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.” 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 it 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 bersalah, atau takut kehilangan?

Mungkin kebahagiaan bukan sesuatu yang terjadi. Ia hanya momen-momen kecil yang lewat begitu cepat, seringkali tanpa disadari. Bukan perayaan, tapi 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 untuk sesaat, cukup.

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.

High School Crash

"Is crashing into people, like, your hobby or something?" Nate asked, one eyebrow raised as he steadied Emma by the shoulders.

She blinked up at him, momentarily dazed. “Well, it's either that or calculus club, and this one’s more interactive.”

A grin spread across his face, clearly entertained. “And here I thought football practice was intense.”

Emma shrugged, brushing herself off as if nearly plowing into Nate Harrison was no big deal. “You should see me on a Monday morning. Total chaos.”

Nate chuckled, crossing his arms as he leaned against the locker beside her. “So, what’s your name, Miss Chaos?”

She lifted her chin, trying to match his casual confidence. “Emma,” she replied, slipping a note of challenge into her voice. “And you must be Nate, human obstacle extraordinaire.”

“Ouch.” He clutched his heart dramatically. “But fair enough. And hey, maybe next time, you’ll stick around to chat instead of running off to play bumper cars.”

She smirked, glancing at the clock. “Who says I won’t?”

With a quick wave, Emma slipped into the stream of students, leaving him behind, looking intrigued. Nate was still watching her, as if she’d somehow managed to surprise him, and she felt a small thrill. Maybe she had.

The Ugly Heidi

 “Isn't he your first love?” Heidi asked, like it wasn't rude to say that to someone she hadn’t seen in two decades. Especially considering she used to bully that someone back in high school.

“You must have at least regretted it. He's the one who got away for you, right?” she pressed on.

I could feel my cheek redden.

Not from embarrassment, but because she thought I was. She thought she’d won something. That she’d found a soft spot, a crack to poke at. She thought she managed to humiliate me.

“What an odd thing to ask a married woman,” I replied coldly.

“It's not odd unless you still like him,” she said, almost too brightly. “Or if you still remember those memories from time to time.”

From the corner of my eye, I saw him glance our way—like he could feel his name in the air, even unspoken. I regretted coming to this ridiculous reunion instantly. If only I hadn’t lost that silly dare with Nia, I’d be at home now, pouring wine and watching something mindless.

He looked older, of course. But not worse. Just... real. The kind of aging that comes with fall foliage and maybe a dog. Or a child. I didn’t know. We never stayed in touch.

He shifted across the room, like he could feel us talking. I didn’t look directly, but I could sense the weight of nostalgia passing between us like a ghost no one invited.

But I wasn’t here for him. I wasn’t even here for closure.

I was here because I lost a stupid bet with Nia and promised to stop avoiding things just because they were awkward. And honestly, this wasn’t even awkward. It was just... boring.

I don’t regret how it ended. Not because he was awful—he wasn’t. But because I ended up with someone who meets me every day with kindness and effortless love. Someone who doesn't haunt my memories because he's part of my present.

Still… (and I believe this is an important thing to affirm) I didn’t feel the need to say that out loud. People like Heidi feed on proof.

I smiled faintly and took a sip of my drink. “You can think whatever you want, Hun. That’s certainly your thing, not mine.”

And for a second, she blinked—like she couldn’t quite tell if she’d won or lost.

Useless Umbrellas

They’d been together through a lot—midnight talks, weekend drives, lazy Sunday mornings. The kind of easy everyday moments that feel like they’ll stretch on forever. But tonight, walking side by side, the silence between them felt heavier than ever.

Dinner was fine, in a polite, distant sort of way. They talked about work, swapped stories, filled the air with small talk, but neither of them seemed to reach out, really. And with each pause, she felt the gap between them widening.

On their way back, she tried to lighten the mood. “Remember our first date? You laughed the whole time I tried to hide that coffee stain on my sweater.”

He chuckled, the kind of laugh that felt more like memory than joy. “You were so embarrassed.”

It was quiet again after that, and as they reached her street corner, he stopped, looking down as if he’d found something incredibly interesting on the sidewalk.

“Maybe…we’re clinging to something we shouldn’t be,” he murmured.

She nodded, both of them knowing it was true but not quite ready to say it out loud.

They exchanged a few quiet goodbyes, both weighed down by things they knew they couldn’t carry anymore.

As she walked home alone, she couldn’t shake the thought: sometimes love is like an umbrella—a shelter in the rain but a burden when the sun comes back out.

***

Writer's Note:

I've been keeping a lot of extremely short stories like this in my vault. I'll set them free and let them breath some fresh air (by publishing them here).

Botany Bethany

She was running late and barely caught the elevator before it closed, wedging herself in next to a guy carrying a plant nearly as tall as he was. He was wrestling to keep it upright, his arm stretched awkwardly around the leafy branches.

“Rough day for the green guy?” she asked, smirking.

He looked over, a little breathless, and grinned. “You’d think I was moving a small tree, not a ficus.”

She laughed, crisp and authentic. “How’s it going? You need an extra hand?”

“Honestly, yeah,” he admitted, shifting the plant toward her. “I think it’s taking me hostage.”

She held one side of the plant as he rearranged his grip, and somehow, between the awkward balancing act and his half-joking apologies, she found herself enjoying the whole ridiculous moment.

When the elevator dinged, he looked at her and said, “Want to grab coffee sometime? I promise it’ll be a lot less...botanical.”

A Short Drive

The engine sputtered once, twice, and then gave up entirely. A groan escaped before the car did, and the hazard lights blinked on like an apology to the line of cars forming behind.

“Need a hand?” The voice came from the car that had pulled up next to hers, window rolled down, music faint in the background.

“Unless you’re a mechanic or a magician, probably not,” she replied, leaning out to get a better look. He was in a faded hoodie, a ball cap backward on his head, and an expression somewhere between amused and genuinely helpful.

“Well, lucky for you, I’m both,” he quipped. “Hop in. There’s a garage a couple of blocks away.”

A pause. Not because she didn’t want help, but because this felt like a setup for either the beginning of a terrible true-crime podcast or the best ‘how we met’ story of all time.

“Promise not to kidnap me?”

“Promise not to criticize my playlist?” he shot back, holding up an air freshener shaped like a pineapple as if that was proof of trustworthiness.

She grabbed her bag, locked the car, and slid into the passenger seat. “This better be a short drive,” she warned with a grin.