Last week, I was told that my grandparents’ house had finally been sold.

It was the house I used to visit every weekend as a child. It was the house where our entire big family gathered every Eid. It was the house where my cousins and I spent our afternoons running around the garden while the grown ups were cooking in the kitchen. It was the house where I could watch my mother become a sister, a daughter, and a mother all at once. It was the house where my grandfather spent hours in front of his computer. It was the house where our family conversations happened, and so many memories were made.

It was more than just a house. It was a home for the childhood version of me.

I didn’t think I would get this emotional over a house I hadn’t visited ever since my grandparents passed away. I hadn’t thought about that house in years. Until last week, when the news broke, it hit me.

What makes it even sadder is that I never had the chance to say goodbye. To look around every room one last time and capture the feeling through my eyes. I don’t even remember the last time I stepped out of that house, and somehow that bothers me the most. I didn’t know that the last time would be the last time.

Maybe I’m just someone who gets attached to things. I’ve always found sentimental value in little objects that probably mean nothing to anyone else. My old phone, my first ever watch, or even a movie ticket I know I’ll never use again. So maybe it makes sense that saying goodbye to a house feels this heavy. And it’s not even the house I grew up in. It was only my grandparents’ house, yet losing it still feels like losing a small piece of my childhood.

This makes me realized that it was never just about my grandparents’ house. Maybe every house becomes a witness of the lives lived inside it.

I think every house carries sentimental value for the people who have lived within its walls. As if it was a silent witness for us growing up. It never speaks, yet somehow it knows everything. It remembers your first steps before you do. It witnessed the arguments with your parents, the heartbreaks you thought would never heal, and the little traditions you never realized would one day become memories. It remembers the pencil marks on the wall that measured your height. It remembers what time you used to turn on the TV and fight over the remote with your dad. It even remembers the nights your parents wouldn’t go to sleep until they heard the front door open. It silently watched you grow from a stubborn child into the person you are today.

And somehow, imagining that house becoming someone else’s silent witness makes my heart ache a little. The place that quietly watched my childhood will now watch another family’s. It will witness another child’s first steps, another family’s traditions, another version of growing up.

Because a house is more than just a building. It quietly holds memories that even your own brain has forgotten.

Maybe that’s why saying goodbye to a house feels so heavy. Because we’re not just saying goodbye to a place. We’re saying goodbye to a version of ourselves that lives through those walls.

Last week, I watched a new Netflix horror series called Something Very Bad Is Going to Happen. It’s not your typical horror series. Instead of focusing on blood or jump scares, it’s built around a simple idea about: You have to marry your soulmate, or else you die on your wedding day. It may sound absurd on the surface, but the more I thought about it, the less it felt like fiction and the more it started to feel like a metaphor for real life.

This series made me question a lot about love and the idea of soulmates. Especially whether we actually find “the one,” or just believe that we did. And the real horror of this series is not the blood or the deaths, but marrying the wrong person and only realizing it too late.

Maybe the series takes this metaphor a bit too far. But if we look at it in real life, we might not physically die when we marry the wrong person. But maybe something inside of us does. Maybe some part of us dies the day we sign that wedding agreement, if we marry the wrong person.

What struck me the most is how almost every couple in the series ends up dying on their wedding day. Not because they didn’t find love, but because they believed in the wrong person. And maybe that’s what makes it scary. It’s not about love failing, but about being so sure about the wrong one.

And that leads me to question the idea of a soulmate itself.

What even is a soulmate? Is it true that there is someone out there destined for us, a perfect match written somewhere beyond our control? Is it just a story we tell ourselves to make love feel more certain? Or is it just as simple as believing in whoever we choose?

“No, look, I know, I just mean that it’s all subjective, isn’t it?
There are no signs from the universe. It’s just you taking something that happened and then deciding which details are important and which ones aren’t, and then deciding what it means.
There’s no cosmic assurance that your marriage is gonna work out.”

This line in the series made me question the concept of a soulmate even more. Because if the idea of a soulmate is just about believing in whoever we choose, isn’t that a bit dangerous? If a soulmate is just belief, then it means we can also believe in the wrong person. And the scary part is we would never really know.

There’s no clear sign, no guarantee, no proof that the person we choose is “the one.” We just decide, and hope that we’re right. So what if this whole time, believing that there will be someone out there who is our soulmate was actually just a fantasy? What if a soulmate isn’t something we find, but something we create?

What if a soulmate isn’t a fixed person out there waiting for us, but someone who becomes “the one” through time, effort, and mutual choice? Someone who believes in you, and you believe in them.

Or maybe the truth is even more uncomfortable: What if there is no such thing as a soulmate at all. That love is uncertain and never guaranteed.

And maybe that’s why this series lingers in my mind even after a week. Not because of the deaths, but because of the question it leaves behind.

Are we actually searching for the right person, or just searching for the feeling of certainty that doesn’t really exist?

When I think of life, I think about being present.
I think about enjoying the moment while it lasts.
I think about seeing my friends on a weekend, and having a good laugh during break time on a weekday.
I think about watching movies with my family on Sunday morning.
I think about learning a new perspective from a very good conversation.
I think about a trip I’ve been planning for months.
I think about a slow morning and a quiet walk home.
That’s what I thought life was supposed to feel like.

But what is life, when all I could think about is the next stages?

What is life, when all I want is to escape the present moment?
What is life, when there’s nothing in the moment that I can fully appreciate anymore?
What is life, when the present itself couldn’t even make me happy anymore?

I haven’t found the answer to the question, “What is your purpose in life?”. But what I do know at least for now, is that I want a happy and peaceful life. And I’m not sure if I’m anywhere near that. I know people say happiness shouldn’t be chased, it should be created. But I’m not sure if I know how to create it right now.

I got a new job. (I should be happy.)
My parents love me. (I should be happy.)
My circle is small, but we love each other deeply. (I should be happy.)
But at what cost?
Because somehow, I still find myself constantly daydreaming about escaping my present reality.

This didn’t use to be me. I was always someone who could appreciate the moment. I was never the type to rush through life or wish it away. But this time feels different. It feels like this phase of my life is just a transition. A transition to something I can’t fully see yet. Something I keep waiting for but don’t know how long.

Maybe it’s me getting married at 28.
Maybe it’s me finally living my European dream at 27.
Or maybe it’s something simpler, like finding job that feels right at 26.
There are so many versions of my future self that I can’t wait to meet.

But what I’m most afraid of is actually,
What if I finally get there…
and still feel the same?

Whenever people find out I’m an only child, the questions always follow.

“How does it feel?”

“It must be lonely.”

But most of the times “It must be so nice.”

I never really know how to answer. I feel fine. But I’ve never had siblings, so I have nothing to compare it to. I don’t know what I’m missing because I’ve never experienced it. So when the question comes, I usually smile and say, “It feels nice.” The kind of answer people expect to hear. But does it?

Being an only child means growing up in a world built around three people. My parents and I. That was my whole universe. And because of that, I don’t know if I truly know how to function outside of it.

The truth is, I’m deeply codependent on my parents. People might see me as independent. The kind of woman who doesn’t need a relationship, the chronically single friend who seems self sufficient. But what they don’t see is how much I rely on my parents. Maybe it’s because I’ve never lived alone. Maybe it’s because they’ve always given love, attention, security without me ever having to ask. I didn’t have to fight for attention. I didn’t have to compete. I was fulfilled by default.

But being fulfilled doesn’t mean everything was perfect.

Our relationship wasn’t simple. Sometimes I think because it was just the three of us, the lines blurred. I grew up seeing my parents as my friends. And sometimes I forgot to respect them.

With my mom, it has always been love and hate. Some days she is my friend. The only person I want to sit next to and talk about a movie for hours. The only one who understands my thoughts without me explaining too much.

But other days, she is the woman I resent the most in this world.

Because even though she gave me everything, affection didn’t always come in the way I needed. Sometimes it came as control. Sometimes it came as expectations. Sometimes it came as silence. And because I didn’t have siblings, all of it was all directed at me.

My father was different. I never really saw him as a “dad” in the traditional way. He felt more like a guy friend. He wasn’t affectionate, but he wasn’t distant either. I could talk to him, but never too deeply. There was always a layer I didn’t cross. Maybe because he didn’t open that space. Or maybe because I didn’t know how to ask for it.

So yes, I was fulfilled. But I also learned how to keep certain feelings to myself. And maybe that’s the part no one talks about.

When you grow up in a world that is small and familiar, you don’t really learn how to open yourself to a bigger one. I didn’t have siblings to practice conflict with. I didn’t have someone my age constantly around me. Most of my emotional world stayed inside that house. And I think that’s why socializing has always been hard for me.

In group settings, I don’t know how to start conversations. And even worse, I don’t know how to keep them. I rarely feel fully at ease around people. Maybe growing up mostly alone built invisible walls around me. Maybe that’s also why I don’t like being the center of attention.

I hate being the spotlight in a room. I don’t want people to single me out or check on me in a way that feels like pity. When I observe the world, I see people wanting to be seen, wanting to be the loudest voice. For me, that feels overwhelming. Being noticed feels weird when you’re not sure how to let people in.

That might be why finding “my person” was never my top priority. I am comfortable being alone. In fact, relationships sometimes feel suffocating to me. The emotional closeness, the constant presence, it overwhelms me. I’m used to space. Maybe that’s what happens when you grow up without siblings. You learn how to exist without needing constant companionship.

But the thing about getting used to being alone is:

Sometimes you get too good at it.

And that might be the real consequence.

I can feel extremely lonely even when I’m surrounded by friends and family. Not because they aren’t there, but because I don’t know how to open up. The walls I built are high and carefully constructed that no one cracks them easily. Sometimes I don’t even know how to let them.

When I see people with siblings, I feel something I don’t always admit. Longing. I long for that built in ally. That person who shares the same parents, the same childhood memories, the same household language. Someone to call when things fall apart. Someone who understands without explanation.

And what scares me most is actually the future.

What happens when my parents are no longer around? When the world is no longer just the three of us? Who do I call then? Cousins are family, but we don’t share the same parents. How do I function when the structure I grew up in no longer exists?

Maybe that’s the art of being an only child.

You grow up whole, but enclosed.

Independent, but deeply attached.

Comfortable in solitude, yet secretly afraid of losing the only world you’ve ever known.

So I’m ending 2025 by watching Eternity, and somehow it made me reflect on the way I perceive love.

I used to think that I wanted a love with a big burst of chemistry. Love full of mystery. Love that made me feel the spark. For a long time, I confused games for love. Chemistry for love. Happiness for love. As long as it made me feel something, I thought it was love.

But as Joan said in Eternity:

“Love isn’t just one happy moment, right? It’s a million. And it’s bickering in the car, and supporting someone when they need it, and it’s growing together, and looking after each other.”

That line stuck with me.

In the past, I often thought I was in love when the feeling was uncertain. When I didn’t know what to expect. When I didn’t fully have the person. Somehow, those moments made me feel the happiest. I thought the excitement, the confusion, the waiting, all of that meant love.

On the other hand, when someone showed up consistently, when they didn’t play games, when they made me feel secure, I thought I didn’t feel love. It felt too stable. Too calm. I didn’t feel the rush, so I assumed something was missing.

But watching Eternity made me realize that the moments I thought I was in love were actually moments when I hadn’t fully experienced the person. I imagined life with them instead of building one. I was in love with the idea of who they could be, not who they actually were.

It was the games that made me feel things.
And those feelings certainly were not love.
They were an illusion.

That illusion made me feel like we had so much chemistry that we could build a life together. As if chemistry alone meant we were compatible. But love isn’t just about chemistry. It’s also about compatibility.

Compatibility is about finding someone who not just understands you but also wants to. Someone whose values, goals, and way of loving can actually align with yours over time. Chemistry can be instant, but compatibility is built. And it’s tested in everyday life, not just in intense moments.

When we mistake chemistry for compatibility, that’s when we took the wrong turn. Because chemistry, sparks, tension whatever you want to call it won’t stay, compatibility does.

Love, I’m starting to understand, actually feels more stable. When someone constantly shows up, you don’t have to question your feelings all the time. When you both know each other well, you don’t have to explain every little thing. When you can be the worst version of yourself in front of someone without feeling scared of being judged, that’s when love feels real.

I spent 25 years thinking I wanted deep instead of stable. I thought stability meant boring. Predictable. Emotionless. But now that I think about it again, love is actually easier when it’s stable.

Because you can have chemistry with a lot of people. But it’s rare to find a person who constantly chooses you. Who stays. For better or for worse. Not just in exciting moments, but also in ordinary ones.

So maybe love was never about chasing sparks.
Maybe it was about consistency.
Maybe it was about compatibility.
Maybe it was about choosing someone who stays.

So here’s to hoping and praying that stable love will find us in 2026.

Yesterday, a 21 year old ojol driver died in Jakarta during the recent protest that’s been going on in Indonesia. He wasn’t a protester. He wasn’t part of the crowd. He was just delivering food. And yet, he was run over and killed by the police. Maybe the right word isn’t killed, it’s murdered. He was murdered by the institution that claims to keep “order.”

His crime? Wearing a green jacket and being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I’ve always known the police were bad, but I didn’t realize they were “murder the civilians” bad.

I’m not the type who keeps up with every political debate, but these past days, the news feels impossible to ignore. People are furious at the police. It even stirred the national narrative that the villains are them. Which is true. But here’s the thing: Police violence is only the weapon to make people forget who the real enemy is.

They call themselves “The House of Representatives” but I can’t think of a single time they’ve represented anyone but their greed.

They sit in their high chairs, drafting laws that protect power, not people. Then they send the police out like attack dogs, to keep the streets quiet while they’re busy counting money from the taxes we pay.

It feels like a dystopian movie where lives are lost in the streets, while those in power remain untouched, sipping their morning coffee in their nice comfortable home watching the news with mockery, fully convinced they’ll never face the consequences.

What makes it even more ironic is that this is all happening in the month of August. The very month where 80 years ago, our beloved country shouted “Merdeka”. Back then, we broke free from the Dutch. Fast forward 80 years later there’s not much of a change. Yes, we are free from our colonizers, but we remain oppressed. This time not by foreigners, but by our own rulers.

The people who were supposed to write laws for our protection, to guard justice, to keep the balance, have become the ones who steal from us.

They are the ones who empty our pockets so they can fill their closets.

They are the ones who drink from our sweat and eat from our hunger.

They are the ones who inherit the role of the colonizer, but wear it with the mask of a patriot.

And the saddest truth is: “Merdeka” was not stolen by a foreign power anymore. Yet we are still not free. This time from the people who claim to represent us.

The system we live under isn’t broken. It’s working exactly as it was designed. To protect them, not us. To keep them safe, while we bury the ones we love. And the most terrifying part? They will get away with it.

Maybe that’s why people keep going to the streets, again and again. Not because they believe their actions will change the system. Deep down, many know it might not. But maybe silence feels like surrender. Because if we don’t rage against this system, then who will?

“And if we burn, you burn with us.” — Katniss Everdeen.

Ever since I was a kid, I’ve always been fascinated by films. They gave me a way to escape. To step out of my mundane life and into someone else’s world. Some people say watching films is a waste of time. Maybe they’re right. But to me, films have always been more than just an entertainment.

What I’ve come to realize is that a lot of people watch films, but they’re not really watching. They see it as a way to pass the time. But when you really pay attention, when you let yourself get pulled into the story, films can change the way you think. Well at least they did to me.

Women, they have minds, and they have souls, as well as just hearts. And they’ve got ambition, and they’ve got talent, as well as just beauty. I’m so sick of people saying that love is just all a woman is fit for.

Films taught me how to feel more deeply. To empathize. To step into someone else’s shoes. You get to experience world you’ve never entered before. You listen to conversations you’ve never had and probably never will. You feel emotions you might never experienced. It’s not about being a critic or calling yourself a “cinephile.” It’s about being moved by stories even when they don’t reflect your own.

And I hope you see things that startle you. I hope you feel things you never felt before. I hope you meet people with a different point of view. I hope you live a life you’re proud of. If you find that you’re not, I hope you have the courage to start all over again.

Over time, films began shaping the way I think. They made me reflect, not just on the world around me, but on the world within me. Sometimes when I face problems, I often find myself recalling moments from a movie, a scene, a line, and it helps me process things in a new way. Watching films made me more introspective. It shaped the way I perceive people, relationships, even small everyday moments.

And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for.

And I don’t think that only Oscar-worthy, deep meaningful drama films that carry meaning. And you don’t have to relate to the story to find the meaning. If you dig deeper through the layers. If you really pay attention to each character. You will find the beauty in it.

I’m glad that you have a beautiful face. And I’m glad that you have a beautiful life. And I’m just happy to be at the table.

I learn a lot about people, character, cause and effect, through films. Maybe I think too much into it. But there’s a beauty in analyzing human characters through films. There’s a beauty in understanding why things happen the way they are. There’s a beauty in learning about new perspectives. There’s a beauty in solving the metaphor.

Do you understand? It’s metaphorical. My example. It’s a metaphor. I mean, it’s, it’s symbolic.

Films show us the beauty in every little thing. Even in pain. And perhaps the most comforting truth is that films remind us that we’re not alone. Whatever we’re feeling: Pain, confusion, joy, fear, hope. Someone, somewhere, has felt it too. Even when we speak different languages, our emotions are shared. That’s why these stories exist. That’s why films exist.

I know these will all be stories someday. And our pictures will becomes old photographs. We’ll all becomes somebody’s mom or dad. But right now these moments are not stories. This is happening.

Today at work, I was sitting with my manager when we stumbled upon something that left us speechless. Celebrities’ income from Instagram exclusive content.

Out of curiosity, we started checking the subscription prices on a few celebrity accounts. Instagram shows you the monthly price and the number of people subscribed to their exclusive content. So naturally, we did the math. Multiplying the price by the number of subscribers.

The results… were shocking.

Some celebrities make 30 million rupiah a month. Others, 90 million. But there are a few making 700 to 800 million. Every. Single. Month. Just from exclusive stories. Not from acting. Not from music. Not from a high production content. And some of them even have waiting lists. That’s how many people are eager to pay.

Isn’t it ironic how I found this out while working my ass off at my desk, making way less money than what a celebrity earns from one simple story?

I was stunned. Not because celebrities are making money. We all already know that. But because of who’s paying. Thousands of people willingly spend their hard earned money every month for a glimpse into a rich person’s curated online life. But often, those paying are in less stable economic positions than the ones earning. It’s the poor feeding the rich. The poor get poorer and the rich get richer

It’s the same cycle we see everywhere:

Citizens paying taxes while the government swims in wealth.

Common people paid extra money on some platform just to avoid getting ads.

We hustle to buy things that influencers got for free.

This isn’t just fandom. It’s the irony of capitalism in a digital age.

It’s the monetization of identity.

It’s a system that rewards those who already have more, because their “value” is determined by visibility.

But the thing is, no one is forcing anyone. No one’s holding a gun to anyone’s head. People choose this. It’s an old news that life is unfair. But seeing it clearly, in numbers, in front of my own eyes, was something else. The system is broken, yes. But what hit me harder was realizing how many people willingly play into it.

This isn’t about blaming celebrities. They’re just doing what works. Honestly, if I were famous, I’d probably do the same. It’s just… strange sometimes. To witness how things are. And to realize, quietly, that maybe this is just the shape of the world we live in now.

A couple of days ago, I went to the office for the first time during Ramadan this year. And as part of the usual tradition, my office gives free food to every employee during this month. That day’s menu was the one everyone complains about every year: The infamous Nasi Kuning. You may think, it’s just Nasi Kuning, what’s so weird about that? The problem isn’t the taste. Well, it’s not the best taste. But it’s not the worst either. But the packaging is quite unique. It comes wrapped in a leaf, shaped like a giant Lemper, and every single Ramadan, we receive it over and over again. The issue is not how bad it tastes but how often we get it. It’s predictable. It’s boring. It’s something we’ve come to resent. Not because it’s bad, but because it’s too familiar.

So when we opened our food packages that day, the complaints started almost immediately.

“Ugh, not this again”
“Why do they keep giving us the same thing every year?”

People started giving away the food around, because no one wanted it, including myself.

Not wanting to waste it but I really didn’t like it either, I decided to give my package away to an old lady I saw near the MRT on my way home. When I handed it to her, she flashed the biggest smile I’ve ever seen. She looked at the food like it was the most precious thing she could ever receive. Then she said “Thank you so much and have a blessed day young lady”. And in that moment, I realized that this very meal, which everyone in my office had thrown aside, was probably one of the best things she’d had in a long time.

It’s strange, isn’t it?

We live in the same world, yet we experience such different lives.

Some of us have so much that we start complaining about free food, while others have so little that they treasure every bite.

At that moment, I felt ashamed of how ungrateful I had been, and how ungrateful many of us were. Here we were, complaining about a free meal, throwing it away just because it didn’t meet our standards. Or perhaps because it was too familiar to us, we didn’t appreciate it anymore.

There’s a saying: “Familiarity breeds contempt.” The more we are exposed to something, the less we value it. What once felt special becomes ordinary. What once made us grateful becomes an expectation. The more familiar we are with something, the more we resent them. The more we took them for granted.

That’s exactly what happened with the Nasi Kuning. It was once a thoughtful gesture from our company, but over time, we stopped seeing it that way. Not because it changed, but because we did. We started to resent the taste. We threw it away and wanted something more. Something better.

We do this all the time, not just with food. But with everything in life. Like the way I didn’t eat the lunch my mother cooked for me because I forgot to appreciate her effort to pack it every single day. Or the way I expect my friends to always understand my sarcasm. I didn’t realize that sometimes my words cut like a knife. But they still wanted to be my friends despite my mean words and I failed to acknowledge that. Or the way I keep complaining about how my salary can’t pay for my lifestyle, I forgot there are so many people out there who would love to be in my position.

We are too familiar with our surroundings, we forgot to acknowledge the privilege we had. The effort people put out to us. And how shitty our behavior sometimes is to the outside world.

That night, as I thought about the old lady’s smile I realized. Maybe the problem isn’t that things are “boring”. Maybe we’ve just forgotten how to be grateful, that’s all.

The other day, my friend told me about a brand we had never heard of before. We had never seen it’s ads, never noticed it in stores, never even heard people talk about it. It was like it didn’t exist. Later that evening, after work, we decided to take a night walk. And right there, in the middle of Mega Kuningan, we saw it. A massive billboard of that very brand staring right at us. We stopped and were shocked. How was it possible that we had never seen it before, yet the moment we talked about it, it suddenly appeared?

At first, it felt like a strange coincidence. But then I started noticing the brand everywhere. On social media, in convenience stores, even in conversation with friends. It was like the universe had suddenly decided to put it in my face over and over again.

But had it really just appeared? Or had it always been there, and I was just now paying attention? That moment stuck with me because it reminded me of how our mind works, especially when it comes to problems.

Have you ever noticed that when you’re deeply worried about something, it feels like the entire world is out to remind you of it? If you’re heartbroken, every song on the radio feels like it’s similar with your situation. If you’re insecure about your looks, you start seeing that insecurity reflected on your Tiktok FYP or in the latest Vogue cover.

It’s not that these things weren’t there before. It’s just that your brain just shifted your focus when the problem arose. That’s why, when I started talking about that unknown brand, my brain started recognizing it. And that’s why, when we hyper fixate on our problems, we suddenly see them everywhere.

I’ve always considered myself as someone who avoids unnecessary drama. I don’t take things too personally, I don’t dwell on small inconveniences, and I don’t let every little thing ruin my day. I like to keep my life simple. But I’ve noticed that some people, even those with similar backgrounds with me seem to carry so much more weight on their shoulders. Their lives seem so complicated, so overwhelming, like everything is constantly going wrong.

For a long time, I thought, “Maybe I’ve just been lucky. Maybe their struggles are truly that bad.”

But now, I wonder. Could it also be that they focus too much on what’s wrong?

When something inconvenient happens to me, I acknowledge it, deal with it, and move on. I don’t let it consume my mind. But if you’re someone who hyper fixates on problems, then every little issue starts feeling like the end of the world. And when you constantly feel like you’re drowning in problems, life starts to feel unbearably difficult.

I’m not saying we should ignore real problems. Life isn’t always easy, and some struggles are truly heavy. But I do think that sometimes, we make things harder for ourselves simply by focusing too much on what’s wrong.

What if, instead of fixating on what’s missing, we paid more attention to what’s already there?
What if, instead of constantly looking for reasons to be upset, we started noticing the little things that bring us joy?

Maybe then, we wouldn’t feel like the world is against us all the time.
Maybe then, life would feel just a little bit lighter.

At the end of the day, we see what we choose to see.

So maybe, just maybe, we should choose to see the good a little more often.

At the end of the day, we see what we choose to see. was originally published in Journal Kita on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.