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.

---

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.

Crave

I don’t even know what’s going on anymore— Feelings? Vibes? Emotional acid reflux?

Could be unresolved trauma.

Could be that I latched onto you like a clingy koala after a divorce I pretended didn’t bruise me.

Seven months out and I’m so fine.

(You hear that? SO. FINE.)

The past?

Oh please— That nightmare? Old news.

Archived. 

Ghosted. 

Blocked spiritually and digitally.

If healing were a sport, I’d be MVP by now.

I’m not haunted.

Just... mildly inconvenienced by echoes.

But this?

This you-and-me, time-zone tango, silent-movie-of-a-situationship thing?

It’s starting to itch.

I’m a little frustrated.

Not in the dramatic, throw-my-phone kind of way.

More like the slow-boil, “Wow, is this it?”

kind of frustration.

We send memes.

We forward YouTube links.

Sometimes we even talk.

(What a thrill. Be still my beating heart.)

But I want more—and not in the needy, rom-com heroine way.

I want raw, unfiltered, let-me-see-your-face-when-you-talk kind of more.

I want your laughter in real-time, your eye-rolls live and unbuffered.

I want to know if this chemistry is real or just my imagination on a caffeine bender.

I want our first date.

A long, awkwardly adorable walk in the park.

Or maybe just hours of jumping from silly to serious, like emotional parkour.

I want to say good morning, good afternoon,good night—not to my screen,but to you—with a smirk, a stretch, and messy hair.

But alas.

You’re busy.

You’ve got a life.

And I’ve got Jakarta sunsets while you’re just getting your coffee in Casablanca.

Cute.

Meanwhile, my patience is doing yoga in the corner, and I’m starting to resent time zones like they’re exes.

So yeah.

I’m craving something real.

Something warm-blooded.

Something more than blue ticks and haha reacts.

Hope you’re craving it too.

Hope you’re not just vibing with the idea of me.

Anyway.

Good night, Romeo.

Or good afternoon.

Or whatever the hell time it is in your world.

—Juliet, slightly unhinged but weirdly charming.

How

Tell me—
how do you forgive someone who spits thunder in your face then expects you to dance in the rain?

Tell me—
how do you erase a memory when it keeps autographing your soul in permanent ink? 

Tell me—
how do you respond to “I’m sorry” when it arrives late, after the damage has settled in like unwelcome furniture?

How do you forget the look in their eyes when they broke you— and meant it?

Tell me, how do I let go of this quiet rage, the kind that simmers politely,
smiles in daylight, and screams behind closed ribs?

Why should I forgive?

So you can sleep better?

So I can play pretend with a heart still bruised?

Honestly, I don’t know the etiquette for emotional hit-and-runs.

But I do know this:

I need time.

Not to forgive you— but to forgive myself for letting your words sink in so deep.

Maybe— in a parallel universe, you’ll earn back the version of me
that believed in you.

But here, in this story, you lost something far rarer than my love.

You lost my silence.

You lost the soft version of me that would’ve still reached for your hand
after the storm.

It’s not me.

It’s just you.

And maybe that’s the real tragedy.

Or maybe it’s the beginning of something better.

Either way— I’ll be fine.

Eventually.

Forgiven but not forgotten

Have you lost your fucking damn mind queen Oslo.

After you storm out all of anger, hateful words and all. Now out of nowhere, you just call her and text on WhatsApp asking for forgiveness.

You expect her to forgive you that easily huh? Like that doomsday never happen 

Damn, you're so damn naïve and stupid sometimes.

You just can't accept that she will forgive you easily and take you back like before.

Don't worry, she will forgive your stupid rant, hateful words and everything but don't expect things will back to normal just like that 

Hope you're not forget those hateful words and rant you've send to my WhatsApp.

Don't worry, you're save since I didn't have any intention to show it to them.

Oh right, you're forgiven but I don't forget every single thing you've said to me 

Sorry to disappoint you, but you've lost my respect and love 

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.