Silent Reader

I can name quite a few people who might wish my life would be a failure. Probably a few more who might try to discreetly stalk my life progress—sitting behind their gadget  with interest and a tinge of urge to sneer.

I don’t really blame them. Human nature can be complex. Sometimes, instead of focusing on our own path, we get curious about how others are doing—especially those we compare ourselves to. That’s why it doesn’t surprise me when I notice readers using proxy or VPN to visit my blog. It’s almost symbolic: wanting to see without being seen.

But here’s the thing: life isn’t a competition. My wins don’t erase someone else’s potential, and my struggles don’t make anyone else stronger. We’re all just trying to figure things out at our own pace.

I write here not to prove anything, but to process my thoughts. To turn my inner world into words. If anyone comes across these reflections—whether they come with kindness, indifference, or even envy—I still hope they find something useful. Maybe a reminder, maybe comfort, or maybe just the gentle reminiscence of an old friend. 

***

PS: A little guideline when reading this blog--- check the label on each post or browse by labels on the left. That way, you’ll be able to tell which ones are fictional and which contain my real thoughts/opinions.

Let Me Escape to The Godly Realm For One Second

If I were God, I’d never create people like you or me.
Too fragile for the storms, too proud to ask for shelter.
We bruise each other by accident and call it fate.
We mistake silence for peace, distance for dignity.

If I were God, I’d skip the part
where we learn to love through loss,
where we taste sweetness only after we’ve
swallowed salt.

I’d never design walking contradictions,
I wouldn’t give us mouths that lie kindly,
or eyes that see the best in those
who leave.

Saying “I’m fine” while quietly drowning.

We apologize for crying,
laugh when we’re anxious,
hug people who don’t know
how much they’ve broken us.
Isn’t it funny? The way we keep going?

If I were God, I’d make simpler beings—
not ones who write poems about pain.

But maybe that’s the point.
Maybe there’s a strange kind of grace
in being this messy.
Maybe there's beauty in the breaking.

Maybe if I were God,
I'd still make people like you and me—
just not so good at pretending.

original poetry by:

-Qintha Djais-

The Life That Ran in The Background

A being met his true love again after 60 years. 

Back when they were young, careless, full of pride, and stupid, they chose to end things. But for that being, love after her had never felt the same. 

And now, life mocked them. They met again when death was near. 

However, she was not how he thought she would be. 

All these years, he thought she was out there living her best life. Turns out, her life was full of extreme struggles.

The dreams and aspirations that she once had, she never got a chance to make them come true.

The woman he saw now had lost her right arm, the arm she used to be very proud of because it produced the most beautiful paintings. 

The woman he saw now had lost her ability to see and was no longer able to walk. Not because of old age, but because of hardships. Because after him, apparently, no one ever loved her right. All those men  ever wanted from her was her beauty. And so, those men were obsessive. 

That night, the being prayed earnestly to God to ease the storm in his heart. He was very shaken to see the girl he loved, the girl who had bewitched him in his twenties, had turned out this way. 

And so, The Gods answered his prayer and offered him the chance to go back to the past. To the time when they first met. 

However, that would mean all the life he had gone through over those sixty years would be gone. The wife who had been with him from when he was nothing might not be there anymore. The children he cherished might not be born. The friends he accumulated might not meet him. Would it be worth it to let go of those 60 years of life for his one true love?

Some Last Words

Cassian Vale didn’t cry at the funeral. Not when the priest said her name. Not when they lowered the casket. Not even when the wind carried the scent of her favorite flowers—white hyacinths.

But now, three weeks later, standing in her tiny attic with a box of half-finished manuscripts in one hand and a faded Polaroid in the other, he could feel it. All the waves. All the storms she left in him.

The attic was moldy. Dusty.

It felt strange. Uncomfortable. She’d only been gone for twenty-two days, and already the house felt like a museum. Like something curated, preserved, and completely abandoned.

It was also kind of heart breaking. The fact that he was the only one who cared enough to pack up her things. His uncles had barely shown up for the service. His cousins treated grief like something they could bury under the rug. And his father? His father had been a ghost long before his mother ever became one.

Cassian crouched by an old trunk, running his fingers over the cracked leather lid. That was when the memory hit him.

Easter. The last time he’d seen her alive. The last time they’d been just the two of them.

She had looked at him over the rim of her mug and said, with that sly smile of hers, “Why haven’t you settled down yet, Cass?”

He’d shrugged. Said something absent-mindedly. “Still enjoying my freedom.”

But both of them knew it wasn’t the truth. Both of them knew, though no one said it, that he was afraid. Afraid of being like him.

It was partly because of her. Specifically because what he saw in her.

You see, before marriage, his mother had been a rising star. A quantum physicist. Published author. A mind that bent reality and made it beg for answers. And she was dazzling. She was the kind of face that would take your breath away.

Until she married his father.

All her sparkle dimmed. As if she was sucked into a blackhole. 

All her laughter cracked. 

She stopped wearing mascara because she cried too often. Her shirts were always wrinkled. Her voice was way quieter. Her back a little more hunched each year. 

That was when Cassian learned that Love, it turned out, could be a cage. And he was terrified he’d become the jailer.

Cassian sat on the floor now, cross-legged like a boy again. He held a polaroid in his hand. An old picture of his parents together. The version of them who was younger. The version of her he wished he remembered.

He turned the polaroid over. There was writing on the back.

Cassian,

If you’re reading this, it means I’m gone.

Baby boy, I knew the end was coming. I just didn’t want to dim your world with dark shadows while I was still here.

Still, before my time ended, I need to tell you something.

I saw it in your eyes that day at Easter. That fear. That belief that you’re cursed to repeat your father’s sins.

Cass, you’re not.

Do you know how I know?

Because I raised you. I taught you how to be kind and how to be strong. I taught you how to walk away when the room turns toxic and how to listen when someone’s voice shakes.

I didn’t raise a monster, Cassian. I didn’t raise a mistake.

I raised a man. A good one.

You will not ruin her life. In fact, she would be the luckiest girl to have my son beside her. 

You will love her. And that will be enough.

 

—Mom

The Highs are Not For Show

If you know me in real life (or if you’ve been around my blog or social media) you might notice I rarely talk about the highs in my life. The joyful moments, the wins, or the things I’m grateful for don’t always make it into what I share publicly.

Sometimes I wonder if that gives off the wrong impression. Maybe it makes it seem like I’m always struggling, or not content with my life. But alhamdulillah, that couldn’t be further from the truth. I know how blessed and privileged I am, and I carry a lot of gratitude in my heart.

The reason I don't post much about the good things isn't because they’re not there. It’s because I believe in Ain.

It might sound strange to those who don’t believe in it, but for me, it's something real. That’s why I tend to keep the good moments (or things I cherish most) private. They feel safer that way, protected from unwanted energy or attention that might unintentionally cause harm.

I wasn't always this private. In fact, if you catch me in person, I might overshare without meaning to, lol. But when it comes to social media or the community around me, I’ve grown more reserved. It’s not about hiding anything, really. I just don’t feel the need to invite people into every part of my life or to seek validation online.

I’m also quite fond of modesty. I appreciate when people perceive me as someone grounded, because I think there’s something really cool about not needing to announce everything. Truly confident people, I believe, let their lives speak for themselves.

So if you’ve ever read my posts and wondered what my life is really like, just talk to me. I’m always up for a good conversation.

Dysfunctional Over-Thinker

Rei used to think heartbreak came with violins and torrential rain. But no. It's in the awkward silence when he doesn’t text back and the tight smile when he says, “I’ve just been busy.” It's when every breath felt like breathing in rare, thin air, wondering if he even wanted to be here. 

How much sad did he think she had in her small stature? Enough to stick around for his half-love? Nah. She's tragic, sure, but she draws the line at self-implosion. So, she blocked his number, bought overpriced ice cream, and inhaled it like revenge. And guess what? Breathing’s easier already.

The thing is, she wanted her heart to hurt more. Like, if he's gonna break her heart, at least make it Oscar-worthy. But nope. No grand finale, no tear-soaked monologue. Just her, realizing she cared more about his ‘busy schedule’ than he ever did about her favorite ice cream flavor. (It’s salted caramel, by the way. Superior choice.) 

So, here she is, alive, un-imploded, and maybe  (just maybe) better off. Because if love feels like gasping for air, maybe it’s not love. Maybe it’s just waiting for someone who never shows up. And honestly? She's got better things to do.

I'm Fearless But I Still Fear

Jika ada yang bertanya mengenai makna kebahagiaan, maka akan kuceritakan pada mereka dongeng-dongeng yang sama tidak mungkinnya dengan kebahagiaan itu sendiri.

Karena kebahagiaan, sebagaimana dongeng, sering kali diciptakan oleh mereka yang terlalu lama hidup dalam kekosongan. Kita memberinya bentuk, nama, bahkan jalan cerita. Seolah ia sesuatu yang bisa ditunjuk dari kejauhan, dijadikan tujuan, dipetakan.

Padahal, berapa banyak dari kita yang benar-benar bisa berkata, Aku bahagia, tanpa ada sedikit pun rasa ragu atau takut kehilangan?

Mungkin kebahagiaan bukan sesuatu yang terjadi. Mungkin, ia hanya momen-momen kecil yang lewat dengan cepat, seringkali tanpa disadari. Bukan perayaan penuh gebyar, melainkan jeda. Seperti tarikan napas di tengah kalimat panjang yang melelahkan. Seperti cahaya yang jatuh di sudut kamar pada pukul lima sore... Tak berguna, tak penting, tapi di waktu itu bisa mencukupimu.

Orang mencari bahagia seperti mencari sesuatu yang hilang. Tapi bagaimana kalau yang hilang itu memang tidak pernah ada? Bagaimana kalau kita hanya ingin percaya bahwa hidup bisa terasa utuh, meski setiap hari mengikis sedikit demi sedikit diri kita?

#darkest thoughts always need an outlet#

by Qintha

Python*

The first time I saw Liam Bourbon, he was breaking my heart. Not in a metaphorical, slow-burn way—but in a literal, game-ending way. A dodgeball to the chest, straight from his wickedly accurate hands.

“Sorry,” he said, jogging over, all messy curls and unfairly perfect dimples. “Didn’t mean to take you out.”

I was still on the floor, gasping. From the impact. Definitely not from the way his hand brushed mine.

“You’re a menace,” I muttered.

*a song by GOT7 that inspires this piece. The lyric goes: shot through the chest I was falling for the shooter.

Surga dengan Harga Tertera

Jika mereka bisa membeli surga,

maka tidak akan ada lagi dinding yang membatasi kesemena-menaan mereka.

Mereka akan mencabut pagar-pagar kematian,

dan menanam koin emas di lubang-lubang pengakuan dosa.

Di meja makan mereka, kemiskinan disajikan seperti lauk dingin,

sementara kesedihan digulung dalam roti mewah yang tidak pernah basi.

Sebab, bagi mereka, manusia hanyalah angka dalam laporan laba,

dan ampunan adalah diskon besar yang datang setiap hari raya.

Aku melihat cara mereka mencetak Tuhan dari mesin uang,

membasuh rasa bersalah dengan derma berbau kemegahan.

Mereka pikir langit bisa disuap dengan pilar-pilar marmer,

dan bahwa air mata orang kecil hanyalah selokan yang harus dikeringkan.

Tetapi, apa yang abadi dari keangkuhan?

Saat tubuh mereka rapuh, tak ada kuitansi yang bisa menukar waktu.

In Undertow

I wonder if she knew that you contacted me,

that you said you wished you were the person I marry.

Time has a cruel sense of humor, doesn’t it?

She wore her triumph like a crown,

but a crown made of glass cuts the one who holds it.

I don’t need your confession to feel chosen.

I have no desire to reclaim what was lost.

Some loves are better left as ghosts we outgrow.

***

P.S Please don't misunderstand. This poetry is not about anyone. It comes from imaginary love story. Thanks!