I once believed that love was unshakable. That when a man promised to hold my hand for life, nothing could break it. But promises, I learned, can be shattered like glass.
The man I trusted—he was from Morocco—spoke sweet words of marriage, of building a future together. For years, I carried that hope as if it were my second skin. But in June 2024, I watched it burn. He married someone else, an Indonesian woman. The news reached me like a knife through my chest.
I left. With my heart in ruins, I packed my life and moved to Lombok, a place I thought might heal me.
The first nights there were not filled with healing. They were filled with silence, so thick it pressed against my chest. The sound of waves crashing against the shore reminded me how small I was, how broken. I would wake up in the middle of the night, clutching my pillow, whispering to the dark, "Please… let me start over."
Yet Lombok had its way of softening grief. Its mountains stood proud, its beaches endless, and the air tasted of freedom. Slowly, I learned to breathe again.
I threw myself into work. As an HR Onsite Manager at Samara Lombok, I cared for nearly 400 employees. I gave them more than my role required. Snacks from my own money, small acts of kindness when the company failed to provide. I called them "my children." It filled the gaps in me—but never fully.
Because when night returned, loneliness always found me.
I craved the warmth of a man's embrace, the safety of a partner's voice. But I kept that craving locked deep inside. I was not the type to share my sorrows; I buried them beneath smiles and silence. My diary was my only witness.
To ease the void, I moved my children to Lombok, hoping their laughter would drown out the echo of emptiness. But even with them nearby, the silence still whispered.
Then October came. And with it—a spark I did not expect.
On Facebook, I found a group: Spiritual Dating. I wasn't looking for love. No, not again. I only wanted a companion to talk to, someone to share thoughts on meditation, spirituality, the universe. Something safe. Something harmless.
I posted a photo of myself. I didn't imagine it would matter. But within hours, the responses flooded in. Over a thousand. At first, it felt flattering. But then came the disappointment: crude messages, indecent proposals, strangers with empty eyes behind their words. My heart sank. Of course, I thought, this was a mistake.
But hidden among the noise was a single message.
A man from Latvia.
His tone was different—polite, calm, patient. I didn't trust him. His photo reminded me too much of a scammer from years ago. So I ignored him.
But he didn't push. He didn't chase. He simply… stayed.
His quiet persistence tugged at my curiosity. Against my better judgment, I replied."Can we have a video call?" I asked one afternoon, my heart racing at my own boldness.
And then, the screen lit up with his face.
I saw a smile unlike any other—mature, reserved, but warm enough to melt the distance between us. His eyes carried silence, the kind only an introvert knows. He didn't need many words. His presence alone spoke.
I wasn't looking for love. Not then. But something inside me stirred.
We talked again. And again. And each time, his smile lingered in my mind long after the call ended.
Then he said it."I will come to Indonesia."
I laughed nervously. Surely, he was joking. But his voice was steady. Serious.
So I asked, "Are you coming only for a short affair, or do you mean something real with me?"
There was a pause. Then, with a quiet certainty, he said,"I am serious."
And in that moment, something broke open in me—not the same way as before, not destruction, but rebirth.
His name was Janis Terauds.
I didn't know then what storms would follow. I didn't know that his arrival would heal parts of me while also testing the limits of my strength.
All I knew was this: for the first time in a long time, I felt the universe had whispered back to me.
But the universe never gives without asking something in return.