Maybe I should stop talking about love.

Maybe I should stop talking about love.

Seriously. Enough.

I've talked about love. I've talked about him.I've talked about home.

I've talked about whether I'll ever find my prince charming.

I've talked about whether I'll ever trust love again.

I've talked about September 18 so much that at this point, the date probably deserves its own therapist.

And my head hurts. Literally.

Maybe this is my body's way of saying: “Girl, can we please talk about something else?”

😂

So maybe I should.  Maybe I should stop wondering whether someone is going to come into my life and save me.

Because, honestly? 

I think I have been waiting for a little too long for a fairytale ending.

And perhaps it's time to write a different kind of story.

One where I save myself.  Right now, I don't need a prince.

I need a job.  Preferably one overseas that pays enough to help me rebuild everything I've lost and get my life back on track.

There.  That's the romance I'm interested in right now.

A healthy bank account.

Honestly, after everything I've been through, that sounds incredibly attractive.

😂

I want to work. I want to earn my own money again.

I want to pay things off. I want to recover what I can.

I want to stand on my own feet again.

I want to wake up in the morning thinking about work, plans, deadlines, coffee…

instead of waking up and immediately wondering what someone else is thinking about me.

What a concept. Maybe that's where my energy should go.

Not into decoding someone's silence.

Not into analyzing someone's messages.

Not into wondering whether someone will come back.

Not into trying to figure out whether I'll ever find my happily-ever-after.

Right now, I have something much more important to find.

Myself.

Somewhere along the way, I lost pieces of her.

The happy one. The silly one. 

The one who laughed too loudly with her friends.

The one who could spend hours talking about absolutely nothing.

The one who enjoyed being around family.

The one who had plans. The one who actually looked forward to things.

The one who didn't spend every day carrying this invisible weight around.

I miss her A lot.

And maybe I don't need someone else to bring her back.

Maybe I can.

The last year has been strangely quiet. Too quiet.

My life became smaller. There weren't many visits.

Not many people checking in. Not many random invitations.

Not many “Hey, where are you? Come out!” messages.

And sometimes I wondered if people had forgotten me.

Maybe they didn't. Maybe everyone was just living their own lives.

Or maybe I disappeared so quietly that they didn't know I needed someone to notice. Either way, I became very good at being alone.

Probably too good. And I don't want to stay there.

I want my people back. I want dinners with friends.

Random conversations. Laughing until my stomach hurts.

Family gatherings. Annoying relatives. Friends who call just to gossip.

Someone saying, “Come on, let's go somewhere.”

And me saying yes without having to calculate whether I have enough emotional energy for human interaction.

I want noise again. I want life again.

I want to be surrounded by people who know me as Dika, not as someone's wife, someone's ex-something, someone's problem, someone's sad story.

Just me. Dika. The woman who is still here.

The woman who got knocked down more times than she would like to admit.

The woman who sometimes cried in the bathroom and then came out pretending everything was fine.

The woman who made questionable decisions.

The woman who trusted the wrong people.

The woman who lost things. The woman who made mistakes.

But also the woman who is still standing.

And maybe that's something worth celebrating.

Because I thought I had lost everything. 

Maybe I haven't. Maybe I just lost the version of my life I thought I was supposed to have.

And now I get to build another one. 

Different. Messier. Probably more expensive.

😂

But mine.

So maybe I should stop asking: “Will I find my prince charming?”

And start asking: “What kind of life do I want to build?”

Where do I want to work? Where do I want to live?

What do I want to achieve? Who do I want around me?

What makes me happy? What makes me feel alive?

Those are questions I can actually do something about.

Love? We'll see.

Maybe someday someone will come along. Maybe he won't.

Maybe I'll fall in love again. 

Maybe I'll stay single and become the slightly eccentric aunt who travels, works overseas, drinks coffee and gives unsolicited relationship advice.

Honestly, both options sound survivable.

😂

But I'm done putting my life on pause waiting for someone else's decision.

I have spent enough time waiting. Now I want to move.

I want to work. I want to rebuild.

I want to laugh again. I want to reconnect with my friends and family.

I want to travel. I want to make money.

I want to sleep without a headache caused by overthinking someone's behavior.

And most importantly… I want to feel like me again.

Maybe the past year wasn't the end of my story.

Maybe it was just the ugly chapter nobody wants to reread.

And maybe the next chapter doesn't need a prince.

Maybe it needs courage.  

A job offer. A plane ticket. A decent salary.

A few good friends. My family. A ridiculous amount of coffee.

And probably a therapist for my overthinking brain.

😂

So yeah.

Maybe I should stop talking about love for a while.

The romance department can take a vacation.

I've got work to do. I've got a life to rebuild.

And I've got a woman to bring back.  Me.

Maybe I can make a comeback after all.

Actually… I think I can.

And this time, I don't want to come back as the woman I used to be.

I want to come back as someone even stronger.

Someone happier. Someone who knows her worth.

Someone who doesn't wait around to be chosen.

Someone who chooses herself.

So, dear life… I'm ready.

Let's see what happens next. 

Because apparently, I'm not finished yet.

Not even close.

Maybe I've been watching too many Chinese dramas lately.

Because suddenly, my entire view of love seems to have changed.

And honestly, I'm a little concerned.

😂

I used to think love had to be this big, overwhelming thing.

The kind where I love someone so much that I'm willing to do anything.

Wait.

I've already tried that.Look how beautifully that turned out.

So maybe I'm ready for a different kind of love now.

Maybe I don't want to spend the rest of my life loving someone more than they love me.

Maybe I don't want to keep wondering whether I'm enough.

Maybe I don't want to constantly question someone's feelings, decode their silence, or wonder whether the spark is still there.

Maybe… just maybe…

I want to be the one who is adored.

Not tolerated. Not convenient. Not loved when it's easy.

Adored.

I want someone whose love for me is slightly ridiculous.

The kind of man who looks at me and thinks, “Yep. Her. That's my person.”

The kind who actually wants to know what I'm thinking.

The kind who notices when my mood changes.

The kind who listens to my ridiculous stories even when there are absolutely no important plot developments.

The kind who laughs with me. Who wants to tell me things.

Who wants me around.  Who doesn't make me wonder whether I matter.

And maybe I don't want to be the one carrying the emotional weight anymore.

Maybe I want his love to be bigger than mine.

There. I said it. And suddenly it sounds so selfish.

But is it?

After spending so much time wondering whether someone still loves me, is it really so terrible to dream about being with someone who makes me completely certain?

Maybe I don't want another love story where I have to fight for a place in someone's heart.

Maybe I want someone who has already made room for me.

Maybe I want to be someone's favorite person.

And yes, I know.  Real life isn't a Chinese drama.

There probably won't be a ridiculously handsome billionaire CEO standing in the rain waiting for me while orchestral music plays in the background.

Although… I'm not completely opposed to the idea.

😂

But I'm not actually looking for some impossible fantasy.

I think what I want now is much simpler. 

I want a man who loves me loudly. Who isn't afraid to show it.

Who doesn't think affection is weakness.

Who doesn't make me feel stupid for wanting closeness.

Someone who can say, “I love you,” without making it sound like he's submitting a tax form.

Someone who can hold me and make me feel safe.

Someone who can make me laugh when I'm having the worst day.

Someone who can argue with me without making me afraid that the relationship is ending.

Someone who chooses me. Again and again.

Not because he has to. Because he wants to.

Maybe that's my new definition of a fairytale.

Not castles. Not princes. Not dramatic declarations.

Just two people who genuinely want each other.

And maybe, for once, I want to be the one who is loved a little more.

Maybe a lot more. Is that really so bad?

Maybe after everything I've experienced, I'm finally realizing that love doesn't have to feel like survival.

It shouldn't. Love should not constantly leave you wondering whether you're wanted.

It shouldn't make you feel like you're auditioning for the role of someone's forever person.

And maybe I don't want to audition anymore.

Maybe I want the role written for me.

Maybe I want someone who sees me and thinks: “I don't want anyone else.”

Not because I'm perfect. God knows I'm not.

I'm complicated. I'm emotional. I overthink.

I can be stubborn. I talk too much. I laugh at inappropriate things.

I probably have enough emotional baggage to qualify for checked luggage.

But I want someone who doesn't just tolerate all of that.

Someone who loves me with all of it. Someone who thinks my weirdness is part of the package. And maybe this is where I'm different now.

I'm no longer dreaming about finding someone I can love more than anything. I've already done that.

Now I'm dreaming about finding someone who can love me more than I ever imagined being loved.

Someone whose love makes me think: Oh. So this is what it feels like when I don't have to wonder.

Maybe that's my fairytale. 

Maybe this time, I don't have to chase the love. 

Maybe the love finds me.

Maybe I get to sit there, slightly suspicious, looking at this man thinking: What's the catch?

And he just laughs and says, “There isn't one.”

Honestly, that might take me a while to believe.

Trauma—or whatever you want to call the emotional scars left behind by life—has a funny way of making good things look suspicious.

But maybe someday I'll learn. Maybe someday I'll trust it.

Maybe someday I'll wake up next to someone who makes me feel safe enough to stop waiting for the other shoe to drop.

And maybe I'll finally understand that love isn't supposed to feel like a test I keep failing.

Maybe it can just feel like home. So yes.

Maybe I've been watching too many Chinese dramas.

Maybe I've been emotionally manipulated by fictional men who apparently have unlimited money, perfect jawlines, impeccable loyalty, and somehow still have time to stare lovingly at their woman for twelve consecutive minutes.

Unrealistic.  Highly irresponsible television.

😂

But if those dramas have taught me anything, it's this: I don't want to spend the rest of my life wondering whether someone loves me.

I want to know. I want to feel it. I want to be adored.

And maybe, after everything…  

I don't think that's asking for too much.

Maybe this time, my fairytale doesn't need me to love someone more.

Maybe this time… someone loves me more.

And maybe— just maybe— that's enough.

My Brain and My Heart Need to Have a Serious Meeting

So apparently, September 18 is now a thing. 

Not even September yet. And I'm already anxious.

Which is impressive, really. My nervous system deserves an award.

So last night, I had a little meeting with myself.

Unfortunately, there were two versions of me present.

My brain. And my heart.

And neither of them was particularly helpful.

---

Brain: He's coming back because he needs a favor.

Heart: I know.

Brain: No, you don't know. You're pretending you don't know.

Heart: What?

Brain: You're already wondering if this could be a chance for you two.

Heart: Maybe.

Brain: There it is.

Heart: What if things are different this time?

Brain: He literally told you he lost the chemistry.

Heart: People change.

Brain: He said he lost the spark.

Heart: Maybe the spark can come back.

Brain: He said there's nothing in common anymore.

Heart: Maybe we can find something new.

Brain: Dika.

Heart: What?

Brain: Please stop.

Heart: But what if—

Brain: NO.

---

Honestly, my heart is exhausting. 

It has absolutely no respect for evidence.

Give it one message and suddenly it's writing an entire trilogy.

Meanwhile, my brain is sitting there with the receipts.

Because let's be honest. What did the message actually say?

Did he say hello? No.

Did he ask how I've been? No.

Did he ask how life has been treating me? No.

Did he say he missed me? Absolutely not.

Did he say he wanted to see me? No.

He needed a favor. That's why he contacted me. Period.

Brain: So why are you expecting something else?

Heart: I'm not expecting.

Brain: You're imagining.

Heart: That's different.

Brain: It's worse.

😂

And maybe that's why I have a headache. 

Because part of me knows exactly what this is.

And another part of me is still looking for a tiny crack in the door.

A possibility. A sign. Something. Anything.

But what am I actually looking for?

For him to suddenly look at me and realize he made a mistake?

For him to miss me? For him to remember what we used to be?

For him to say something that changes everything? Maybe.

And that's embarrassing to admit. 

Because he already told me how he feels.

He said the chemistry was gone. The spark was gone.

There was nothing in common anymore.

He even said he wouldn't divorce me unless I asked him to.

And somehow, despite all of that, my heart is still sitting here holding a tiny candle like: “But maybe…”

Girl. Put the candle down. We're going home.

---

Then there's another thought that keeps creeping in.

What if he has someone else?

Auntie and my bestie both think it's unusual that he's coming back.

Maybe there's something else. Maybe he has another reason.

Maybe he's meeting someone. And strangely…

that doesn't hurt the way I thought it would.

That one really caught me off guard.

Because once upon a time, the idea of him finding someone else terrified me.

Now? It's almost… fine.

Not completely fine. Let's not get carried away.

I'm not going to bake a cake for the hypothetical woman.

But it doesn't crush me. And maybe that's the biggest clue of all.

Maybe I really did change. Maybe I really did let go.

Maybe the feelings didn't disappear overnight.

Maybe they just slowly ran out of oxygen.

Maybe I didn't switch them off. Maybe they simply stopped burning.

And now I'm standing here wondering: Did I finally stop loving him?

Or did I simply stop waiting for him to love me?

Those are two very different things.

---

Heart: But what if September 18 changes everything?

Brain: What if it doesn't?

Heart: What if we talk?

Brain: Then you talk.

Heart: What if he looks at me differently?

Brain: Then you notice.

Heart: What if I still love him?

Brain: Then you deal with it.

Heart: What if I don't?

Brain: Then you deal with that too.

Heart: You're very annoying.

Brain: I'm the only reason we're still functioning.

Heart: Fair.

---

Maybe that's all I can do.

Stop trying to predict the day. Stop trying to control the outcome.

Stop turning a simple meeting into a referendum on my entire love life.

September 18 isn't going to magically tell me whether we're meant to be together.

It might not tell me anything at all.

Maybe we'll be polite strangers. Maybe we'll talk like old friends.

Maybe it'll be awkward. Maybe it'll be completely ordinary.

Maybe I'll feel something. Maybe I'll feel nothing.

And maybe, just maybe, I'll finally understand what my heart has been trying to tell me.

Because perhaps this isn't about whether he comes back to me.

Perhaps it's about whether I still want to go back.

And I don't know the answer yet. That's okay.

I don't have to know.  

For now, I'm going to stop interrogating myself.

I'm going to stop analyzing one message like it's the Zapruder film.

I'm going to stop mentally rehearsing conversations that haven't happened.

And I'm definitely going to stop letting my heart write romantic fiction based on a favor.

Because apparently, even after everything, my heart still has a sense of humor. A terrible one. But a sense of humor nonetheless.

So, September 18… We'll see.

You can come when you're ready. I'll be there.

Hopefully with a functioning brain. As for my heart?

God help us all.

Dika, Please. We Need to Talk.

 I have a headache. A massive one.

And no, it's not because of the weather, dehydration, or lack of sleep.

It's because my brain has decided to make September 18 the most important date in human history.

Really, Dika?

Seriously?

After everything we've been through, this is what we're doing now?

Let me remind you of something.

He is coming back to Indonesia because he needs a favor.

That's it.

He is not coming back because he wants to see you.

He is not coming back because he suddenly misses the good old days.

He is not coming back because he spent the last year lying awake at night, staring at the ceiling, whispering your name while sad music played in the background.

Please. Get a grip. 😂

He needs something from you. And suddenly, one message from him has sent your brain into full investigative-journalist mode.

Why is he coming?  Why does he need me?

What will happen when I see him? Will he want to talk?

Will things feel different? Could this be a chance to fix things?

Dika. STOP.

Read the message again.

Where was: Hello? Nowhere. 

How are you? Nope.

How have you been? Also missing.

I miss you.  HAHA. No.

There wasn't even a courtesy “Hope you're doing okay.”

Just straight to the point. He needs a favor.

And somehow, your heart saw that and thought:

“Perhaps this is the beginning of our reconciliation arc.”

Girl. What are we drinking?  Because apparently it's strong.

The facts haven't changed. He told you he lost the chemistry.

He told you he lost the spark. He told you there was nothing in common anymore.

Those weren't hints. Those weren't riddles. Those were actual words.

Painful words, yes. But clear ones. And he also said he won't divorce you unless you ask him to.

So what exactly are you hoping to discover on September 18?

A secret message hidden between the lines? 

A sudden change of heart? A dramatic realization?

A spontaneous romantic awakening?

Please remember that real life doesn't usually work like that.

And honestly, if it did, my life would have a much better writing budget.

Maybe you need to accept the possibility that, in his mind, you're simply his legal wife. On paper. A status. A responsibility.

Someone connected to him legally, but no longer emotionally.

And yes. That hurts. It hurts like hell.

But pretending otherwise isn't going to change it.

You can't make someone give you their heart. 

You can't make someone miss you. 

You can't make someone feel chemistry.

And you definitely can't turn a favor into a declaration of love just because your heart desperately wants a different ending.

So, Dika… Breathe.

September 18 is a date. Not a prophecy.

He is coming. You will see him.

And then? You'll find out. Maybe he'll be warm.

Maybe he'll be distant. Maybe you'll talk.

Maybe you won't. Maybe it'll be awkward.

Maybe it'll be surprisingly normal. Maybe you'll feel something.

Maybe you'll feel nothing.

And maybe that's the most important thing you'll discover.

Because after all this time, maybe the real test isn't whether he still wants you.

 Maybe it's whether you still want the version of him you've been holding onto in your head.

That's a different question.

And maybe one day, you'll realize that the man you miss isn't necessarily the man standing in front of you anymore.

Maybe you miss the memories. The familiarity.

The feeling of being loved. The feeling of belonging somewhere.

And that's okay.

But don't confuse missing those things with needing him back.

So, please. Stop turning one favor into a romantic comeback tour.

Stop analyzing punctuation. Stop replaying the message.

Stop planning conversations that haven't happened. 

And for God's sake, stop checking the calendar every five minutes.

September will come.  You'll see him.

And you'll survive it. You survived the silence.

You survived the painful words. You survived the heartbreak.

You survived yourself when you thought you couldn't.

So whatever happens on September 18… you'll survive that too.

Now take an aspirin.  And leave the imaginary screenplay alone.

Dear Me, Please Stop Writing Fan Fiction

I have a headache.

Not the normal kind.

Not the I didn't drink enough water kind.

No.

This is the special kind of headache that comes from overthinking one date on the calendar.

September 18.

Really, Dika? Really?

At your big age? Haven't you learned anything?

Let's review the facts, shall we?

He isn't coming back because he wants to see you.

He isn't coming back to reminisce about the good old days.

He isn't coming back because he suddenly realized your absence has left a giant hole in his life.

He's coming because he needs a favor. That's it.

End of story. No hidden meaning. 

No secret message. No romantic subplot.

And yet somehow, my brain has been working overtime, trying to turn a practical matter into a second season of a drama that should have ended a long time ago.

Amazing. Netflix should hire me.

The facts are painfully simple.  For all these years, there was silence.

Long silence. Heavy silence. The kind of silence that slowly teaches you where you stand in someone's life.

And then suddenly there was a message.

Why? Because he needed something. That's the reason.

Not because he missed me.  

Not because he wanted to know how I was doing.  

Not because he was wondering whether I was okay.

Just… a favor.

And come on, Dika. Read the message again.

Was there:  "Hello?" No.

"How are you?"  No.

"How have you been?" No.

"I've been thinking about you." Definitely not.

"I miss you." Please.

Let's not become comedians. There was none of that.

Just straight to business. Efficient. Professional.

Like emailing customer service. 

Thank you for contacting us. We value your cooperation.

😂

And maybe that hurts a little. Not because he needed help.

But because after all this time, there wasn't even one small question about me.

Not one. Which tells a story all by itself. 

Maybe not the story I wanted. But a story nonetheless.

And then I have to remind myself of something uncomfortable.

Maybe, in his mind, I exist as a legal status.

A wife on paper.  A name.  A responsibility. A fact.

But not a partner. Not someone he shares his heart with.

Not someone he turns to because he misses her. That hurts to write.

But pain doesn't become less true just because I avoid saying it.

And maybe this is why September 18 gives me a headache.

Not because of him. Because of me.

Because some tiny, stubborn part of me is still asking: What if?

What if seeing each other changes something? 

What if he talks? What if he smiles differently?

What if there is still something there?

Meanwhile, reality is standing in the corner holding a giant sign that says: Dika. Please stop writing fan fiction.

Ouch.But fair.

Because the truth is, love cannot survive on imagination alone.

You cannot build a relationship out of memories.

You cannot create affection from silence.

And you certainly cannot love enough for two people.

I know that. I do. My brain knows it.

My heart, however, seems to be running an outdated software version.

Needs an update. Very buggy.

Sometimes I wonder why we do this to ourselves. 

Why we take crumbs and turn them into bread.

Why we take a message and turn it into possibilities.

Why we search for hidden meanings in people who have been perfectly clear.

Maybe because hope is stubborn. Maybe because grief is stubborn.

Maybe because the heart is a little foolish.

Or maybe because once upon a time, I loved him deeply, and some part of me hasn't completely figured out where to put all that love.

So here I am. With a headache.

Thinking about September.

Thinking about things I probably shouldn't think about.

And talking to myself like this: Dika. Listen carefully.

If someone wants to know how you are, they ask.

If someone misses you, they say it.

If someone wants to be in your life, they make space for you.

And if someone stays silent for years and only reaches out because they need something…

well. That tells you something too. Not everything. But enough.

So maybe September 18 isn't about whether he still has feelings.

Maybe it's about whether I finally stop searching for feelings that aren't being offered.

Maybe the question isn't: Does he still care?

Maybe the question is: When will I start caring about my own heart as much as I cared about his?

That one hurts.

But maybe that's where healing begins.

Anyway.I still have a headache.

And unfortunately, there is no medicine for overthinking.

Trust me.I've checked.

What the Hell Is Wrong With Me?

 

Last night, out of nowhere, I remembered everything.

Not just one memory. Everything. From the beginning.

The first time we knew each other. The little conversations.

The things that made me laugh. The things that made me fall.

The moments when everything felt easy.

The stupid little things that probably meant nothing to anyone else but somehow became precious to me.

I remembered the good days. The bad days.

The things we survived. The things we couldn't.

And then, somehow, my mind took me all the way to the end.

To that last day he came here. The day he said those words.

The words that broke something inside me. Words I don't think I'll ever completely forget.

He said the spark was gone. The chemistry was gone. There was nothing in common between us anymore.

I remember how much those words hurt. I remember sitting there and thinking, How can someone who once felt so familiar suddenly feel so far away?

That day still feels strange when I think about it.

Because that was supposed to be the day I completely fell apart.

And I did. At least, I think I did.

But now?

I remembered it all again. And I didn't cry.

What the hell? Seriously.

Where is the dramatic sobbing? Where is the emotional breakdown?

Where is the part where I stare out the window while sad music plays in the background?

Apparently, my brain canceled the subscription.

Instead, I found myself smiling at some of the memories.

Not because the ending was funny.

It absolutely wasn't.

But because some of what happened before the ending was genuinely beautiful.

And for the first time, I could remember those moments without immediately being dragged back into the pain.

I could remember being happy.

And actually feel happy that I was once that happy.

That's new.

Very suspicious.

I don't know what to do with it.

Because for so long, I thought healing meant forgetting.

Or becoming completely indifferent.

Or reaching that magical stage where you can say, “I don't care anymore,” and actually mean it.

But maybe that's not what happened to me.

Maybe I still care.  Maybe I just don't hurt the same way anymore.

Maybe the memories don't have the same teeth.

They can still bite. They just don't draw blood anymore. 

And honestly, that scares me a little.

Because if I can remember the good things and smile…

Does that mean I'm finally letting go? Or does it mean some part of me is still holding on?

I don't know. And then my mind started asking bigger questions.

Because apparently, once you survive one emotional crisis, your brain rewards you by opening seventeen new tabs.

Will I ever find my home again?

Not a house. Not an address.

Home.  That feeling of being completely safe with someone.

Of being able to put your guard down.  

Of not having to wonder whether you're too much.

Of not having to second-guess every word.

Of knowing that someone chooses you—not because it's convenient, not because they're obligated to, but because they genuinely want you.

Will I ever have that again?

And if I do… Will I choose the right person next time?

That's a scary question. Because what if I don't?

What if I fall in love again and somehow end up in the same place?

What if I miss the warning signs? 

What if I convince myself that something is love when it's actually just loneliness?

What if I trust someone again and they break that trust?

What if I give someone my whole heart and end up having to collect the pieces all over again?

I've already learned that love isn't a guarantee. 

You can love someone deeply and still lose them.

You can build a life with someone and somehow end up strangers.

You can believe something is forever… until forever suddenly needs an exit strategy.

So yes, I'm scared. I'd be lying if I said I'm not.

I want love again. I want the kind of love that feels peaceful.

Playful. Safe.

The kind where you can laugh until your stomach hurts.

The kind where you can talk about absolutely nothing and everything. The kind where you don't have to walk on eggshells.

The kind where both people actually want to be there.

I want to be someone's home. And I want someone to feel like home to me.

But I don't want to lose myself trying to find that again.

That's the part I have to learn.

Maybe the next love won't look like the fairytale I imagined when I was younger.

Maybe there won't be dramatic declarations under the rain.

Maybe there won't be some perfect happily-ever-after ending.

Maybe real love is quieter than that. Maybe it's someone who stays.

Someone who communicates. Someone who makes you laugh when you're having a terrible day.

Someone who can tell you the truth without destroying you with it.

Someone who doesn't make you constantly wonder where you stand.

Maybe that's my version of a fairytale now.

Not perfect. Just real.

And maybe happiness isn't about finding someone who will never hurt me. Because that's probably impossible.

People are human. They make mistakes.

They disappoint each other. They change.

Maybe happiness is finding someone whose love feels worth the vulnerability.

Someone I can trust. Someone who doesn't make me regret trusting them.

And maybe I can learn to trust myself again too.

Because perhaps that's what I've really lost.

Not just trust in another person. 

Trust in my own judgment. Trust that I can recognize what is good for me.

Trust that I can walk away when something isn't.

Trust that if I ever get hurt again, I won't disappear inside someone else's choices.

I will still have myself.  And maybe that's enough to try again someday.

So here I am. Remembering everything.

From the beginning… to the painful ending.

And strangely, I'm not crying. I'm actually smiling at some of it.

What the hell is wrong with me? Maybe nothing.

Maybe this is what healing looks like when nobody is watching.

Not forgetting the pain. Not pretending it didn't matter.

Just finally being able to remember the good without drowning in the bad.

Maybe that means I'm getting closer to letting go.

Maybe it means I'm finally making peace with the fact that something can be beautiful… and still not be meant to last.

I don't know what my next chapter looks like.

I don't know if I'll find my home again.

I don't know if I'll choose the right person.

I don't know if I'll get my fairytale. I don't know if I'll trust love again.

And yes, I'm terrified of getting hurt again.

But tonight, I realized something. I survived the last time.

Maybe that's what I need to remember.

If I can survive losing someone I once thought was my forever…

maybe someday I'll be brave enough to love again.

Not because I believe I'll never get hurt.  But because I finally believe that even if I do— I won't lose myself again.

And maybe…

that's where my happily-ever-after actually begins.

Maybe I Really Did Turn Off the Feelings

I talked to my aunt about everything.

Then I talked to my bestie in Bali.

Because apparently, when your brain is busy producing 47 different theories about a man who has been silent for a year and suddenly decides to come back to Indonesia, you need outside consultants.

Preferably unpaid ones.

Both of them said pretty much the same thing.

“It’s unusual.”

Why would he come all the way here just to ask you for a favor?

Why not handle it through the usual bureaucracy?

Why does he need to come himself? Why now?

And honestly… I don't know.

Maybe there's something else he needs to do here.

Maybe he's meeting someone. Maybe he has some other business.

Maybe there are things happening that I know nothing about.

Or maybe it's exactly what he said it is, and I'm just overthinking because my brain apparently has too much free time.

Wouldn't surprise me.

But then my aunt said something that made me stop for a second.

What if he has someone new here?

And strangely… I didn't feel that punch in the stomach I thought I would. That thought used to terrify me.

Back then, even imagining him with someone else made my chest feel tight. I hated the idea.

The thought of another woman getting the version of him that I once wanted so badly…

Yeah. That hurt. A lot.

But now?

It's still not exactly a pleasant thought.

Let's not get carried away.

I'm not sitting here handing out congratulatory flowers to his hypothetical new girlfriend.

😂

But it doesn't scare me the way it used to.

And that made me wonder: 

What happened to me?

Did I finally stop caring? Did I actually move on?

Or did I just get tired? 

Because there's a difference.

Maybe feelings don't always disappear dramatically.

Maybe they don't leave with a final goodbye and cinematic background music.

Maybe they just get quieter. And quieter. And quieter.

Until one day someone says,“What if he has someone else?”

And you realize… Oh. That doesn't hurt as much anymore.

And that realization is almost more shocking than the pain used to be.

Because I remember how afraid I was of this.  

The idea that he could find someone else.

That someone else could become important to him.

That someone else could take the place I once occupied.

That someone else could make him feel the things he once felt with me.

I used to think I wouldn't survive that.

Now I'm wondering if maybe I already survived the worst part.

Maybe the worst part wasn't him finding someone else.

Maybe it was slowly realizing that I had already lost him while he was still technically in my life.

Maybe that's why the thought doesn't feel as catastrophic anymore.

Maybe I've already grieved the relationship.

Maybe I've already cried enough tears for one lifetime.

Maybe my heart finally got exhausted from waiting for something to change.

Or maybe… and this is the part I don't quite know how to process…

maybe I don't have those feelings anymore.

Can you really switch them off? Just like that?

Because it doesn't feel like I did. There was no button.

No dramatic CLICK. No announcement:

“Congratulations! Your emotional attachment has been successfully uninstalled.”

If only. Would have saved me a lot of trouble.

Instead, it happened slowly. So slowly that I didn't notice.

One day I stopped checking.

One day I stopped wondering where he was.

One day I stopped imagining what he was doing.

One day his silence stopped feeling like an emergency.

And maybe somewhere along the way, I stopped waiting.

I didn't decide to. It just happened. Which is why I'm confused now.

Because when I found out he was coming back to Indonesia, I expected my heart to go completely insane.

And it did. But maybe not for the reason I thought.

I'm anxious about seeing him. I'm curious.

I'm wondering what it will feel like.

I'm wondering whether things could somehow be different.

I'm still thinking about everything.

But the thought of him possibly having someone else?

It's not destroying me. And maybe that's the answer I've been looking for without realizing it.

Maybe I don't love him the way I used to. 

Maybe I still care about him.

Maybe I still have some attachment to the history we shared.

Maybe I still have questions.

Maybe a tiny part of me still wonders whether something could be repaired.

But perhaps the romantic part of me—the part that wanted to be chosen, wanted to be loved, wanted to feel that spark again— has finally gone quiet.

And honestly? That's both comforting and heartbreaking.

Because if I really have stopped loving him, then what does that say about everything I went through?

Was it all just temporary? Did the love simply expire?

Or did I love him so much that eventually my heart had to protect itself?

I don't know. Maybe feelings aren't switches.

Maybe they're more like candles.

You don't always notice the flame getting smaller.

You just wake up one day and realize the room isn't as warm anymore.

And maybe that's where I am now.

The strange place between I once loved you deeply and I don't know if I love you anymore.

I'm not angry. I'm not completely indifferent. I'm not completely free either.

But I'm not afraid of losing him to someone else the way I once was.

And maybe that's something.

Maybe that's healing. Maybe that's acceptance.  Or maybe I'm just tired.

Who knows?

Apparently, my heart has become very mysterious.

After all the years of making everything complicated, the one thing I expected to remain complicated forever might actually be becoming simple.

Maybe I don't need to know whether he has someone else.

Maybe I don't need to know why he's coming.

Maybe I don't need to decode every detail.

Maybe I just need to pay attention to one thing: How do I feel now?

Not how I felt a year ago.

Not how I felt when everything was falling apart.

Not how I thought I would feel.

How I actually feel.

And the uncomfortable truth is… I'm not as scared anymore.

Maybe because I'm finally realizing that if he chooses someone else, it doesn't take anything away from me.

It doesn't erase our history. It doesn't make me less worthy.

And it doesn't mean I lost.  Maybe it just means his life is moving in a different direction.

And maybe, for the first time, mine is too.

Still…

September hasn't even arrived, and I'm already overthinking what will happen when I see him.

So apparently, I'm not completely enlightened yet.

Let's not give me too much credit.

I'm still me. Just maybe with slightly less emotional damage.

Progress.