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Stranger Danger

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Stranger Danger

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I went back on Hinge for a week, and it didn’t take long to realise that it was probably the last time I’d ever download the app—at least, I hope so. I know I’m way too young to feel too old for dating apps, but somehow, I do. And honestly, the idea that if I miraculously found “the one” on there, I’d have to tell people it was because of a prompt he copied from TikTok? Not exactly the meet-cute I envisioned. Maybe that’s a silly reason to write off an entire way of meeting people, but oh well.

I actually met up with a guy this time around, he told me to meet him at the club after my Valentine’s dinner with my girls and he spent the night making jokes about my Javanese background, hitting on girls with his friend and turning his back to me. When I got home, he expressed how sorry he was for not being present and how he’d like to take me out to the dinner properly. I did not take up the offer. Dating apps are my personal hell. 

Thinking back on my time on the apps (starting at 16 or 17), I reflected on the different people I’ve talked to and the very few I’ve actually met in real life, four, to be exact. One of them was from Finland, and though we never met, we kept in touch for years. They were all short stories in my life, reminders that not everyone is meant to stay, but they can still leave an impact. Interestingly, most of them were English and white. Maybe that says something about my type. Or maybe Englishmen are just more likely to take things off the app and meet in real life?

Then there was Eaton, English, my age, olive skin, green eyes, soft brown curls, and a bright smile. We matched on Hinge not long after I became single. Lou and I were rotting in bed, smoking watermelon-flavored vapes in her apartment in Angel, London, when I decided to message him. Instead of something normal, I sent a voice note screaming, “HI EATON!” at the top of my lungs. No idea why, but I figured if that was too weird for him, he wasn’t worth my time. One thing about me? I like a very silly man.  

He texted back, “HI VIVI!” and said he’d scream too, but he was currently at the office. Solid response. He asked me to meet him at a pub, I wish I remembered where because I’d love to go back. All I know is that it was somewhere in Hackney. Lou and I walked the entire way there, which felt like hours. But we love our long walks, that’s all we do when I visit her in London. When we finally arrived, we spotted Eaton from afar. Lou let me greet him alone, kissed me goodbye, and left. As I walked toward him, he quickly looked down at his phone, pretending not to see me, which I found oddly sweet.  

We sat outside under a tree in the pub’s garden, the sun still out. He was a consultant, his girlfriend had recently cheated on him, and he was throwing a party that weekend, one I should “definitely” come to. He also lived in a super charming flat with roommates. When it started to rain, we moved inside. The pub’s interior had the vibe of an old hunting lodge, dark wood, a fireplace, football playing on the TV while old English men watched intently. We drank more wine, a beer. The conversation was easy, we laughed a lot. By the time he asked if I wanted to have dinner at his place, we were already tipsy. He claimed to make a *really good* aglio olio pasta. I, of course, agreed.  

We stopped at the shop for ingredients, then headed to his flat. Well-decorated, Scandinavian-style furniture, a record player. Boys with taste. He started cooking while I leaned against the counter, watching him. He looked incredibly handsome doing it. One of his roommates came home, an equally lovely guy who knew how to keep a conversation. Eaton wasn’t lying—the pasta was *really* good.  

Then it hit me. Aglio olio is basically just garlic. *A lot* of garlic. And I planned to kiss this gorgeous man. Were we about to have the stinkiest first kiss ever? Absolutely. And it didn’t matter, he had garlic breath too.  

He was holding my hand, looking at my rings when he gave me *the look*. You know the one—slight squint, parted lips, like they’re either trying to hold in a fart or are extremely hungry and horny. He kissed me, and next thing I knew, clothes were off. At some point, he made me stand in front of a mirror, which I didn’t love. I know a lot of women enjoy it, but I’m too self-conscious. I’ve noticed men seem to enjoy it more, almost like they’re admiring themselves. A power thing, maybe?  

Anyway, I went home after. He made some comment about having work early—classic. But I wanted to leave anyway. I wanted to see Lou. I hate when they assume we always want to stay.  

I saw him a couple more times, including at his party, the one I bought tickets for. In hindsight, I think he didn’t really care if I came, he just needed to sell more tickets. But it was a fun night, house music, Lou and I danced until morning. Eaton and I didn’t spend much time together, but at one point, I sat down on a couch, and he appeared beside me. The room was dark and humid, music blaring. We didn’t say much. He asked if I was having a good time, I said yes. Then I told him, “I could fuck you right now.” His eyes widened. I didn’t go home with him.  

I liked Eaton. If I lived in London, I probably would’ve developed a massive crush on him. The crazy in me already did. But it would’ve been a disaster, he clearly wasn’t over his ex, and I would’ve suffered for it. Instead, I went home, yapped about him to my girls for a bit, and moved on. We have mutual friends, but I doubt I’ll ever see him again. He was a breath of fresh air after ending a complicated relationship and reminded me that there are hot, English guys out there who can also take you out on cute dates. 

Then there was Gregory. 

We met on Raya in 2024. He was a decade older than me and an actor turned director. Of course, English but with a middle eastern background this time. I think the only person I liked on the app apart for the super famous people on there that I liked just cause it would be super cool if they liked me back. We started texting right away and hands down probably one of the funniest man I have ever spoken to. I was literally laughing my head off. He started aggressively sexting me right away which I didn’t really care for but I just went with it. 

Me being me, I did a super deep dive on the internet to see what he was about. Creepy, I know but I am so good at it, I should be hired by the secret services. Nothing alarming but it was interesting to see him act different roles. We texted a lot about cinema and I learned a lot about it through him. Matter of fact, he had just released a short film that he wrote, directed and played in and still to this day is one of my most favourite films. He shared the one he was working on at that moment and even asked for my opinion on music and edits like I would have any idea of what I was talking about. He made me read screenplays and ask me to promise to not share it with anyone and that I was the only one with an extra copy. Which not gonna lie, made me feel special.

We finally got to meet when I went to London to meet Lou again. I asked him if he wanted to come to the museum with me but he said that he had just watched Perfect Days so he was dedicating his day to deep clean his whole apartment. But, he proposed that I should come over for tea after my visit. He had told me prior that he had sworn celibacy for 4 months as he believes sperm retention is optimal for concentration and for manifestation. Award season was coming up and he had to release this new movie so he had to keep his juices until then. “No naughty time”, he said. I could do without the baby talk, but okay I guess. Men in their 30’s are so cooky, (refer to the “Men in their 30’s” tale). 

I rung his doorbell. “I feel like a teenager,” I said as he opened the door, “showing up to random man’s house I met on the internet”. He laughed and let me in. His flat was gorgeously decorated, classic and pristine, Perfect Days clean. He did in fact make me tea and we sat on his couch, to talk about the same things we had already talked about. He saw the Murakami book I was reading peaking out of my handbag and he said “you’re reading Murakami too? I am too right now, I love his work!” Of course, I knew this. He had expressed that on a podcast I listened to while doing my investigative work. But I’m not that crazy guys, I too am a big fan of Murakami, I was genuinely reading the book, I promise. I may have stalking tendencies but I am not a dick sucker, don’t get it twisted. 

He showed me the short film he was working on again and asked me for my opinion again, maybe he got off from the praise he got from me so he had to hear it again. He rested his hand on my thigh as we were watching it. This made me feel things. When we were done, he asked me if I’d like to lie down, I nodded and he gently guided me to his bedroom. We lied there for a bit before he kissed me. “I thought we weren’t being naughty?” I asked, “As long as I keep it in”. I enjoyed looking out his window, he had a garden, I liked how I felt the sun on my skin as he wrapped himself around me. 

He’d stop in between thrusts and start doing breathing exercises which made me want to laugh real hard, he’d shut his eyes real tight and really concentrate. “Sorry darling, it’s not easy”, he said out of breath. I couldn’t believe this was real life. This man was taking his no-nut challenge to the next level. But I liked him enough as a person to put up with his weirdness. I didn’t stay the night, Lou picked me up from his house and we walked to a Thai restaurant where I told her all about it. 

I saw him a second time before I left back to Paris and we continued to keep contact but I got bored from the incessant sexting where I asked him if he would talk to me the same if I were his age. He didn’t quite like that so he blocked me and we never spoke ever again. 

One person stood out, Here is that story. 

Jamie

I was nineteen and just starting my second year in university. It had been six years since I was last in Whistler. Back then, I was visiting a private boarding school I had earned a scholarship for—an opportunity that was taken away by my stepfather, who couldn’t stand the idea of losing control over me. But life has its own way of unfolding, and so I finished high school in Bali and then chose to live and study in Paris. This time, I was visiting my best friend Callais and her family for Christmas, who have embraced me as one of their own. To me, they are my real parents, and I respect them just as I would my biological ones. As Canadians, they take Christmas seriously and I have enjoyed being apart of their traditions all these years. We were staying in their cabin in the midst of the pine trees, the whole place covered in thick snow. We spent our days in front of the fire place looking out the window, there was something incredibly comforting about being wrapped in velvety warmth while looking at the never ending horizon sometimes covered in ominous fog. 

We’d also go down to the Village located at the base of Whistler and Blackcomb mountains, an incredibly cute place covered in Christmas lights and Hallmark-y shops that sell candied apples, hot chocolate and Christmas sweaters. We’d have lunch at Fairmont Chateau Hotel where families would sit around and have après-ski lunch and enjoy comfort food and good wine as children ran around and played in the big space. I didn’t know how to ski so I spent some mornings by myself in the cabin, trying to do my school work.

One night, while Callais and I were cozied up in our room when we somehow decided that we should make me a tinder profile. I do not recall how the conversation even started but before I knew it we were picking what photos I should use and then swiping through profiles. After a couple of minutes, we were presented with Jamies’ one, yes Jamie but plural. A white boy with boyish charm, big bright blue eyes and dark hair. He looked like those boys on Wattpad book covers. I was delighted to see that he too swiped right on me. We began our conversation, I found out that he was my age, an American from Washington State who drove to Whistler for a few days to ski with his friends. He was funny, witty and seemed intelligent. I didn’t think I was going to meet up with anybody but I wanted to meet him. Callais thought that I should too, however we had an issue. Her dad being overprotective would have never let me. We had to come up with a plan. We decided that he would be my friend Charlotte’s cousin and that I met him when he visited her in Paris in the spring. He happened to be in town as well and we wanted to hang out. I told Jamie about his new identity which he gladly accepted and said that he could finally use his years as a theater kid to use. I contacted Charlotte to make sure she knew, so that if we ever had to call her up to prove this, she would know what to say. We were at the Fairmont Hotel when I asked the parents if I could go meet this guy who I totally knew. Callais’s dad looked at me dead straight in the eyes and said: “he better not be some boy you met on tinder or something”. My heart dropped but I kept my cool and reassured him that I would never go on Tinder in the first place. I could go under one condition: he would drop me off and would have to meet him first. I had to agree. 

We planned to meet at a coffee shop in the village, dad drove me in his truck, I was so nervous the whole drive but also bubbling with excitement. We arrived a little earlier, Jamie walked in 5 minutes later and we greeted each other with a hug and acted like this wasn’t our first encounter. I asked him how he was doing and how it was nice to see him again. Surprisingly, Cal’s dad didn’t ask to many questions and told us to have a good night. We walked out of the coffee shop and walked a little until he couldn’t see us anymore. We looked at each other and bursted out laughing. We couldn’t believe how good we were at acting like we had already already met. We were both a little shy and he admitted that he was nervous but was glad we found the time to see each other. 

It was snowing a lot and the Village truly looked like a movie scene. We walked around and asked the normal questions when first meeting somebody. I felt comfortable right away. He was very funny and knew right off the bat how to make me laugh. We decided to go and have drinks and dessert at a nice cozy restaurant. He told me about his parents and his sister and funny little anecdotes about them. I suggest we get a cocktail and he expressed that he has never ordered a proper drink at the bar before because of the age limit in the U.S. So naturally, I said that we should get sloshed. I do not recall how many drinks we ended up ordering but we did in fact get drunk. I’m pretty sure we ordered the lava cake but whatever it was, it was delicious. He got the bill while he left to the bathroom, which in hindsight was a really gentleman-like thing to do for a 19 year old. We left the bar giggling away, running around the village like two little kids. It must have been freezing cold but I do not remember ever being cold, I felt warm. It is not a good look to smoke cigarettes in North America, so I was reluctant when I expressed I would have loved to have a smoke right now, what if he’d be turned off by my nasty habit and judge me for it like many Americans would. He turned to me and said “same” and in that moment I felt seen. We kind of looked at each other and knew that we had to make it our mission to get cigarettes. “I know a trick that always works,” he said “you offer someone a dollar in exchange for a cig and they always give it to you. Watch.” At that moment a group of Australians was stumbling towards us, loud and intoxicated. Jamie walked with confidence towards them and like planned offered them a dollar for a cigarette. “Ah no, that’s fine keep your money” “Are you sure?” “Yeah of course, here you go!” “Thanks man, appreciate it!”. He turned to me and gave me a cheeky smile, I do not recall if he got us two cigs or we just shared one. But it hit the spot and we were even tipsier than we already were. One is obviously never enough, so we looked for smoke shop and were lucky enough to find one. He bought us a pack with a little house on it, that I later found out he kept with him for years. We sat on a bench outside and kept conversing, I know this is a common thing to feel but I felt like I knew him already.

It felt like we would be best friends in school, that if I grew up in America he’d be in the basketball team and I would have so super American extracurricular activity as well and we’d meet after practice and sit on the bleachers right in front of the huge field everyday, just him and I eating gummies and smoking JULS before he’d drive me home in a beat up car right in time for dinner. My mum would know him well already and would ask him if he’d like to join, sometimes he says yes. We’d hang out some more in my room, pretending to do homework but we’d just talk about anything and everything. I sit on the bed and him on the floor, resting his back against the leg of my desk or my bed. We’d secretly have a crush on each other but we both end up dating different people instead of giving us a chance out of fear that it’d ruin our relationship if we took it there. Then somehow on grad night he’d drive to my house on an impulse and scream my name on my front yard and it’s raining, and I’d open the windows of my bedroom and ask him what the hell he was doing as he confesses his love for me and beg me to give it a chance, I’d come down and kiss him under the rain.

I wish I could remember everything we said to each other, and even though I have amazing memory, I really cannot remember much, all I could remember is all the different feelings that I felt that night. So much excitement, happiness and comfort. Or snippets of his rosy face and the condensation that comes out of his pink lips when he spoke about something he was passionate about. 

We knew that we had to leave each other soon, I had a 10 pm curfew and he had to drive back home early in the morning. “I have to go I said, I don’t want to get in trouble.” So he walked me to the taxi spot, “Well, it was really nice getting to know you.” “Yeah, it was.” He opened the door for me and we both stood there again and hesitated. But, I just smiled and got in the cab as I watched him watch me drive away. 

We exchanged numbers, texted and called a few times, fantasising about seeing each other again, where I’d show him Paris and he would drive me around his city. But obviously the conversation started to die out. I never got to see him again, we were both too broke to see each other and eventually started new relationships of our own. But I thought about him a lot over the years and wondered what he was doing or what could’ve been. 

This was a story I wouldn’t have mind sharing with others if we ever got together even though it all started on Tinder. 

Sometimes, the song that played at the bar we stopped by at comes up and I smile to myself at the sweet thought of that night. 

Bali, February 2025

Letter to my daughter

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Letter to my daughter

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Did you know that when I was still in your Uti’s womb, I was already carrying the egg that would one day become you? Isn’t that crazy? You’ve been a part of me since before I was even born. I’ve carried a piece of you everywhere I’ve ever been.

Cah Ayu.

I think about you often. Even though I don’t know if we’ll meet in this lifetime, I keep you in mind when making many of my life decisions. I want to be as ready for you as I can be.  

Every mother I’ve met tells me the same thing—you can never truly be ready for a child. You’ll never know what to expect. It changes everything. But still, I want to give you everything you need—the right education, the chance to see the world, the opportunity to try anything that sparks your curiosity. A pretty dress for a special occasion. More than anything, I want you to feel seen, heard, and cherished. I want you to know you can always come to me, that you will always have a home in our family. I want you to be happy and healthy.  You would be my whole world, nduk. And that terrifies me. I fear that the love I would have for you would be so vast, so consuming, that it would change me. I fear the lengths I would go to out of love for you.  

Your Uti has always told me that I was a great blessing to her and that, in her eyes, a child is the greatest gift one can receive. Even though your Akung left us very early, Uti made sure I had everything I needed to be happy and to grow into a good person.  You would love your Uti so much—she is full of life, young at heart, and has a warmth that lights up everyone around her. She is the embodiment of the sun, radiating kindness and joy. With the purest heart and unwavering values, she raised me in a home where love was at the centre and trust meant everything. She always believed that I knew what was best for myself, giving me a strong sense of independence from a very young age.  And I have no doubt that she would love you even more than she has ever loved me—and I would be perfectly okay with that. Just the thought of her meeting you for the first time brings me to tears. I can see it so clearly—the way she would hold you, the love in her eyes, the pure adoration in her embrace. I almost feel like I might need to bring you into this world so that she could experience that. 

She had me at twenty seven years old, only two years older than I am now, which is crazy to me because I still feel like a little girl most of the time. I enjoyed the fact that she was still young raising me, we did plenty of fun activities together: She’d make my barbie’s clothes from scratch, we’d bake cookies (your Akung would finish them in one sitting while watching a boxing match on TV). We spent every single morning on the beach and I had three sausage dogs that followed me everywhere I went. She supported my obsession with taxis and sometimes would surprise me with a ride to school in one because I loved the smell of them so much. We were very close and many thought she was my big sister. We still are and you may see us fight and scream a lot but she truly is my hero and my example. 

From a very young age your grandma worked so hard to support her family. She moved out of her small Javanese village to Bali to find work and made it her main goal to be independent and help her siblings have opportunities she couldn’t have. Her work ethic and her drive truly paid off because she was able to not only give herself experiences she wouldn’t even dream of as a little girl but also give me the most incredible life and made me the first person in our family to study abroad despite coming from true poverty.

I’ll let her tell you more about her life as I believe this is something she should do instead of me. You’d be amazed about all the things she has been through and how she is able to stay the most positive person you’ll ever meet. Your grandma is a force majeur. 

Your Akung passed when I was just a little girl, I had just turned 4 years old. You know even though I was so little, I still remember the amount of love I felt for that man. He was everything to me, words cannot describe how much I loved him. He brought me so much comfort and he made me feel so safe. When he was suddenly taken away from me, I didn’t really understand what was happening and I felt a void, a void that I was not able to replace with anything else. As much as death is the only inevitable thing and it would happen anytime, I always fear that you have the slight chance to lose one of your parents, either me or your dad. I fear that you’d feel the same pain I have had to carry from the loss of my father, that you would have to navigate this very scary and complicated world without us. The thought that even one of us could possibly leave you alone scares me. 

Your grandpa was an orphan and swore that he would never have children in his life. When he had me, it was such a shock and he really took the role of a father very seriously, your grandma would even say too seriously. He was over-protective of me and had to make sure I was okay at all times. He didn’t like me getting on the bike so always made sure I was in a car and if I had to go on a bike he’d wrap me to your grandmother incredibly tight, she would struggle to breathe. He worried that the air was too dirty for me even though this was Bali 25 years ago where I’m sure the air quality was far better than now. I wonder if would’ve been this overprotective over you too, I’m sure he would be. It makes me a little sad that he would never get to meet you, but I know he’s always watching. Your Akung also had the most fantastic life, his best friend says that we could write a book about it. Described him as “un épicurien de la vie”. As soon as he was able to live on his own and out of the system, he worked on a barge and went village to village through the rivers in France. He hosted apéros on them every night with saucissons and wine, inviting all types of people. He would race horses and fought in boxing matches to get some money. He was homeless in Paris and described it as the most happy times of his life because he was truly free. He opened thrift shops in the Marais and took care of prostitutes in Pigalle. He wrote erotic comics with a vocabulary deemed as “spectacular”. It was said that your grandpa had a way with words and was so incredibly well-spoken. He then moved to the Caribbeans where he helped open clothing stores and sold vintage Chanel on boats. Before eventually meeting your Grandma in Bali on a business trip. And you know, despite being a black man in Europe post war, he always said that everybody treated him kindly and he never had a bad or racist encounter because your grandpa had the type of energy that always brought out the good in people. 

I need you to know that you come from a line of extremely special people with big hearts who’ve lived full lives and have the most positive outlook on everything. I will make sure you carry that with you. 

I do not know who your father may be just yet. I have met two gentlemen that I thought could have possibly been the one but I was wrong both times. I may have been too young to be asking myself those questions, too young to even consider motherhood but as I said I always keep you in mind. I can not consider anything long term with anybody that would not be good enough for you, I pay close attention to the things they say or do and most of the time when they don’t meet my expectation, I usually toss them away. And then there was the other ones, the ones I didn’t even know for very long or very well yet, that tick all the boxes for being a good father but unfortunately, did things that hurt me. So I’ve had to walk away even though it was hard to. Because at the end of the day you deserve to be in a household where your parents respect each other and have a healthy way of communicating. You also deserve a happy mama who can focus on your happiness because she already is content with herself and feels secure. At the end of the day though, the reason why I am so adamant to find a good father for you is because I’ve understood that romantic love comes and it goes and it may not be forever so if any chance your father and I have to split up, I need to make sure that he is a man that will be able to take care of you properly even when I am not around. 

But in the possibility that your father is not the greatest, I have made such incredibly friends in this life, friends that I know will always be around me and maybe one day, us, forever. You should know that your mother has the most amazing support system and have nurtured such wonderful friendships with the most amazing girls. Some of these girls I have known for years and some came into my life a little later but I know will stick around. One thing I will always tell you to do is to make friends and to value them as much as you value your other relationships. This is something that I guarantee will make you happy and make you grow in so many wonderful ways, ma fille. Your friends are so important and I hope that you will make girlfriends for life, just like I did. I hope you will have people, who’ll love you very much and you’ll be able to experience things together that you could not experience with me or any of your romantic partners. That you will share funny stories that you will recount often at girl dinners, that you will keep secrets that you will take the grave, that you will have hardships that you will overcome together to make your bonds even stronger. So we’ll never really be alone, we have your aunties who I know would go to hell and back for you, treat you as if you are their own. Your closest friends might even be their kids too and I hope that is the case because that would mean I get to hang out with them more. 

I’m going to be honest—I have a lot of fears about bringing you into this world. Your mother is an anxious person, at least for now, but I’m working on it. There’s so much I can’t control, and that terrifies me. You should see the state of the world right now. The planet is overheating, biodiversity is vanishing, clean water is harder to find, and landfills overflow with waste. Species are going extinct. World leaders grow more corrupt and power-hungry, the ultra-wealthy hoard resources, and women’s rights are being stripped away in an instant, undoing decades of progress. Health systems are collapsing, wars still rage on. I don’t know what kind of world I’ll be bringing you into.  

What if, by the time you arrive, food has become scarce? What if the air is too toxic to breathe, if wild animals exist only in photographs, if the freedoms I once had are just stories to you—memories of a life you’ll never get to live? What if your father isn’t the man I thought I married, and he hurts you? What if, despite everything I do to keep you healthy, you are born with an illness that makes life harder, and there’s nothing I can do to fix it? What if I pass down my own unresolved issues without even realising it, leaving you with burdens you never asked for?  

I think my anxiety and fears are a clear sign that I’m not ready for you yet. Not until I learn to let go, to accept that I can’t control everything. I don’t want you to feel suffocated by my fears, held too tightly until you feel the need to break free—recklessly, dangerously. I’ve seen what happens to children raised by helicopter parents. They become the wildest, most rebellious people I’ve ever met. And ever since then, I’ve known that I have to raise you with trust.  

No matter how much I try to protect you, I have to accept that you will have struggles of your own, just like everyone else. And that’s okay. It’s inevitable.

Some of my other fears are a little more personal. I worry that in giving so much of myself to you, I might lose who I am—that my identity will be swallowed by motherhood. That I’ll exist only as your mother and nothing more. That when people think of me, they won’t see the person I was before, only the role I’ve taken on.  

I know it might sound vain, but I also hope that when I have you, I don’t lose my sense of self. That I’ll still find time to care for myself, to feel beautiful. That I’ll hold onto the personality I’ve grown to love and appreciate. I hope your father and I will still feel like best friends, that we’ll keep our little quirks, still flirt, still laugh. That we won’t slip into a routine so rigid that we have to schedule moments just to hold our marriage together. I hope spontaneity still has a place in our lives. But this is nothing for you to worry about and I will make sure to keep you away from these issues. 

You visit me in my dreams sometimes. You’re always around three or four years old, always by my side. The love I feel for you in these dreams is indescribable—so intense, so pure. I’ve never felt a connection like this with anyone in this lifetime.  

I never really remember your face, but I can feel you—your warmth, the softness of your curly hair. We don’t do much, just spend time outside, going on walks or having picnics. Your father is rarely around, and when he is, we usually don’t like him very much for some reason. I hope that’s not a glimpse into the future because, honestly, that would be a bummer.  

I’ve had dreams where I get pregnant by someone I don’t necessarily want to be your father or at a time when I know I can’t give you the life you deserve. In those dreams, I have to make the impossible choice to let you go. Every time, it feels like the hardest decision I’ve ever made—something I desperately don’t want to do but know is right. And I sob, I scream, I break apart with a pain so gut-wrenching that I wake up hyperventilating, silently crying.  

You aren’t even here yet, and I love you more than anything I could ever love.  

Some Sundays, half-asleep, I reach for the spot beside me, searching for your little sleepy body to pull you close. I imagine slow mornings with you. Staying in bed, watching TV, sharing breakfast, playing games. I picture you asking endless questions, your curious little face lighting up as I do my best to answer. And then, reality sinks in—you’re not here yet. But somehow, I miss you so much already.

Bali, January 2025

“Do you have guest list?”

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“Do you have guest list?”

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It was 2019 and my first year as a fashion marketing student. I had waited 40 minutes in front of Le Rouge with my friends in the cold. A club in the red-light district of Pigalle. They eventually all gave up and went home. I still don’t know why I stayed. The crowd around the entrance was huge and growing, with people shoving each other and waving their hands to get the attention of someone they barely knew, who was already inside, pleading for help to get in. Girls stood at the front, their almost naked bodies pressed against the cold metal bars that separated them from the rigid, stern bouncers, who didn’t even look at them when they tried to speak. It all made me uncomfortable. I hated looking at the anxious eyes, so eager, ready to leave anyone behind just to get in. I didn’t like how it felt like their lives depended on these nights. Yet, they were all so well-dressed, in elaborate outfits. Something I had always deeply appreciated about the youth in Paris. They looked beautiful and desperate, like those Renaissance paintings of women staring into the divine light.  

But what did I expect? It was the Casablanca party, after all, the coolest brand at the time. And not just that, every fashion girl could attest that they also had the most beautiful casting. Gorgeous boys draped in silky fabrics with a tasteful touch of femininity that made them look like wealthy angel boys on a summer vacation. As a newcomer in Paris, experiencing sexual freedom for the first time, I had already had flings with at least four of them, (unintentionally, I promise). I even ended up dating one and quickly learned they were all just beautiful stoners and drug addicts with a weird fixation on new-age spirituality. They loooved that I came from a place like Bali. It was as if I were a deity to them, just because I was born on the Island of Gods. But that didn’t mean I was treated like one all the time, I was still just one of the many girls they seduced and used. They eagerly spoke to me about the meaning of life, sharing thoughts I’d had since I was eleven and then proceed to give me the most mediocre sex of my life. I’ve noticed that male models despite having one of the most superficial jobs are often the ones searching for deeper truths. Maybe it’s because they have more time to look for answers.   

I wasn’t feeling good about myself. Then again, I rarely do at fashion events. Surrounded by influencers dressed in designer, flawlessly glammed by professionals, not a hair out of place, I couldn’t help but compare. They looked so polished, almost plastic, like if I ran a finger across their skin, it would squeak. As if they weren’t real at all—just computer-generated, 3D-printed straight from some high-tech machine. 

And why is everyone so fucking skinny?  

Suddenly, the hairstyle I had worked so hard on felt off, making my forehead look even bigger. No setting spray was strong enough. My eyeliner had already started melting. My outfit? Mediocre at best. Meanwhile, they stepped out of their sleek black vans, parting the crowd like Moses, and vanished in seconds behind the doors.

What was waiting on the other side?

I waited for London Man—a friend and one of those people who effortlessly got in anywhere, no matter where or what the event was. A true socialite who always looked put together in intricate layers, Rick Owens shoes, and a distinct scent that filled my nostrils to the brim when he embraced me. He has soft voice that constantly made me have to ask him to speak up. A posh accent with an elevated vocabulary, sprinkled with just the right amount of London slang, making it a pleasant balance. And, of course, very successful with women—I, too, had once been a victim of his charm. I usually do not keep past lovers around but we really get along, so we’ve remained good friends. 

My anxiety was eating me alive. He was taking what felt like hours to meet me. I was used to feeling uneasy in big crowds, especially at fashion events, but this time felt different. I was physically shaking, like my body knew this wasn’t for me. I stepped back from the crowd and waited impatiently. The “me” now would have left, but I guess, at the time, this was something I needed to do—to experience.  

My heart skipped a beat when I spotted my crush, the one who would eventually become my first-ever boyfriend. But of course, I didn’t know that yet. He had just returned from four months in Tokyo, where he had been working as a model. We had started seeing each other a month or so before he found out he had to leave. I had taken a liking to him maybe a little faster than usual. We were sitting by the canal in the 19th arrondissement on a very sunny afternoon, after picking me up from class when he broke the news. I faked a smile and told him I was happy for him.

We had kept in contact until he ghosted me for a while, which hurt my feelings. He had left me in the dark after I had opened up to him. I was freshly 19 and far more sensitive back then, so it felt like my world was crumbling. But, of course, he came back—like they all do—and apologised for his lack of communication. Me, being young and naive, took him back. We got together almost a year later when he finally wanted to commit. We proceeded to start a relationship filled with grudges, resentment, and deep passion.

London Man finally arrived, accompanied by a posse of beautiful women. He took me by the hand—he, too, held the same power as the influencers and effortlessly made his way through the crowd. He spoke to the bouncers briefly, and as planned, they let us in. The club was soaked in a deep, blood-red hue. The floors shook from the heavy bass of trap music blaring from massive speakers, as if thousands of lost souls trapped underground were desperately trying to claw their way to the surface. Sweaty bodies bumped and ground against each other in every direction. A true depiction of Hell.

London Man ran off to greet everyone he knew, which was half the club. While I stood there, not knowing what to do with myself. I saw a few familiar faces and tried to avoid them at all costs — people I recognised from Instagram, where we follow each other but somehow never acknowledge each other in real life. Yet, we know exactly where the other vacationed that summer from our stories. Or the boys who’ve been talking to a wall in my DMs for months, endlessly sliding up to my stories, only to avoid eye contact the moment we’re in the same room. My anxiety was getting worse, especially in the heat, and small talk with people I barely knew was the last thing I wanted to engage in. Although, for once, everyone looked like they were having a good time. Except for a few pouty girls sitting on the couch, scrolling through their phones. Maybe it was because, this time, people were already intoxicated and had let loose. Because most fashion events are just people looking at each other, yet collectively trying to hide the fact that they are. A look I would come to recognise at every fashion week event. It was evasive yet subtly charged, as if they didn’t want to be caught looking but fully expected to be watched. Their expressions were unnatural, like the practiced poses models hold during a shoot. Calculated yet effortlessly detached. It forever unsettles me that we collectively choose to look cold and standoffish instead of warm and welcoming. Why is that?

I pushed through the crowd toward the bathrooms. I don’t know why I thought I could be alone and catch a breath there, because once again, I found myself waiting in line.  

The timing couldn’t have been worse—my crush was leaving the bathroom at that exact moment. We locked eyes. I gave him a small smile, and he gave me a big one.  “Hey! It’s so nice seeing you here!” He was clearly intoxicated. Normally quiet and a little timid, he was nothing like that now. “Come near the speakers later!” he shouted before running off.  I felt uneasy about how he spoke to me, like we were just casual friends. Like we hadn’t shared something special. Like he hadn’t already made me cry. But I was happy to see him nonetheless, so I went and found him near the speakers. We tried to talk over the music, but it was nearly impossible to hear. I was nervous, I always was around him. Someone once told me that the intense butterflies in your stomach eventually fade after your teenage years. I believe he was probably the last person I ever felt them with.  

The conversation was awkward—stupid questions like, “How was Japan?” and “What have you been up to in Paris?” We were constantly interrupted by people congratulating him on the show. I felt like a burden. I thought he felt like he had to stay with me out of guilt because of how he treated me, and nothing made me feel more embarrassed than knowing that someone felt bad for me. We sat next to each other without saying anything. A massive elephant was in the room, but this was not the place and time to address it. Having nothing to say made me nervous, but he made me so anxious that I had nothing to say. Looking back, I didn’t know why I stayed around, why I thought the night was going to get better. I didn’t know what could’ve changed my state of mind, maybe my friends would miraculously show up and make it through the gates of hell, but those chances were so slim. And I had hoped he would suggest leaving the party together, going for a walk, catching up to talk about what had changed in Japan. Maybe we would kiss somewhere under the yellow streetlights. But he was enjoying his time and was too drunk to care. I told myself that perhaps I should get an overpriced drink at the bar to loosen up. It took me another 20 minutes to get a vodka cran. Not only was it packed, but I was also met with passive-aggressive bartenders, which didn’t help with the way I was already feeling. Of course, that one drink didn’t do much, and I was a student with a budget. I was miserable and finally admitted to myself that the night wasn’t going to get any better. So, I swiftly said goodbye to London Man while he was getting a lap dance from a drunk model, grabbed my coat, and went outside. The fresh air hit my face, and I felt like I could breathe again.

The more I attended parties, the more I yearned to be one of the effortlessly cool fashion kids. The ones you’re never quite sure what they do, yet they’re always there. They seem to know everyone in the industry, traveling to all the fashion capitals every season, staying in luxurious hotels, and rubbing shoulders with celebrities and important figures. They carry an air of belonging, exuding confidence in every space they step into.  

I was too fixated on the wrong aspects of fashion—the superficial rather than the art. I kept telling myself that in time, once I started working and made more friends in the industry, I’d feel more at ease in those spaces. That I’d master the art of dressing, of walking into any event with grace and confidence. But that wasn’t necessarily the case.  

I did eventually start working, and I did meet some of the most inspiring creatives. I traveled the world for work, interned, and wrote for brands I once admired from afar. My personal style evolved (thank God). I no longer had to sneak into parties, pretending to be a fashion buyer or someone I wasn’t. Yet, despite all of this, the feeling of being out of place never fully disappeared. There are still moments when I feel incredibly uncomfortable, battling major imposter syndrome. No matter how prominently my name appears on invitations or how much I’ve earned my place at the table, I rarely feel good enough. And doing my best to work on it. 

But with time and growth, I’ve come to realise that, in the grand scheme of things, none of it really matters. Don’t get me wrong, the heart of the industry is beautiful, built by creative geniuses who pour their souls into their craft, bringing breathtaking designs and visuals to life. But everything surrounding it? Mostly fluff, designed to create an illusion of importance. And understanding this has been liberating. I’ve slowly taken a step back from that world. I still work in it, but I’m not as deeply involved as I once was. As I transition toward new pursuits, I find myself looking back on those days—days that now feel like a lifetime ago. And I can’t help but feel for my younger self, who just wanted to belong.  

I wish I could tell her that she would find her people in fashion. The ones who would never make her feel out of place.

Bali, January 2025

Save The Boy.

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Save The Boy.

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Trump captured the support of young male voters in the 2024 U.S. elections, partly due to the influence of “manosphere” content creators. Figures like Joe Rogan, Adin Ross, the Paul Brothers, and Theo Von were uniquely effective in connecting with this demographic. Meanwhile, the Left struggled to resonate with young men and address issues important to them.  

A key topic of discussion has been the epidemic of male loneliness. Increasingly, men report feeling isolated and deeply depressed, driven by challenges such as difficulty forming meaningful connections, societal stigmas around expressing emotions, and a growing sense of purposelessness. The shift in gender roles also plays a role—men are no longer the sole breadwinners, as more women graduate and begin out-earning men, leading to a perceived loss of traditional identity and relevance.  

Masculinist content creators provide hope for young men who feel emasculated and insecure in a world where they often experience rejection and lack a clear sense of direction. Many blame feminism and “wokeness” for their struggles, believing these movements have stripped them of their power. However, the true cause may lie more in systemic issues like capitalism.  

I am not here to speak on American politics. But, I do have a 14 year old brother. 

I was watching a Max Bernstein YouTube video on the topic when pure panic took over me. I realised how little my mother and his dad monitored the media my brother consumes online. My parents never did with me. But what if my brother got pulled into the Red Pill community? What if he started consuming incel content and slowly became a raging misogynist, wishing harm upon women and seeing us as lesser beings? It sounds far-fetched—but not entirely. Indoctrination doesn’t discriminate. People from all backgrounds have fallen victim to harmful ideologies.  

I’ve seen it happen. I’ve gone to school with them, partied with them, called them my friends. Many of us had access to top-tier education. Our teachers constantly encouraged us to fact-check, taught us about propaganda, and explained the tools used to manipulate and persuade. Yet, I’ve seen those same people post absurd Instagram stories, overheard them say deeply questionable things about women, even down to admitting acts of sexual assault. Thousands of dollars spent on private education—undone by a few YouTube videos.  

In a panic, I texted my brother and asked him which content creators he liked watching online. He was confused and asked why. I said, “I’m writing a paper on influencers.” Being a teenage boy and not particularly interested in my work, he gave me a list. Thankfully, it didn’t concern me, and for a brief moment, I felt relieved.  

But that relief was short-lived. I knew things could change at any time. And what could I do to stop it? What could I, as his sister—a woman—do to ensure he wouldn’t end up hating me and all people of my gender?  

I thought about having those talks with him or monitoring his online activity myself, but I worried it might backfire. I recognise that I’m a misogynist’s worst nightmare—opinionated, headstrong, and unapologetic. Without my looks, I’d probably be a man-repellent, tolerated only by the strongest of the species, and I’m perfectly fine with that. But I might be too intense for a teenage boy who’s still figuring out who he is.  

I’m far too passionate about these issues. I know I’d end up word-vomiting all over him, covering him in big words, studies, theories, and statistics that would overwhelm him. Instead of engaging, he’d want to shrug it all off, to wash away everything I said. I’d take up too much space to actually help. I annoyed the hell out of my male peers in class, constantly keeping them in check, debating every issue, and standing up against sexist comments or behaviour. They found me absolutely insufferable.

The last thing I wanted was for my anxiety and paranoia to take over, leading me to overprotect my brother and suffocate him. I feared pushing him further away with my feminist tirades and relentless scrutiny, leaving him feeling ashamed of his masculinity. I didn’t want him to carry the burden of all men’s wrongdoings or grow tired of the constant feeling that he was inherently at fault.  

If I pushed too hard, he might feel the need to break free from me and from the women in his life—just to stand strong on his own. He might turn to the internet, searching for guidance on how to reclaim his identity, gravitating toward figures who teach him to take pride in being a man. He’d consume content that glorifies being “the alpha male,” letting those voices shape his idea of what it means to be strong, powerful, and worthy.  

Gym, protein, creatine, crypto, drop shipping, lambo, get any woman you want in 3 simple steps, upgrade, high value man, side hustle, alpha, alpha, alpha. 

It is hard to not be a man hating bitch, I have grown so extremely tired of living in fear doing the most mundane things, I am tired of hearing the most gnarly headlines about other women across the world losing their basic rights, another little girl getting raped by her perverted uncle, another woman killed in her own home… Heck! Even hearing my friends being victims of situationships and emotional manipulation. I wish I could be like some of these women who still have hope in men and believe that there more than just a few exceptions. I’ve always wondered where were these perpetrators mothers, sisters? Now, before you point at me and yell “IT IS NOT A WOMAN’S FAULT THAT A MAN BECOMES BE A SICKO!” I agree. I agree, girly, I guess partially. However, just like living through weaponised incompetence over and over again (something our male peers are so good at), I no longer trust brothers and fathers to do the job right. 

Yes, I’m sure your father is wonderful family man, but have you seen how he behaves when he goes out that the strip clubs? Oh he doesn’t go out to the strip clubs? How do you know that for sure?

Your brother is the sweetest, I’m sure he is at home, but do you know how he behaves with girls he is seeing? Do we know how the men in our lives truly behave when we aren’t there? 

We fail to remember that the men who hurt us and do the sneaky shit are also family members just like ours. Many of them were raised by great mothers, have sisters and in fact they like to use that as a way to prove that they’re good people and have an innate respect for women, but they have proven themselves wrong over and over again. It just isn’t enough. 

I don’t think my brother truly understands how anxious I am about the kind of man he will grow up to be. I like to believe he could never be a bad man—no, my baby brother is a good boy. He’s soft, empathetic, incredibly polite, thoughtful, and just so kind. We, as a family, have done our best to instill in him our values and norms, the kind that cling to your mind like barnacles on a whale’s back.  

Norms tend to stick, but values are more fragile—easily swayed by outside influences like greed or peer pressure. What if we didn’t give him a strong enough backbone? What if, despite our efforts, he lets everything we’ve taught him slip away?  

Secondary socialisation refers to the process of learning and internalising norms, values, and behaviours through new social institutions, groups, and experiences beyond the family (e.g., peers, schools, workplaces, and media). While it often intensifies during adolescence, it doesn’t only start in the teens—it continues throughout life as individuals encounter new social environments. This stage is often associated with rebellion, as teens push back against their families while exploring their identities but it is primarily about adaptation and growth through new social experiences. They adopt new values from their peers and what they learn in school, sometimes replacing older values with those that feel more aligned with who they are becoming.  

Don’t get me wrong—this can be a positive thing. Many teens break free from problematic family dynamics and find safe spaces through friendships that encourage them to grow into better people. But, like anything in life, the opposite can also happen. I’ve had moments where I noticed negative influences creeping in—a questionable text from a friend popping up as he showed me something on his phone or an offhand comment that made me tilt my head a little. Things, I am sure didn’t come from our extremely open minded family but from outside influences.

In these moments, I try to stay calm and remind myself that he’s experiencing life for the first time, just figuring things out just like I was at 14. Like we all still are. But sometimes, I can’t help it. My angry, feminist, 16-year-old self resurfaces, and I confront him, demanding to know how he could say something so ignorant. Then I see his confused eyes, trying to understand why that pissed me off so much? What is it that he didn’t know was so wrong?

So, I take a different approach. I ask him questions. I encourage him to think critically about what he’s saying before jumping to conclusions. Most of the time, his kind and understanding nature wins out, and every time, I feel an overwhelming sense of relief—like a superhero stopping an asteroid just before it crashes into Earth. The problem is contained.  

Moments like these have forced me to work on my patience and understanding, keeping the fiery teenage girl in me calm. For the first time, I care deeply about what a boy thinks. For the first time, I don’t want him to fear me.  

It hasn’t been easy watching my little brother, with such a big age gap between us, grow into a young man. In a way, I feel responsible for him. I’m not his mother, but it’s hard to accept how little control I have over the crazy things the internet throws his way. I could talk endlessly about the dangers of social media—its personalised algorithms, echo chambers, and how it limits diverse perspectives while amplifying extremes. But let’s face it, I’m powerless against the Zuckerborgs and Elongated Muskrats of the world. I can’t just yank his phone away. I have no control over who he will cross paths with. All I can do is trust him and occasionally remind him of the kind of family he comes from—one built on love and kindness. Let him form his own opinions and grow independently. That way, his beliefs will truly be his own, making him more confident and deeply rooted in his values—strong and set in stone.  

Sorong, January 2025

Pillow Princess

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Pillow Princess

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I am reading My Year of Rest and Relaxation by Ottessa Moshfegh, and I didn’t expect to feel nostalgic. I sometimes miss the moments I just gave in to my depression. Moments when I decided to just put my hands in the air and say to myself, “That’s it, I’m done trying,” before crawling back to bed in my little room in my shared Parisian apartment. I’d lie there for days, make weird concoctions with whatever was available in the fridge, and stuff my face until I was super full to make sure I didn’t have to get up later on. I’d bring in weird snacks like trail mix and slices of ham just in case I got hungry. I’d lie under the covers and just stare at the desk in front of me, sometimes for very long minutes, thinking about how much I had failed yet again because here I was, in the same position as I had been a couple of weeks ago. I had gathered the strength to get myself together and worked towards bettering myself, but then I got tired again. So I’d crawl back to bed. 

There’s no other feeling like lying in fresh sheets, the cold pillow against my skin. I’d feel my body instantly release all the tension. I was safe again; nothing was expected of me in there. I kept my pills, the ones given to me by my psychiatrist for my insomnia and anxiety attacks, in a little white box secured with a red ribbon. They were special to me. They had the power to make it all stop. Just one of those, and I’d be out in 15 minutes, no matter how much I tried to fight it. I’d be gone for 12 hours minimum, experiencing no dreams, just void—a temporary death. Then I’d wake up in a haze, too groggy to worry about anything else, slowly making my way to the bathroom to pee before getting back into bed. The only energy I ever had was for maintaining minimal hygiene. I always found the strength to brush my teeth and shower because feeling unclean meant I couldn’t fully and comfortably go back to sleep.

Once I was up, I’d do any remote copywriting I had to do because it was the only way I could afford to rot there. If I wanted to stay in bed, I made sure I didn’t have to leave it and could upkeep the bare minimum of my responsibilities. Then I’d watch movies. I liked the ones that made me dream a little, made me feel like I was living through the characters I was watching, helping me strip away any guilt that could arise from choosing to wither away this way. Vicky, Christina, Barcelona was a good one, I too wanted to be in a throuple with Javier Bardem and Penelope Cruz. Either that or rewatching the same three comic American TV shows with super bright colours to trick my brain into thinking I was in a good mood. How could you ever be sad watching Tina Belcher be Tina Belcher? But suddenly, the monstrous amount of screen time would make me physically nauseous, and I’d realise that the air in my room was awfully thick and stuffy, making it hard for me to breathe. It had been a couple of days of me lying in there; it was bound to happen. But it was already nighttime, meaning my friends were probably off work, so I’d guess I’d join them at the bar.

I’d try my best to look put together. I’d do a little bit of makeup and stick to my basic outfit, which was a pair of man jeans, a Uniqlo sweater, my Superpuff, and my Uggs. I’d walk out with just my cardholder, my keys, and my phone because a bag would annoy me. The first step outside is glorious. The first seconds of ice-cold air violating my skin are what I imagine the first line of coke feels like for a coke addict who hasn’t had one in a few days. It wakes me up and gives me a little bit of energy. I put my headphones in, listen to the same songs I’ve been listening to for years, and make my way to the metro station. Sometimes, the homeless guy that lives in front of my building is there, playing on his phone in his tent. I’ve never said hi to him, but when I come home drunk at night, I politely smile in hopes that my kindness will prevent him from wanting to hurt me—not because he’s homeless but because he’s a man. 

Boulevard Voltaire is never crowded at this time. I watch the people relieved they are getting off work, stopping by the grocery stores or the Chinese spot for those not in the mood to cook. Sometimes, if I’m lucky, I’ll witness all the yellow streetlights light up all at the same time. I take the stairs and buy a ticket at the machine. You’d think I’d have a monthly pass because I live in the city, but I don’t like to commit to these things. Sometimes I have a spare, so I do not have to get one. I look at the digital time board to see when the next train is coming. I am overcome with joy when I see “1 minute” and always run to the platform because one thing I do not like is waiting for the metro. The bright light and the sudden heat overstimulate me every time, but it’s only five stops, I tell myself, and I’ll be able to have that first sip of alcohol that’ll soothe me. I think it’s the closest thing to having a bottle as a baby. 

I wonder if my crush is going to be there this time. I always kind of hope he’ll be there because maybe he’ll take me home again, and I’ll get to sleep in his bed and pretend we’re in love. I don’t think too much about how I’ll feel like shit afterward. It would just be nice to be held and feel worthy because nothing else makes me feel that way. As I approach the crowded bar, I see the faces I am most familiar with, and I feel some type of comfort. There is no small talk to be had, no “hi, how are you’s,” no weather bullshit. Just straight to the point, like seeing your siblings after school. No mask to keep up. We are seated fairly quickly; we are regulars, and the staff knows us. We sit in the cold, huddled up, and are served the drinks I had been craving. We talk about everything—or shall I say, everyone—and the conversation is seamless. I do not feel like expressing the fact that mentally, I am down bad again. To be honest, it wouldn’t be news; it happens to me a lot, and they know it.

My crush isn’t there. He usually rarely is. But sometimes, the man a decade older than me that I had slept with on a few occasions stops by. We pretend we do not know each other, but if we are put in a situation where we have to acknowledge each other, we’d say hi like two colleagues. He never stays very long—usually there for a quick drink before he goes off to dinner. If it’s later, maybe a nightcap. Sometimes, when he leaves, I’d text him, and he’d ask me to come over to his flat, an eight-minute walk. So I’d walk the eight minutes, type in the code because I already know what it is, knock on his door, and barely talk to him before he strips me naked in the middle of his living room. Then he fucks me on his couch—very rarely on the bed. I think maybe he believes I’m not worth changing the sheets for. And that would last 20 minutes maximum. 20 minutes of mediocre sex because he is so very well-endowed it just straight-up hurts. He fucks me like they do in the hardcore movies—it’s mechanical, there’s no intimacy, but it just fills the void. I am unable to think about anything else, and that is a form of relief. I never finish. I make my way to the bathroom to clean myself up, get dressed, and stay just a little to be polite. I know he is also trying to be, but we both just want me to leave. Maybe a part of me sometimes wants him to want me to stay but that never happens. So as soon as the five minutes of small talk end, I run out the door. I feel nothing. Sometimes my friends would still be at the bar, so I’d join them again. If not, I’d walk back home. There I undress again, and shower. In hopes it’ll make me feel less like a slut. Suddenly, I am overwhelmed with hunger and I make my way to the kitchen where I stuff my face. I can’t stop, it’s like a gaping hole that can never been filled. I eat and eat and eat standing up. Until I am in physical pain. And if I weren’t so afraid of vomit, I’d probably already be on my knees for the second time that night but this time over the toilet bowl, emptying myself. But instead, I lay in bed in pain from all the food but am also experiencing a weird calm. I stay up until early in the morning, watching whatever show I am hyper fixating on at that moment, late enough so that I can make sure that I wake up too late the next day to fulfil any obligations. By the time I open my eyes, it is late in the afternoon and if I’m even luckier it’s a late Friday afternoon meaning that I get to go out and be with my friends again and it’ll be a guilt-free pass to drink a lot and stay up late. I sit on the couch, scrolling on my phone, I find that it was the fastest way to kill time. I sit in whatever I slept in the night before, before hopping into the shower and getting ready. I’ve been looking ugly all week, so I do my big one and do a full face of makeup and make sure to wear an outfit I feel fuckable in, without it being too obvious. It could be a blouse buttoned down or a pair of trousers that I know makes my bum look nice. However I don’t intend to go home with anyone. Then I do the same route I did the night before, I can feel people staring on the train, I usually am looking good so I don’t blame them. 

Back at the same bar, and oddly enough, it never gets old. I high-five the owner, he compliments me, and I make my way to my friends. We drink, we laugh, and soon I’m itching for a cigarette I never have. So, as always, I steal one from Alex, who kindly says yes every single time. That first nicotine hit sends me over the edge—now I’m drunk. And when I’m drunk, I beg my friends to go to Belleville, to a dive bar called BootyShakers.  

It’s a grimy spot with sticky floors and an odd demographic. Most of the crowd is in their 30s, and we’re usually the youngest ones there. But their resident DJ, a middle-aged man, spins an eclectic mix of songs that somehow keeps me dancing. Random genres, unexpected transitions—yet it all just works. On the rare nights I convince my friends to go, we make a beeline for the bar to order Get27 shots, a minty liqueur that tastes like mouthwash. Four shots each, downed quickly. After that, I stick to vodka sodas, which I drink way too fast.  

Then comes the dancing—always in a circle, lost in the sweaty chaos. At some point, I look up to catch my breath and, inevitably, my eyes land on my ex-boyfriend’s and I’s initials on one of the walls. He wrote them on my birthday, during a night that felt like our own little world. UK drum and bass blasted through the speakers as he climbed up with a marker he always carried. “I love you,” he said, and in that moment, I thought forever might actually be real.  

I stare at the initials, remembering how it felt, and sadness creeps in. I snap out of it, shaking off the memory, and throw myself back into dancing.  

By the time the music stops and the bar closes, I’m stumbling into the cold air outside. We smoke one last cigarette before the bouncers shoo us across the street to avoid noise complaints. And, without fail, I suggest we egg my ex-boyfriend’s window—because he lives next door. “For the plot,” I say every time. My friends have to physically drag me away, insisting I’ll regret it in the morning. But I know I wouldn’t.  

I love imagining him struggling to clean the eggs off his pristine French windows, the clean freak that he is. The smell of yolk slowly invading his perfect room. The same room I helped him move into with his mother. I wonder if the coffee stain on his mattress that I made is still there. Does he think about me when he sees it, while changing the sheets with his new lady friends?

We’d stand there, still full of adrenaline and energy, wondering what else we could do, before ultimately agreeing that there was, in fact, nothing left to do. So we’d start making our way home toward the eleventh, going down the hill of Rue de Belleville, lined with shopfronts opened by hardworking immigrants. Their creative names and interesting font choices always caught my attention. When we finally reached République, I’d feel a pang of sadness, knowing it meant I’d be home soon. We’d stop in front of Ruby’s first to hug Alex goodbye before he continued his journey into the Marais. Ruby would wait with me until my cab arrived—she never liked me walking home alone late at night. I hated ordering Ubers, but I did it when I had no choice.  When the car arrived, I’d hop in, greeting the driver as Ruby called out, “Text me when you get home!” I never did. I usually struck up a conversation with the driver—it was the only interaction I’d have with a stranger for a while. We’d always end up talking about the same three things: Hidalgo and her “stupid” city plans, God, and the importance of freedom. Cab drivers, I’ve found, value freedom above all else.  If the driver was Muslim, they’d often ask if I was too, once they figured out I was Indonesian. I’d say yes, adding, “but I’m a bad one.”When they dropped me off in front of my building, some noticed the tent where the homeless man slept. They’d wait until I was safely at my door before driving away. I’d try to be as quiet as possible, gently closing the car door and tiptoeing to avoid waking him—because he, too, deserves a good night’s sleep.  Then the cycle continued. I’d wake up on Saturdays with a massive hangover, treating it as though I were truly sick. It gave me an excuse to “rest,” ignoring that this was entirely self-inflicted. After all, sick people deserve to rest when they’re not feeling well.  

So I’d lie there, binge-watch something again. Anxiety would creep in, thanks to the liquor from BootyShakers and the fact that I am no longer 17 years old. I’d take a magic pill to calm myself and sleep for what felt like forever, waking up only when it was Sunday again.  

On Sundays I usually meet Ruby for our late afternoon walks, which often happen when one of us has something weighing on our mind. Together, we gently unravel these thoughts, carefully analysing them, each as invested as the other. Our struggles feel shared: what she feels, I feel, and what I feel, she feels.  Our philosophical walks begin at her flat in the 11th, winding through the Marais and leading to the river. We stroll side by side, her blue eyes with their perpetually dilated pupils glowing under the warm orange hues of the setting sun. Her hair floats in the fresh breeze, mirroring the gentle dance of the leaves on the trees by the Seine.  Sometimes, we cry—timidly, hoping passersby don’t notice. The other discreetly strokes an arm in quiet comfort, careful not to draw attention, knowing neither of us would want that. Then if we’re not too broke we’d get some dinner together or she’d cook for me as we watch something. I then find the strength to go home, usually by foot and I take the long way because I love the calm that reigns the city on Sundays. I can think clearly and I finally take the time to process what it is I am going through because I know that the whole week ahead will be a blur once again. 

I was always miserable whenever I turned into Pillow Princess—there’s no doubt about that. Yet, I can’t help but romanticise those moments in my life. There was something cinematic about them: a helpless young woman, tortured by her own thoughts, in desperate need of a savior. I spent so much time pitying myself, hoping someone would find it endearing that I was so miserable.  No one did, and no one ever will. It only put me in vulnerable positions, opening myself up to the wrong people. It’s pathetic. I have no doubt I was mentally unwell—you have to be, I think, to act that way. But I was also being a coward.  Still, there are moments when I miss being her. Yes, it was pathetic, but at least I knew where I was headed. Everything was predictable. I wasn’t failing because I wasn’t good enough—I failed because I chose to. It was my decision, my control. There were no daily battles to be better, no constant effort to avoid letting myself down.  It takes so much energy to show up for yourself when you’ve spent years believing you don’t deserve it.

Pillow Princess still shows up now and then, but she doesn’t stay very long anymore. I think she’s getting bored. Maybe she’s starting to yearn for better things.  

Bali, January 2025

I know you’re watching.

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I know you’re watching.

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I know you’re watching. You’ve been watching me ever since I was a teenager.

You’ve been watching me through the half-opened cabinet in my bathroom; you pay attention to the little drips slowly gliding down my skin— you are so close you can smell the faint scent of my almond shampoo in the steam that fills the room. 

You see me dance in my room alone when I come home drunk from a night out as I sloppily take off my clothes and get in bed naked because I cannot find the energy to put on my pyjamas. And when I cried after each heartbreak, you were there every single time. You couldn’t console me. Still, you had always thought I looked pretty when my skin was slightly flushed, my lips swelled up, and my eyes were bloodshot. You hide under my desk every morning, making sure to be there when I wake up, my hair undone, laying in bed, spending too much time scrolling on my phone before starting the day. You wish I had a morning stretch routine instead or actually took the time to cook a high protein breakfast. You follow me in the streets, hiding behind the trees, as I walk with my headphones in. You love it when it’s nice out because I tend to wear short skirts. You like how my legs look under the sun after you’ve seen me apply coconut oil all over them before stepping out. You appreciate how I hold my cigarette when I sit on the terrace of some bar in the 11th arrondissement, especially when my nails have just been painted crimson. 

You sit next to my bed every evening. You wish you could run your fingers through my hair that you’ve seen me brush earlier.

You are always there, you have studied everything about me, every quirk, every facial expression, how I carry myself, and how I view the world. I always try to impress you while doing the most mundane things. I try to do everything with the right amount of class and femininity while giving the impression of effortless charm. Your presence reminds me to sit up straight when I am working alone in my room, hold my stomach when I am getting ready, and slightly arch my back to keep a beautiful silhouette at all times. I panic a little when I forget to put some perfume on before going to the store. It is just a few minutes of my day, but I want to smell good for you.

You keep me in check. As much as I like to think that you’ll always love me, I fear I can never let my guard down because what if I disappoint you? What if I do something to disgust you, for you to see me less than a respectable woman? The thought of you catching me at a bad angle makes me anxious, and I can’t let that happen. All I know is that if I keep you happy, then everybody else will be happy with who I am. When I am well-perceived, that brings me comfort and sometimes great joy, and I thank you. That occasional praise and validation from others is oh-so rewarding, almost intoxicating. I know it makes me sound vain, but I can’t help it. I may be addicted to the warm fuzzy feeling that takes over me when complimented. It makes me feel like I have won, that all the work and anxiety behind my tedious beauty and fitness routines are worth it. I think I’m doing a fine job, don’t you think? Please tell me I’m doing a good job. I am, right? 

You are always there. Always. 

Sometimes, I wonder what it feels like to be truly alone. I don’t remember the last time I was and how that felt. I wonder if I’d be the same person if I weren’t so scrutinised by you all the time, if my mannerisms would be the same, would I put my makeup on the same way I do now, would I be wearing makeup at all? I don’t know if I am myself or just a character in this movie you are watching. I don’t really know who I am without you. It is worrying me, but please don’t get mad at me. I just feel like I can only see myself through your eyes, and I feel like I am only content with myself when I feel like you are. I don’t think I know what it’s like to relax; certain parts of my body have been sore for years because I have been holding myself a certain way. I have been in really complicated financial situations where I still prioritised the way I looked because you’ve taught me that without beauty, I am worth less and that I can not expect a full life without it. I sit through the pain of bikini waxes every month, even during the cold winter, even tho no one is there to see me naked just because, well… I don’t really know. But how ungrateful of me, I shouldn’t be complaining so much, no one likes someone who complains too much. Forgive me. 

However I feel like I should be honest for once. You know what? Yeah..! I should be! Because no one likes a dishonest woman right? 

So I must say there are moments I forget about your presence. I hope you won’t take it the wrong way, but it feels nice. It gives me a break, and my body can rest, but it doesn’t last very long, the shame that takes over hits really hard. You’ve made beauty the centre of my world and led me to believe that nothing else really matters. It is a painful philosophy to live by, it’s shallow and it makes me feel empty. But maybe you’re looking out for me knowing how our world works despite its attempts to cover its shallow nature with facades. But I feel like I do not want to be the kind to follow these rules. I want to break free more than anything, I want to be released from all this silly constraints. Yet, every time I pull away you manage to suck me back in with cruel words and manipulate me by making me believe that I’ll die alone. That if I let go, I’ll always be the one that is never seen, the one that people forget to say hi to. I can forget about having anyone ever want to be with me too! You make me believe that if I do not upkeep my looks, whatever career path I choose to follow will never reach its full potential. You are driven by the compliments made by my peers, yet, you make sure I never believe them for very long so that I strive to be better, to reach higher and of course to be skinnier. I know you wish that I could just starve. You wonder why is it so goddamn hard for me not to eat something sometimes? Why can’t I just suck it up and not find myself hunched over in the kitchen at 3 am, emptying the pantry? You think I am too weak, don’t you? You make sure I know it when you suck the joy of feeding my body by filling it with dread and regret as soon as I’m done. You can be so cruel. 

Sometimes I’d like to take my two thumbs and gouge your eyes out ever so gently, press slowly, until I feel your blood drip on my hands down to my forearms, like the sticky juice of a very ripe peach after the first bite on a warm summer day. And you wouldn’t make a sound as you experience the pain you have caused me, a taste of your own medicine. And you would never ever be able to see or perceive me again. I like to imagine you sat in the corner of my room defeated where I’d keep you alive just so you can experience the deep frustration of not being able to control me. But you aren’t real. What a shame. 

I fantasise of a life where you do not need to be around for me to feel validated, a life where I let others see me the way I truly am, unaware and oblivious of what people might think. Where I value my wit, intelligence and kindness above all. Where I am only concerned about my body’s health and its strengths, where looks are not something even remotely important. I can almost taste the freedom, I sit here and think about how it would feel, for a moment I can almost taste it.

Paris, June 2024

Big Girl

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Big Girl

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This was my 24th year alive, marking the end of my early twenties. I’ve always been radical about marking transitions in life. For example, when I was in my last year of primary school, I organised a massive game of Tag for my grade, telling everyone that since we were moving on to middle school, it would be our final chance to play together. We played that last game, and indeed, we never did again.  

Now, as I approach 25, I find myself drawing similar lines—reflecting on the things I need to realign as I step into my mid-twenties. This realisation has been pivotal, sparking significant changes within me and making this year one of the most transformative of my life as I prepare for the next chapter.

1.The Iron Will. 

    Until recently, I’ve always struggled to finish anything—whether it was a creative project, a business idea, or even a workout plan. A part of me is a perfectionist, but not in the productive sense; I was the kind that got so anxious about things not being perfect that I often didn’t even start. And if things didn’t go my way the first time, I’d just give up.  

    This has been a part of me since I was a little girl. I rarely participated in sports or competitions because the idea of failing or losing scared me more than anything. While I’m not saying I’ve never accomplished anything, I’ve never truly stuck with something for the long haul—and it was a trait I despised in myself. 

    On top of that, I was bored. Not challenging myself or building something out of fear of failure left me feeling dull. I had nothing to get excited about or look forward to, apart from grabbing drinks with my friends at the bar. I poured too much energy into casual relationships with men just to fill the void.  

    But deep down, I knew I had an immense amount of creativity—I just lacked an outlet. I reached a point where I made the conscious decision to do something with my life before falling into another spiral of depression. That’s how Girl On Girl was born. Getting the idea was the easy part—I have ideas all the time. But this one felt different. It felt special, like something I needed to bring to life. I promised myself that I wouldn’t let my future self down again. I couldn’t leave her with the regret of yet another unfulfilled ambition.

    To make it happen, I had to rewire my thinking. I told myself that if I could just stick with this for a few months, something was bound to change. This time, I had to see it through.

    No matter what it was I was feeling in the moment, I was just going to do what had to be done. Any doubts or intrusive thoughts, I would put aside. If I had written it down on the to-do list, it had to be done, no matter how long it would take me. I had to make myself believe that I truly had no choice but to do these things. If there were days where I couldn’t find the strength or had any type of mental blocks, I tried to be gentle with myself and tried to be patient. I took that time to envision how I would feel once I had achieved my goals and that would instantly motivate me. I guess it worked because here we are. I wish I built this Iron Will earlier but I guess I needed time to mature and let myself down enough times to really want a change. I’ve quickly realised that there is truly no better feeling than feeling accomplished.

    2. Let’s get physical 

    I didn’t just apply the Iron Will rules to my professional life—I brought them to the gym as well. I’ve always struggled with consistency in my workouts. Motivation came easily, but sticking with it was the hard part. I realised this was because my primary reason for exercising had always been weight loss, which, while still a goal, wasn’t enough to keep me committed.  

    So, I shifted my mindset. After some reflection, I noticed how much better my mental health was when I exercised consistently. It not only improved my mood but also made my days more productive. I began to see the gym as more than just a place to strengthen my body—it was a tool to callous my mind. Doing something challenging every day gave me the confidence and momentum I needed to tackle whatever came my way. The gym became the perfect push.  

    While I enjoyed weight training, I needed something simpler to stay consistent—something I could do almost every day. That’s when I committed to the stair master. As long as I had 30 minutes to spare, I’d climb those steps. No questions asked. I made it a habit: get dressed, drive to the gym, and just do it.  

    I also set a personal rule: if I made a mental note the night before about certain exercises, I wasn’t allowed to leave the gym until I had completed them. This approach eliminated excuses and helped me build discipline, one workout at a time.

    3. Girls, Girls, Girls 

    I entered 2024 still recovering from a painful breakup—though you’ve probably noticed by now, given how much I can’t shut up about it. The last few days of 2023, including New Year’s, were spent with my closest friends, some of whom were also going through tough breakups around the same time. On the final day of the year, we ran through the streets of Paris with a bottle of champagne, dancing, hugging, and kissing each other—feeling a sense of relief and freedom from the weight of a turbulent year, celebrating the end of what felt like hell. It was a symbolically beautiful moment, reminding me that, no matter what, we always have each other. That memory stayed with me all year long, and I made it a point to prioritise and nurture my friendships, especially with other women. I even made lifelong friends along the way.

    Doing this has led me to create the most amazing memories with these girls—from my birthday celebration in Ibiza to endless beach days in Marseille, Bali, and Barcelona. There were indecent nights at dive bars in Paris and wholesome, heartwarming dinners in New York City. I recognise how blessed I am to have a circle of real friends—not an overwhelming number, but a handful of truly exceptional people I can trust blindly. These are incredibly special women, each with ambition and strong personalities that constantly inspire me to be the best version of myself.

    From a very young age, I’ve been blessed with an understanding of the importance of friendships. I grew up with best friends, and many of my childhood besties are still a significant part of my life today. For the longest time, I thought this was the norm for everyone, but over the years, I’ve realised that’s not the case. Many girls don’t have close female friendships, for various reasons, and it’s hard for me to imagine a life without them.  

    I’ve also noticed that some girls tend to prioritise romantic relationships above all else, often neglecting their friendships when they fall in love—treating their friends like placeholders until they find a partner. I’ve lost a few friends this way, and it pains me every time. What they fail to understand is that healthy friendships not only help you grow into a better version of yourself but are also one of the few types of relationships that rarely induce stress.  

    When done right, girlhood is the definition of peace. Being surrounded by genuine friends transforms even the most mundane moments into magical ones—whether it’s laughing during funny debrief sessions, lounging and rotting in your best friend’s couch, or cute girl dinners. While some may argue that these moments can also happen with a partner, I believe the connection you share with your girlfriends is truly unique.  

    With your girls, you’re understood and seen in a way that’s almost impossible to replicate with the opposite sex. You can unapologetically be yourself—no filters, no expectations. Girl time gives you space to breathe, relax, and take a break from the pressures of life, offering a type of warmth and connection that’s entirely different from what you might share with a partner or family.  

    So, I urge you: recognize the beauty and importance of your girlfriends. Don’t take them for granted. Because when your heart gets broken or someone betrays you, who will be there to pick up the pieces and help you rebuild? 

    4. Sex is over. Celibacy is in. 

    While my relationships with my girls have been nothing but fun, I can’t say the same about my experiences with the opposite sex. After my last relationship, I decided to experiment with casual relationships. I had some lovely moments, but they were usually short-lived and, more often than not, disappointing. I even found myself in a situationship that dragged on far too long and ended up breaking my heart more than any actual breakup. Let’s just say my feelings took a beating this year.  

    I tried to play the “chill girl”—a Samantha, if you will—but at heart, I’m a lover girl. I have a tendency to either get attached way too quickly if I really like someone or not care at all if I don’t. I’m just not built for hookup culture. And while I’m sure plenty of girls genuinely enjoy “situationships” or “casual relationships” (or whatever you want to fucking call them), I’ve realised they’re unsustainable and unrealistic for me. These dynamics fall apart the moment one person catches feelings.  

    When that happens, it creates a dangerous power imbalance: the person who isn’t ready to settle down holds all the cards, leaving the other vulnerable. This imbalance can push people to do or accept things that ultimately make them feel terrible. I’ve been on both sides of this, and when I notice someone getting too attached, I make it a point to walk away because I refuse to give anyone false hope—something I find many men struggle to do.  

    These relationships consumed so much of my energy and caused constant anxiety, thanks to their endless uncertainties and blurry boundaries. So, I decided to take a real break. No kissing, no flirting, not even texting for fun. I stopped posting stories for anyone to see and had no one to update about my day. The anxiety of waiting for a text was gone. Suddenly, I could hear the birds chirping, the skies cleared, and the sun shone brighter—it felt like heaven.  

    Of course, I had my moments. Occasionally, I’d get a “horny attack” and miss the feeling of touch and kisses, but those urges would pass. I had nothing to look forward to romantically, but in a way, that was freeing. I stayed strong for a few good months, with only one minor hiccup—which, in hindsight, was a needed reminder of why I started this journey in the first place.  

    Through this break, I’ve figured out what I want and don’t want in a relationship. I’ve realised that I crave real, deep connection and that anything casual doesn’t serve me. That might change with time, and maybe I’ll want something lighthearted in the future. But for now, I know what I need, and I’m committed to being more intentional about who I choose to share my time and intimacy with.

    So I have committed to a year of celibacy and hopefully I stick to it! 

    5. Brokey!! 

    I’ve never been financially responsible, which led me to live a very full and indulgent life. I drained my bank accounts on spontaneous trips, vintage clothing, and very good food. I prioritised instant pleasures and focused solely on the present moment. That mindset might work if you have a trust fund or wealthy parents backing you up—but I had neither.  

    Modelling, my first real job, gave me a skewed perspective on money. Big pay checks would roll in unpredictably, making me think that making money was easy and that it would always come when I needed it. So, I spent recklessly—sometimes working just a few times a month and never saving. When bookings slowed down, I’d find myself in tight spots, but somehow, luck always bailed me out. A random client would book me just in time to pay my rent. You’d think that would’ve been a wake-up call, but I kept repeating the cycle. I had what people call “lucky girl syndrome,” and for a while, it worked.  

    But relying on luck like that made long-term planning impossible. I couldn’t save for my future, invest in a business to create another income stream, or even build a basic safety net. I was reckless. It was all fun and games—until I discovered I’d been doing my taxes wrong for years. Suddenly, I was staring down serious financial trouble, and fixing it meant hiring accountants, which only added to my financial strain. Ever since then, I’ve been struggling to recover.  

    No one talks enough about the stress that comes with financial problems—it’s truly soul-crushing. For a long time, I felt deeply ashamed, but I eventually realised I wasn’t alone. Many people face the same struggles. And while I do sometimes regret my impulsive financial choices, I can say the memories were worth it. Those carefree moments were charming in my early twenties, but they’re not so cute as you get older.  

    Now, even though I’m still facing financial challenges, I’m actively working to fix them. I’ve made the decision to grow up and be smarter about money. I’m ready to make sacrifices now to prepare for a better, stress-free future. I’ve had enough spontaneous trips and indulgent splurges. It’s time to plan, save, and ensure that I’ll never have to worry about money like this again. Getting my girl boss boots on in 2025. 

    That sums it up, I guess. Basically, I plan on being a big girl. I’m turning the page and genuinely excited for what lies ahead. See you next year. 

    Bali, December 2024

    The Quiet Between Us

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    The Quiet Between Us

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    “So, what was it you didn’t want to tell me?” He asked as we were driving in his father’s car. I started to cry from nervousness and maybe a little bit from embarrassment. I went to the psychiatrist for the first time a couple of days prior. My therapist recommended it; for the first time, he thought it might be necessary. I mean, looking back now, I think it was, too. I had trouble keeping my emotions from bouncing off the walls of my brain. Sleep made me, strangely enough, more tired. I knew I struggled with anxiety, but not like this, not the type that made it feel like my body weighed 1000 pounds, completely paralysing me from doing anything at all. But the one thing that bothered me most was the incessant thoughts of dying. It took over everything. I thought about the peace I would feel if I ended it all and the different ways I could do it without suffering too much. Unlike my teenage years, where I thought about all the ways I could inflict pain on myself, I now just wanted to go away peacefully. I felt like I was already hurting enough. I deserved to go away as fast as possible.

    On the other hand, I feared being murdered or killed accidentally; I had to have control over how I went. I felt like I had no control over anything else. I deserved to choose when I would go. No one could take that away from me. So, I stood as far away as possible from the metro tracks in case someone with bad intentions was standing too close to me. I looked behind my back every other minute to make sure no one was trying to stab me. I smoked every cigarette with a deep fear that the one currently burning was the one that was going to give me cancer. 

    The cold man with a slight lisp behind the desk looked at me straight in the eyes and calmly said, “You have BPD.” My world came crashing down because this meant dealing with this forever. This meant a constant battle with myself for the rest of my life. He prescribed me a low dosage of epilepsy medication, which apparently has side effects that can help with BPD. I was so upset with myself. I  always struggled with my mental health, and even when my family denied getting me help when I was younger, I achieved plenty of things. I was able to deal with it all, and I may have had issues suppressing certain impulsive decisions and random outbursts, but I was still functioning. Never in a million years did I think I was going to be the one on meds. I never thought it was something someone should be ashamed of, but I just didn’t want to depend on anything to be able to be “normal”. Finding this out on my late father’s birthday was also not helpful either. 

    I sat silently for a moment and looked at my fingers. I felt suffocated by my seat belt, and all I wanted to do was jump out of the car. The tears kept coming, and I struggled to find the words to tell him. “Vivi, you can tell me anything. I’m here for you.” But was he going to be? After all, we’ve only been together for three months, and he’s only seen one side of me, the one everybody would like. How do I know he’s not going to leave me on the side of the road the instant he hears that I can think he is the most perfect person in the whole wide world one day and think he’s an absolute monster the next when he does something I didn’t like. Will he still be around when he realises that this means I have abandonment issues, that I’ll act certain ways because I am so scared that he’ll leave me?  How about the times I’ll have my super highs and then suddenly hit my super lows? Will he be able to keep up? 

    “I have BPD.” “What’s that?” I gave him a quick rundown of what that meant. I tried my best not to make it sound too scary. He kissed me on the cheek and said I didn’t have to be scared to tell him and that he didn’t see me differently. This relieved me for a second, but some part of me knew that he believed it now, but it might not be the case when he actually experiences it. I promised myself I would do everything to hide this side of me from him, that he didn’t need to see it all. At the time, I saw this as protecting him from me, but was it actually just that fear of abandonment I mentioned earlier? 

    The relationship ended five months later, but not because I had done anything. I’m sure it was the case because one of the last things he told me was, “If I had to wait for you to do something wrong to leave you, then that meant I would be with you forever.”

    The relationship was a happy one; communication was clear, fights were tamed and respectful, and surprisingly, I had matured a lot and had very few impulsive reactions. I kept my word. It was odd because I was super happy, the happiest I had ever been with someone, but also terribly suffering on my own. I kept most things negative away from him and tried to keep a positive attitude at all times, and then when I went home, I could take the mask off. He could hear it in my voice at times on the phone when I wasn’t feeling well, but I always finished it with, “But don’t worry, I should be fine!”. The suicidal thoughts were incessant; the medication made me sleepy, so sometimes, when we were out together, I was fighting off the fatigue while still trying to stay present. It was a lonely fight like it has always been. Sometimes, I wish I had shared my pain with him more, but I refused to be the one to bring someone down with me. I admitted to him once when we were fighting that I didn’t share it all with him, to which he responded with “Thank you.” From that moment, I understood that he also didn’t want to hear it. It stung a little bit, and I didn’t know why then. I think because deep down, I wish he cared more and he actually wanted to know, but at least he was honest, and I should’ve seen it as a sign that the relationship would not survive for long. My mental health declined as time went on, and the medication didn’t seem to work very well. It came to a point where I found myself sitting in front of the psychiatrist again, balling my eyes out, asking him if my deep desire to die was a normal thought. He told me that no, it was not and that I would really benefit from going to a “retreat” for a few weeks. My heart sank, but I agreed. It was the last resort. I had officially hit rock bottom, and this I was deeply ashamed about. I really didn’t have any control anymore. I was scared to share a space with other mentally ill patients. The first thing I thought about was how self-harm scars so very easily trigger me, and I can’t handle seeing them even in movies. I was so afraid to see other patients with them. I was afraid of being force-fed medication. 

    I naturally didn’t tell my boyfriend about this conversation, which I knew he couldn’t handle. 

    Every time I hear that one line in Billie Eilish’s What Was I Made For?, “I’m sad again, don’t tell my boyfriend”, I think about this moment right here, comforted and yet deeply disappointed at the realisation that this isn’t an uncommon thing to go through as a woman. 

    I missed the call from the “retreat” and ultimately decided not to go. I didn’t go because I was afraid but mainly because I was tired of letting it win. Something in me switched; a calm took over, and I have not spiralled as much as I used to ever since. The thing is, BPD is something that you can’t cure, but with the right tools, you can control it, and it only gets better with practice and time. So once I understood that I truly held the power, this changed everything for me. I didn’t realise it at the time, but I found a lot of my tools when I was “shielding” him from my condition. My fear of losing him forced me to have a grasp on my impulsivity and control over my intense emotions and the words that came out of my mouth. I practised patience when we would take some time from each other, forcing me to sit face to face with my abandonment issues, facing them head-on. When he eventually left for real, I was surprisingly okay. 

    It saddens me that it took a man for me to make the effort to make the changes I needed yet I also feel this sense of pride that I am the type of person capable of wanting to better myself out of love and care for somebody else. 

    I came to realise that I was too focused on doing what is “right” on my own and didn’t even think that getting support from my partner was an option for me, maybe subconsciously I thought I didn’t deserve it. I think I should’ve opened up a little more and tested the waters, communicated a little clearer still with a little caution. He on the other hand, was probably not ready to be in a relationship serious enough to have deep conversations about mental health or simply didn’t want to.

    Now I wonder how it is I am supposed to balance things when I eventually get into another relationship. How do I ask for help and comfort without crossing anyone’s boundaries? Is it possible or even healthy to share everything with your partner? 

    Honestly, I truly believe I won’t be able to know until I meet someone new. I feel like it’s one of those things where you learn as you go. And, having a playbook for this would be absurd because as cliché as this sounds, we are all so fundamentally different and all relationships have unique dynamics. All I know now is what it is I do not want, which to feel alone in a relationship. I do not want to feel ashamed of who I am and picking and choosing what side of me I will show and what side I will not. I’d like to know that every part of me is loved even if some can cause some complications. 

    Sometimes, I wonder what my relationship would’ve been like if I had exposed myself fully to him. I even wonder if it would have flourished and if he would have loved me the same. I wonder if he struggled too and did not want to tell me because he was always committed to keeping things light. Did we both lie next to each other, silently suffering?  This is something I will probably never know. I am left with many unanswered questions but so many lessons learned. I’ve understood that hiding a huge part of myself has no benefit whatsoever, and even though I could do so in my previous relationship, it was a very short one, so god knows how long I would have realistically been able to keep that up. I had never expected him to save me and knew he didn’t have the power to do so, but I still wanted to feel like I was worthy of love despite what I was going through. It wasn’t all his fault and he did as much as he could with what was given to him. I wish I had expressed more and been brave enough even though there was a risk of him leaving me. Because at least I would’ve known that it was all real. However, I also strongly believe it is super important to understand other people’s limits, identify what things they can help you with, and what issues you should deal with with a professional because no one is capable of dealing with it all. It is unfair to expect them to do so.

    Paris, March 2023

    Surgery

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    Surgery

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    When my mother was pregnant with me, she had a few wishes. The usual ones, of course—a healthy and happy baby. But she also asked for a bit more: intelligence and grace. Then, she got more specific. She hoped her firstborn daughter would have the beauty of a model, an hourglass figure, and a big pair of breasts. It was an unusual request for an unborn child, but maybe she believed that if I had those things, life would be easier for me. Some of her wishes came true—her daughter was born healthy, relatively intelligent, and did end up becoming a model.

    But, she also developed an abnormally huge pair of tits that were the bane of her existence from the moment she hit puberty. 

    My breasts started growing at a very young age, and I can hardly remember a time when they weren’t there. I think I was around 10 or 11 when I first started receiving comments from people around me. It wasn’t like I had double D’s right away, but they were definitely noticeable. From the start, these comments made me uncomfortable. At that age, all you want is to blend in, to be like everyone else, and hearing those remarks always made me feel different. Looking back as an adult, I realise just how many comments I received about my body and breast size as a child. I probably would have been fine if no one pointed out how much faster I had developed compared to my peers, but for some reason, they always felt the need to remind me. To this day, I still don’t understand why.

    The comments did not end there, they got worse as a tween. The boys have become horny monsters and there I was, me and big boobies, the perfect victim to be harassed with inappropriate comments. I was luckily already one to not be afraid to stand up to boys, so every time they teased me at PE, telling me that when I ran “the milk in my boobs would turn to yogurt”, I’d snatch them by the hair, pull them to my feet and make them apologise. This didn’t stop them to make the same comment over and over again and made me wonder that maybe they liked getting their hair pulled and getting my attention no matter where it came from. My girlfriends constantly told me how lucky I was to have big boobs and wished they had cleavage too, that I was “hotter” because of it. I was quickly sexualised from that point on, I was always told that I was “sexy”, “hot” and “seductive”, which once again is a little crazy to say to an underaged girl. Older men always told me that I was going to be man-eater later on in life and that “the boys will go crazy” for me. I’ve caught male teachers staring down as they explained a math problem to me. The overwhelming attention I was getting around my body was starting to get to me and really closed me off. At around 13 years old, I went through a “boy” phase where I dressed as a boy and wore baggy clothes, doing my best to conceal this body of mine. I had spent a whole summer in the south of France with my family without swimming. My mother asked me why I wasn’t swimming, I told her because I didn’t feel like being in a bathing suit in front of everybody. I was caught off guard by her reaction, when she angrily told me that I was wasting my life being so concerned about what people thought of me. She told me to look around me and look at all the people at the beach and all the different body types there were and how no one gave a fuck. That convinced me to go swimming, but just once.  

    My biggest fear was to lose my identity because of my boobs, I feared that people would refer to me as “the one with the big boobs”. This obviously happened anyway, as much as I tried to hide my chest. As my friends started to get involved with boys and having their first kiss or getting fingered for the first time, I noticed how boys would talk so much afterwards, revealing each other’s businesses sometimes even humiliating the girls. This terrified me. I pushed back my first kiss for so long, using my braces as an excuse because I feared the noise it would make when someone actually got the chance to “experience me”. Who was going to be able to hook up with the girl with the big boobs? 

    I was never seen around a boy at parties, there were no sighting of me kissing anyone and no one could claim they had stories about me because I simply did not speak to anyone. It went on for so long that people started creating rumours and saying that I was a lesbian. I still laugh at the thought of it, because like, what the actual fuck? 

    By the time I was 15, I had started to really model and my first few clients were mainly bikini and lingerie brands. Why was this allowed, you ask? I do not know. Oddly enough modelling has created so many insecurities but also helped me open up. I also started to desire male attention more and realised that the ones getting the most attention were the ones that were considered “hot”, wearing cut off Topshop denim shorts, skimpy mini dresses and weren’t afraid to roll their school skirts up. So I tried to do the same, with some reluctance. I started to do what I feared other’s would do to me: I sexualised myself. That’s when I realised: these tits have power. Having boobs as a teenager had its perks, it made me looked curvier so it made me look grown. Looking grown meant that it I was rarely ever ID’d and I was able to get into any club. Buying drinks or cigarettes was a no brainer and it was easier to get attention from the older guys. I came to the silly conclusion that as long as I had boobs, I would be considered hot, meaning I would always be desired. If I ever felt insecure about something else, I’d just say that my boobs made up for it. They had the power to make me feel like I would perpetually be desired no matter what.

    However, as I got older they didn’t stop growing, I grew a cup almost every 2 years and it started to be quite difficult to find clothes that would fit me properly. I couldn’t wear the same bikini styles as my petite friends. I had 3 bikini tops that I would be able to wear, when everyone else able to change it up everyday of the week. A lot of the clothes looked sexier on me, I would sometimes be dress coded in school for wearing the same exact outfit as a girl with an A cup. It started to take a toll on my back in my late teens and early twenties. I would sometimes cry for hours in bed from the pain that prevented me from sleeping causing severe exhaustion. Exercising was difficult, like running for instance was a pain, leading me to gain weight. Everything required a bra. Moving to Paris was exciting to me because I thought I could finally experiment with my personal style but I quickly realised that many of the things I wanted to wear just never sat right. On top of all of that, let’s also not forget the laws of gravity which is: “if you think your tits will stay perky forever as a size E cup, bitch you are tripping.” Boy did my boobs start to sag, they were heavy and if I didn’t have a bra on and it was hot out, my under boobs would sweat so much, leaving me with the most horrid slushy sensation. I simply couldn’t take it anymore. 

    Broke and desperate, I began exploring my options. I discovered that in France, breast reductions for hypertrophy are covered by the public health system. I was quite overwhelmed because I didn’t know where to start, did I have to contact my GP first? Did they have to give me the green light to get a free breast reduction? Or should look for the surgeon and go to them right away? How do I know if it’s the right surgeon? Do I have to also prove that it has affected me psychologically to be eligible? 

    Usually, I would have given up but the pain of living with the weight of actual two watermelons on my chest was honestly too much to bare. 

    I decided to just find the right surgeon first. I remembered that the designer for the brand I interned for just had had a breast lift and was super happy with the result and went to a public hospital to get the procedure done. I asked for the name of the surgeon and booked an appointment right away. 

    It was at the Tenon Hospital in 20th arrondissement, a 25 minute walk from my place. The beautiful Père Lachaise cemetery was on the way which is always a delight to walk through, especially in the morning when the Komorebi creates the most beautiful pattern of light and shadow. As I weaved my way between the gothic tombstones and old trees, I was confronted with the thought of death and its meaning—specifically, what the death of my big tits would signify.

    I saw the breast reduction as my liberation. It would free me from years of physical pain and the mental strain it caused. No longer would I feel excessively vulgar or trapped in a hyper-sexualised image. It would strip away those labels and let me present myself as I’ve always wanted. I dreamed of moving freely, unburdened, no longer ‘the girl with huge boobs.’ This surgery felt like a rebirth—a chance for a fresh start and a new life. But, what if no one desired me anymore, what if without this sexy image I am worth less? Would I still get modelling jobs to support myself? Will my body look odd and disproportionate? What if the scars look crazy and I’ll never feel comfortable naked in front of anybody again? 

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    I was greeted by a rude receptionist (because, of course, I’m in France), and sat waiting for what felt like an eternity. When they finally called my name, I met my surgeon for the first time. He asked me the basic questions, including what I did for a living. He paused for a moment, looked at me with a puzzled expression, and then asked, “So, you’re a model?”

    “Yes, sir.”

    “What kind? Aren’t you heavier than usual?”

    I didn’t know how to respond. I suddenly felt like I was back in my modelling agency, where my agents always told me I should lose weight. Ignoring his question, I explained what I wanted: smaller breasts, specifically a C cup.

    “Are you sure you want to go that small?” he asked.

    “I think so,” I replied.

    “Well, you’d lose all of your silhouette. Is that something you’re okay with?”

    “Yes, as long as it looks good.”

    “You’d look great with just a lift. They’ve sagged quite a bit, but you’d look amazing with a nice D.”

    I told him I was experiencing back pain and would prefer to go as small as I could.

    “I’d suggest you lose some weight first. Maybe five kilos.”

    The words hit me hard. It felt like a trigger being pulled. I was already struggling with my weight, and now I was being told, again, that I wasn’t good enough. It transported me straight back to my childhood—to my stepdad’s voice telling me I needed to lose weight, even as a young teenager.

    My mom always encouraged me to love myself, but my stepdad’s perfectionism lingered longer. He was the kind of man who needed everything in his life to be pristine, including his wife and kids. That constant pressure left me with a binge eating habit and body dysmorphia, struggles I carry to this day.

    The weirdest part? The surgeon looked a lot like my stepdad. Sitting in that room, it felt like I was with him—the same critical eyes, the same fixation on perfection. And the most fucked-up part of all? I knew he was the one I wanted to do my surgery. Because, like my stepdad, he’d make sure I looked as perfect as possible.

    I was quoted 4,500 euros for the procedure because I failed to mention that I wanted to remove more than 300 grams, which would have made the surgery free. I don’t know why I didn’t say anything—maybe our conversation had made me so anxious that I just said “okay” and convinced myself I’d find a way to pay for it.

    The surgery was scheduled for five months later. But a month before the procedure, I quickly realised I couldn’t afford it and had to cancel.

    Still, I didn’t give up. I didn’t give up on the surgery, and I didn’t give up on the fact that I wanted this specific surgeon. Eight months later, I went back—this time, less intimidated—and clearly demanded the procedure I wanted, including removing more than 300 grams. He agreed but informed me that because I was now taking the public route, I’d have to be placed on a waitlist. That meant another ten months of waiting.

    During those ten months, I was consumed with anxiety. I had never had surgery before, and the fear of waking up in the middle of it or experiencing anesthesia awareness—feeling everything while being paralyzed—haunted me. It became an obsession, something I cried over repeatedly. There were moments I almost backed out, terrified I would be one of the 0.1%. But I didn’t. And then, the day finally came. My sweet mum, sensing my anxiety, flew in to be by my side. Knowing her, she had to be there in case anything happened to her firstborn. “You should’ve been careful what you wished for,” I joked, “because here I am, chopping off my boobs.”

    The surgery was early, and we had to be there at 7 am. The whole preparation felt like something out of a dystopian sci-fi movie. All the patients for that morning’s surgeries were gathered together, asked to strip down, wear hospital gowns, and hand over all their personal belongings. We sat there in silence for what felt like an eternity before being led down freezing, dimly lit corridors to a waiting room. They tried to make it calming, with an odd water feature and colourful LED lights, but the observation windows made it feel more like some kind of strange experiment. The person ahead of me looked unwell, clearly fighting for their life. Beside me, a woman who had survived cancer before was awaiting a breast biopsy. She couldn’t stop talking to me about God, I think she wanted to make sure she was in His good graces, just in case. I was exhausted, wishing for a moment of rest, but it felt important to listen, to comfort her. I told her I would find Him, wanting her to feel like she had brought someone closer to God before her surgery.

    Finally, it was my turn. I was led into a room with the surgeon and a group of medical students, where they took pictures of my breasts and drew surgical markings with a sharpie. I stood there, cold and afraid, feeling awkward in my vulnerability. Then I was taken to the operating room. Along the way, I kept my head down, afraid to see something that might spook me out of the surgery.

    I was told to lie down on the operating table. The anaesthesiologist tried to make small talk, but all I could do was nod my head yes or no. It was go time. They asked me to envision my happy place, and my mind drifted to a memory of my mum and I on the beach—the one we spent so much of my early childhood on, during sunset. I was five again, playing in the sand as she watched me. I could feel the afternoon breeze on my skin, my hair blowing into my face, and the gentle sound of waves washing up on the shore.

    Slowly, everything faded to black.

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    A little more about the surgery they performed on me for those who are curious: 

    The surgeon makes incisions on the breasts: around the areola (the darker area around the nipple), a vertical line from the areola to the breast crease (lollipop shape) and a horizontal line under the breast crease (anchor shape). Then they remove excess tissue, fat and skin to reduce the size and weight of the breasts. The nipples and areola are moved to a higher and more natural position and resized. They stitched me up and wrapped me tight. 

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    I woke up an hour after the surgery in the recovery room and I guess was still high from the anaesthesia because I was already cracking jokes with the nurses. The first thing I did obviously was lift the covers to see my new and improved tits. I fucking did it, war is over. 

    I was wheeled into my room by a middle-aged man who, despite the fact I looked like I’d been through hell and back, still tried to flirt with me. My room was spacious, clean, and had a lovely view. I had no idea where my phone was, but the nurse told me that both my mom and my best friend were on their way up. After waiting for what felt like an eternity, staring at the wall, I heard a soft knock on the door. It was my Ruby, holding a beautiful bouquet. Seeing her face and that bright smile brought me so much comfort. She’s always been the first to show up for me, without fail. Then, after getting lost for nearly an hour, my mother joined us, bringing a plant and some food. I couldn’t have asked for more.

    Unfortunately, the next day, I had to go back into surgery due to internal bleeding. It’s a rare occurrence, the doctors assured me, but it was nothing to be too worried about. Of course, I was still panicking, but I made it through and was relieved that it was the only complication I had post-surgery. I stayed in the hospital for two days before being sent home to rest. For the next 10 days, I stayed in bed while a nurse came in daily to clean my stitches. The pain wasn’t too bad after the first few days, though I cried like a child to my mom as she comforted me the best she could. After that, it was mostly discomfort, as I had to hold myself up in strange positions, which caused a lot of back pain. So, no, I didn’t experience the instant relief in my back that many breast reduction patients describe. All I wanted to do was go outside and meet my friends. But it was also a time for reflection, to think about what I wanted to do when I was finally ready to step back into the world—several kilos lighter, without chronic back pain. Finally, the day came when I found the strength to go outside. The first thing I did? Treated myself to a blow-dry. It was my small victory, a moment of joy after all the waiting and healing.

    I will never forget the moment they removed my stitches and I finally tried on my clothes—all the pieces I had tucked away over the years, waiting for this day. Tears filled my eyes as I stood there in disbelief, seeing the body I had always imagined, the body that felt like me. In that instant, every doubt and worry disappeared, replaced by the certainty that this was the best decision I had ever made. I admired my reflection, overcome with joy and excitement for the life I was about to embrace. 

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    Bali, December 2024

    Men in their 30’s

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    Men in their 30’s

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    I used to think men in their 30s were the perfect blend of maturity, stability, and fun—until I started dating them.

    What is dating a man in his thirties truly like?

    It is commonly said that men have more trouble multitasking than women, which now I think also applies to their personal development. Even though they may have developed well in certain aspects of their lives, usually in their careers, their emotional or overall maturity doesn’t necessarily follow. It’s kind of like they hyper-fixated so much on building themselves up professionally that they forgot to do the work of growing internally.

    Like men in their 20s, these men are often not great communicators. When an uncomfortable topic arises, they are quick to run and hide, or it takes them an enormous amount of effort to communicate. I find that most would rather avoid a discussion, even over simple issues that could easily be resolved with a few exchanged words. They often claim their lack of communication is due to a fear of hurting us. I’ve never understood this way of thinking—how do they believe dragging it out will lessen the pain? They know it might hurt anyway, so why not just rip the bandaid off instead of leaving us confused and wasting our precious time? Also, why do they automatically assume we care enough to be offended every single time?

    This summer, I met a man in his early thirties, who I knew was trouble from the beginning (the first thing I ever told him was that he looked like ‘bad news’). We ended up being in the South of France at the same time and figured we’d meet up and so we did a few times, along with his friends and went on a hike with them which was so extremely challenging, it could only bond us. One morning, I asked if he and his friends would like to have breakfast because I just wanted to say good-bye and thank them for letting me tag along. I just thought it was the polite thing to do and would have totally understood if they didn’t have the time. He suggested dinner instead, saying he’d give me the details shortly. He never did. So I thought I’d kindly let him know that I didn’t appreciate that. I understood if his plans had changed, but a quick heads-up wouldn’t have killed him.

    He ended up calling me and explained that he just wanted to have an intimate moment with his friends and didn’t necessarily want me there. I told him that was understandable, but if that were the case, why invite me in the first place? And why not just tell me? He said he thought it would be awkward and didn’t know how to tell me, as he didn’t want to hurt my feelings. I was honestly dumbfounded by his answer. So, to recap: he DIDN’T want to see me, yet HE INVITED me to dinner, but then didn’t want to tell me it was off because he didn’t want to hurt my feelings?

    First of all, why would it hurt my feelings? A reasonable person can understand that sometimes plans change. He didn’t have to say he didn’t want to see me; he could have just said he was busy, I’m a big believer in white lies, sometimes lying is necessary. If he just innocently lied, we could’ve both moved on with our lives, instead he made me wait around like an idiot. Thankfully, I made dinner plans with my friends as soon as it hit 6pm. But also, who told this man I would care THAT much? So much so that he was too scared to tell me, assuming I’d be heartbroken.

    Obviously, I never saw him again, especially after I didn’t respond to his apology text, which made him so angry that he ‘ended things’—even though my lack of response should’ve made that pretty clear, but I’ll let him have it. Anyways, this is just one of many examples of grown men and their ridiculously bad communication skills.

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    The only real difference I’ve noticed between the two age groups when it comes to communication is texting styles. You can forget about texting all day or night like you might with a guy in his early twenties. I’m not a huge texter myself, but when I say I’ve never texted a 30-year-old man for more than 15 minutes total, I’m not exaggerating. They either engage in small talk, asking how you’re doing or what you’ve been up to, send you the time and location for the date later, or dive straight into sexting—where, unsurprisingly, they invest a little more time.

    But beyond texting, I’ve also noticed that older men tend to be cornier. It’s as if they’ve perfected the art of being smooth just enough to get by, but every now and then, their corniness inevitably slips through. Once, I met a man on Raya (I lasted a good week on it), a British guy—the only one I ever matched with because he didn’t have a photo on a private jet, or a yacht in St. Tropez. I really adored his creative work, and he was honestly brilliant. He was intelligent and had a great sense of humour—the British kind, which is my personal favourite. We clicked immediately, and I laughed out loud reading his messages. He had a habit of asking for pictures of me. It wasn’t always sexual or inappropriate; he just liked seeing me doing different things and was strangely invested in my outfits of the day. At first, I didn’t think much of it, but eventually, I wondered if he had a power kink—enjoying the fact that I did what he asked immediately. One thing about me is that I’ll always ask questions if I have any, so I asked him directly about the kink. He denied it and just said I was just so pretty. It was probably a lie, but he called me pretty so I didn’t dig further. One night, he asked for another picture, but this time he didn’t say ‘please,’ so I jokingly told him to say the magic word. Nothing, when I say NOTHING prepared to what I was about to receive next. He sent me a video of a close-up of his mouth in the dark, whispering slowly, ‘Pretty… please,’ with an emphasis on the ‘P’s,’ making his lips pop. It made my skin crawl. I almost threw my phone across the room from the ick that completely took over my body. You had to be there to really grasp the level of corniness—it might not sound too bad, but trust me, it was horrendous.

    That’s a prime example of how their corniness inevitably reveals itself, no matter how cool they seem. I wonder if it’s just my bad luck meeting ‘cornballs,’ or if this is truly a generational thing—maybe women in their 30s wouldn’t have flinched and might have even found that video attractive, responding with the same energy. I feel a little mean making fun of him, but I’m blocked anyway. Apparently, asking if he would talk to me differently or respect me more if I were his age, which I thought was a simple question, was too spooky for him to answer—further proving my point about poor communication skills and cowardice.

    On the other hand, while their mouths may not be great for communicating, they are certainly better for other things. They know what they like, but more importantly, they understand the female anatomy a little better than their younger counterparts. They also tend to have more confidence, which makes the whole experience more fun and exciting. I always go in without knowing what to expect. I’ve found myself in situations I never imagined, like getting my armpits licked—a body part I never thought would be near someone’s mouth (I could go without that happening again, but hey, at least now I know). I also find it easier to be playful with them because I always feel like they’ve already seen a lot, and the chances of me being the weirdest person they’ve slept with are probably low. Being with an older guy has definitely helped me feel more confident and allowed me to let loose, even trying or saying things I probably wouldn’t with someone younger.

    Another thing that I really appreciate about older guys is how they tend to find their ‘uniform.’ There’s something undeniably sexy about a man who knows what he likes to wear and sticks to it. Some might call it boring, but to me, it’s a clear sign of someone who’s confident in who they are. I’ve noticed a pattern: they either wear Uniqlo tees or, if they’ve got a bit more cash, Aimé Leon Dore white tees. I’ve seen three of them with multipacks of those ALD shirts lying around in their apartments. Of course, this might not apply to all men, but it’s definitely true for the type I go for. I also love when they consistently smell the same and stick to the same grooming products. Men often get into these things later than we do, so when they do, it’s a good sign they’re ‘ripe’ enough for my taste.

    This extends to how they plan their dates—they know what they like, so there’s never any awkward back-and-forth about where I’d like to eat. I’ve never had to be involved in the planning process. They give me a time and place and I have to do is show up. Since my knowledge of wine is still a work in progress, they usually pick the bottle, and if it’s a sharing situation, they select the dishes—though they always ask if there’s something on the menu I’d like to try. I do not do this intentionally but I usually go out with men who have good jobs which means the bill is always taken care of even when I try to get it. The conversations flow easier as most of them know more about the things I am interested in. I learn so much about various topics, especially their unique areas of expertise or interests. And love to see the passion in their eyes when they talk about them. I’ve spent time with a chef that made me taste such interesting food that I would have never been able to experience on my own, I’ve listened to a movie director the different techniques and the little industry secrets, an art lawyer teaching so much about art and always invited me to weekly museum visits and a rugby player talk about the effects the sport has on the human body while also introducing me to Camus. Time spent with them is so incredibly stimulating and even though most of these encounters never really work out due to all the reasons   I have stated above, I always leave a little smarter. 

    By contrast, I genuinely believe I would struggle to date guys my age. While they may eventually catch up, I still find it rare to form a meaningful connection with them. Unlike older men, where I often feel like the student, with younger guys, I tend to take on more of a teacher role. While this can be rewarding in its own way, I find it less engaging overall. I also think I have a strong sense of self and may lack the patience to be with someone still figuring themselves out.  

    It’s not that I have everything figured out, but I did a lot of that work during my teenage years and now have a clear idea of who I am, what I want out of life, and the kind of person I aspire to be. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with taking time to find yourself—that’s what your twenties are for. However, as I’ve mentioned, I’ve noticed that many guys (not all—relax!) struggle to balance that self-discovery process with maintaining a healthy relationship. Self-discovery is often time-consuming and requires focusing inward, which can leave little room for a partner. This doesn’t only apply to men—I see women, too, hiding behind relationships instead of facing the sometimes scary challenge of figuring out who they are as individuals.  

    So, maybe it’s not just about age. But what I’m getting at is that the likelihood of someone in their early twenties knowing who they are and what they want is often lower compared to someone older.

    My first boyfriend, who was 27 at the time (eight years older than me), made me wait a year before committing. This was mostly because he wasn’t sure what he wanted or what kind of life he wanted to lead mixed in with some good ol’ commitment issues. Looking back, I don’t know why I stayed for so long. I think I just wanted to help him and hoped to be the reason he found happiness. At the time, I was still figuring myself out too, but I didn’t find it hard to dedicate my time and energy to our relationship. Unfortunately, he couldn’t do the same. I should have recognised that he wasn’t able to give me what I needed in a relationship, rather than clinging to the hope that he would change. He simply wasn’t ready for that, but I became attached to the idea of who he *could* be, which was obviously the wrong approach.  That relationship was very mentally exhausting, and I don’t think I’ll ever have the patience to go through something like that again.

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    I get “You’re so mature for your age” a lot, which I think they think I would take as a compliment but the only type of girl who it’d flatter would be an underaged one that has been groomed. But despite saying that so much, I find that they never truly seemed to take me seriously.

    They view me as a temporary fling because I’m in my early, almost mid-twenties—a placeholder for the woman they’ll eventually settle down with. ‘De passage,’ as we say in French. Like when the American director told me he had to end our weird situationship because his childhood best friend was finally single and moving to the city, after holding me in bed a week prior, stroking my face, and telling me how amazing I was. Or the British man who said, ‘Too baby to be wifey for lifey’ (yes, in those exact words). Because I’m young, they assume I’m not expecting marriage, children, or anything ‘scary’ like that. They think I’m naïve and more likely to tolerate bad behavior—which I’ve definitely done in the past. They know that for most younger girls, the bar is lower, so they don’t have to do much to impress us. Commitment is never discussed; these ‘relationships’ survive on my own delusions and hopes. It’s true to some extent—I do have time before those big commitments—but that’s no reason to treat me like a placeholder. I think we can all agree on that.

    It’s an awkward phase of dating for me. I feel like I should be dating people my own age since we’re at the same stage in life, but I don’t find spending time with them stimulating. On the other hand, I want to date older men because they’re more interesting to me, but we’re not at the same stage in life. I may need to wait a couple of years before considering anything serious. But will that really change anything? As I’ve proven, maturity isn’t necessarily tied to age.

    I’ve also wondered if there’s something fundamentally wrong with the grown men dating me. Does it mean women their age have rejected them? Or do they refuse to date women their age because they know they wouldn’t put up with half the nonsense a younger girl might? Are they the kind of people who like to take advantage? Do they have Peter Pan syndrome?

    Of course, this is just my experience, and I’m not claiming it’s universal. I’m sure there are guys my age who are as mature as women, and there must be men in their 30s who respect younger women and understand they can be taken seriously—or who simply don’t think it’s appropriate to date someone 10 years younger. But this pattern has been hard to ignore in my own life and among the people around me.

    As much as I liked older guys for our shared interests, I started wondering if there were deeper reasons I was drawn to them—and I was certain it wasn’t just because my dad died. After reflecting, I realised that being around them made me feel closer to the life I wanted. Not because I expect them to fund everything or share their life with me, but because I get a taste of the future I want: seeing the apartments they’ve bought, hearing about their achievements, whether it’s an award for creative work, a published book, a movie screened, or a sports championship. When they tell me about their vacations and how they only travel business class now, or when they casually pay the bill with a titanium card, I feel like I’m getting a glimpse into the life I’m working towards. Their busy schedules, filled with things they’re passionate about, reflect the work they put in during their 20s.

    I admire how they prioritise their long-term goals and dreams, often refusing to move meetings or calls for something else like parties or dates. Even though some struggle to balance different aspects of their lives, their ambition, motivation, and consistency are admirable. 

    Ultimately, I guess, it’s not that I care to be with an older man—I want to be them.

    Some of my encounters with men in that age group might seem questionable, but I’ve learned a lot from them, especially about work ethic and prioritising myself. I’ve started doing what they do, and I can already tell you it’s effective. I plan to stick with it, and I know I’ll achieve the things I want. I can’t imagine how unstoppable I’ll be when I combine their aggressive drive for success with our emotional intelligence and ability to balance multiple things. I’ll practically be a fucking superhero.

    As much as being around them makes me feel closer to my super-successful future, I’ve come to realise that everything happens in its own time. There are no shortcuts. If anything, they’ve shown me just how much work you have to put in to make great things happen.

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    Bali, December 2024