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.

A brilliant strategy in warfare, yes. But also, apparently, a hobby for Tante Suri.

Lately, it feels like she’s been running her own private campaign — not on a battlefield, but in my personal life. Subtle, manipulative, and disturbingly effective at times.

The saga began innocently enough, maybe three or four months ago, when Om Suri, out of nowhere, suggested setting me up with a teacher. His reasoning? We’re the same age and both single. How profoundly insightful.

A clumsy matchmaking attempt, harmless on the surface.

Then came Mr. Traveller. The day I told Tante Suri about him, her face was a theater of emotions — shock first, then excitement, maybe even genuine happiness. But not for long.

The moment she learned more about him — his nationality, his culture, his difference — the enthusiasm curdled into skepticism.

And then, came the words. The kind that sound like concern but drip with something colder.

“Kamu berani banget sih sama orang luar?”

("You're so brave to be with a foreigner.")

Followed by the absurd parenthesis: (He eats normal food, right?)

As if his culinary choices determined his worth.

“Udah mending sama orang Indonesia.”

("It’s better to be with an Indonesian.")

Conveniently forgetting that I’ve been there. Done that. Survived that disaster.

“Berkaca dari pengalaman sebelumnya, kamu udah pernah gagal.”

("Looking at your past, you’ve already failed.")

A brutal reminder of pain I never asked to relive.

“Selidikin dulu latar belakangnya, jangan keburu-buru.”

("Investigate his background first, don’t rush.")

Reasonable advice — on the surface. But was it concern… or a subtle attempt to plant doubt?

“Pikirin lagi deh, kita maunya happy ending. Iya kalau happy ending, kalau nggak…”

("Think it over. We want a happy ending. Sure, if it ends well, but if not…")

And all I could think was — Astagfirullah. Is it really that hard to just say “Insha Allah, everything will be alright”?

“Sambil cari-cari yang lain, jangan cuma fokus sama yang ini.”

("Keep looking, don’t just focus on him.")

At that point, I wanted to scream: I’m the one getting married, not you.

When those direct attacks didn’t work, she switched tactics. 

The new approach? Slower, quieter, more insidious. 

A few words here, a raised eyebrow there. 

Just enough to stir unease.

And you’re right — it is sneaky.

It’s divide and conquer, Tante Suri-style.

Honestly? I’m speechless too.

Honestly, I don't even know what "US" mean anymore

It’s strange how silence can scream louder than words.

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

After 46 days of nothing—no calls, no messages, not even a ghost of a “how are you?”—he decided to appear like nothing ever happened. Just dropped his question like a stone into my chest, pretending the water hadn’t already drowned me.

I didn’t reply.

Because what was I supposed to say? “Hey, thanks for abandoning me for a month and a half, but sure, let’s pick up where we left off”?
No.

At that point, I thought we were done. Finished. He’d walked away because our visions didn’t align—whatever that meant. I told myself to move on, but the truth? I never stopped checking my phone, hoping for something that never came. Until it did.

But not in the way I wanted.

That first text? I ignored it for a week. Because I didn’t want to look desperate. Because I didn’t want to reopen a wound that was just starting to scar. Because even though I still loved him, I wasn’t going to crawl. HELL. NO.

Then on March 21, he called. I ignored it. Then he texted my other number. Ignored that too.

Two days later, March 23, he tried again on Google Duo. Not once. Three times.
Same night. Same persistence.
I remember staring at my phone, watching it buzz, my heart doing that stupid thing where it hopes even when it shouldn’t.

And then I answered.

That night, I said everything I’d been swallowing for 46 days.
I told him how cruel it felt when he ended it with “I wish you the very best and good luck.”
Like I was some stranger he’d met at an airport, not someone who knew his soul.

I told him how I didn’t pick up before because I was done talking to people who leave without explanation.

He apologized. Said he didn’t know how much it hurt me. Said he wanted to fix things.

I didn’t believe him right away. I wanted to, but I didn’t trust myself anymore.

And yet… since March 23, something shifted. He’s been more patient, more thoughtful, more… aware. Maybe guilt changes people. Maybe love does. Maybe both.

We’re back to talking every day. Back to the old rhythm, though it feels like the song changed.

And now, we’re talking about marriage.

Insha Allah, we’ll get there.
If my heart doesn’t self-destruct first.

Sometimes, when I look at him on video call, I still feel that tiny ache—the ghost of what he made me feel when he left.

I smile anyway. Pretend it’s gone.

Because maybe that’s what love is—choosing to rebuild the same house that once burned you down, praying it doesn’t collapse again.

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 all carry our own tapestry of scars, don’t we?

Etched from childhood’s cruel games, adolescent heartbreaks that once felt like apocalypse,
families splintered, bonds severed so brutally you still hear the echo of the snap.

Each scar — a masterpiece of suffering, painted in shades only the soul can see.

But forget their wounds.

Let’s talk about mine.

My collection is… substantial.

And right now, the spotlight burns on the crimson stain left by love.

Five years have crawled by since divorce sliced my world clean in two.

I had almost convinced myself the phantom pain had dulled — that the landscape had finally flattened into peace.

Almost.

Then he arrived —

a comet that streaked across my sky, beautiful, destructive, fleeting.

And now the old gashes pulse again, a symphony of old griefs conducted by one fresh wound.

“Time heals all wounds”?

A charming myth for the hopeful.

My scars don’t fade — they hum.

They whisper of wars fought and lost, of nights where I stitched myself back together using thread made of stubbornness and denial.

They sting with defiance against the bland cruelty of healing.

So no — I don’t believe time heals.

It conceals.

It piles dust over the hurt until something — a name, a scent, a voice — shakes the ground,
and suddenly, everything you thought was gone rises again, breathing, bleeding, remembering.

Maybe time isn’t a doctor.

Maybe it’s just a grave digger,

and grief — my most loyal ghost.

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.