Time boom explode

January 2019 isn’t even over yet, and it already brought the kind of melodrama that would make soap operas jealous.

Apparently, the universe decided I hadn’t suffered enough and dropped a full-blown emotional monologue straight into my WhatsApp—courtesy of Her Royal Highness, Miss Tuan Puteri.

Last I remember, our “contact” (if you can even call it that) was me daring to ask why there wasn’t a single trace of our friendship on her social media—no photo, no tag, not even a pity like.

A crime, it seems. 

A cardinal sin punishable by a thesis-length text rant.

So imagine my absolute joy waking up to a passive-aggressive saga disguised as concern, in the form of a novella-length WhatsApp message.

Honestly, if she'd published it, it might have made the bestseller list—under Fiction or Fantasy, probably.

She went off in the opening chapter—interrogation-style—asking if my Instagram post was directed at her.

Because apparently, the world revolves around her and every word I write must be a cryptic diss in her honor.

“Why post it publicly? Why not say it to my face?”

Sis, we haven't spoken in years. You want a private screening of my feelings now?

She said the post made her feel like the villain—as if I painted her as the monster in my emotional horror story.

That I apologize too much and still manage to mess up—a talent, I guess.

She’s “tolerated” me as a friend (thanks for the charity, truly).

And she could air out all my dirty laundry to the world but—bless her benevolent soul—she won’t. Out of nostalgia, maybe.

She reminded me she didn’t need my gratitude for sticking around through my lowest days.

And then dropped a spicy quote:
“My children don’t need gifts from you. You said you were saving money, but somehow have funds for food pics and travel posts. 

That’s when I knew what kind of friend you are.”

Wow. Pulitzer-worthy.

She scolded me for not asking about her, not visiting her post-labor, not showing care—just “lashing out” on Instagram, apparently.

FYI, when I messaged her that late night, she had just given birth.

Instead of replying “I’m okay,” she hit me with: “Why are you asking about deleted photos, not my health?”

Because clearly, friendship now comes with terms and conditions, emotional fine print, and quarterly performance reviews.

She also said:

“With your education and family background, at least act wise. Koreksi diri.”

Sure, let me self-reflect while dodging emotional landmines.

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So I replied.

Told her I’m not the type to sub-post or roast anyone on IG.

We’ve known each other 23 years—if I had beef, why would I serve it cold on Instagram?

Seems like she’s compiled a highlight reel of every moment I fell short, every time I didn’t play the part of the perfect friend.

Funny, because if we’re listing grievances, I’ve got a whole season’s worth too.

Like that time I brought her to the Fupei community hangout, and when 

it was movie time, she exploded with:

“If I go home alone, forget about being friends.”

Such a charming public announcement. Encore-worthy.

Later in private?

“If you want to watch, I’ll go home myself.”

What a friend. Her words didn't just sting—they left marks.

I apologized about not sending a gift for her kids.

Apologized for not being the friend she envisioned in her fairytale.

But made one thing clear: her secrets are safe.

Dirty laundry? Not my aesthetic.

My Instagram?

Not a dagger. 

Not a shade. 

Not a whisper aimed at her.

And she responded:

“I forgot about that. I’m sorry if my words hurt you. Sorry I couldn’t be the friend you wanted either.”

Progress, maybe?

I replied, again:

I’m sorry I didn’t check in more. 

But let’s be real—did we even talk after Ramadan 2016?

Suddenly I'm the villain in her mental courtroom, being tried for ghosting a friendship that flatlined years ago.

Then came the cherry on top:

“I could expose you.”

Right. 

Because that’s what friends do—hold nuclear bombs of secrets and threaten to launch when feelings get bruised.

To that I said:

Go ahead. 

If that’s what brings you peace, detonate away. 

Your secrets? 

Still safe with me. 

Always.

Friendship, I thought, was about showing up—not showing off receipts.

Thanks for being there during my worst.

But let’s not pretend this is a friendship anymore.

Friends don’t threaten each other with emotional blackmail and character assassination.

They don’t weaponize the past.

They don’t twist timelines to play victim in their own edited documentaries.

And then she said:

“I didn’t give you an ultimatum. I was just explaining.”

Right. 

Like saying “jump” and calling it “a suggestion.”

She demanded:

“If your post wasn’t about me, why did you post it?”

Sis. Because it’s my Instagram, not your diary.

When she brought up how my reaction to her pregnancy years ago was “flat,”

I literally couldn’t remember the moment.

Apparently, she did.

Apparently, I erased the chat (spoiler: I didn’t).

But hey, selective memory is a friend’s best defense when they need to win an argument built on nostalgia and accusations.

So yeah.

That was our longest conversation in years.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t a reconnection—it was a performance.

A dramatic reenactment of her pain, starring me as the villain I never auditioned to play.

If after all this, she still thinks I’d ever post just to hurt her— Then clearly, she never knew me at all.

And honestly? 

That’s the saddest part of all.