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It was sometime around 2010—a time when I still believed I had full control over my choices, my future, my body. I was at my uncle’s house when my cousin asked me to accompany him to another cousin’s place. The reason sounded simple enough: the boy was alone at night, his parents were away, and he might feel scared. We were all around 18 or 19—teenagers just stepping into manhood, still half-boy, half-dreamer.

When we got to the house, the mood felt light. They had already done some shopping—meat, vegetables, snacks. The idea was to cook a good dinner together and enjoy the night. I had no clue there was anything else planned.

But those two cousins? They knew exactly what was coming.

As the food was cooking and the evening deepened, they lit up a cigarette—or so I thought. But something smelled different, heavier. I realized, quickly, this wasn’t just tobacco. It was weed.

Now, before that night, weed to me was a dark thing. Something whispered about in disapproval. Something associated with failure, with “bad people,” with everything I didn’t want to be. I had always kept my distance, carried this strong belief that it was dangerous, even evil.

But that night, something shifted.

Maybe it was the environment. Maybe it was the calm confidence on their faces. Maybe it was the part of me that didn’t want to seem afraid, or the part that was simply too curious for its own good.

So when the joint came around, I said yes.

I took a hit.

Nothing happened.

I thought, “That’s it? That’s what everyone’s scared of?” I almost laughed. Then I took another, and another. Three, four, maybe five hits in total. It felt harmless—until suddenly, it didn’t.

Something inside me began to move. A strange energy started buzzing in my body. I couldn’t sit still. My body began to shake. Then I collapsed.

My heartbeat was racing—no, it was pounding. Not just something I could feel, but something I could hear. It echoed in my chest like a drum warning of danger. I couldn’t breathe properly. I couldn’t think. I was terrified.

The only thing I remember clearly from that chaos was begging my cousin over and over again: “Please take me to a doctor. Please. I think I’m going to die.”

I said it so many times, I must have driven him mad. At one point, I heard him tell the other cousin, “Just give him some yogurt. He’s panicking too much.” It was the only way they could calm me down.

Then everything went black again.

When I finally came back to consciousness, it was already morning. My head felt heavy, but my stomach was empty. Starving. Thankfully, the food we had cooked earlier was still there. A big pot, full of flavor and memories from just hours ago—before the fog set in. I ate all of it. Every last bite. Like I was trying to bring myself back to life with each spoonful.

As we stepped out into the daylight, I still remember my cousin turning to me and saying, “I’m never taking you again. You were a nightmare.” And I laughed, weakly, and told him, “Don’t worry. I’ll never touch that stuff again.”

And I meant it. I really did.

That was the first time. The first spark that lit a slow-burning fire inside me. A fire I didn’t even know had started. The story stayed buried for years—just a strange, embarrassing memory between a few cousins. Until 2015, in Malaysia, when the trap truly tightened.

But that’s another story.