Dear Anna,

I traded in my autonomy for cheap rent.

I’m sitting under a gazebo with my notebook. No longer overlooking Lake Toba from my balcony. My view’s now replaced by transmission towers, shrubs and trees doing overtime to hide the wire fence separating the fancier houses from the shabby ones. If I squint enough, I can just make out a kid cycling on the other side. I take this over sharing a desk with T, and by sharing a desk, I mean me working on a chest of drawers while he watches motorbike repair videos. 

When T floated the idea of me staying at his place for a while, the cheapo in me couldn’t resist. Yes, he lives in a studio, and yes, it’s the middle of nowhere. No public transport. No promenade. No hiking trail nearby. The closest sign of civilisation is an automobile centre with a strip mall that curiously includes a glamping site, and even that is 6km away. I don’t drive. I don’t ride a motorbike. I can barely cycle. I’m trapped here. But boy, am I saving cash.

What I save in cash, I pay in dependency. Need to buy some nuts? Wait for T to arrive. Want to go to a cafe? Maybe T can give me a lift. Walls closing in on me? Gotta wait for T to take me out for a walk. 

I’m turning into a dog, left alone all day, waiting for T’s arrival. When he mentioned going away for the weekend, I almost lost it, spinning around in circles. But on Friday morning, he unilaterally decided it would be the weekend of jailbreaking his phone. On Saturday, I followed him around dutifully. He was in bed, I was right by his side. He did the dishes, I admired his prowess. He went to the bathroom, I tagged along, despite his protests. ‘What are we doing? Let’s go out. Take me anywhere.’ I asked adoringly. ‘You wanna get out, you go on your own,’ he said, ‘I need to look for jobs and upskill,’ while playing pinball on his phone. I left his place in a furious puff, and when I got back, he was watching YouTube reviews of motorbikes like it was market research. And that’s how I found myself cooling off in this gazebo, wondering if I’m turning into my ex.

For my ex, I was never enough. It didn’t matter what I did or didn’t do; it was never up to his standards. He always had some trumped-up reason to throw a tantrum and blame me. If I said, “Let’s go for a hike,” he’d complain that I didn’t mean the Annapurna Circuit by going for a hike. If I needed a low-key weekend, he would yell that I was too passive, that he couldn’t stand being with someone like me. He was like a border collie I picked up on the street, and we both didn’t know what to do with each other. With T, it’s logistics. It’s the simple fact that I can’t rely on myself to get to places, and that dependence is blowing my fuse. And guess who ends up itching for a fight? Turns out I don’t need a man to make myself feel not enough. 

I know I can end this all tomorrow by checking into a hotel or an overpriced Airbnb and regain my autonomy. Sure, I could walk to places or take buses to go around the island like I used to. But then again, it would bring back the financial worries and my desperation for paid work. Either way, I lose something. The cheapo gets to buy more time to write in her new cell. The splurger gets to walk out freely, but needs to catch the 5 pm Zoom meeting. I know you’d tell me to just splurge.

Or maybe I should part ways with some cash and learn to drive properly. 

All my love,

Dummy