For those who just lost someone

II: Thirst trap

I planned everything carefully—from the i********: story I would post to the outfit I would wear to catch B2's attention.

Yes, I know. I promised myself I would try to forget about him.

But sometimes I can be a masochist, especially when it comes to my own heart. Or maybe I'm just bored. I can't find a valid excuse for what I'm doing. It feels like I placed myself in a situation I can't easily escape.

Thirst trap, my friend called it.

I had never even heard the term before. Yes, yes—I'm a millennial who spent most of her life trapped in responsibility as the eldest daughter. Somewhere between obligations and expectations, I also trapped myself inside my dream of becoming a so-called romance writer.

And here I am now, writing this . . . whatever this is.

Maybe it's a self-help book. Maybe it's a confession. Maybe it's just me trying to make sense of my own heart.

Just keep reading. I'm sure that eventually you'll learn something from it—or at the very least, it will feel like you're sitting beside me, offering silent support.

Lately, I've been trying to catch up with life. Thanks to my friend—let's call her Maria. She's the one guiding me back to myself, teaching me how to become a woman again, not just a responsible daughter or a work machine.

She reminds me that there is life after work. That the world has moved forward while I was busy surviving. And that I am still worth the effort of being loved by a man.

So I guess I need to start this story from the very beginning—because meeting K made me feel, for a brief moment, that everything in my life had somehow aligned perfectly.

Yes, this self-help book is about him.

And for the first time, I'm not writing a romance where the man who broke my heart becomes the hero of the story.

Because the truth is, I'm still healing. Right now, at this exact moment as I write these words, I hate him to the core.

You'll understand why soon enough. And when you do, I think you'll be on my side.

I realized that the only way to end the hatred in my heart was to forgive. But how do you forgive someone when the pain they caused still lives inside you?

Even after cutting him out of your life, the pain remained. It lingered in quiet moments, in memories I didn't ask for, and in the silence that followed everything we had been.

So yeah, Bali it is.

I had actually planned to visit Bali earlier that year, around September—long before I met B2. Back then, traveling felt like the only thing that gave my life direction. But plans changed. Something happened with my leave, and instead of Bali, I ended up going to Bangkok.

Months later, Bali came back into the picture.

My friend Maria and I planned everything carefully. Flight date, places we wanted to visit, the photos we would take, the poses we had to do—every little detail. But the night before our flight, she told me that I should go ahead without her. She had to stay for one more overtime shift.

We both work for an airline, where plans can change in an instant. With Wi-Fi and access to booking systems, adjustments are part of the job.

Apparently, she had already told me earlier through i********: messages about her plan. But I hadn't noticed. We had been sending each other so many reels about Bali—beaches, cafés, sunsets, outfits we wanted to wear—that her message got lost somewhere between all the excitement.

She insisted that I should still go. She was even willing to share the hotel expenses for the first night, even if I was staying there alone. And that I could spend the day however I wanted to.

November 16.

Sometimes, I wish that day never happened. Or I could just agree with Maria, so I don't have to meet K. But I also know it happen—for a reason. Without it, this story would never exist. Without it, I wouldn't be writing this book.

As usual, I panicked. I told her the whole point of traveling together was to start the trip together—to share the memories from the moment we left Dubai.

But Maria knew the deeper reason.

There was this i********: post I had been wanting to recreate. A woman sitting on top of her luggage at the airport, wearing a bold, sexy outfit, with the massive flight information screen glowing behind her.

I wanted to take that photo. And if I'm being honest with myself, I wanted B2 to see it.

And he did. Hurray! That alone felt like a small victory.

I was traveling with Maria, and honestly, I was excited. But during that eight-hour flight, my mind kept drifting back to B2. I caught myself staring at a young couple sitting across from me. They looked so natural together—comfortable, effortless.

In my local dialect, we say 'sana all', which loosely means, I wish that were me.

And at that moment, that was exactly how I felt.

Because deep inside, that was what I truly wanted. Not the attention. Not the views. Not the reactions.

I wanted the fantasy in my mind to become real. I wanted the kind of love where two people travel together, laugh together, and share quiet moments on long flights without needing to say much at all.

When we landed in Bali, I went straight back into storytelling mode. One i********: story after another. The airport, the ride, the small glimpses of the trip. Most of the time, he was the first person to view them.

And every time I noticed that, I felt a strange sense of contentment.

It made me think constantly: What should my next story be? What song should I use? What moment should I share next?

Maria and I arrived at our hotel around 8 p.m. We were exhausted from the flight, so we decided to have a quick dinner and leave the real planning for the next day.

Later that night, as we were getting ready for bed, we finally talked about what we wanted to do for our first full day in Bali.

Maria said she wanted to go to Cretya. I immediately said yes. B2 suggested I should do so.

To be honest, I was just going with the flow. The whole reason we came to Bali was to celebrate my friend's birthday, and I wanted her to enjoy every moment of it.

So we agreed: Cretya in the morning, and after that, we would simply see where the day would take us.

We booked a Gojek motorcycle ride to Cretya. That small detail matters because the driver would later become part of the strangely aligned story I had been experiencing.

I won't go into every detail about the ride there. What I can say is that visiting the place was absolutely worth it. Cretya was breathtaking. From the moment we sat quietly by the pool, just relaxing and taking in the view, to the long time we spent trying to capture the perfect photo in that famous net overlooking the rice fields. I remember laughing because I couldn't get the right angle for what felt like forever. And of course, there was the long queue for the iconic swing ride — the kind of thing you see in countless Bali photos.

Without me realizing it at the time, Maria had already exchanged numbers with our Gojek driver so we wouldn't have to keep booking through the app whenever we needed a ride. It turned out to be a practical decision. Bali was full of places we wanted to explore, and having a familiar driver made things easier.

While we were waiting for the soft copies of the photos from the swing experience, Maria messaged him again. As we were about to leave Cretya, she told me she wanted to visit the elephants.

The elephants!

Even now, just thinking about that memory fills me with a strange mix of nostalgia and emotion. Part of me wanted to say no. I almost wished I had, just to protect myself from the wave of feelings that would follow in the months ahead. But another part of me wanted to surrender to the moment — to trust the flow of things, even if I didn't understand where it was leading me.

The driver arrived with a friend so the two of them could take us on separate motorcycles.

On the ride to the elephant sanctuary, I suddenly felt that familiar sharp pang in my chest. My thoughts drifted back to B2. I kept replaying the small details that had started to bother me — how he would only react to my i********: stories when they showed more skin.

I understood that he was a man, and maybe that kind of reaction was normal. But I had always considered myself somewhat conservative. Slowly, I began noticing subtle changes in myself — changes I wasn't sure I was comfortable with.

And in that moment, riding through the roads of Bali on the way to see elephants, my heart felt unexpectedly heavy.

I missed him, and the feeling pressed slowly against my heart. My mind kept wandering back to him, and suddenly I caught myself hating that feeling. Why was I still longing for someone I can never have?

I sat there staring at the quiet beauty of Ubud — the endless rice fields, the calm air, the simplicity of life around me. The people here seemed content with so little. Yet inside me there was a strange emptiness.

It was the kind of moment you want to share with someone. To me, not just anyone. I wanted to share it with B2.

But deep down I already knew the truth: it would never unfold the way I imagined. I knew what he wanted. Before I left for Bali, he had told me — parties, loud music, the chaos of Seminyak nights.

And what I wanted . . . was silence, nature, meaning. We were two different people, from two different generations, wanting two completely different lives. What I was holding onto was not a future. It was a fantasy.

I remember clearly when we drove past an old bridge. Almost instinctively, I whispered a quiet prayer:

"Please God, send me another man I might like. I want to love someone."

That was all I asked.

Looking back now, I sometimes laugh at how vague my prayer was. If I had known better, maybe I would have been more specific.

Later that day, when we arrived at the elephant sanctuary, I hesitated at the entrance. The ticket cost almost a hundred dirhams just to see elephants. For a moment, I nearly turned around. I had never really been an animal lover. Not that I disliked them, but paying that much money just to look at an animal for a few minutes felt excessive.

Still, something made me stay. Sometimes the most unexpected moments begin with hesitation.

Before we even entered the place, Maria and I went to the washroom first to change our outfits. I had already decided on my plan. I wore a yellow bikini top that almost looked like a bra, paired with shorts. The place looked a bit like a small zoo. To be honest, I wasn't that uncomfortable at first. I didn't know anyone, and there weren't many tourists around.

As we walked toward the elephant area, Maria became visibly excited. Between the two of us, she's always been the softer one. She genuinely loves animals.

When we got closer, someone was already feeding the elephant. Looking back now, that was the moment my nightmare quietly began—though, of course, I had no idea then.

I still clearly remember what Maria said in our local dialect, "Oh, ayan na, bii. Pwede na 'yan."

She was referring to the tall black guy who was feeding the elephant.

I immediately said no.

I need to be very honest here. I have close Black friends and colleagues, and I enjoy their company. But I had never imagined myself being attracted to one. In my mind, I had already built a picture of the kind of man I wanted—someone white, serious, and reserved. Because of that, I didn't even bother looking at him. In my mind, he simply wasn't my type.

I know myself well in situations like that. When I'm attracted to someone, I can't stop looking at them. I want their attention. But at that moment, all I wanted was to finish the activity and leave.

Time passed and I didn't notice anything unusual. Maria and I took a lot of photos with the elephant. After several minutes, we decided it was time to go. As we walked away, I could feel my eyes almost rolling in disappointment. I honestly felt like the money we spent wasn't even worth it.

Little did I know, that seemingly ordinary moment would later turn into something far more meaningful than I expected.

I know this may sound harsh, but I've never really been an animal person—and I won't even try to justify it. As we were walking toward the exit, we noticed K standing nearby while what looked like a professional photographer was taking his pictures. A woman, slightly older than him, stood beside him. I assumed she might be his wife.

Maria, however, was far more interested in him than I was. She kept nudging me, insisting that he was actually attractive. With his height—six foot eight, by the way—she even joked that he could easily be a basketball player. Still, I stood my ground. He simply wasn't my type. And yes, it's important to remember that I truly believed that at the time.

As we walked past them, K suddenly spoke to us. I didn't quite catch what he said, but Maria—being the friendliest one between us—responded right away. Before I knew it, he asked if he could take a picture with us. We agreed.

Then a mischievous idea crossed my mind.

Why not take a photo with him and post it on my i********: story? Maybe it would make B2 a little jealous. I'll admit it—I can be petty sometimes.

So we took a picture together, just the two of us, while Maria played photographer. I even asked him to look down at me while I gazed up at him. I joked that the photo was simply meant to make someone jealous.

But the moment the camera turned toward us, my natural shyness—especially around men—took over. Instead of posing confidently, I burst into laughter.

Fortunately, Maria managed to capture the moment perfectly. The photo turned out surprisingly beautiful. In the frame, K was looking down at me with a warm, almost affectionate expression . . . or at least, that's how it seemed to me. And I was giggling, as if he had said something romantic that me laugh while gazing up at him.