(POV Nia)
Youth—ah, sometimes it's too sweet to remember, like cotton candy that melts too quickly on the tongue.
I—Rania Lestari—can still hear my best friend's laughter, cackling while munching salty chips.
"My husband has to be like an Indian actor. Six-pack, bearded, willing to dance in the rain—soaked like a sewer rat but still handsome!" she declared, mimicking Shah Rukh Khan opening his arms in a field of flowers.
I laughed so hard I nearly choked.
"You're delusional! One day you'll just throw a fit when he fights over the remote with your mom!"
We laughed until our stomachs hurt. A gecko on the wall turned lazily, as if baffled at how humans could be that happy with nothing but chips and dreams.
But that was before I married a man named Arga Prasetyo.
Outside, his name sounded grand—strong as a mountain, as beautiful as its meaning.
But inside our home, I knew that mountain could erupt at any time. And I—who once only wanted to write sweet stories—ended up living in a script full of blood.
Thousands of readers swooned, fell in love, felt their lives sweetened by my words.
My comment section overflowed with cheerful voices,
"OMG THIS HURTS 😭😭 makes me remember my ex I swear 😭💔"
I smiled bitterly. Their exes only left. Mine still shares my bed.
"SO SWEET OMGGG 😍✨ please update faster plsss!!"
Sweet? I've long forgotten what it feels like to be touched without pain.
"Oh God, your writing soothes my heart. May God keep you healthy, dear 🙏💖"
I wanted to reply, health is expensive, ma'am. My own body feels like a rental contract long overdue.
"I rarely comment, but this really hits. Reality isn't always as pretty as fiction."
Reality? If they knew my reality, they might not dare to keep reading.
"I was spoon-feeding my child while reading this, ended up crying 😭 may your fortune flow endlessly."
I wanted to say, my husband also has a child. I just didn't know until later.
They're happy reading fiction about sweet love…
While I stare at the screen, letting my trembling fingers type "thank you" only to erase it again.
How can I write "thank you" with a face full of bruises?
Click.
My phone screen dims. The room falls silent again. And in that silence, another sound always makes my breath hitch, rubber sandals dragged roughly across the floor, nearing the bedroom door.
My readers' comments still echoed in my head, but I knew the next voice wouldn't be a notification—it would be my husband's hand.
The dragging sandals shattered my thoughts.
The door slammed open.
He entered—jaw clenched, eyes bloodshot.
"Who are you writing about tonight?! Where do you get your inspiration?!"
I stayed silent. Because whatever my answer, he had already written the ending in his head.
His hand struck my wrist. My body jolted. A blow landed on my cheek, the chair toppled.
It felt like slow motion—but films can be paused. I couldn't.
Tears fell once, twice. Then dried.
Bruises became margin notes etched into my body.
My split lip like red markup on a rough draft.
I was no longer a wife, but a manuscript he revised with fists.
But I was still a writer.
And writers always know, a draft can be thrown away, or rewritten.
At dawn, while he slept, I pulled an old suitcase from under the bed. Its wheels screeched, as if protesting. My hands shook, but courage grew.
I knew—I would close this chapter.
I was not a cameo in someone else's drama.
I was the author.
And that night, I began rewriting the manuscript of my life—with a bloody smile.
The only thing I knew for sure was that every new chapter needs a title.
But I didn't yet know… what title tomorrow would bear.
***
(POV Arga)
That night I heard the sound of typing.
Click. Click. Click.
Her fingers flying over the keyboard—and immediately, I grew suspicious.
Who was she writing about this time?
I hated the way she smiled at the screen. That smile wasn't for me. It was born from some other man—real or fictional, what difference did it make? To me, both were betrayal.
I was her husband.
I should be her only inspiration.
I kicked the door open.
"Who are you writing about tonight?! Where do you get your inspiration?!"
She stayed silent. Didn't answer. Silence is insulting. Silence is confession.
Rage ignited my body. My hand grabbed, shook, then struck her cheek. The chair crashed, her body flung aside. She cried for a moment, then went quiet.
I didn't stop. Let her know—I am the head of this house. I hold the reins.
I didn't care if her lips split.
I didn't care if her tears dried up.
It's the price of one thing, obedience.
My breath slowed again. She sat weak on the floor. Finally quiet.
Good. Peace at last.
Why would I apologize? I wasn't wrong.
I was only enforcing order in my household.
If I weren't strict, she'd get wilder. Those male characters in her stories would grow bolder, her readers would multiply, and I'd be even less respected in my own home.
I lay down, pulled the blanket up. Sleep slowly closed my eyes, and I smiled.
I knew by morning, she'd still be here.
Even my first wife came back—though she had once left.
In the end, they will realize—I control the money.
Her sweet words can't pay the electricity bill. Her readers can't buy rice.
And in the real world, money speaks louder than love.
That's why I'm never afraid.
She may drag her suitcase out, but the wallet stays in my hand.
—To be Continued—