I am writing this post in my empty office during the Eid Fitr holiday, without any external noise, only my thoughts and I. The rain has just stopped, and the moving cloud reminds me of the afternoon in Bandung. Since the crazy rain I experienced in Bandung around 2015, I’ve found myself dreading the gloomy sky—especially the kind that comes with thunder. Once the sky turns darker, the anxiety creeps in, even when I'm inside a building, not out on the street. If I happen to be outside during heavy rain, I pray as if it's the end of the world. I don’t even react this way during terrible turbulence on a flight. I’ve never been a fan of rain or storms. I grew up needing my parents to hold my hand just to fall asleep during thunderstorms. Even now, when there’s thunder at night, I hold my doll’s hand to ease the anxiety. For the past decade, that has been the saga between rain and me. As much as I understand how much farmers need the rain to water their crops, I always pray it doesn’t come when I’m outside my room.
