The two months that felt like a year

Act I.

I was staring blankly at my screen, fixing this report, when a notification popped up. It was Mom—she said that Eyang’s condition had plunged. I packed for three days and drove to Bogor in a heartbeat. It was the evening a day before Bapak’s death anniversary and I remember having a bad feeling about it. Seeing the road with all the tears in my eyes was difficult—on loudspeaker, my best friend told me to let it all out.

Little did I know, it was barely the beginning of a slow and painful journey called ‘having to watch your loved one lose herself to a chronic disease’.

The first two weeks were pure chaos. We found out that Eyang’s level of toxin shot through the roof because her kidney practically stopped working. My brain was kind enough to spare me from recollecting every little upsetting details, but memories of the ambulance rides (where Eyang won’t let go of my hand), the crowded emergency wards (a mother gave birth that night), and the high care unit room (with their aircons on full blast) remain.

I remember having to make a lot of medical decisions that week—small ones at first (like putting a nasogastric tube to feed her), but peaked at whether they should place a central vena cathether required for hemodialysis treatment, with a possible risk of complication.

The hardest part about trying to do right by her, is defining what right means in the first place: keeping her alive longer, making sure she’s comfortable, trying to decipher what she would want when she was literally too weak to speak.

I remember the shock that went through my spine, imagining the possibility of losing Eyang. I definitely wasn’t ready back then—not after losing Bapak a year before, and being left by Wikan just a few months after that. I remember fearing the pain of losing, perhaps more than losing itself.

I also remember not feeling like a granddaughter but a parent, not only to Eyang but to her son and daughter, who probably were just as worried but didn’t share my overthinking brain. I remember crying a lot, feeling like there’s a new weight on my shoulders I never meant to carry.

In between, I remember feeling grateful for having Pap, Kakak, and friends who got my back through it all.

Act II.

The storm subsided a bit when Eyang started regaining consciousness and explicitly asked to go home, leaving no room for her caretakers to second-guess (how thoughtful of her). At home, she asked us to gather around her bed, thanked and apologized, before going on parting some wisdom (“Jadilah orang berguna untuk sesama. Kalau cari pasangan, jangan cari yang ganteng aja tapi yang kaya juga,”—HAHAHA sempet-sempetnya, Eyang).

That maghrib, the whole family prayed together, and I led one thanking God for letting Eyang into our lives, making us into the people we are today, touching our hearts in her own special ways.

In the next few days, a stream of extended family members visited, wishing her well. It was quite special to witness and get reminded of how she lived a full life, how much she was loved by others. By the end of the week, she said something like, “Kayaknya di keluarga lain nggak ada yang sesayang ini deh (sama Eyangnya)…” which warmed all of our hearts.

It felt like (for lack of better words) a new normal for a bit, until one by one, the family members were hit by omicron. The virus got me too, eventually, which sent me home for a few days. But more worryingly, Eyang tested positive as well. I naturally panicked when we first found this out, thinking that this was it. It thankfully wasn’t, but that next few weeks was a mess regardless—she was coughing a lot, could barely sleep, all the while we still had to take her to the hospital twice a week for 4 hours of hemodyalisis. It might not be as intense of a mess, but definitely bigger in size.

I quietly sensed that everyone was slowly losing themselves in taking care of Eyang.

Routines permanently changed, work felt profoundly arbitrary and minute. All the stress, worries, and secondhand pain also brought out the worst in us. There’s at least a couple times when I snapped, yelled at another family member across the hospital hall or the family room, not able to hold it together. I didn’t feel like myself and I hated it.

It also came with a mountain of guilt when I feel like I wasn’t a good enough granddaughter. Every time I had to leave her for work, an offline meeting, or even to take a break and spend some time for myself, it felt like I was doing a crime. It gave me a lot of anxieties and affected my sleep.

(It just so happened that I did a terrible blunder on Twitter which got blown out of proportion during this period, which made things a thousand times worse.)

Act III.

Before I spiraled back into the dark hole where I lived for a good chunk of time last year, I started seeing a therapist again. My goal was to better understand what’s going on in my mind—making peace with the voices in my head definitely wouldn’t hurt—and primarily trying to better understand what it is that I actually need and want.

I had quite a few breakthroughs in those sessions (in case someone needed to hear this as well):

First, I learned that I kept feeling guilty because nobody ever told me that I’ve done enough. Growing up, Mom was the main breadwinner in the family (I now overtook that role), and I might have inadvertently picked up hidden social cues in terms of what ‘enough’ looks like for a woman. Whenever Mom was home in the weekends, she would do the extra miles of taking care of the family, all that after working nonstop during the weekdays.

My therapist wondered if my dad ever told her she’s done enough. Have I perhaps copied her guilt, and general lack of self compassion?

Second, I need to understand that it’s okay for me to take a different role in the family. Think of the family is a soccer team, or maybe a company, my therapist said. Someone has to play offense, others on defense, and one of us definitely has to be the goal keeper. In a company, the CEO, staff, and janitors do different things, but it doesn’t mean that any of them is better than the others. They simply cover for one another. In my family, I might not be able to stay with Eyang 24/7 (what I primarily feel guilty about), but quitting my job to do that wouldn’t be how I could best help her either—in my own ways, providing for my family might just be exactly how I could be the most useful.

On a less relevant note, my therapist told me that I needed to decide the kind of life (and partner when it comes to it) that I want and deserve. I might have been struggling with intimacy, with letting people into my life, and on the flip side, where I mindlessly let anyone in. After the divorce, and now Eyang, there is a huge risk that without properly processing the trauma, I could make stupid decisions that might end up actually hurting me.

Just like in picking mangoes from a fruit stall, she said, I shall set some criteria that will guide me in better understanding the mangoes that are good for me, filtering the ‘bad mangoes’ out, or at least having better awareness when I had to make a compromise across tradeoffs. It was also supposed to be a way to capture the lessons learned from what things didn’t work with Wikan. It is still not very clear how this would help me in helping Eyang—maybe rather indirectly—but took a good hour to sit down and come up with this wishlist and it eased my mind a little.

It has only been two months since that initial text from Mom, but it felt like a long, winding year already.

All in all, I am quite grateful to have the support system without whom I would have easily cracked under all the pressure. Despite the major turbulences, in general I feel quite centered, and finally well-calibrated to take on whatever possible scenarios moving forward.

Today, Eyang’s condition is stable, except that parts of her brain that control memories and motor were recently affected. The family has agreed that for us the priority is to keep Eyang as faraway from pain as possible, to keep her comfortable, and to give her what she wants—and more importantly: to always make her feel loved.

Just a few hours ago I found out that she might have lost her memories of me (didn’t respond to “Ini Nenk Dhyta,”), but to my surprise I felt okay about it. I’d like to think it stems from all the work I’ve put to find my center in accepting the universe’s curve balls—although there’s a slight chance that I’m simply in denial. Whichever one it is, I surely hope that what my dear friend said holds true:

Rest assured that her memories of you and how much pride and love she has derived from your being there for her has already been permanently etched in the aeons.”

Mohon doanya yang terbaik untuk Eyang <3

The Art of Being Sick

It is such a peculiar thing, being sick.

As a stereotypical first daughter, I have been trained my whole life to be independent, strive for self-sufficiency, and never need someone else’s help. Didn’t need it to change the light bulb, to fix a frame on the wall, or to move heavy furnitures from one corner of the room to another. I would always figure something out.

Yet as soon as a slight fever or a bad case of headache makes an appearance, I suddenly turn into this needy, selfish, crybaby monster who feels entitled to someone’s care. I suddenly forgot how to boil the water and make tea, how to feed myself—no memory at all on how to even move around.

Now you might think it’s perfectly acceptable to need a hand when your body isn’t well, but lately, I realize that what I’m experiencing is a little bit more intense, might be slightly problematic, and stems from how my parents treated me when I got sick as a child.

TL;DR: They spoil me. Big time.

My parents would double their attention to me if I get sick. My earliest memories include getting the long-awaited Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets book simply because I got a fever (they weren’t gonna because it was so expensive). They would get me a KFC chicken soup (which was a special treat back then), spoonfeed me, tuck me in, and sweet-talk me into taking my medicine. They would check on my temp every other hour.

At some point, my then-adult self couldn’t take anything less.

If someone told me they loved me but wouldn’t show up when I got sick, my childhood experience would interpret that as—well—not love. No matter how friendly the sickness is: a benign migraine or food poisoning, I would need their attention right there and then.

If someone told me they loved me but wouldn’t show up when I got sick, they probably lied. I would feel sad, with the sadness coming more strongly out of not having them around and less about actually being sick.

It is only recently that I realize that not everyone was treated by their parents the same way mine did when they got sick. It turns out, for some people, being sick might not be such a big deal.

In hindsight, some of my major fights with my ex-husband were around him not being there (enough) for me when I was sick. I didn’t understand it then, but recently I came to the realization that he probably had a different experience of being sick as a child, and that’s why he didn’t interpret it as a ‘core love language’ as it has been for me.

But I am learning and unlearning. I now respect boundaries in friendships and relationships, which sometimes include not getting upset when others may or may not have time for me when I am down with a fever. I think that should count as progress on my end.


As an adult, today I understand that a lot of our entitlement and emotional baggage haunt us from the past. Our memories shape our core values and expectations of how other people should treat us. It would determine whether we think we deserve love and how we would regard love.

What we now call ‘love language’ might just be how our parents express their love to us as a child.

My primary love language is ‘act of service’ and it’s probably linked to how my dad drops and picks me up from school every day, how my mom makes me breakfast whenever she’s home (she has a full-time job), and how Eyang always prepares everything for me and for my school. They’re not the hugging type—with some exceptions, ‘physical touch’ sometimes feels unnatural to me—we didn’t have that much spare money to do something together and have ‘quality time’ or ‘give gifts’. Instead of giving ‘words of affirmation’, my dad wholeheartedly believes that teasing her daughter will keep her humble her whole life (I actually don’t mind this).

So all my training on being independent goes out the window when someone shows up and offers me that ‘service’: like if you pick or drop me off at a place, or help me with a random, completely minuscule errand at home, I would probably interpret that as love.


Recently a Swedish language expert (?) came up with a list of words that describe the different shades of feelings that the English language cannot provide words for. One day a friend forwarded a World Economic Forum post on it on Instagram.

And with that, I would like to contribute one new adverb:

Sonely. (adv.) the feeling of wishing someone you love is around to take care of you when you’re sick.

Places we go when things are uncertain

(Your moon) is in your seventh house, meaning you find security and safety through close relationships and long-term partnerships.”

[What my Co-Star app told me one October evening.]

I’m not particularly into astrology, but that line hit me hard for the sheer truth of it. I do find security and safety through having a constant; through knowing that I have someone who will always be there to catch me when I fall. This is why, when the marriage ended, above anything else, I felt insecure and unsafe. Suddenly the world worked differently—I often found myself second-guessing whom I can call for help from when I’m in need, or what possible motivations a person has when they indeed showed up.

The structure upon which my realities were built crumbled. I wasn’t sure how to function.

It suddenly dawned on me how everything I have achieved in the past five years was only possible because I knew I had my then-husband to come home to. I could reach up up up to the stars because he grounded me in my roots, making sure I wouldn’t plunge unannounced. Therefore when he left, I was untethered—I was afloat, roaming a weird, unfamiliar space of uncertainties.

A friend reminded me that it wasn’t true; that I would be fine and have an equally full life if I could just take the time to find my own center again—this time from within. What he said didn’t change the fact that I did have a pretty solid case of dependency going on. And I worry that I might repeat this pattern on someone else sooner or later—and that I would only get hurt again as they leave me (and I know for a fact that they will, one way or another).

This is why when someone did make an appearance, it scared the shit out of me. I was anxious a lot.

My mind would take me to the extreme ends like a non-stop pendulum: one day I’d be convinced that I didn’t want anyone to enter my newly-formed personal bubble—why bother re-participating in a construct so full of compromise where you’d probably lose yourself again? But then came those bits of magical moments and conversations that made it difficult for me not to want more, and a secret corner in my mind longing to reach a new equilibrium where I could finally feel safe and secure again.

I thought the separation would have sharpened my intuition but no, I’m back to my overthinking, overanalyzing self. If anything, there are more ‘shoulds’ to follow this time around; they often contradict one another—at times it would feel like my brain simply can’t follow.

For example, one ‘should’ would tell me to take my time to heal, prescribing me to sit around a bit more with the loneliness. Instead of running away to the comfort of someone else’s arms, I was supposed to sit down with my sadness and embrace the pain. It’s the only way forward.

And yet another ‘should’ believes that we were supposed to lean in and be honest to the universe about what we want (although they don’t always mean what I need). So perhaps I ‘should’ trust my instinct a little more, and not be afraid of getting hurt because I will be either way.

Not to mention that this person is far from simple. He comes with his own sets of layers of complexities for me to learn and understand, his own history of past traumas, convictions, philosophies of life that dictates their decisions in ways that sometimes clash with what I want (although first I need to figure what I want, which hasn’t been the case).

In Atlas of the Heart by Brené Brown (it’s a book that literally maps out the different range and depth of human emotions, I highly recommend it), there’s a chapter about ‘places we go to when things are uncertain’, where she lists the language to call some of these emotions—like overwhelmed and anxious. Overwhelmed and anxious very well describe how I’ve been.

For someone who values open-mindedness, I seem to have quite a high need for closure (NFC) when it comes to ‘partnerships and relationships’ (blame my moon in libra lol). At the end of the day, I function better when clarity of definitions exists, as they would set boundaries and expectations, including when they mean I couldn’t have any.

But as it turns out, there are times when uncertainties just have to be its own equilibrium for a while—for one reason or another. These are the times I need to teach myself to enjoy being a loose hot air balloon, letting the wind (?) take me where I need to be. It makes me profoundly uncomfortable, but maybe learning about this different state of being is part of the journey.

In the spirit of lowering one’s NFC: It’s okay that I don’t quite know.

Stay healthy everyone.

2021: The Year I Found Myself

I was dead for over 29 years.

My body might have breathed, moved, consumed—but not quite lived. I have simply been walking down the most obvious pathway that the universe revealed. Born to an average Indonesian family, I grew up into a typical first daughter whose main mission is to make her family proud and exceed expectations, got one opportunity after another that piled up into a wonderful-but-very-much-expected career, and married the very first person who asked. When interviewed about my biggest failure a few years ago, I barely knew the answer, because if I’m being honest, I never really failed, not in a way that mattered anyway, and mostly because I never took a risk—not in a way that mattered.

This year everything changed.

Me saying hi to 2022, finally taking charge of my own fate.

It started with the biggest loss I’ve ever experienced, one that I didn’t think I was capable of stomaching. The person I (used to think I) loved the most decided to leave, practically in a blink, and at the worst possible moment—although perhaps there’s no such thing as a good time to end a marriage.

The first couple of months was the worst: the titanic pain seeped from my chest down to my torso, limbs, and all corners of my physique. Sometimes I literally couldn’t move out of the bed or floor had it not been for the kindest souls who kept me company. Even then, I was still lost for a little while longer, reaching for worldly things that I thought could help ease the pain. I was too clever to fool myself that they would cure my open-flesh wound of course, but back then I’d take anything just to survive another day.

I’m not quite sure how (perhaps writing my feelings down, talking to my friends, and regular check-ins with my therapist) but slowly and eventually the hurt subsided.

Once that happened, came this long and deafening quiet where I was left alone with myself, bewildered at the sight of an almost completely new person. Something told me she had gone through a war and came back stronger. I could sense that her emotional container expanded, reaching new depths capable of understanding and empathizing better—more so a gentler heart that forgives fully.

It’s the kind of bloom that could only happen through passing seasons.

It came with a brand-new, crystal-clear sight, so sharp and spot-free it’s almost like I never saw before in my entire life (even some things I thought I already knew):

  • Being with someone is not a prerequisite to, nor an assurance of, happiness. If anything, I learned that loving is all about sacrifice. If you are not ready to let go of a certain degree of comfort and compromise on more than a handful of things, let me remind you that being single has its perks. I was pleasantly surprised to remember the refreshing feeling of making my own decisions and owning the consequences, in lieu of having to reach a consensus with another human being every single time.
  • Being with someone shouldn’t mean losing yourself. Entering a relationship often means colliding two previously separated worlds, and when you let it unfold on an auto-pilot mode, soon enough one will be completely swallowed by the other. That will almost always lead to a certain feeling of loneliness or isolation. I finally understood the importance of friendship beyond the one with your partner (even when they’re your best friend) and having your own little territory—literal or figurative—like an activity or circle where you could anchor the self you were before you met them. Remember that you are responsible for taking care of yourself before anyone else.
  • We are bound to project our ideals on our partner, and it takes courage to see what is real. Our deepest urge to be happy often means deflecting our glance from the person in front of us, to a much prettier reflection of them on the pond. But once we rid of that fear and allow ourselves to be honest, both about who they are and who you are, that is when you could truly decide whether you would continue to love—and love fiercely—or not. It is a truly rare thing, to see someone naked in their entirety (literally and figuratively) and still love them as a whole.
  • Compatibility is the work you put in, but there is such thing as a minimum threshold for it to work and self-awareness is a necessary tool. This might not be exactly scientific, but I find this framework quite useful to assess (and therefore achieve) compatibility in a romantic partnership. First, compatibility is comprised of five separate ‘tanks’: intellectual, emotional, physical, spiritual, and material (not necessarily in that order). Having one of your tanks full is not enough if any of the other tanks are empty. Intellectual compatibility doesn’t mean being in the same academic field, spiritual compatibility doesn’t mean sharing the same faith, and material compatibility doesn’t mean coming from the same socio-economic background. They simply mean understanding and appreciating each other intellectually, having a similar attitude towards faith, and somewhat corresponding visions about worldly possessions. That being said, above anything else, being at the same level of self-awareness is critical. Even when you’re complete opposites in certain areas, having the language and toolbox to talk about it would help a lot. Without it, even the most earnest effort to make it happen is likely going to fail.

It is with these new tenets, that I am starting 2022, whether by myself, with a partner, or something in between. I have promised myself to not just let myself be but actually make the mindful (often difficult choice) every single day, meaning my every ‘yes’-es and knowing when to say no. Listening to my guts and newfound conviction about the kind of fulfilling love I actually deserve.

And with that, I wanted to thank him for leaving, for giving me the once-in-a-lifetime chance for a radical start-over. Today, I am the happiest I have ever been, completely engulfed in the kind of contentment that I would never have discovered had we still been together.

Today, I am taking charge of my own life and actually start living.

The Five Stages of Losing

[Disclaimer: needless to say it’s not easy for me to write this and I do this mostly to help myself process than to help you understand why and what’s happening because at the end of the day I don’t owe anyone any explanation. My extended family members do not know about this yet and I will talk to them when the time is right. Please be gentle with your thoughts and comments.]


In 1969, a Swiss-American psychiatrist Elisabeth Kübler-Ross came up with a framework postulating the pathway of those experiencing grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and (eventually) acceptance.

In 2021, the night you said you were coming home, I thought you decided that we could start over, but instead, it was what Kübler-Ross called a “shock event”: you wanted a divorce.

1. Denial

I still vividly remember your expression when you said it—you looked deeply broken-hearted while breaking my heart all at the same time. I wanted to hug you, but at that point I wasn’t sure what we were anymore that perhaps it’s best that I kept our distance. You sat on the staircase and I was on the sofa. We talked for hours all civil—there was plenty of “you know I still love you, but”. My rational brain can’t possibly comprehend what was happening. A minute ago we were a together and overnight you decided to leave.

Nah, I thought. You weren’t thinking straight. It must’ve been a very bad dream.

Barely three hours since we fell asleep, my alarm woke us up and you were still lying next to me. I wished that the moment could linger a little longer. But even then I knew it was going to actually be the last time we shared a bed. You had to leave early for a company shoot. I asked if I could drive you there and you let me. Before we leave, you sat by my side of the bed, looked me in the eye, and asked if this was the right decision, if you were gonna regret this deeply one day. And I said, as someone who genuinely cared for you: that you needed to look after yourself and do what you think is best.

I was clearly blindsided of how painful the separation would be when I said that. When you finally hugged me good bye and and got off the car, it finally dawned on me: you were really gone. And suddenly I lost all the strength I could ever felt in my body and broke into a long cry in that parking lot. A friend had to pick me up and drive my car since I was so weak (grateful for him).

It was like the waterfall we visited in Bandung that one time. I couldn’t stop crying the entire day. And it was barely a start for a lot more crying to come. Forever indebted to the kindest of friends that gave me company in all the crying—their shoulder, their sofa, their bed, and their ears, even across the oceans.

Even after—and in between—all the crying, I silently prepared rebuttals in my head. What you said made absolutely no sense. We would’ve been stronger together. We had always been fixers and this will just be another round of it: we could attend couples therapy, I could change, you could change, and we’d all be better. For a little over a week, I kept sending you the best possible forms of argument on why you should stay. I thought it’ll help you realize how wrong you were and you’d be back with me again by the next week.

But of course you saw beyond what my logic could reach. I’d always hated how you have this conviction; a clear conscience that just knows what is right. I just couldn’t see it yet.

So I went to the one person who understood you but could speak in a language that speaks to my System 2. Then suddenly it all made sense. I understood why you had to leave. Sorry for pulling you back and making you say no over and over again until I finally got it (-ish, because there will always be a tiny part of me that doesn’t).

2. Anger

I was a mess and a lot of things for a whole month by then, but one thing I never was is angry. Did I question why this thing happened to me, out of everyone? Sure. Did I wish something would change your mind? Of course. Did I hate that you had no friends that manage to convince you that we should stick together? Like hell I did. Did I hate you for letting us plan for new chapter in New Zealand and perhaps even with kids? It still cut me deeply remembering this.

But no matter how hard it was since the beginning, I kind of understood why you had to do this for yourself. Trust me kiddo, I do. I know that you never wanted to hurt me, and just wanted to save yourself. But no matter how inadvertently, I was hurt, and I was hurt bad. It was like coming out of the worst war and I had open-flesh wounds all over me. And underneath all of that, you could only find almost-permanent sorrow. I even thought about harming myself just to keep the emotional pain away.

When it came to it, however, I realized the only person I was angry at is myself. Enter:

3. Bargaining

As I drove back and forth between my and my friends’ place (because I can’t stand being home alone throughout the day), I can’t help finding out all the things I could’ve done differently: I should’ve properly treated my mental health so I wouldn’t have breakdowns that slowly led us where we are (although you would say it goes both ways); I should’ve noticed that you stopped arguing with me and letting me pick things instead (which married couples before us had warned us this many times); I thought of the many times I could’ve come back to bed and snuggle with you in the morning—can’t help but wonder if any of that would’ve led us to a different place today.

Suddenly there was this mountain of guilt that I carry with me on my shoulders. Like all of this was my fault. That I wasn’t a good enough wife.

Other times, I wanted to blame the pandemic. I’ve read statistics about how it had increased the number of divorce cases significantly, but when I learned that it was mainly due to domestic violence and/or economic difficulties, I pushed it aside and thought this would never affect us. But the pandemic tested us in an entirely different way, and we failed that test. You told me that maybe the pandemic simply accelerated what would have happened to us five years from now, and who knows if that would’ve been better or more painful?

There were a lot of “what ifs” and “if only”. Being a stereotypical control freak, I can’t help but going into rounds of options on how I could’ve affected the outcome. My peak bargaining phase was when I even drove up to your place that one dreaded Tuesday, thinking my grand gesture would’ve changed your mind.

But of course it did not.

4. Depression

Then came the long quiet. Then came the day when it actually felt better to stay at home alone than to be surrounded with friends. Like that way I could hold and process this multitude of sadness inside of me properly, without interruption or someone else’s interpretation. Or advice, or encouragement, or validation.

The very survival tools that helped me get through the past few weeks are now just extra weights. Because now I’m not a fixer anymore, just someone going through this journey by foot.

For a few more days, I woke up every morning crying. It didn’t even take any triggers. I just did. I would wake up, emptied my bladder, then back to bed suddenly feeling so weak and couldn’t get out until I stopped crying for an hour. Then later in the day I cried some more. Maybe a little more before I go to bed.

The people whose judgment I trust the most told me that this is not permanent, that it will get better. Later someone updated that to a more realistic version: there will still be ups and downs, but the downs wouldn’t be as low/bad as before. And that’s when you know you’ve become stronger; by allowing yourself to be weak.

5. Acceptance

I’m not sure if I’ve arrived at this stage per se. Some of Kübler-Ross’ most ardent opponents would disagree with this framework altogether. But for now at least, I think writing this blog has been part of my graduating from stage 4. Funnily enough, I think you’re the person who also helped me get here.

In a fortnight we would have celebrated our 5th anniversary. Who would’ve known that we had to stop before we even hit five. You told me to never blame myself. That the past five years hadn’t been a waste of time, but the most beautiful chapter that we have gone through together, that helped us grow in our own ways. My first instinct was to argue that if it was so beautiful we should try making it to 10 or 20. But now I know that you’re right.

I know for a fact that some people thought they saw this coming because we were never meant to be. How could it be, with us being so different. I’d really hate to say that they are right, because they’re not. In a lot of different, perhaps incomprehensible ways, we are also very compatible. I brought structure to your beautiful abstract colors. You hit the accelerator and I know when to hit the brakes. How can we not be meant together when our bodies fit perfectly when you spooned me? Or how we were in perfect sync while brushing teeth before bed?

Maybe it was just the wrong timing. Maybe we decided to be together for the wrong reasons, but can meet again in the future and be together for the right ones. Or maybe this separation was supposed to happen because we were supposed to be a better version of ourselves to prepare for the next person. Or who knows, be happy by ourselves. Maybe this way I could find out whether I have truly loved and accepted myself, or if I had only been doing that vicariously through your complete acceptance of me?

I guess you will never know and shouldn’t even dare to try to guess. Two things I do know:

1. Help is everywhere. I am deeply, deeply thankful for all the love that I have received this past month. While they will never instantly fill in this big, new hole (“the baby teeth I thought I needed”), I was held, and I could survive only because of it. So to every single person who has texted, called, video called to check in, let me stay or cried, listened to me, or just sit there: I love you.

2. We still have our lives ahead of us. When you told me you could never be angry at me for more than five minutes, I believed you, because it’s like that for me too. For now, I’ll let you do what you needed to do. I’ll be right here as your best friend and I know you will too.


Trust me—I know that they call it a cycle for a reason. That it’s not a linear line of progression. In fact I’ve been going back and forth a lot until now. But at the end of the day, I resort to this quote for comfort:

“If you can love someone with your whole heart, even one person, then there’s salvation in life. Even if you can’t get together with that person.” ― Haruki Murakami, 1Q84

And this one. Always this one:

Love arrives exactly when Love is supposed to and Love leaves exactly when Love must. When Love arrives, say, “Welcome. Make yourself comfortable.” If Love leaves, ask her to leave the door open behind her. Turn off the music. Listen to the quiet. Whisper, “Thank you for stopping by.”