Slap.
The sound echoed through the house, slicing through the silence like a scene from an overly dramatic soap opera—complete with thunder in the background and a triple zoom-in.
My name is Cayra Ayudhia Astagina. People call me Caca. I'm twenty-eight and, yes, still unmarried. A status that seems to send my whole family into crisis mode, as if we were in a national emergency—for missing a son-in-law.
I work as a Senior Brand Strategist at Nebula Creatives. My job? Crafting campaign strategies, analyzing data, and pretending to be cheerful when last-minute revisions hit at midnight. My career? Solid.
My love life? Don't ask—stitched together like a patchwork quilt.
In relationships, I'm like a sprinter: fast to start, fast to fall, and faster to crash.
I've been cheated on more times than I can count, and yet I still dare to believe in love. Maybe I have a magnet for men who are addicted to lies and double lives.
Ironically, I never told my parents. Because somehow, I always ended up being blamed.
They'd say I'm too stubborn. Too independent. Too picky.
But all I ever wanted was someone who'd actually choose me—especially when things got hard.
And yes, I just got slapped.
Because I broke off my engagement.
I hadn't even sat down or changed out of my rain-soaked clothes when I was greeted with a full-blown dramatic orchestra by my mother—complete with tears and operatic pitch.
I'm sure my ex-fiancé already sold his version of the story.
Something like:
"I tried, Ma'am. But Caca refused to quit her job after marriage."
Of course, I didn't even get the chance to explain.
That's life. The one who speaks first gets believed.
"You never think, do you? Selfish! Reckless! You ended the engagement like it meant nothing!"
I stayed quiet. My cheek still stung from the slap.
But my heart—burned hotter.
"All you think about is your career! A woman's place is at home. Taking care of her husband."
"And who's going to take care of me, Ma? Skincare's expensive."
Mom glared. "Your husband, obviously!"
I gave a slight smirk. "The one who'll spend half his paycheck on me and the rest on himself? Can't even afford toner."
"You're too much, Caca."
"No, Ma. I'm just being realistic. I don't want to marry someone just to end up stressed out about bills every month."
"That's why you need a husband—to manage your chaotic life!"
I looked at her. Calm but sharp.
"Could you survive being married to him?"
Silence.
The air turned cold.
"Maybe the real reason you're pushing me to get married is so you can finally spoil your two golden boys in peace, huh?"
Dad glanced up briefly.
My brother Raka wore a blank expression.
Elan pretended to scroll his phone even though the signal was dead.
"What did you just say?" Mom's voice trembled.
"I'm twenty-eight and being pressured nonstop. Raka's thirty-one and chill. You never nag him about marriage."
"He's the eldest son. His responsibilities are different."
I gave a bitter smile.
"So wives are just for display?"
"Caca!" she shrieked.
"When I graduated, you told me to start working right away. Elan? You said he should take a break first. I'm tired, Ma.
Always being told to understand. Always being the one pushed."
Mom started crying. Her ultimate weapon.
But this time, those tears didn't move me.
"I won't get married just because I'm told to.
Especially not to someone who doesn't even respect me."
"What's wrong with your brain, huh?"
I shrugged. "Broken. Since birth."
Finally, Dad spoke.
"That's enough, Caca. Go to your room. I know you're tired."
I stood up. My legs trembled, but I held it in.
Once upstairs, I locked the door and let the tears fall.
Quiet. Slow. Like always.
My clothes were soaked. Hair dripping. Work bag soggy.
But none of that mattered to Mom.
What mattered was reputation.
Tradition.
What people say.
Tonight, I wanted to give up.
Not just on the engagement.
But on love itself.
Maybe I'm not meant for it.
Maybe I'm destined to work, save up, and adopt ten loyal cats—who won't cheat, won't demand I quit my job, and won't break my heart.
Tonight, I'm tired of being a "strong woman."
I just want to be human.
Human enough to feel tired.
To be fragile.
To not fake strength every single day.
~~~
Fresh out of the shower and in clean clothes, I stood by the window.
Night had fallen. The sky had stopped crying. But the house? Still cold—like a double-door refrigerator with trust issues.
The streetlights flickered faintly. The big tamarind tree across the road swayed gently, as if it could feel my inner turmoil.
And just like that, my stomach growled. Loud. Obnoxious.
But the idea of sitting at the dinner table with Mom?
No. Too dramatic for one evening.
My mood wasn't stable enough to survive her usual passive-aggressive monologue.
If I stayed, a spoon might become a weapon. I was serious.
So I decided to run away.
Not to Bali. Not to some mountain peak to find my lost soul.
Just... to my safe haven: the local angkringan down the street.
It was cheap, delicious, and most importantly—judgment-free.
I grabbed my jacket and a single blue bill. Enough.
I wasn't looking for a vacation.
Just rice, tea, and a little peace of mind.
My neighborhood wasn't the fancy, high-fenced kind where neighbors avoided eye contact.
Here, people knew things about your life before you did.
The fastest notification system in the world—no internet required.
So I had to move fast.
Before one auntie started a broadcast:
Cayra Spotted at 8PM With Messy Hair and Tragic Vibes.
I tiptoed downstairs.
The TV was on in the living room, blaring a soap opera that suspiciously mirrored my life.
No one was watching, though.
Mom sat with her arms crossed.
Dad was reading a newspaper so old, the news probably expired.
"Ca, where are you going?"
Mom's voice was soft—but laced with that familiar controlling undertone she wore like perfume.
I didn't answer.
Not out of rudeness.
But because if I opened my mouth, all the emotions I had bottled up would pour out like lava. And lava burns.
My hand gripped the doorknob.
Then came Dad's voice—gentle, firm, like wind brushing against a messy soul.
"Let her go, Ma. Maybe Caca just needs time alone."
I breathed in. Didn't look back.
But his words landed deep in my chest.
Not much.
But enough to remind me that maybe… I wasn't entirely alone.
Tonight, all I wanted was a moment of silence.
That's all I had.
That's all I asked for.
Maybe I was stubborn.
But maybe, that's what happens when no one ever truly stood up for you.
~~~
The night breeze brushed against my face. Cold, but oddly comforting. The wind whispered, "Relax, you're not completely ruined yet."
Along the street, neighbors gathered on their porches, chatting over sweet tea. Kids ran barefoot on the pavement, some yelling my name with too much joy.
I smiled. The official daughter-of-the-neighborhood-chief smile. Not fake, not sincere—just diplomatic. One wrong facial expression, and I could damage the family's PR.
It didn't take long to reach the angkringan. The dim lights gave it a warm glow. The smell of grilled rice and spiced ginger tea wrapped around me like childhood nostalgia. Safe. Uncomplicated.
"Mbak Caca! Usual order?" Pak Bejo called from behind his food cart.
I took a seat on the wooden bench. "Yes, please, Pak."
"Coming right up."
My usual menu never changed: nasi kucing, ginger tea, and fried snacks. Sometimes I paid in advance. Sometimes… I relied on the trust system. Luckily, Pak Bejo wasn't a debt collector.
"Oh, Mbak Caca's here!" another voice chimed in.
Bu Rumiyem emerged from the kitchen with a large basin and a face full of gossip energy.
"Evening, Bu," I greeted her with graceful poise, munching my first fried tempeh.
"Alone tonight? Where's Mas Raka and Elan?"
Normally, I'd come with my brothers. But tonight was strictly solo mode. No social obligations.
"They're home. I needed some me time."
Bu Rumiyem nodded in full understanding and patted my shoulder like she was blessing a holy decision.
"Good, good. Get it all out of your system before marriage. Once you're married, personal time becomes a myth."
I smiled politely. Inside, I screamed: "Bu, the wedding's off, but thank you for the reminder."
Before I could swallow my third bite, the horror came creeping in.
"So... when's the wedding, dear? Haven't heard much lately."
My throat immediately filed for early retirement. I choked. Coughed. Questions like this should be banned in public spaces.
"Just pray for me, Bu. Hopefully, I meet the right one," I said with a smile that was about to crack.
Bu Rumiyem froze. Her eyes widened. Her lips parted. It was the national expression of shock.
"Wait... weren't you already engaged?"
Pak Bejo swooped in like a local-budget Marvel hero.
"Bu, maybe don't ask personal stuff, yeah? Better help fry the tofu," he said with a flat but effective tone.
Bu Rumiyem turned around, nodded slowly, and disappeared into the kitchen—still visibly confused.
"Here's your order, Mbak Caca," said Pak Bejo, handing me the plate and teacup.
"Thanks, Pak."
I turned my seat toward the street. The night was quieter now. A gentle breeze brushed my face. From the table next to mine, whispers floated in.
"Did you hear? Emi got dumped again," said a young woman.
"Seriously? Why this time?"
I expected petty gossip. But the next line made my ears stand up.
"Her ex supposedly cursed her. Some kind of black magic. So she can't be with anyone else."
I almost choked again. Is this gossip… or my unofficial biography?
With the elegance of a film noir heroine, I casually sipped my tea while eavesdropping like a human-grade CCTV.
"How'd she find out?"
"A fortune teller who lives on a mountain slope. But she only sees people on Friday Kliwon."
My brain hit fast-forward, replaying every late-night Google search I'd made about non-scientific heartbreak remedies.
"What's her name again?"
"Mbah Sarmini, I think?"
I froze. That name appeared in more shady blogs and typo-ridden forums than I could count.
"Tomorrow's Friday Kliwon. Wanna go?"
"Sure. You're driving though."
"Deal!"
They giggled like extras in a teen drama. I didn't. My brain held an emergency referendum between logic and desperation.
A shaman? A love curse? Seriously?
My logic screamed, Cayra, get a grip.
But my heart… started negotiating.
Tonight's meal filled more than just my stomach. The absurd conversation clung to my soul like emotional superglue.
Can a broken heart be fixed by a mountain fortune teller? Who knows. But one thing was clear: tomorrow is Friday Kliwon. And I'm dangerously curious.
Life's messy. But tonight, I wanted simplicity: post-breakup drama, grilled rice at an angkringan, unexpected gossip, and one ridiculous idea.
What if... Mbah Sarmini is the universe's final attempt to save me?
I walked home with a full stomach, a buzzing mind, and a plan that made absolutely no sense.
Maybe, just maybe—when the universe gives up, it's time to call Mbah Sarmini.
~~~
EPILOGUE ✨
After stuffing myself and paying the bill, I walked back into the neighborhood. It was already late, but the atmosphere hadn't gone completely quiet. The moms and dads who had been lounging on their porches earlier were still there—like permanent fixtures, unaffected by bedtime.
They greeted me again, with those familiar friendly faces and smiles full of curiosity that almost felt like soft-core interrogations. A few asked where I'd been. I answered truthfully,
"From the angkringan."
Their response? Over-the-top nods, meaningful glances, and back to their main activity: an open-forum meeting with no moderator. The topics could range from chili prices to local gossip. Honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if my life ended up on the agenda next.
I bet if they ever found out I called off my engagement, their reactions would be more dramatic than a soap opera. They'd probably publish a neighborhood bulletin with personality breakdowns and future predictions. I'd become the next hot topic in the WhatsApp group—not because I achieved anything, but because I broke someone's heart.
But whatever. I'm only human, not a magician. I can't shut every mouth with just two hands.
And for some reason I can't explain, I suddenly sound wise. Must be the nasi kucing kicking in.
My steps slowed as I neared the house. To be honest, I wasn't in a rush to go back inside. The air in there was probably still cold—not from the AC, but from all the leftover drama.
Still, I had no choice. No phone, barely any money. Sleep on the sidewalk? I could see the headlines already:
"Runaway Bride Found Cuddling with Cardboard and Stray Rats."
I zipped my jacket tighter. The night air was sharp enough to make my nose itch. A small bonus from the universe, which clearly never runs out of surprises.
Then I stopped walking.
About a hundred meters from home, I spotted a pickup truck parked across the street. The back was filled with boxes and furniture. A few guys were unloading things into the house that—
wait a second. Isn't that the empty house across from mine?
So someone finally bought it?
The place had been abandoned ever since the previous owner moved out of town. Dad once said they had no plans to come back. And now someone was moving in—
at night?
A bold choice. Moving in to the sound of crickets and dim streetlights.
But who cares. As long as they didn't mess with my already-messy life, they could move in at midnight or mid-existential crisis. I'm not in charge of anyone else's storyline.
I kept walking.
When I reached my gate, I glanced back. The house across the street was glowing now. Lights on. Voices inside. And one figure on the porch.
A man.
He was arranging things, calm and methodical. Tall, well-built. The type who looked like a K-drama lead that accidentally moved into the wrong neighborhood. Something about him caught my attention.
His face wasn't entirely unfamiliar.
There was a feeling—like déjà vu. But faint.
I tried to recall, but my brain had already clocked out for the day.
Forget it.
I unlocked the gate and stepped in. My feet were heavy, but not as heavy as my thoughts.
The house was quiet. Too quiet for one that had just been rocked by a family meltdown.
Before I opened the door, I glanced at the umbrella stand on the porch.
There it was. A foreign umbrella—the one I'd used earlier.
A mysterious item that had appeared out of nowhere.
I stared at it for a second.
Then sighed.
Maybe it was just coincidence.
Or maybe… it wasn't.
I shut the door quietly behind me.
That night, I stepped into a house with a heart still healing, a mind tangled in questions, and a strange feeling I didn't know whether to resist or welcome.
Something told me my life had just started a new chapter.
And this chapter... would be anything but easy.
Possibly even messier than breaking off my own engagement.
Speaking of that engagement…
Curious why I called it off?
Relax.
The story's not over yet.
Stay tuned for the next chapter.
And don't forget the snacks.