.
---
That night, before I slept,
I wrote the longest entry in my notebook.
Absurd Ustadz's Notes — Day 200
"I once pretended to be sick just to see her.
Now I'm truly sick because she's gone."
"Maybe God is teaching me this:
not every healer is meant to stay.
Some leave—
so we can learn to calm our wounds on our own."
I closed the notebook
and stared at the ceiling.
For the first time in a long while,
I truly wanted to heal.
Not from the flu.
Not from 'spiritual anemia.'
But from a love too warm to recover from.
---
And if one day,
Putri Aliya reads these notes…
I hope she knows:
I never really healed.
I just learned how to live
with a wound that refuses to close.
---
To be continued…
**Chapter 5
"The Sandals Forbidden on Earth but Missed in Heaven"**
Because after love leaves,
all that remains are missing sandals
and prayers too absurd to return.