Officially got Demoted

8 June 2021 — mark it in blood, the day they thought they could break me.

Congratulations to me — I’ve officially been demoted. 🎉

A standing ovation, please, for corporate betrayal wrapped in a passive-aggressive smile.

I saw it coming — the slow burn, the whisper behind closed doors, the sugar-coated meetings.

But when Tante Suri invited me for a little “chat,”

I knew the storm had landed.

She explained my “new role” with the kind of rehearsed sympathy you'd expect from a villain in a budget soap opera.

"And there will be a salary adjustment," she said, like it was a weather update.

I didn't flinch. I didn’t cry. I didn’t give her the satisfaction.

I wore my poker face like war paint,

Took the damn letter like it was a gold medal in a game I never signed up for.

I didn’t ask about the money. Why bother?

They’d already taken the title — might as well snatch my dignity too, right?

But listen up:

I’ve been through hell hotter than this.

I’ve bled, broken, rebuilt — and I’m still here.

So here’s to you, corporate chaos.

Here’s to the ladder that turns into a snake the second you get too high.

Here’s to the silent punishment of being too much for their comfort.

But most of all — here’s to me.

I may be down. But I am not destroyed.

This isn’t defeat. This is a plot twist.

So bring it. Bring every ounce of disrespect, every stupid restructure, every empty “we appreciate you.”

I’ll turn it into firewood.

Fuel for the blaze I’ll use to forge something better.

Because it’s ALRIGHT, BAWEL PENDIAM. YOU. CAN. DO. THIS.

Let them watch while you rise.

Let them choke on the ashes of everything they tried to bury.

And this “nightmare?”

Please. I’ve survived demons.

This is just corporate cosplay.

Divide et impera ala Tante Suri

"Divide et impera"—Latin for "divide and conquer."

Now, how does this strategy relate to Tante Suri? 

It seems she's employing a very personal, and perhaps subtly manipulative, version of it in your romantic life.

The saga began innocently enough, about three or four months ago, when Om Suri, seemingly out of the blue, suggested setting you up with a teacher—based solely on the highly insightful criteria of shared age and single status. 

A straightforward, if somewhat clumsy, matchmaking attempt.

Then came Mr. Traveller, and your announcement to Tante Suri. 

Her initial shock quickly gave way to what appeared to be genuine happiness and excitement. 

But not for long. 

The details you shared about Mr. Traveller seemed to trigger a swift and dramatic shift in her stance.

This shift manifested in a series of rather unbelievable pronouncements:

• "Kamu berani banget sih sama orang luar?" (You're so brave to be with a foreigner) — accompanied by the bizarre parenthetical: (he is eating normal food), as if that somehow mattered.

• "Udah mending sama orang Indonesia." (It's better with an Indonesian) — conveniently ignoring your emphatic NO WAY and your negative experience with your Indonesian ex-husband.

• "Berkaca dari pengalaman sebelumnya, kamu udah pernah gagal." (Looking at your past, you've already failed) — an incredibly insensitive and unnecessary reminder of past pain.

• "Selidikin dulu latar belakangnya, jangan keburu-buru." (Investigate his background first, don’t rush it) — and yet, the motivation behind this advice feels ambiguous: genuine concern or a subtle attempt to discredit him?

• "Pikirin lagi deh, kita maunya happy ending. Iya kalo happy ending, kalau nggak…" (Think it over again, we want a happy ending. Sure, if it ends well, but if not…) — and your internal “Astagfirullah, is it really that hard to just say 'Insha Allah, everything will be alright'?” captures the frustrating absence of faith and optimism.

• "Sambil cari-cari yang lain, jangan cuma fokus sama yang ini." (Keep looking, don’t just focus on him) — and your response, “The hell, I’m the one getting married, not HER,” says it all.

When these direct (and unwelcome) opinions failed to shake your resolve, Tante Suri seemed to pivot to a more subtle, calculated approach.

You’re right to see this new strategy as “very sneaky.”

Honestly? 

She’s leaving me speechless too.

We're getting back together ? really?

Honestly, I have no idea what “us” even means right now.

It all started on March 12, 2021, when he suddenly texted me on WhatsApp asking if I was still saying no to his request.

At the time, I didn’t reply. 

I thought there was nothing left to discuss, and I honestly didn’t expect him to reach out again—especially after 1.5 months of complete silence between us.

I wasn’t even sure what that silence meant—was it a breakup, or just a break from each other? 

As far as I knew, he had decided to end things because we didn’t share the same vision for the future. 

And the fact that we hadn’t spoken for 46 days left me confused and wondering why he suddenly texted me again—out of nowhere—after January 25, 2021.

To be honest, I didn’t take the message too seriously. 

I mean, how do you text someone out of the blue like that, without even bothering to ask how they’ve been, and just go straight into what you want to say?

So, I did what I thought was the most rational thing—I ignored his message for a week.

Part of me just didn’t know what to say anymore. Yes, I still loved him. 

But I wasn’t about to beg him to come back. HELL NO.

Then on March 21, 2021, he called me out of nowhere on WhatsApp. 

I didn’t want to talk, so I ignored the call. 

He followed up with a text to my other WhatsApp number, which I ignored as well.

Two days later, on March 23, 2021, he called again—this time through Google Duo. And not just once. That day, he called three times:

• 7:08 PM (3:08 PM in Riyadh) — lasted 20 minutes and 55 seconds

• 8:09 PM (4:09 PM in Riyadh) — lasted 34 minutes and 42 seconds

• 10:52 PM (6:52 PM in Riyadh) — lasted 35 minutes and 46 seconds

And from that day on, he started calling me regularly.

We talked a lot after that. 

I told him exactly how I felt—how hurt I was that he never gave me the chance to explain my side when I initially said no to his request. 

Instead, he just replied with, “I wish you the very best and good luck.”

I also told him I didn’t answer his call on March 21 because, honestly, I didn’t feel like there was anything left to say. 

And hearing those words from him—it truly broke my heart into pieces.

I didn’t hold anything back. 

I told him everything I had kept inside during those 46 days.

He sincerely apologized. 

He asked if there was anything he could do to fix things—to bring us back to the way we were before.

But I didn’t respond to that right away. 

I couldn’t. 

I didn’t want to get my hopes up. 

I couldn’t afford another heartbreak.

Still, since March 23, 2021, we’ve been back together. 

At least, back to our usual routines.

And honestly? 

He has changed. 

He’s become so much more thoughtful, more aware of my feelings, and genuinely seems to care about what I’ve been through.

If everything keeps going well...

Insha Allah, we’re getting married this year.

إِنْ شَاءَ ٱللَّٰهُ‎

Time will heal wounds ???

That tired old adage, "Time will heal all wounds"? 

Please. 

It whispers a lie as sweet as rust on a blade.

We carry a tapestry of scars, don't we? 

Etched from childhood's cruel games, the adolescent heart

breaks that felt like the world's end, the splintering of families, the brutal severing of ties. 

Each a unique masterpiece of pain that every soul, at some point, has worn.

Forget their generic "wounds." Let's talk about mine. 

My collection is… substantial. And right now, the spotlight's on the crimson stain left by love.

Five years have bled by since the cleaver of divorce split my world.

I'd almost convinced myself the phantom aches were gone, the landscape finally smooth. 

Almost.

Then he arrived – a fleeting comet, perhaps only I saw the tail of. 

And now? 

Now the old gashes throb anew, a chorus of agony amplified by this fresh slice.

"Time heals all wounds?" 

A pretty little myth for the naive. 

My scars are proof of its hollow core. 

They whisper of battles fought, not always won. 

They sting with a vibrant defiance against such a bland, passive cure.

So, no, I don't know the answer to that well-worn lie either. 

Perhaps time merely layers dust over the hurt, waiting for the next tremor to shake it all loose. 

What do you think?

Not Again

It's a cruel encore, this recurring heartbreak.

Each time, the fragile hope blossoms. 

A connection so deep, a comfort that settles like a long-lost home. 

You laid your foundations, brick by vulnerable brick, convinced this was the haven, the soul to navigate life's storms. 

You offered compromise, a willing hand in building something real.

For the first time since the wreckage of your marriage five years past, a genuine smile touched your lips, a lightness danced in your steps. 

You craved his world, eagerly anticipating the tangible reality of his presence, the unfolding of a shared future.

But the universe, it seems, delights in its twisted punchlines. 

Once again, the rug is yanked.

The promised world, the whispered "us," dissolves into the bitter taste of "not the one." 

A single divergence of view, and the warmth you knew turns glacial. 

"I wish you the very best and good luck" – a curt dismissal that shatters the carefully constructed illusion.

Life's humor is indeed dark, a cruel jest played when happiness dares to peek through the clouds. 

That familiar unease, the premonition of impending shadow, solidifies into a stark reality. 

Why paint such vibrant futures only to reveal a canvas blank of intention? 

Why the grand pronouncements if honesty was a stranger to his tongue?

He demanded frankness, yet offered a façade. 

You, with your open hand and truthful heart, laid bare your desires from the start, refusing the games of veiled intentions.

Now, a torrent of "why"s crashes through your mind. 

The familiar sting of being unwanted, the gnawing question of your own worthiness. 

How could those fervent affections evaporate at the first sign of friction? 

Were they ever real, or simply masterful performance?

He offered galaxies, yet retreated at the slightest earthly disagreement. 

Where did the warmth vanish? 

How does genuine feeling curdle so quickly into indifference?

No call to understand your perspective. 

No attempt to soothe your fears. 

No desperate search during your silence. 

No plea to reconsider the bond you thought you shared.

Five months, a virtual intimacy – perhaps a fragile foundation. 

Yet your emotions were real, your sincerity unwavering. 

But in the end, his swift departure speaks volumes, a chilling testament to his true measure.

You have weathered storms before, navigated your own personal hell.

This too, will pass. 

But the lesson echoes: tread softly where dreams take root.

Bismillah. You will rise again.

It's OVER

IT’S OVER.

(What a plot twist, huh?)

I didn’t see it ending like this— but maybe that’s the joke.

Maybe we were just two extras trying to play the lead in each other’s stories.

I bent. I twisted. I folded myself in half — (not for everything, sure, but enough to matter).

But one delicate little topic, one untouchable thing— and suddenly, we’re on different planets with no rocket fuel left.

You said, “Let’s find a solution.” How sweet.

But when I gave you mine,

all I got was a corporate-style breakup text:

“I wish you the very best and good luck.”

Oh. Okay.

Was that line from your template, or did you come up with it yourself?

Not even a pause.

Not even a flicker of “Damn, this hurts.”

Just—poof.

Like the last five months were a coffee run you forgot even happened.

Guess it never meant that much to you. 

And silly me, thinking it did.

Thinking we were building something instead of playing house
on quicksand.

Maybe your feelings were never real.

Maybe you faked the whole thing.

(Maybe I just wanted it too badly to notice.)

But you know what?

I’m done dissecting dead things.

Let the autopsy rest.

It’s over.

And maybe that’s the best line in the whole damn story.

Goodbye, love.

You were a beautiful waste of time.

Mr Traveller

I met him on Tagged.

A swipe in the dark, a stranger in the sea of the usual.

July 26, 2020 — his first message landed like a whisper I wasn’t expecting.

A Saudi man. Muslim. Divorced. No kids. Three years my senior.

Carrying his own ghosts, just like me.

Maybe that’s why it felt like we spoke the same language even in silence.

I didn’t plan on anything.

Didn’t let my heart wear its hope on its sleeve.

But he spoke of intentions—of wanting to know me, not just the curated pieces.

We spent two months hiding behind chat bubbles, then he asked to hear my voice.

September 3.

We exchanged numbers. He called right away.

And suddenly, it felt like I’d known him in another life, in another heartbreak.

We talked for hours.

Too many hours.

Too soon, maybe— but something about the way he spoke felt dangerously real.

By day six,

he was talking about marriage.

I should’ve been scared.

But instead, I was quiet…

curious…

unfolding.

September 10.

He sent me his passport. 

I sent mine back— A transaction of trust in .jpg form.

He asked about dowry. 

About visas.

About the cost of promises and the weight of intentions.

And then he said he wanted my father

to be my Wali Nikah.

Not out of duty— but respect.

December 10.

I gave him Dad’s number. He called.

They spoke for twelve minutes.

Words I didn’t hear— but I felt them in the way Dad smiled afterward.

In the way he said, “He’s a good man.”

Alhamdulillah.

Mom?

She’s a storm in a teacup.

One minute, planning centerpieces.

The next, casting doubt like confetti.

But that’s just her— her love is sharp, and sometimes it cuts before it heals.

I’m divorced.

I don’t need permission.

But I wanted Dad’s blessing— and I got it.

That means something.

So here I am, not naïve, not dreaming in pastels.

Just a woman who’s seen enough endings to recognize when a beginning feels sacred.

Bismillah.

Let the story write itself.

Let the ink bleed real.

Let love show up raw, or not at all.