Another Doomsday

Astagfirullah…

So, the day I tiptoed around in prayers and nightmares finally knocked.

Mom and Dad—  as if life hadn’t already played its cruel tricks on them—
now had front-row seats to another episode of “what else could possibly go wrong?”

Dad, with his tired eyes and too-heavy heart, shouldn't have to deal with
the petty dramatics of a house not his own.

And Mom…
She already bore the shame of my divorce like a quiet bruise under her hijab— one she never spoke of, but I saw it in the way she blinked away questions at every wedding we attended.

Now this?

Now she has to meet her daughter-in-law's true colors— which, ironically, don’t match the pastels she wears.

Such a lovely girl, they said.

Such grace, such sweetness.

And today— she shattered plates like promises, screamed like it was a competition, threw words and objects without checking who they might hit.

Even the little guy just  watched in stunned silence— the kind of silence kids remember.

And me?

What did I do?

Nothing.

Just stood there.

Breathing.

Drowning in guilt for not shielding Mom from the fireworks disguised as marriage.

She even accused me— me—of whispering poison to Mom.

Sweetheart, if I wanted to poison her, you’d already be choking on apologies.

She blocked me on everything: Path, Facebook, Instagram— Oh no!

Whatever shall I do without her perfectly curated breakfasts and inspirational quotes?

(Spoiler: I’m fine.)

But let’s be honest.

Even if she blocked me from every pixel of her world— she can't block the truth.

Her husband is still my brother. 

No app can change blood.

Not even the premium version.

And someday, maybe when she’s scrolling through old memories,trying to filter regret, she’ll remember the way Mom looked at her with disappointment so quiet,it thundered.

Here’s the twist though— I’m not angry.

No.

I’m exhausted.

I’m done playing villain in a play I didn’t audition for.

Let her have the stage.

Let her monologue in flames.

I’ll be in the audience— clapping slowly. 

Smiling kindly.

Waiting for her to forget her lines.

Because eventually, the sweetest revenge is peace.

And I?

I’m already halfway there.

blood ain’t thicker than water

"Blood is thicker than water," they say.

Sure.

And poison is thicker than wine, too— but I wouldn’t pour it into my glass and call it a toast to family.

Whoever coined that phrase clearly never sat at a dinner table where silence was louder than screaming, where the smiles were sharp enough
to carve flesh from bone, and love wore the mask of obligation.

They say family sticks by you.

Mine sticks like thorns, mostly in my back.

Funny thing about blood— it clots.

It dries.

It vanishes the moment you’re no longer useful.

When you’re shining, when your life sparkles like fresh money, they come crawling out from their corners like moths to a chandelier.

Sugar in your voice, syrup on your name, arms wide open— but palms always facing up.

They’ll swear you’re “one of us.”

Until you’re not.

Until you trip, crack,bleed out.

And suddenly?

They vanish.

Not a phone call, not a knock, not a whisper.

Family, huh?

I used to think I was the broken one.

Too suspicious. 

Too cold.

Too… “complicated.”

But I’ve learned.

Oh, I’ve learned.

People show you who they are when you’re empty— when you have nothing left to give but your truth.

And most of them?

They want no part of that.

Because truth isn’t pretty.

It’s not gift-wrapped in gold.

It’s raw.

It’s hungry.

And it doesn’t flatter egos.

Still, here’s the twist— I’m not bitter.

Not anymore.

I’m better.

Because now I know that water can drown, but it can also cleanse.

And some strangers will hold your head above it longer than your blood ever tried to.

Now I build my family in the quiet spaces— with people who show up,
not because they have to,but because they choose to.

Not bound by blood, but tethered by truth.

And that, ironically,is thicker than anything I’ve ever bled for.

AIB? HELL NO

AIB? HELL. NO.

Let’s get one thing straight—this subject hits deep, so if you’re expecting objectivity, you’re in the wrong corner of the internet.

I’m not writing this to be polite.

I’m writing this because lately, Indonesia seems to be hosting a new Olympic sport:

Stealing Someone Else’s Husband.

And for that one special, clueless lady out there—don’t worry, sweetheart.

You can have him.

Keep him.

Cage him.

Worship him.

Just make sure you keep an eye on him, because how you got him is exactly how you’ll lose him.

Let’s talk about it.

Infidelity.

Cheating.

The glorious, glamorous, soul-splitting game of betrayal.

There’s a trend now where women proudly take someone else’s husband, break a home, and then call it… what?

"Love"?

A sacred word mutilated beyond recognition.

You couldn't find a single man among billions, so you chose someone who already made vows, signed papers, had children, a life?

And you called that “destiny”?

No, honey. That’s not love.

That’s laziness. That’s ego.

That’s delusion dipped in perfume and posted to your Insta story.

You think you won.

You post him like a trophy, like some sick badge of honor.

You flaunt the wedding photos, the captions dripping with hashtags like #blessed and #truelove.

But love built on the ashes of someone else’s grief is not love.

It’s theft.

It’s a ticking time bomb disguised as a honeymoon.

And the worst part?

You didn’t just break her.

You bruised her family.

Her parents, who watched their daughter unravel.

Her siblings, who couldn’t protect her.

Her friends, who held her while she cried.

The quiet ones.

The loud ones. 

The ones who saw everything fall apart while you pretended to build a fairy tale.

But let me tell you this, darling:

Men who cheat are just rehearsing.

Rehearsing how to lie better.

How to sneak quieter.

How to ruin someone new, just like the last one.

If he did it with you, he’ll do it to you.

That’s not prophecy. That’s just math.

Now, let’s talk about truth.

Some people say it’s shameful to share screenshots, expose DMs, post receipts online.

That it’s "disgraceful" to air dirty laundry in public.

No.

HELL. NO.

It’s not disgrace.

It’s disclosure.

It’s not drama.

It’s documentation.

The disgrace belongs to the cheater, not the one who found the courage to reveal the truth.

Stop silencing the broken.

Stop protecting the wolves by calling the wounded dramatic.

Just be a decent human being for once.

Empathy doesn’t cost you anything.

But silence?

That costs everything.

And as for karma?

I don’t believe in fairy tales either.

But I do believe in justice— the kind that comes quietly, slowly, when the lights go off and the mirror finally talks back.

You will reap what you sow.

Not today.

Maybe not tomorrow.

But soon enough, you’ll know exactly what it feels like to be on the other side of a knife you once held with pride.

And maybe then—just maybe— you’ll understand what “love” was never meant to look like.

Nah Or Yeah

Nah or Yeah?

Maybe this whole circus moved too damn fast—
like a trainwreck in slow motion, but I was front row, popcorn in hand.

Maybe I was just way too eager to believe in fairy tales when all I got was a cracked mirror reflecting my own fantasies.

The idea of a fresh start, a new chapter with Mr. Perfect-on-paper—
someone who ticks all the boxes in that dream checklist but forgets to show up in reality.

Maybe I’m not falling for the man— I’m just drunk on the idea of not being alone.

Falling in love with the concept, the shiny marketing campaign, not the messy, complicated human underneath.

And here I am, stuck in my own brain’s darkest corner— overthinking like it’s an Olympic sport.

Every thought a nail, hammering down my sanity, until hope is just a faded ghost I can’t even chase.

I try to run, but the thoughts follow— like that annoying shadow that won’t quit.

Maybe it’s time to stop caring so damn much.

To stop taking it all so seriously, like life’s some tragic drama that needs a damn script rewrite.

Maybe when I finally untangle the mess, when I see through the smoke and mirrors, the answer will flip like a coin— or maybe just land on its edge, forever undecided.

But for now?

The question echoes like a bad punchline: Nah or Yeah?

And here’s the twist— maybe the question doesn’t even matter.

Maybe I’m already halfway out the door, waiting for the right moment to say:

“Guess I was never really here.”

I Have a Crush on You

Yes, you read that right.

I have a crush on him— a quiet flame burning brighter than I expected,
perhaps louder than my own heart dared to whisper.

As days unfold and I learn more about him, he feels like a dream stitched from the fabric of the impossible— too perfect, too kind, almost like a story someone else wrote.

Still, I wonder what will happen when our eyes finally meet, when the space between us shrinks to a breath in Jakarta’s warm air.

He’s a gentle mystery— a man who could be the calm in a chaotic world,
or just another beautiful mirage fading with the dawn.

Every day I find a new reason to believe, a new kindness that paints him brighter in my mind— a list that could fill pages, if only time would slow.

I wait for that moment, that fragile meeting of reality and hope, longing for the warmth of his smile, the truth in his gaze.

But here’s the twist— maybe this crush is less about him, and more about the hope he awakens inside me.

A hope that love, in any shape or form, can still surprise us when we think we’ve seen it all.

So, I hold on to the dream, knowing that sometimes, the sweetest love stories begin not with certainty, but with the courage to believe.

Kangen Water

Kangen Water

At first, I was skeptical— as if drinking a certain water could really shift the tides of my health.

Skeptical, despite the flood of testimonials on the internet— those magical stories where ailments vanish like a well-rehearsed trick.

I tried their other waters—Strong Acid, Beauty Water, Strong Kangen—
and slowly, almost imperceptibly, my skin began to whisper a different story.

So I took the plunge, making Kangen Water part of my daily ritual.

The first week was rough.

My stomach rebelled, sending me on a marathon of discomfort.

I asked the seller, “Is this normal?”

They smiled knowingly—“It’s your body detoxing, flushing out the shadows.”

And today, I finally believe.

I live with Endometriosis—a silent storm of pain and chaos.

Where a normal period might last seven days or less, mine stretch into weeks—sometimes two— and after my divorce, the pain grew heavier still.

Four months without a single sign, and then, today—life returns, the cycle begins again.

Alhamdulillah.

Maybe it’s the water.

Maybe it’s something deeper.

But for now, I’ll hold on to this small miracle.

Mr Romeo

Alhamdulillah—for everything that’s led me here, for every twist of fate that brought me to know this remarkable gentleman.

I never imagined I’d feel this way again— smiling uncontrollably, cheeks flushed with a shy warmth, laughing freely, my face lighting up with a grin too wide to hide.

Our story is a little unusual, a digital dance of connection— first through private emails, then personal ones, whispers across WhatsApp and the occasional text.

Despite the six-hour time gap, the three or four years that separate our calendars, and the differences our cultures paint between us— we share more in common than I ever expected.

He is smart, kind, open-minded, and disarmingly cute, with a quirky sense of humor that catches me off guard.

A gentleman, yes—chivalry alive and well in his every move.

Sweet, romantic, and unabashedly a cat lover.

He has this gentle, unique way of encouraging me to be my best, lifting me when I’m weighed down, turning my troubles into mere shadows with his quiet cheer.

He’s spoken of intentions—future promises whispered softly, and if destiny wills it, I hope our story will stretch into forever.

Good night, Mr. Romeo.