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The Unidentified Hopeless Romantic

Hello, Lovely Humans,

You know what I love about the holiday season? Time off. Just pure, unfiltered me-time. Today’s vibe is straight out of a melancholy indie film: drizzle tapping on the window, lo-fi beats humming in the background, and a sky so grey it feels like someone forgot to color it in. Perfect, right? Well, almost.  

Maybe it’s the weather or the fact that I reread The Unidentified Redhead (again), but I found myself in full Grace Sheridan mode, trying to “live in the moment.” Sounds effortlessly chic, doesn’t it? Except, living in MY moment includes the neighbor going wild with a hammer and the “tukang tahu” announcing his golden tofu like it’s Coachella headliner news. “Tahu tahu bulat! Tahu digoreng dadakan!”—the Indonesian remix nobody asked for. Chaos? Yes. A vibe? Also yes.  

Anyway, I dragged myself out of bed and made a bold choice to treat myself: kopi tubruk. It’s my version of a bougie indie-film ritual—imagine sipping coffee in a serene Bali café surrounded by boho vibes (okay, actually it’s my kitchen, but let’s not ruin the fantasy). Somewhere between the first sip and my third daydream, bucin syndrome struck. There I was, mentally starring in a rom-com, bumping into a tall, devastatingly handsome guy at a coffee shop. The rolled-up sleeves. That smirk. Him asking what book I’m reading. Me flipping my hair and casually spilling coffee on his shoes. Classic Chits.  

Then, reality hit in the form of my mom’s mid-daydream call. Her mission? A gentle reminder that I’m not getting any younger and that finding someone “nice” would save us all from auntie interrogations. Oh sure, Mama, because emotionally available men just fall out of the sky like free Gojek vouchers, right

Determined to reclaim my zen, I ventured outside to embrace the little joys: the earthy smell of rain, a hot bowl of mie rebus soto (it has to be Indomie, obviously—Indomie, if you’re reading this, call me for sponsorship), and the sheer bliss of quiet. Except, quiet was rudely interrupted by my tongue being ambushed by a cabe rawit in my noodles. Betrayal in its spiciest form.  

Still, there’s magic in these messy moments. The chaos, the humor—it’s like the universe whispering, “Laugh a little, will you?” Sure, I don’t have my Jack Hamilton yet, but I’ve got my coffee, my noodles, and enough stories to fill a Netflix rom-com scriscript.

So, here’s to being the star of my very Indonesian love story—complete with es kopi, pisang goreng, random chats with tukang jualaan, and the occasional Tokopedia existential crisis. Who knows? Maybe love will show up and I start to believe again and  between my mom’s matchmaking attempts and my next trip to the pasar modern (we never know we will bump). If not, I’ll take a full stomach, a happy heart, and a really good laugh any day.  


Yours in chaos and mie instan! 


Chits



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