Lokey

There’s something about that year that refuses to let go of me. The perfect clouds drifting over campus, the unbeatable energy of student life, the way Bandung’s cool air felt on my skin. I was just an ordinary college kid then, living the usual rhythms of student existence.

But here’s the thing: comparing it to where I am now—the job title, the paycheck, all the supposed markers of success—if I had one wish, there would be no hesitation. Take me back to 2019.

I want to feel alive again. Everything now feels muted, like the color has been drained from daily life. Nothing quickens my pulse anymore. I want to return to that time when my heart could still flutter, when small moments carried the weight of the world.

There’s this saying: “You can’t fix broken glass.” I’ve always hated that phrase, because it’s not entirely true. You can melt the pieces down, reshape them, rebuild something whole from the fragments. But sometimes the problem isn’t that you can’t fix it—it’s that part of you doesn’t want to let it be anything other than what it was.

That’s my struggle. My mind stays locked in this belief that the only way to make things right is to return and correct the original mistakes. I resist new paths, different approaches, because if I can’t recreate what I had, what’s the point?

So when I pray, I keep asking for the same thing: a chance to go back. Not to change everything, just to fix a few crucial moments, to avoid the mistakes that led me here. I need that feeling of being alive again, because right now, I’m hollow.

I still remember the small things that made my pulse race. Someone saying something unexpectedly kind. Being around people who understood me, who made me feel seen. That awkward, blushing, butterflies-in-the-stomach sensation that I took for granted then but would give anything to feel again.

There were responsibilities that fell into my lap—managing time, budget, priorities. Things that taught me patience and commitment, that made me appreciate details I’d never noticed before. I can still picture some of the absurd, unforgettable moments from that time. They remain vivid, more real than most of what happens to me now.

Don’t mistake this for pure nostalgia—2019 had its low points too. But even the struggles had a different quality then. There was uncertainty, yes, but it felt generative rather than paralyzing. I was chasing something that felt both impossible and inevitable, like pursuing a horizon that kept receding but somehow remained worth the effort.

I’d spend hours brainstorming ways to create memorable moments. Sometimes it was as simple as sitting through a terrible movie just to extend the feeling of that particular evening. And somehow, in those manufactured moments, something real would emerge. I felt like I was doing something that mattered.

That’s when it happened—the feeling I’d never experienced before. An energy that sustained me, made every day feel like a gift. For once, I was genuinely grateful for every ordinary moment.

But this year, it all crumbled. The spark died. Everything I’d built slipped away, and I found myself back in uncertainty—only this time, it’s crushing rather than energizing. Months of trying to move forward, but I keep circling back to the same place. The harder I try to let go, the more my mind rebels.

So here I am, caught in this loop. And all I can think is: if I could return to that version of myself, the one who could still be surprised by joy, who could find meaning in small gestures and shared glances—maybe I could remember what it feels like to be fully present in my own life.

Maybe I could learn to be alive in the present instead of haunting the past.