Sudden Ti*ktok Superstar
1044 Words
I knew exactly why Mom insisted on leaving at dawn: Jakarta traffic is a nightmare, and it only gets worse every year. Even with the toll roads, in-town congestion is brutal. I glanced at a passing police station—empty, as usual. Figures.
Three hours to cover what should’ve been thirty minutes. By the time we pulled into Uncle’s driveway, the yard was already packed with cars and motorcycles. No surprise. My nonna has enough kids and grandkids to field a small army.
I clutched my social battery like it was a dying phone at 1%.
“Hello, everyone! Look who’s here!” Mom announced as we stepped into the living room.
I gave a small bow, smiled politely, and handed over the obligatory souvenirs and cakes to my aunties.
“Oh my God, Cahya and Arista! Welcome, welcome!”
“Arista, you’ve grown so tall—as always, the tallest girl in the family.”
“Hehe… hello, aunties, uncles, Eyang.”
Grandma—Eyang—was ninety-seven and aging like fine wine. She sat quietly in her wheelchair, surrounded by family, speaking little but smiling sweetly. She always kept a secret stash of candies just for me. My favorite person in any room.
I approached, kissed her hand. She kissed both my cheeks and patted my shoulder.
“Have you eaten, dear?” she asked in careful English, gesturing—she’d learned a few phrases just to make me feel included.
“Sudah, Eyang,” I answered in Bahasa.
“Makan lagi ya. Makan yang banyak,” she urged, pointing toward the kitchen.
“Terima kasih, Eyang.” I kissed her again and made my tactical escape before the crowd swallowed me.
I snagged a random scarf from the pile to cover my head (respectful camouflage) and slipped into the kitchen.
Indonesia’s humidity and traffic might be hell, but the food? Pure heaven.
The table was a glorious all-you-can-eat battlefield: rendang, opor ayam, sambal everything, grilled fish, mountains of rice. I loaded a plate—meats, chicken, whatever I could grab—and vanished to the balcony for my second breakfast in peace.
Peace lasted exactly twenty minutes.
“Kak Arista di sini!” one nephew shouted.
(Arista’s here!)
Cue the stampede. One photo turned into ten. Then group shots. Then some t****k shots I don't understand.
I was mid-smile when Mom strolled past.
“How sweet—you’re looking after the little ones. Why not teach them some English while you’re at it?”
“Mom…?”
The kids’ eyes lit up like I’d offered free Roblox Robux.
“Yes, Auntie! English, please!”
“I play Roblox, I can speak English!”
“Aku juga mau!”
(I want it too)
Goodbye, quiet afternoon.
They finally released me when Uncle arrived with a massive cake and sweets. Dinner came early; I ate again (family gatherings are basically competitive eating), then collapsed beside my cousin Mary.
“You good?” she asked.
“Dead.”
“The kids adore you.”
“Yeah, I’m their personal t****k star.” I sighed. “Why do they even have t****k?”
“Trends. Curiosity. Zero impulse control.”
“They should ban phones for anyone under fifteen.”
“Speaking of t****k…” Mary grinned, pulling out her phone. “You gotta see what’s blowing up right now.”
“Like a death punishment for corruption?”
“Wish. No—this super gorgeous foreigner in extravagant outfits walking around Jakarta. Spotted everywhere. People think it’s a Mr.Beast's prank or movie promo.”
“How gorgeous?”
“Look.”
I took the phone.
My stomach dropped.
No matter how many times I refreshed, the hashtags stayed the same: #CowokGanteng #FYP #Ikenm #Cosplay #Penyihir #EventJakarta #HotMen #ViralBanget.
It was him. The asylum escapee from the lake. In full wizard regalia, striding through malls, streets, everywhere. In less than a day, he’d become Jakarta’s top mystery man.
One clip: girls swarming him with phones.
“Why comest thou so close, peasant? And why dost thou thrust this tiny black box toward my face?” (His voice, still half-archaic, half-confused.)
“Kyaa! Look this way!”
“Hush—away! No touching—NO!”
His perfect face twisted in annoyance before he bolted into an alley and—poof—vanished.
“Masnya hilang, gaes!” (The guy disappeared!)
Video after video: walking, swarmed, running, disappearing.
Overnight FYP king. Jakarta’s most wanted (in both senses).
“He looks unreal,” Mary said. “Hollywood filming here or what?”
“Whatever it is,” I muttered, handing the phone back, “I want nothing to do with it.”
My battery—social and literal—was at zero. All I wanted was my bed.
“Arista!” Mom called.
“Yes?”
“Aunt Sarah invited me to stay and visit Bandung. Want to come?”
“If you want to go, go. I’ve got deadlines from my editor. Need quiet to work.”
“You’ll be okay alone at the apartment?”
“Mom. I’m twenty-five.”
“Fine. Order Grab or Gojek home.”
“Got it.”
She smiled too sweetly. “And don’t forget to find yourself a boyfriend!” and went back gossiping with other aunties.
I walked away shaking my head, said lengthy goodbyes to everyone, and finally escaped into the waiting car.
“Selamat malam, Mbak. Alamat sudah benar?”
(Good evening, Miss. Is the address correct?)
“Ya, Pak.”
Nighttime Jakarta slid past the window—still bright, still chaotic. Street kids singing at intersections, vendors hawking satay, neon flashing red to green.
We stopped at a light.
My eyes wandered… and locked.
There—on a rooftop storefront, half-hidden in shadows but gleaming under billboards—stood a tall figure in extravagant robes. Platinum hair catching every light.
Our gazes met across the traffic.
Those emerald eyes pinned me like vines.
Green light.
The car moved. I twisted around for a second look. Gone. Just like in the videos. I sank back into the seat, heart thudding for no logical reason.
Great.
Jakarta now had a viral wizard.
And somehow, I had a feeling my quiet writing retreat just got canceled.
- Writer
