Emails I wrote on October 8th and 11th 2024, but never sent.

October 8th, 2024

Dear Di,

I’m writing this from the balcony of my guesthouse in Tokyo. Well, actually, rather than a balcony it’s more of a laundry-drying area on the third floor that the manager lets the guests use. It’s almost 10 PM here, and I’m looking at a tall building across the way, its crown sparkling with white and blue-ish lights. To my left, I can hear the rhythmic buzz of trains moving through the night, that particular Tokyo sound that never quite stops.

I feel like an alien here. Like that jazz song you love: “Englishman in New York”, except I’m some lost soul in Tokyo. Maybe it’s because I don’t speak the language and can’t read most of the signs. Or maybe it’s just because I miss you so dearly.

Earlier tonight, I walked to the konbini to grab some drinks for me and my friend. On my way back, I stopped in front of a vending machine. I don’t know why I stopped there. I’d already bought what I needed. I just stood there under my umbrella in the light drizzle, staring at it. The white LED light illuminating the rows of drinks inside, all those bottles and cans lined up so perfectly. I stood there with empty eyes, letting the rain patter on the umbrella, and I thought about you.

I missed you. I miss you.

I wish I was drunk right now. So I’d have the courage to actually send you this letter.

But no. I am completely sober.

I’m drinking a banana milk I picked up from the konbini and lit a cigarette even though I’m trying to quit. The smoke curls up and disappears into thin air. The early autumn air is sharp and cold in a way that makes me feel awake, almost painfully present.

The cold breeze bites at my hands as I type this on my phone. I should go inside, but I don’t want to. Not yet. I haven’t finished my drink, haven’t finished my cig. And certainly I haven’t finished thinking about you.

Sat.

October 11th, 2024

Nadine,

Today I visited temples and shrines around Kamakura. I watched the locals do some praying ritual, and I eventually did the praying ritual myself. In one of the praying, I prayed for you.

I asked that you be safe, that you be happy, that life treats you gently.

I don’t even know who I was talking to. The Kami-sama of that particular shrine? Or some other ancient deity? Would a Japanese god even grant a prayer for someone in a different country, over five thousand kilometers away?

I don’t know. But in that moment, it felt natural to slip your name into my prayer.

Afterward, I sat on the beach for a long time, just staring at the water. The waves coming in, going out. People walking by with their families, their friends, their dogs.

I haven’t sent the last email I wrote to you. Maybe I never will. I don’t know.

I remember one time you encouraged me to write you a letter. A real one, you said. One where I pour my heart out, where I don’t hold back. You told me I had a passion for writing but that I always kept it lowkey, never felt confident enough to show my work to anyone. If I’m being honest, I hated the idea. I hate pouring my heart out, hate being that vulnerable. And you knew that about me.

But you were also the one who encouraged me to lower my guard. To try, even if it scared me.

I never actually told you this, but you’re one of the only people I’ve ever felt truly comfortable being vulnerable with. You didn’t even have to ask. It just happened. Around you, the walls came down without me noticing.

So here I am, sitting on a beach on the other side of the world, finally writing you that letter. The one you asked for. Except you’re not here to read it, and I don’t know if I’ll ever send it.

I meant to buy you an omamori today. One of those protective charms they sell at the shrines. Something to keep you safe, or maybe just a keepsake to remember this trip by. But I walked right past them. I forgot.

Maybe that’s fitting. I always seem to forget the important things until it’s too late.

The sun is setting now. The sky is bleeding pink into orange across the horizon. It’s beautiful. I wish you were here to see it.

Sat.

One must assume the clown in Edward Hopper’s Soir Bleu is happy.

I don’t consider myself a moon guy. I’m more of a stars guy myself. I like those thousands of little dots scattered across the night sky that are actually great balls of fire. But every now and then, I do prefer the moon over the stars, especially during a full moon. You know, you can’t see a full moon every day. During special occasions like this, I genuinely adore the moon.

I was just looking at the weather app on my phone this afternoon, trying to check whether tomorrow would bring rain. Then I scrolled to the bottom and found that today (or tonight) would be a full moon. Well, not the FULL MOON – full moon, the weather app said “Waning Gibbous”. I was late by one day. The actual full moon was yesterday. Well, whatever. I always consider the full moon to last for three days anyway.

My plan was simple: I would watch the moonrise while enjoying some drinks. One thing about observing celestial objects from planet Earth is that they always look bigger when they rise and when they set. There’s something about being close to the horizon that makes the sun and moon appear larger, creating a more dramatic effect.

The moonrise would start at 6:18 PM, according to the weather app. I was three hours late. I was occupied by watching this K-Drama about a group of former national athletes who became cops. Before I went to the rooftop, I picked up a drink from the fridge and grabbed this ceramic tea cup I bought from an artisan pottery shop in town. I chose this one cup because of its unique design: a white tea cup without a handle, with white glaze that makes it look like ice cream melted around the outer edge of the cup.

I deliberately don’t turn on the rooftop lights. I don’t want any light to distract me. Tonight is all about the moonlight. I sound like a werewolf who will transform tonight, but trust me, I’m not.

Tonight’s drink is cold brew tea that’s been sitting in the fridge for five days. The pitcher is almost empty, so I might as well drink it all for this occasion. This has become something of a ritual for me. These solitary moon-watching sessions while enjoying some drinks. Sometimes it’s coffee, sometimes soda, rum, or beer. But tonight, it’s this forgotten tea, perfectly chilled and ready to accompany my late rendezvous with the moon.

I sit on top of the low concrete wall, barely knee-high, trying to balance myself so I don’t fall sideways. I pour my drink into the cup, raise it high up in the air, and make a gesture like I’m toasting the moon. “Salut!” I say almost like a whisper, feeling slightly ridiculous but oddly satisfied.

Then I just sit there. And sit. And sit some more. Staring at the moon like it might suddenly do something interesting, sipping my tea slowly—melancholically. The silence stretches on, broken only by the distant hum of traffic and the occasional motorcycle revving in the distance. I raise my cup again in another respectful toast. The moon really is beautiful tonight, hanging there like a slightly imperfect pearl against the dark sky.

My mind starts to wander, as it always does during these quiet moments. I find myself thinking about the past. I remember back in high school I participated in the National Science Olympiad (OSN) for Astronomy at the city level—I ended up winning first place. There is this one topic that I still remember to this day, which is apparent magnitude. To put it simply, it’s a way to measure a celestial object’s relative brightness. The full moon has an apparent magnitude of -12.60. Twenty-five thousand times brighter than the brightest star from planet Earth, which is Sirius A. It’s fascinating that among other topics like coordinate systems,**celestial mechanics, redshift, or stellar classification, this one topic about apparent magnitude sticks with me to this day

It’s funny how the moon connects to so many memories. I remember Luna, my old friend who I haven’t seen in maybe a decade. Her name literally means the moon. There’s something beautiful about how parents around the world choose to name their children after the moon. In any language, in any culture, people seem to agree that the moon is worth honoring this way. Luna in Latin, Selene in Greek, Chandra in Sanskrit, Yue in Chinese. Each culture looks up at the same celestial companion and thinks, “Yes, this is beautiful enough to name my child after”. It speaks to something universal about human nature. How we’re drawn to beauty, how we want to carry a piece of that wonder with us through our names, our stories, our quiet moments like this one. The moon has been humanity’s companion for millennia, and here I am, continuing that ancient tradition of simply sitting and appreciating its presence.

I manage to stay up there for about an hour, just sitting and thinking and occasionally toasting the moon with my slowly diminishing tea. But eventually, nature calls, and I have to head back inside. My bladder, unfortunately, doesn’t care about my philosophical moon-gazing session.

Before I head back inside, while picking up the pitcher and the cup, I’m already planning my next date with the moon. I’ll bring two cups next time—one for me, one for the moon, because it feels right somehow. I’ll bring a drink of my choice, whatever strikes my fancy that night. And I’ll bring a book, something good that I can read by moonlight. I’ll stay longer next time, really settle in for the evening. There’s something appealing about the idea of reading while the moon watches over me, like having a quiet, luminous companion for the night.

Wherever it might be, I’m looking forward to the next date.

Last night, I watched a Korean drama that’s recently gained popularity. It’s about the lives of OBGYN residents at a medical center. Watching the story unfold made me think of you, somehow. I was always curious about your days in the hospital. Did your senior doctor ever yell at you? Did you pull all-nighters at the hospital?

I know you’re a GP, not a resident doctor. But that’s not a big difference, right?
Or am I wrong?
Well, I might be wrong.

It’s kind of sad that you never told me how your days went at the hospital. What it’s like navigating long chaotic nights or dealing with tough patients. I asked you several times about your routine, but you never let me in on it. And you never told me what kind of doctor you want to be, either. You didn’t give me even the smallest hint. But, you know what, I believe you’ve already decided which specialty you want to pursue. You just need the time and support to take that next big step.

One thing I noticed in the show is that the doctors drink coffee every day, sometimes too much. It made me wonder: Are all doctors like this? Did you pick up your high coffee consumption after becoming a doctor, or should I call it an addiction? I’m not going to nag you about the risks of too much caffeine—you probably know more about that than I do. If I could help you a little bit, I’d love to buy you another double-shot iced hazelnut latte, just like last year. Maybe I’d throw in two es kopi susu for the nurses, too.

Tonight is the final episode of the show. I hope the doctors get the ending they deserve. The same goes for you, I hope you have the good life you deserve. I hope you’re finding your way, day by day, growing into the kind of person you want to be, a better person for yourself and those around you. And I hope you can enjoy a nice double-shot iced hazelnut latte during your shift. I know we don’t talk anymore, but happy birthday.

I really dislike writing self-reflective pieces or personal monologues, especially if other people can read them. But here I am, compelled by some sudden urge to document what feels like watching a door close on something I never knew I had.

I’ve never been good at marking time, but some numbers stick. One of them is 27. There’s something almost mythical about that age, the age when life supposedly demands big decisions. And as of today, I can no longer join the 27 club. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not. Well, first I’m not a famous musician nor a great actor. So if I had died yesterday, I don’t think anyone would put my name on the list.

Do I want my name to be on the list? I don’t know. I no longer have those scary thoughts of ending my life, but I constantly feel like it would be nice if I could disappear from this world and never come back. No violence, no drama, just… fade away, like smoke dissipating into thin air.

Exactly a week ago, I suddenly remembered about this book that I would say describes my 27. A poetry book that I found at a small independent bookstore in Pasar Santa, Jakarta. It was love at first sight. I bought the book right away.

It was one in the morning when I retrieved the book from my container box containing my personal—not so important—stuff. I spent a full three minutes staring at the cover, transfixed. A simple drawing and text. It depicts a man sitting in a bar or cafe, right arm resting on the table, left arm cradling his head, looking profoundly stressed. For some inexplicable reason, I could utterly relate to this solitary figure. Then I began reading the title, slowly: “Visions of Mundane Madness.” Yup, that’s it. I would describe my 27 as precisely that: visions of mundane madness.

During this time I was dealing with some bad stuff. A lot with stagnation, zero progress, no actions, decision fatigue, and analysis paralysis, to name a few. I feel like I was walking in the same place this whole time. And for me, that’s worse than failure.

The first half of my 27 was filled with internal fear, self-doubt, excessive comparison, and constantly feeling like a failure. I was ashamed of myself, to say the least. The second half was filled with self-loathing, making mistakes that jeopardized my friendships, digging up useless past mistakes, too much isolation, and endless ruminating on where it went wrong.

I feel like the progress that I made over the past three years just vanished in the span of one year, especially in the financial and career departments. I was bleeding chips, and I needed a way out. Fast! But it never happened. Somehow all opportunity doors were closed, leaving me sitting alone in a dark, cold place.

Did I actually make progress? Yes, probably. But it was not enough. It was never enough. I need more because I know I can do more. But—I feel like—I never put in the work to achieve that.

Do I think it’s getting better? Hard to say. But it’s getting there. Sloowwwwly. Sometimes it’s frustrating because I’m expecting a faster pace. But I’m trying. I’m trying to give myself the time to feel the progress as slowly as it is.

There’s one poem from the book I want to include here.

#37.

The story was told
by a timid narrator who was easily
startled by his own inflections,
         his long pauses...
And in this vacuum
strangers who have enough
stories up their sleeve
took over, continued
his plotless one with poise.
Their voices, loud and
strong like thunder.
cracked the earth he had
never trusted to bear
the weight of his worries.
        He
        fell,
        into
        a
        deep,
        dark
        hole
where the rest of his
kind are trapped⸺trapped
        in their own incapability
to speak for themselves.

The book sits on my desk now, that stressed figure on the cover still staring back at me. I suppose we’re both still here, still sitting, still figuring it out.

Throughout my lifetime, I’ve lived in four or five places. From a small quiet village in West Sumbawa to the big city like Jakarta. There’s one place that I want to claim as my own, though I have no right to it.

Semarang exists in my life like a half-remembered song. I know the melody but can’t quite place the lyrics. I was born there but left when I was barely one year old, carried away to a small town 80 kilometers west where I would spend the next seventeen years of my life. Yet something about Semarang pulls at me, makes me want to call it home in a way my actual hometown never could.

Perhaps it’s the weight the name carries. There’s a certain prestige in saying you’re from Semarang. It’s an okay city, not too big, not too small, not too crowded, definitely not too chaotic. When I mention it, people nod with recognition. They know it. It exists on their mental map of Indonesia in a way my actual hometown never will.

I know fragments of Semarang like scattered puzzle pieces that never quite form a complete picture. I know that my father’s school is the number one school in the city—I even tried to enroll there once but decided against it. I make pilgrimages to Nasi Gandul Pak Memet on Jalan Dr. Cipto every time I have the chance, though the warung is usually closed when I arrive. My family performs our annual ritual of visiting the Gramedia bookstore on Jalan Pandanaran whenever we mudik, as if this routine might somehow anchor us to the place.

I can recite neighborhood names like: Peterongan, Gombel, Banyumanik, Kesatrian, Kalibanteng, Krapyak, Tol Jatingaleh, Tembalang, etc. I know where to find good soto Semarang, or where to get proper lumpia. These are the credentials of familiarity, the evidence I collect to prove my connection.

But then reality intrudes. These names feel strange and utterly distant on my tongue, as if I’m an alien trying to speak a language I’ve only heard in fragments. The words don’t flow naturally. They stick, unfamiliar and awkward. Ask me how to get from Undip to Paragon Mall, and I will freeze immediately. I can’t even picture where Paragon Mall is located, let alone trace a route there in my mind. Without Google Maps, I’m helpless, a tourist in what should be my hometown.

The contradiction is maddening. I visit every year for mudik, walking through streets that should feel like home but instead feel like a recurring dream—familiar in theory, strange in practice. I know Semarang exists in my life, but I don’t live in Semarang’s life.

My connection to the city has always been filtered through distance and longing. My first crush was a girl who studied at SMP 2 Semarang. I saw her picture on my middle school friend’s laptop. The weirdest part is we’d never met, yet something about her being from there made her seem more significant, more real somehow. Even my mother attended a Catholic school there despite not being Catholic herself, adding another layer to my family’s complicated relationship with the city.

To be honest, I prefer Jojga, where I currently live. Jogja feels like home in all the ways Semarang doesn’t. I know its streets, its rhythms, its personality. I can navigate it without Maps, can recommend places with confidence, can speak its neighborhood names with ease. But Jogja isn’t where I’m from, it’s just where I happen to be.

This tension actually comes from a regular question, a simple “where are you from?”.

My instinct is to mention the small town where I actually grew up, where my memories live, where I spent seventeen years of my early life. But there’s always this hesitation, this pull toward another answer: Semarang. The city I want to claim but feel I have no right to.

The question freezes me every time because it forces me to confront this contradiction at my core. I want to be remembered as a person from Semarang, want that connection, that belonging, that simple answer to a simple question. But the unfamiliarity I feel with the city seems to whisper that I cannot claim it.

Identity, it turns out, isn’t just about where you’re born or where you live. It’s about the space between those two points, the longing for connection, the gap between who you were, who you are, and who you want to be. Semarang represents something I’ve never quite been able to grasp: the idea of having a hometown that matters, a place that shaped me before I was even old enough to remember.

Perhaps this unfamiliarity is its own kind of relationship. Perhaps loving a city from a distance, knowing it in fragments, carrying its name like a question mark. Perhaps that’s also a way of belonging. Not the belonging of daily life and worn paths, but the belonging of inheritance and aspiration, of claiming something not because you lived it, but because it lives in you.

The city I want to claim as my own remains familiarly unfamiliar, and maybe that’s exactly what makes it mine.

Nostalgia is a beautiful liar. It shows you highlight reels while hiding all the reasons things ended. Like a dentist’s novocaine before a painful procedure, it numbs the sharp edges of your present reality, offering temporary relief from whatever ache you’re trying to escape.

Sometimes nostalgia hits you like a truck out of nowhere—triggered by a song bleeding through coffee shop speakers, the particular scent of someone’s perfume on a crowded street, or a photograph that falls from an old book. Other times, you seek it out deliberately, scrolling through old photos and replaying conversations, convincing yourself that what’s gone was better than what remains.

This is nostalgia’s paradox: it can be both medicine and poison, depending on the dosage.

When you’re stuck in a rut, nostalgia reminds you that you once did meaningful things, that you once enjoyed life fully. It’s proof that happiness existed, that connection was real, that you’re capable of feeling whole. In small doses, this remembering can be healing—evidence that good times are possible again.

But abuse the prescription, and nostalgia becomes something else entirely. It traps you between worlds: physically here but mentally living in moments that no longer exist. You find yourself giving your present away to ghosts who have already moved on with their lives. While you’re analyzing every detail of what used to be, they’ve created new stories that don’t include you. They’ve found peace by letting go of what you still hold onto.

The cruelest part is that you’re often remembering alone.

Your mind wasn’t designed to live in the past. It was made for right now, for building new connections, for healing, for growing beyond what was. When nostalgia becomes your primary coping mechanism, when you’re constantly numbing today’s pain with yesterday’s joy, you stop progressing. You become, in a sense, dead to the present moment.

Yet there’s wisdom in recognizing nostalgia’s power. You can learn to create it intentionally, focusing on present moments with the awareness that they might one day become the memories that sustain you. Think of it as stacking aspirin for reality’s future headaches. Document the ordinary Tuesday. Notice how the light falls across your kitchen table. Pay attention to how your friend laughs at your terrible joke.

The memories worth keeping are the ones that gently inform your future, not the ones that hold it hostage. The difference lies in whether you’re using the past as a foundation to build upon or as a hiding place to retreat to.