by Devina Gunawan
Featured image by Johannes Karundeng
I have always believed in fate. In destiny. In stories written in the stars. I have always been a believer.
There is magic, there are miracles, and there is a God.
I laughed when I was watching Cinderella the other day, because as the mother believed in everything, so do I.
And I would take any little thing as a sign, as a hint from God that something is good or bad for me. That something is meant to happen. That something is meant for me or not.
Most of the time, however, I misread the hints.
I dated plenty of times and every time I asked for a hint, I would get the answer that “yes, this is the one” for every single one of them. So was I supposed to marry every single guy I had dated? Perhaps?
Now, what kind of a god would want me to marry so many men?
So I take it that I am too much of a believer. However, that never stops me.
Until I met the one I call my home.
And then I stop asking for signs. I stop waiting for a stupid hint that I oftentimes misread.
I started fighting myself, because I wanted to write my own story. I wanted to end up back home with him so badly that I decided to not trust fate and destiny.
I grew afraid that they were against me.
And at times, it looks like they are. So I am going against them. Even though a part of me wants to believe in them the way I had believed in them all my life.
It is horrible and difficult. To finally start fighting, to stop waiting for conveniences of supposedly God’s graces dropped in hints.
To jump knowing that it is full of risks. To not ask anyone, “Is the water cold?” before dipping my foot in the pool but go for it myself.
To defy my gravity. My beliefs. And my fear.
It is terrifying and cold. But what if in the end, I end up with the story I write for myself?
