a quotidian story as told by a lackadaisical, tiresome young man from her past
“What’s in a name? that which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”
- William Shakespeare
In my 23 years of age, I cannot claim that I have experienced all sort of things an old man would be but proud to tell. It is in these short years of my life that I have smelled all things grand, of the beauty of the grotesque violet-painted sky, the very resemblance of any cotton candy, reminding me of my older brother’s common sense. It is in these short years of my life I have been exposed to the very tenderness of sensibility, of its curses and maladies, that almost tore me apart—by bones and my soul. It is in these short years of my life that I have admitted such despicable and infuriating feelings in the depth of my heart to someone I, with all my senses, had refused to acknowledge in my sobriety. And it is in these short years of my life that I have learnt that there are people out there, that are not of my blood, that I can proudly call my kin; I have learnt that there are greater attachment, fondness, pride, and affinity that one could bear towards others, that one could feel and reflect, every second of it, and that one could feel no more passionate yet desperate when torn apart.
I would firstly introduce one thing of all, that inspired me to write this excerpt from anything that I would ever write if I ever have; the one of whom I introduced first and foremost, without whom I might lose a part of myself. It is actually an act of romance, in which I will indeed romanticize some aspects of our lives that I wouldn’t even dare to write or even speak at the first place, in this very manner that does not speak of my own. It will be an overview of our friendship, a gentleman and a lady of very different backgrounds, not any resemblance in character if I might say so myself, which will be quizzical if one does not spare their time to read all of the reasons and stories. In this case, I would only spare a few reasons and stories, hopefully chronologically if I am not too distracted with other things, as I am one distracted gentleman for all that matter.
My life began as soon as the letter arrived.
I don’t think I will retell all of the things from beginning, however, as it will change the sound of this excerpt to anything but how I want to deliver. All in all, in my eleven years of age, I had not so very many remarkable encounters, for every encounter with other people was only due to my mum’s not very assuring pleas, most of it was forceful, to be honest. My journal would have been nothing of fashion, it’d been bored to death with all of the repetitive activities required of such gentlemen like my brother and myself. The words, if I had ever been too humble to spell them one by one, would have wilted and died at the end of my quill. I somehow think that in these early years I had developed a sense of melancholy, that actually still surprises me even if I have grown along with it. My soul was purely that of a child, dreaming and beaming at every culinary parade and shenanigans that my innocence would not have, if I was ever innocent to begin with.
I couldn’t keep up to the calmness within the house once I got ahold of the letter, once I realized that everything would never be the same again, once I recognized the glimpse of mischief and chaos that I had only imagined in my head, and once I acknowledged the letter as my own personal breaker of chains.
And there I met her.
Mallory and I—that’s her name, Mallory Rose—were never really the closest of friends. I had acknowledged every one of my housemate as my best friend, and Mallory was simply included. How do I begin to describe her? She was not like any of the girls you would glance once and for all. There was some depth in every inch of her appearance and presence, some heavy vibes that was not likely to wash off if you would ever take a look at her for more than one second. If you would ever dare to breathe her in, to comprehend the meaning of her existence.
I think in my youthful years I would acknowledge Mallory as a daunting girl. Her presence was pretty much eerie for my cup of tea, and somehow I knew that she absorbed energy from people—much, much energy—and I was never known as having too little energy, so I was wary with the thoughts that she would wear me down to the bones. In my youthful years, there was nothing more scary than living lifelessly.
Then, somehow I traced down the path altogether: down the nightly forest and down the nightly robe she wore to her core. In this sentence, I admit to being very dramatic for my own taste, but one is indeed required to be dramatic in order to grasp the worrisome nightingale. In this sentence, I laugh, imagining how blown away she would be if she conjured up my own image in this unspeakable writing tone. And then I would protest, that I have always been this way, that I’ve matured and not really been kicking my heels off to every beanfest there’d ever be, that I am now merely an old lad with very little income and plentiful memories. We’d speak about the past like it is our friend; we’d speak of it in such tenderness that bursts out into firecrackers, warms us up like in the winter, where the fires burn the wood in the hearth. But I will always speak about the past like it is my friend, for it is mine, and I have carved every inch of my skin with it until it became a part of me. Yet for now, I will speak of her, my dear friend of whom I’m fairly fond.
Mallory never said much about the things that bothered her while she was a child, and I would not dare to tick her off with any problematic questions that would enrage the Ukrainian Ironbelly inside her. I understand that it is not easy to admit the flaws inherited by our families; mine is almost unspeakable as the sickness in my belly, as ugly as sin. I only knew that she was once a nightingale stripped out of her wing. She compromised with the pain of her early years, which she preferred to transform into ashes so she could easily forget. I admired her ability to lash out, for even though I’d declared myself as pretty much an open book, acting as expressive as I could be, now anger always consumes me more yet rests me in its own limbo. My mind will spit out violence, my body and everything, yet I’ll always be too tired to throw a fit. In my early years, yes, it is true that I was once a fiery lad. I lashed out at everything until I got it all out. But as I’ve stated earlier, I have grown. Time changed me and I have grown to be what I am right now. If anything, I’ve grown more composed.
Forgiving was not her nature. I remember how she’d told me about every little thing she’d do to avenge herself. Not once did it shake me, for I have seen the daunting lady as she was. The little girl I was cautious about was no more fragile than a rose without its thorns; she’s living up to her name. What made her so unmistakably dangerous was her own thorns, the ones she cultivated herself, the ones that hurt yet protected her altogether. I was proud of my girl; I was proud of what she had been, what she had become, what she would be.
There were times where nobody believes that a gentleman and a lady could become such intense friends, without any romantic feelings towards each other. I believe that’s true, for I am fond of Mallory; I could never find any word to describe her unromantically. To write her is to conduct a romantic story, as I have been, right to this moment.
I remember her, every tiny bit of her, in my spare times; when my chair is creaking and my roof leaking; when I look down the road as I go home; when things go wrong and I sing a song; when I wave to the old lady in the upper town; when my glasses are tainted with silly finger prints and dust, dampening as I take a sip of my English breakfast; when the postman knocks on my door; when the stairs just won’t stop screaming for repair; when the light goes down and I am on my own, busy with everything and everyone I could only reminisce. I remember her as the ghosty curtain in my chamber, and I cherish her. I’ve always cherished her, for as long as I can remember.
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary
over a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
(The Raven, E.A. Poe)
The 3rd of August
1:35 a.m
My last piece of candle just melted and crumbled as I struggled to write again. It has taken me some time to revisit the frozen memories of my youth, until everything that has been occurring turned to nothing but misery. Although one might suggest that in times of misery, a light from the once euphoric and melodic past could heal the soul temporarily, I found none of it true. My body just as well aches every time I recall the specific times of our encounter, and I cannot risk bartering another part of my soul anymore for mere seconds of reunion.
The above paragraph alone reflects what I wanted to deliver: torture. It was torture. Everything about her was torture. Even I was surprised to have found the willingness to sit down, put aside the current events of my life and recollect the timepiece one by one.
Have you ever shuddered by excitement and wretchedness at the exact same time? The emotion is not at all comparable, is it? And now I’m finding myself getting angrier, letter by letter.
It was very easy and nice, when I wrote about my friend Mallory. I found my own warmth and consolation of the reminiscent, and I missed her even more but without the bitterness. But this one slashed me with an axe, ripped me apart until I was no longer recognizable for my figure alone. Everything about it is pitch black, like a ludicrously never-ending hurricane that threatens my very existence to this day. I think I will have to take another break and rest the deafening sounds in my head, or else I’ll go even madder than I have become. Goodnight.
The 20th of October
10 p.m
In this excerpt I will begin to tell you about my personal, undisclosed contentment—or at least, she used to be, right before I drifted away and disappeared from the face of the earth that she’d known. She was not my friend to begin with. I had never found her compilation of behaviours towards me enticing, let alone respectable. When we first met, she threw her dinner up on me. The embarrassment didn’t consume me that much, however, as I was barely out of my mother’s horrible nest, and what she did was nothing compared to what I had to put up with every day. My confidence and everything didn’t shake, because I knew I would thrive, each and every year, to become what I’d dreamt: the conqueror of the world—which was pretty much silly, and got a perfectly matched probability with the death of magic.
She and I never went along that well; in fact, I was ruthlessly mean to her. She was an anomaly of the girls I’d known, and never once had I wanted to look more into it, and just dismissed it every time I had the chance. Annabel Leigh—that was her name—was just another stupid face I saw every day. She mostly stood out because of her presence (or persona) of a seemingly adorable, harmless dimwit in the crowd of poised and eloquent boys and girls.
Annabel was unapologetic for anything she did. Her head was on another planet, yet it couldn’t even reach the top drawer in the room. The amount of energy and silliness she offered never ceased to annoy me, as if her breath alone made me suffer to exist.
Chronologically—and emphasis on logically—it was unthinkable of me to ever feel what I did. Some people might romanticize it as having butterflies flying around in their stomach, as if it was the one happy feeling to recognize that you’ve experienced some say as ‘the strongest feeling there ever was’: love. I’m going to stain my journal here, but holy fuck. I was far from the happiest I’d ever been, truth be told.
I knew my feelings for her through agony, through a jolt in my chest, a turmoil in my head and pain in every inch of my body. You would think that for a lad like me, it would take some long time to even notice that the feeling was there. If there were an offer for me to switch the all-knowing mind I might have had with, say, the dullness of a ditch, I would take it in a heartbeat. For in that instance, I knew that something was wrong. The moment she took her attention away from me, to being the all-caring little girl she was born to be, I became furious. I was furious because I knew that something had surely stirred, without any reluctance at all, as if she’d sprinkled all dust of sensibility down my head when she’d patted it with her tiny hand. I never had the chance to brush it off, and so I was overcome with apprehension and a barrage of feelings in a blink of an eye.
Annabel Leigh was never one with very cautious mind or eye, but she was not as thick-headed as she presented herself to be. What angered me the most was her habit of taking care of other people; how she tended to feel like she had to be the mother of them all, but now I know that it angered me because I couldn’t just take that role away from her to get her eyes averted to me alone. I was simply envious of other people that she’d taken care of; I simply felt excluded from the crowd, and therefore I detached myself for some time.
However, in the following insufferable years, I learnt to make peace with my feelings. It took some grand effort, and I can tell you that it was not at all easy to let down the fort of my defence brick by brick, until it was enough for her to see me uncovered. She was a ray of sunshine that chased away my hurricane. She was my light, the sound of my heartbeat.
I know now that what made it difficult to reminisce was the unfinished business we had. The building could’ve taken a long time before it could stand its ground, yet it had to be washed away by the cold, unforgiving wave of fate that struck our paths. We fell apart like a castle in the sand.
It was a sure thing to stick around and grow with her, to bind myself to her, and I found myself simultaneously buried in the sand of regret that I can’t seem to dismiss, before the end of our quills are put down to rest on a full stop. In this sentence, I start to shiver as the pain is slowly crippling me down to the point that I can’t feel anything anymore. My words are silenced, right after I once again succumb to the haunting fortress of Annabel Leigh. Lock me in anyway, for I might not even try to get out, and be the immortal entity of what I might as well claim as my forever residence.
a quotidian story as told by a lackadaisical, tiresome young man from her past
What’s in a name? that which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.*
In my 23 years of age, I cannot claim that I have experienced all sort of things an old man would be but proud to tell. It is in these short years of my life that I have smelled all things grand, of the beauty of the grotesque violet-painted sky, the very resemblance of any cotton candy, reminding me of my older brother’s common sense. It is in these short years of my life I have been exposed to the very tenderness of sensibility, of its curses and maladies, that almost tore me apart—by bones and my soul. It is in these short years of my life that I have admitted such despicable and infuriating feelings in the depth of my heart to someone I, with all my senses, had refused to acknowledge in my sobriety. And it is in these short years of my life that I have learnt that there are people out there, that are not of my blood, that I can proudly call my kin; I have learnt that there are greater attachment, fondness, pride, and affinity that one could bear towards others, that one could feel and reflect, every second of it, and that one could feel no more passionate yet desperate when torn apart.
I would firstly introduce one thing of all, that inspired me to write this excerpt from anything that I would ever write if I ever have; the one of whom I introduced first and foremost, without whom I might lose a part of myself. It is actually an act of romance, in which I will indeed romanticize some aspects of our lives that I wouldn’t even dare to write or even speak at the first place, in this very manner that does not speak of my own. It will be an overview of our friendship, a gentleman and a lady of very different backgrounds, not any resemblance in character if I might say so myself, which will be quizzical if one does not spare their time to read all of the reasons and stories. In this case, I would only spare a few reasons and stories, hopefully chronologically if I am not too distracted with other things, as I am one distracted gentleman for all that matter.
My life began as soon as the letter arrived.
I don’t think I will retell all of the things from beginning, however, as it will change the sound of this excerpt to anything but how I want to deliver. All in all, in my eleven years of age, I had not so very many remarkable encounters, for every encounter with other people was only due to my mum’s not very assuring pleas, most of it was forceful, to be honest. My journal would have been nothing of fashion, it’d been bored to death with all of the repetitive activities required of such gentlemen like my brother and myself. The words, if I had ever been too humble to spell them one by one, would have wilted and died at the end of my quill. I somehow think that in these early years I had developed a sense of melancholy, that actually still surprises me even if I have grown along with it. My soul was purely that of a child, dreaming and beaming at every culinary parade and shenanigans that my innocence would not have, if I was ever innocent to begin with.
I couldn’t keep up to the calmness within the house once I got ahold of the letter, once I realized that everything would never be the same again, once I recognized the glimpse of mischief and chaos that I had only imagined in my head, and once I acknowledged the letter as my own personal breaker of chains.
And there I met her.
Mallory and I—that’s her name, Mallory Rose—were never really the closest of friends. I had acknowledged every one of my housemate as my best friend, and Mallory was simply included. How do I begin to describe her? She was not like any of the girls you would glance once and for all. There was some depth in every inch of her appearance and presence, some heavy vibes that was not likely to wash off if you would ever take a look at her for more than one second. If you would ever dare to breathe her in, to comprehend the meaning of her existence.
I think in my youthful years I would acknowledge Mallory as a daunting girl. Her presence was pretty much eerie for my cup of tea, and somehow I knew that she absorbed energy from people—much, much energy—and I was never known as having too little energy, so I was wary with the thoughts that she would wear me down to the bones. In my youthful years, there was nothing more scary than living lifelessly.
Then, somehow I traced down the path altogether: down the nightly forest and down the nightly robe she wore to her core. In this sentence, I admit to being very dramatic for my own taste, but one is indeed required to be dramatic in order to grasp the worrisome nightingale. In this sentence, I laugh, imagining how blown away she would be if she conjured up my own image in this unspeakable writing tone. And then I would protest, that I have always been this way, that I’ve matured and not really been kicking my heels off to every beanfest there’d ever be, that I am now merely an old lad with very little income and plentiful memories. We’d speak about the past like it is our friend; we’d speak of it in such tenderness that bursts out into firecrackers, warms us up like in the winter, where the fires burn the wood in the hearth. But I will always speak about the past like it is my friend, for it is mine, and I have carved every inch of my skin with it until it became a part of me. Yet for now, I will speak of her, my dear friend of whom I’m fairly fond.
Mallory never said much about the things that bothered her while she was a child, and I would not dare to tick her off with any problematic questions that would enrage the Ukrainian Ironbelly inside her. I understand that it is not easy to admit the flaws inherited by our families; mine is almost unspeakable as the sickness in my belly, as ugly as sin. I only knew that she was once a nightingale stripped out of her wing. She compromised with the pain of her early years, which she preferred to transform into ashes so she could easily forget. I admired her ability to lash out, for even though I’d declared myself as pretty much an open book, acting as expressive as I could be, now anger always consumes me more yet rests me in its own limbo. My mind will spit out violence, my body and everything, yet I’ll always be too tired to throw a fit. In my early years, yes, it is true that I was once a fiery lad. I lashed out at everything until I got it all out. But as I’ve stated earlier, I have grown. Time changed me and I have grown to be what I am right now. If anything, I’ve grown more composed.
Forgiving was not her nature. I remember how she’d told me about every little thing she’d do to avenge herself. Not once did it shake me, for I have seen the daunting lady as she was. The little girl I was cautious about was no more fragile than a rose without its thorns; she’s living up to her name. What made her so unmistakably dangerous was her own thorns, the ones she cultivated herself, the ones that hurt yet protected her altogether. I was proud of my girl; I was proud of what she had been, what she had become, what she would be.
There were times where nobody believes that a gentleman and a lady could become such intense friends, without any romantic feelings towards each other. I believe that’s true, for I am fond of Mallory; I could never find any word to describe her unromantically. To write her is to conduct a romantic story, as I have been, right to this moment.
I remember her, every tiny bit of her, in my spare times; when my chair is creaking and my roof leaking; when I look down the road as I go home; when things go wrong and I sing a song; when I wave to the old lady in the upper town; when my glasses are tainted with silly finger prints and dust, dampening as I take a sip of my English breakfast; when the postman knocks on my door; when the stairs just won’t stop screaming for repair; when the light goes down and I am on my own, busy with everything and everyone I could only reminisce. I remember her as the ghosty curtain in my chamber, and I cherish her. I’ve always cherished her, for as long as I can remember.
Isaac diregis pada term Halryannell lulus banget, tanpa ada jeda wkwk. Jadi aku emang udah punya goal buat bikin karakter baru setelah Halryannell lulus, cuma awalnya pengen jeda satu term aja jadi masih bisa nerusin Halryannell pra-kelulusan, mana plotnya juga sebenernya belum beres kan. Taunya, entah kenapa waktu itu opreg 1802 hype banget, and I couldn’t help but get hyped??? Aku yang asalnya tetep bersikeras buat regis term depan pun goyah, terlebih ketika SEMUA NAMAKU UDAH DIAMBIL.
Isaac Crest should’ve been Isaac Frost atau Isaac Foster, tapi udah ada TIGA KARAKTER yang embodied each name: Isaac Hughes, Hyperion Frost, dan Penelope Foster. Panas lah w. Tapi aku tetap teguh dengan pendirianku.
Hingga aku menemukan nama temenku di registered member—beneran nama RW temenku. Aku tau dia mau regis NIH setelah IH keburu tutup pas dia baru main, dan namanya juga ngga pasaran. Godaan itu pun datang. Aku buru-buru ngontak temenku dan tanya apa itu akunnya dia.
Ternyata dia udah bikin chara, dan itu akun adiknya IRL yang sengaja ngetroll pake namanya, tanpa berniat mainin.
I was like:
Larilah aku ke tret Penggantian Nama Karakter. Lahirlah Isaac Crest.
Penamaan
Namanya terdiri dari 4 kata: Isaac Solange Foster Crest.
- Isaac, karena aku pengen hijrah ke nama yang simpel-simpel (setelah nama macem Halryannell Heyerdahl yang sesungguhnya tak berarti apa-apa, I became wiser). Been eyeing the name, too, dari dulu-dulu, kesannya bagus aja gitu.
- Solange, diambil dari karakter numpang-regisku di IO, Solange Ciar (AKA Soul). IRP Solange tuh nama cewe pilihan ibunya, yang emang ngidam anak cewe tapi ga dapet-dapet.
- Foster, surname yang tak sampai. Tapi karena aku suka, jadi tetep dipake sebagai nama tengah.
- Crest, surname dadakan yang filosofinya juga cocoklogi. Crest berarti puncak, yang bisa dimaknai sebagai puncak kejayaan, puncak hierarki, atau puncak kebekuan. Kenapa kebekuan? Karena seharusnya karakter Isaac adalah a killing machine yang ga punya hati nurani, HAHAHA.
Killua Zoldyck and Other Characters Dump
Jadi sebenernya Isaac adalah Voldemort dari horcrux-horcruxnya yang berupa karakter fiksi lain. Dia dibuat dengan berbasis karakter-karakterku di forum-forum lain yang ngga pernah beres dimainin, ditambah unsur beberapa karakter manga yang jadi inspirasi juga.
Ada 5 karakterku yang jadi basic Isaac WAKAKAK: Chandler Louis (IO), Viorel Vercingetorix (IH), Daryl Peacakes (IS), Justice Charlton (IH), dan Halryannell Heyerdahl (NIH). Hadeh. Esensi karakter mereka aku ambil dan satuin di Isaac: kasar, easy going, optimis, bully, semena-mene, nyeleneh, suka meremehkan orang, seksis, ambisius, pinter, dll. Ya gitulah. Jadi kalau dibilang original, sebenernya dia ngga original banget.
On the other hand, Isaac awalnya juga mau dibuat kayak Killua Zoldyck (Hunter X Hunter) beserta seluruh keluarganya. But that ain’t working since the beginning, lol. Killua dan The Zoldycks masih terlalu dewa untuk aku proyeksikan sendiri orz
Tapi aku tetep ambil intinya dari The Zoldycks. Ortu Killua sama-sama powerful, dan ibunya lebih western-ish, centil-centil, plus kejam. Killua punya kakak cowo dan adik cowo (yang didandanin dan dianggap cewe); ga deket sama kakaknya, tapi saling sayang banget sama adiknya. Perbedaannya, Isaac deket banget sama kakak cowoknya, Cornelius. Dia justru benci-sayang sama adiknya, Alice, karena ngerasa ibunya paling sayang sama Alice, sementara Alice sendiri sayang banget sama Isaac dan Cornelius.
Selain Killua, ada juga Kajiwara Umi dari manga Nosatsu Junkie dan Yuzuriha Kanade dari manga/anime Fukumenkei Noise. Dari mereka aku ngambil tsundere, passion, dan gentleness-nya.
Jadi intinya Isaac Crest itu tempat sampah, guys ‘ ‘b
The end.
Bercanda.
THE JOURNEY
Karena Isaac diregis pada term yang sama kayak Halryannell, tentu saja tulisanku masih Halryannell banget. Jadi ngga heran kalau di term pertama Isaac lebih kalem dan suave. He could still handle things smoothly, tanpa heboh sana-sini like he’d become huehuehue.
Isaac mulai aktif di term kedua, dan dia juga mulai berbaur sama temen-temen seangkatannya. Sadly, he totally lost his Halryannell-side dan suaveness dan class dan coolness—INTINYA, out of my control, dia perlahan berubah agak, to quote some people, alay. Anak-anak S1802 bantu ngebangun sisi easy going, heboh, dan barbar Isaac. Selama di rumah, temennya cuma Cornelius, guys, wkwkwk. He acted all gentlemanly ke semua kolega orang tuanya, termasuk anak-anak mereka. Ga pernah Isaac nyeletuk sana-sini atau bahkan ngomong di luar apa yang ibunya suruh ngomong. When he met his Slytherin pals, he kinda found his breaker of chains. Dramatis kali kamu, Nak Saac. Temen-temennya di Slytherin bikin dia jadi sangat-sangat menghargai persahabatan, dan dia beneran nganggep mereka kayak keluarga. He valued the friendship more than anything.
Awalnya aku sama sekali ga berencana buat bikin karakter pinter, ha ha ha, kapan aku se-dedicated itu buat masuk kelas hah?!?!?!?! Tapi entah kenapa, waktu ngeliat temen-temennya (terutama Penelope dan Floute), dia jadi merasa iri sama kerajinan mereka. And as his father was a bright chemist, aku memutuskan buat ngikutin feel dan bikin dia jadi kompetitif abis dan rajin ngelas. Kudos for my one and only budak poin wakakak.
Isaac di tahun pertama sampai ketiga masih childish banget, ngambek cuma karena hal-hal remeh, suka ngajak ribut ga jelas, cerewet banget mulutnya minta dicimu dilakban. But he eventually found his gentle side—the true one, ketika mulai bergaul sama temen-temen ceweknya, the girls he had looked down on and shrugged off like they didn’t matter.
Boy, was he a sensitive ass, wkwkwk. Si bocah cablak, ga mau diem itu pun menjadi lebih kalem ketika dia sering ngobrol sama mereka, mulai membuka diri dan pikiran. It turned out GIRLS HAD MORE POWER THAN HE’D EXPECTED!!! Isaac was flipped.
Slytherin trait-nya dia juga pelan-pelan mulai keluar, terlebih ketika punya semacam “musuh” cewe yang ga sengaja mancing sisi gelapnya. Isaac yang dulu cuma bisa menyelesaikan masalah dengan marah-marah ga jelas, mulai lebih tactical. He’d do anything to achieve his ends. Pride-nya juga emang setinggi itu sampe ga mau kalah dalam hal apa pun sama cewe.
Sayangnya sensibilitas adalah kelemahan terbesarnya :( He couldn’t even stand on his two feet when he found out he’d fallen in love with a girl. Selain tsundere, dia denialnya cuma satu level di bawah Halryannell (and that’s superbad). Bedanya, Isaac kalau denial ngga violent, tapi justru lembek alay minta digeprek. Dulu dia tipikal anak-anak yang jijik kalau ngebayangin suka-sukaan sama lawan jenis, kayak ga mungkin banget dia bisa suka sama cewek, iyuhhh. Gitu. Taunya, sekalinya suka langsung ambyar.
Pokoknya dia tipe yang selalu menyangkal perasaan dengan akal sehat, tapi justru jatuhnya jadi overwhelmed sama perasaan atau emosi itu sendiri. It’d gotten so bad that he couldn’t even function socially at all, and that’s saying something for a kid like him. He failed classes because of it! BRUH.
THE CLIFFHANGER
Apalah cliffhanger. Intinya plot dia masih belum beres sampe sekarang huehuehue. Saya ikut overwhelmed sama kelemahan dia =))
Tapi, Isaac yang “terpuruk” akhirnya dipaksa bangkit karena tragedi keluarganya. Bapaknya meninggal karena kecelakaan di lab; kakaknya jatuh bangkrut dan hancur karena perceraian; ibunya nikah lagi ga lama setelah bapaknya meninggal, ngeboyong adiknya ke tempat baru.
Isaac yang dulu dimanja kemewahan mau ga mau harus keluar dari Hogwarts buat kerja ngebangun reputasi keluarganya lagi. Dia udah ga punya siapa-siapa buat diandalkan, justru kakak yang biasanya nimang-nimang dia lagi hancur begitu, harus gantian dibantu. Gone was the spoiled, rich brat he used to be, dan tahu-tahu di umur kelimabelas dia dipaksa buat jadi dewasa sebelum waktunya.
CONCLUSION
Alhamdulillah Isaac Crest sudah tumbuh dengan baik, meski tidak terselesaikan *menangis di pojokan* Bocah yang asalnya barbar dan alay itu sudah berkembang menjadi pemuda independen yang gentle dan lebih open-minded.
I think I’ve rambled enough, lol. Thanks for tuning in!
