I can still feel the anger simmering beneath the surface.
But deep down, I know that behind this anger, there is sadness—a sadness that I can’t seem to shake. Maybe that’s why I still feel so heavy inside.
I’ve forgiven everyone, or at least I’ve tried to. So why does the anger remain?
Maybe it’s because, deep down, I want to tell my side of the story to the world.
But no one seems to listen.
Maybe I don’t even want to share it anymore.
But what if I did? Would it make any difference?
I doubt it.
The last time I spoke up, my words felt like rays passing through a magnifying glass, burning me alive. No one listened. No one believed me.
They painted me as the villain, and I’ve learned to live with that. But sometimes, I find myself wishing that those who hurt me could feel the same pain—the same anger and sadness that consumed me.
But what if they did?
Would they think it’s kifarah, the consequences of wronging me?
Would they feel the weight of the stones they once threw, disrupting everything I spent years building?
What happens next?
Maybe it’s true that it’s not my place to seek revenge or wish for punishment. But why do I still long for it? Why do I crave the validation of knowing that they’ve felt my pain? Does that make me a bad person?
I can still feel the anger simmering beneath the surface.
But deep down, I know that behind this anger, there is sadness—a sadness that I can’t seem to shake. Maybe that’s why I still feel so heavy inside.
I’ve forgiven everyone, or at least I’ve tried to. So why does the anger remain?
Maybe it’s because, deep down, I want to tell my side of the story to the world.
But no one seems to listen.
Maybe I don’t even want to share it anymore.
But what if I did? Would it make any difference?
I doubt it.
The last time I spoke up, my words felt like rays passing through a magnifying glass, burning me alive. No one listened. No one believed me.
They painted me as the villain, and I’ve learned to live with that. But sometimes, I find myself wishing that those who hurt me could feel the same pain—the same anger and sadness that consumed me.
But what if they did?
Would they think it’s kifarah, the consequences of wronging me?
Would they feel the weight of the stones they once threw, disrupting everything I spent years building?
What happens next?
Maybe it’s true that it’s not my place to seek revenge or wish for punishment. But why do I still long for it? Why do I crave the validation of knowing that they’ve felt my pain? Does that make me a bad person?
When I say my last trip to Japan was depressing, I truly mean it.
Why, you ask?
It felt like the whole country was against me. I wanted to share my story, but no one seemed to listen. I wanted to scream, but instead, I sat in silence. I put on a brave smile, but inside, I was filled with anger.
And to make matters worse, my cat was dying.
I was at the lowest point in my life. Every time I think of Japan, I’m reminded of just how dark that time was for me. I couldn’t capture or share anything on social media because I knew it would only invite more negativity.
I remember posting a beautiful photo of the skies and trains in Japan, only to be met with replies like, "You should die rather than burdening others." Little did they know, I sometimes wished the same.
As I stepped outside the airport, I took a deep breath. I should’ve felt happy to be here, right? But instead, I wished I were six feet under.
Amirrul hugged me and whispered, "It's okay... Here, nobody knows us. We’re going to have ramen soon, okay, baby?"
I smiled, hoping he couldn’t sense the darkness in my thoughts.
But as much as I tried to stay gloomy, I couldn’t help but notice how the sky was so blue, and the breeze was gently slapping my face. It felt like Osaka was trying to welcome me, but I was that difficult guest, too lost in sorrow to appreciate it. Osaka had so much beauty to offer, but I was too blind to see it.
As the sky turned from orange to a deep blue, the lamps disguised themselves as stars, and Osaka lit up around us.
We walked towards a restaurant, only to find out we needed a reservation. In that moment, I was grateful for technology because we could quickly Google another place to eat.
Our phones pointed us to a ramen restaurant, so we walked. And as we walked for about 30 minutes, my mind, previously fogged with endless thoughts, began to clear.
"Such beautiful doors," I noticed. "Wow... the roads are so clean!"
“What is that amazing smell? Is it halal?”
"Can we walk like this in Malaysia?"
"CATSSS!!!"
And just like that, we were standing in front of the ramen store.
I looked up and saw no one. "Is it closed?" I asked Amirrul.
He went ahead and waved me over because, yes, they had space for us to sit and eat!
The restaurant was tiny, but that only made the smell of ramen even stronger, lingering around us and making me so hungry.
We ordered, and when our food arrived, I realized that was the best ramen I’d ever had (well, at least until I found an even better one later!). I was smiling and even dancing a little as I ate.
Amirrul looked at me and asked, "Happy?"
Without a second thought, I said, "YES!"
And it made me wonder, could happiness really be that simple? I had been battling the darkest wave of depression before coming here, and now, without hesitation, I told my husband I was happy—all because of a bowl of ramen.
Maybe happiness is found in the littlest things.
But why was I happy? Was it the ramen itself? Was it the joy of sharing that meal with my husband? Or was it because Amirrul was trying so hard to make me happy?
Maybe, just maybe, it was all three.
I don’t know—but indeed, I was happy that night π
When I say my last trip to Japan was depressing, I truly mean it.
Why, you ask?
It felt like the whole country was against me. I wanted to share my story, but no one seemed to listen. I wanted to scream, but instead, I sat in silence. I put on a brave smile, but inside, I was filled with anger.
And to make matters worse, my cat was dying.
I was at the lowest point in my life. Every time I think of Japan, I’m reminded of just how dark that time was for me. I couldn’t capture or share anything on social media because I knew it would only invite more negativity.
I remember posting a beautiful photo of the skies and trains in Japan, only to be met with replies like, "You should die rather than burdening others." Little did they know, I sometimes wished the same.
As I stepped outside the airport, I took a deep breath. I should’ve felt happy to be here, right? But instead, I wished I were six feet under.
Amirrul hugged me and whispered, "It's okay... Here, nobody knows us. We’re going to have ramen soon, okay, baby?"
I smiled, hoping he couldn’t sense the darkness in my thoughts.
But as much as I tried to stay gloomy, I couldn’t help but notice how the sky was so blue, and the breeze was gently slapping my face. It felt like Osaka was trying to welcome me, but I was that difficult guest, too lost in sorrow to appreciate it. Osaka had so much beauty to offer, but I was too blind to see it.
As the sky turned from orange to a deep blue, the lamps disguised themselves as stars, and Osaka lit up around us.
We walked towards a restaurant, only to find out we needed a reservation. In that moment, I was grateful for technology because we could quickly Google another place to eat.
Our phones pointed us to a ramen restaurant, so we walked. And as we walked for about 30 minutes, my mind, previously fogged with endless thoughts, began to clear.
"Such beautiful doors," I noticed. "Wow... the roads are so clean!"
“What is that amazing smell? Is it halal?”
"Can we walk like this in Malaysia?"
"CATSSS!!!"
And just like that, we were standing in front of the ramen store.
I looked up and saw no one. "Is it closed?" I asked Amirrul.
He went ahead and waved me over because, yes, they had space for us to sit and eat!
The restaurant was tiny, but that only made the smell of ramen even stronger, lingering around us and making me so hungry.
We ordered, and when our food arrived, I realized that was the best ramen I’d ever had (well, at least until I found an even better one later!). I was smiling and even dancing a little as I ate.
Amirrul looked at me and asked, "Happy?"
Without a second thought, I said, "YES!"
And it made me wonder, could happiness really be that simple? I had been battling the darkest wave of depression before coming here, and now, without hesitation, I told my husband I was happy—all because of a bowl of ramen.
Maybe happiness is found in the littlest things.
But why was I happy? Was it the ramen itself? Was it the joy of sharing that meal with my husband? Or was it because Amirrul was trying so hard to make me happy?
Maybe, just maybe, it was all three.
I don’t know—but indeed, I was happy that night π
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