January 5th, 2025
Today was one of those slow, comforting winter days where time feels like it’s wrapped in a soft blanket. My head was still pounding from last night’s headache, so I took Panadol and stayed cocooned in bed, letting the world outside carry on without me for a while.
Earlier, I had asked Ilham to find me a new game. Something cozy, something I could get lost in. I’ve always loved games where I play the role of a manager, or as I like to call them: God-view games. Titles like The Sims or Two Point Hospital/Campus are my favorites. I love managing things, strategizing, and being the “boss.” Haha.
First-person POV games, on the other hand, are not for me. They make me incredibly dizzy, and after 30 minutes, I’m usually on the verge of vomiting. Knowing exactly what I like, Ilham was determined to find something perfect for me.
He came back with News Tower, a simulation game where I get to build and manage a newspaper company set in the early 1900s. “I think you’ll like this one,” he said confidently as he handed me the download link.
He was right. I played for hours, completely engrossed in planning layouts, hiring journalists, and managing resources. The sepia tones and vintage vibe of the game felt familiar, almost like stepping into a scene from Sherlock Holmes. It felt fitting, considering I’ve been reading the book again.
I’ve watched every adaptation, every series, and every movie, but I’ve never actually finished the book. This time, I told myself, I will finish it.
For lunch, I tried one of those viral Shin Ramyun recipes, adding minced garlic, Kewpie mayo, and crispy chili oil. The first bite was heavenly, like a warm hug in noodle form.
The afternoon was spent cuddling with Cino, my spoiled little furball. He napped on my chest as I sat slouched on the sofa, adjusting myself to accommodate his royal comfort. I gave him belly rubs and scratched his neck, and he purred loudly in return, completely unable to resist the premium service.
Afterward, Maya texted me a photo of her snowy backyard: “I just woke up, and it’s snowing!”
I shuffled to the balcony, and when I opened the window, a sharp, freezing breeze rushed in, biting at my skin. Tiny, icy flakes drifted through the air, soft as whispers, landing gently on my cheek before melting away. The empty plant pots I had left on the railing were now half-filled with delicate, fluffy snow, like tiny white pillows stacked carelessly by the wind.
Beyond the railing, the yellow glow of the streetlamp illuminated the falling snow, each flake catching the light for a brief moment before joining the soft, growing layers blanketing the road and cars below. The world felt muffled, hushed, wrapped in a thick snowy silence.
I took a deep breath, the icy air rushing sharply into my lungs and sending a cool tingle to my head. For a brief second, it stung. Then came a wave of clarity, crisp and refreshing, like hitting a reset button in the middle of a quiet winter night.
Snow has always felt magical to me. Growing up in Indonesia, where the sun dominates and snow only exists in movies, seeing it still feels surreal. But magic comes with a price. The freezing cold wind can slice through even the thickest coat, and if I’m not careful, I’ll fall sick.
Yesterday, when I was about to meet Maya, I picked up my Doc Martens and was surprised to find them covered in dust. I had no time to clean them then, and I ended up wearing shoes that barely kept me warm. That thought lingered as I stared at the snowflakes falling silently outside.
Tomorrow, I need to go to the office. There are quite a few new joiners on my team, and I want to be there to meet them properly. The idea of stepping out into the freezing cold wind made me shudder, but at the same time, I couldn’t wait to touch the fresh, fluffy snow again. To see it up close, falling into my hands like tiny glass treasures.
With that thought tucked away, I crawled back into bed and started scrolling through my phone.
Somewhere between posts and reels, a warm, savory fragrance drifted into the room. I paused, lifted my head slightly, and took a deep breath. The smell was rich and inviting, filled with spices that clung softly to the air.
I smiled, realizing it was coming from the kitchen, and from Ilham.
I shuffled out of bed, wandered into the kitchen, and found him stirring something in a pot.
“It smells so good,” I said, leaning against the doorway. “I’m really looking forward to this.”
He turned slightly, gave me a quick nod, and continued cooking.
Ilham has never been the type to shy away from domestic responsibilities. He doesn’t see chores as “women’s work,” nor has he ever asked or expected me to cook for him. Cooking is usually my initiative. It’s something I enjoy doing when I have the energy. When I was sick and had no appetite, I remember the porridge he mad. It was piping hot and soft, with tiny bits of rice still there, made the chewing experience enjoyable. I devoured the whole bowl and immediately gained some energy. Now, when he knew I wasn’t feeling well, he automatically stepped into the role of chef without hesitation.
It’s such a simple thing, someone cooking a meal for you, but it carries so much meaning. His quiet care and willingness to step in when I need it remind me how lucky I am to have a partner who views our home as a shared space, not a division of roles.
Satisfied with my quick visit, I returned to the Ilham’s PC and switched on my game. The News Tower newsroom was still buzzing with deadlines and layout plans, and I slipped back into my role as editor-in-chief.
A little while later, Ilham called me for dinner. I arranged my bowl, a plate of white rice, and my Kindle neatly for a photo. Soto Ayam made by Ilham, I captioned it proudly and tagged him on Instagram.
Moments later, as I was doomscrolling on my instagram reels, Ilham glanced at his phone and then at me.
“It’s curry, babe,” he said casually, a smirk playing on his lips.
I froze, then burst out laughing. Of course, I had taken the photo before even tasting it. When I finally did, I realized he was absolutely right. It was chicken curry. But Indonesian curry, the kind that’s milder and more familiar than Indian curry.
“Whatever it is, it’s delicious,” I said, scooping another spoonful.
For dessert, I peeled an orange. Its sweetness was sharp and refreshing, the perfect contrast to the rich, spicy curry.
I ended the day back with Sherlock Holmes in hand, snuggled under my blanket while the snow continued to fall softly outside.
“Tomorrow,” I whispered to myself, “I’ll see the snow up close again.”
Nisadyr 