First Softening
Chapter 22 – First Softening
Softening didn’t look like a grand apology.
It looked like an extra plate set quietly on a table.
It looked like a question asked without sharpness.
It looked like a mother who was still afraid, but who chose not to harden.
Aleem’s parents didn’t switch from cautious to accepting overnight.
They didn’t.
Because their reluctance wasn’t hatred.
It was responsibility.
And responsibility moved slowly.
It needed proof.
Not speeches.
Not charm.
Not romance.
Proof.
So the first softening came the way most real things come.
On an ordinary day.
When nobody was trying to make a point.
It began with food.
Mak had texted Aleem earlier that week:
Mak masak. You come Sunday take. Jangan makan luar selalu.
Aleem had replied:
Okay, Mak. I come.
Belle had been sitting on his couch when he received the message.
She watched him type with that calm efficiency he had for everything–work emails, GrabFood orders, life decisions.
“Your mum cooking?” Belle asked softly.
Aleem nodded. “Yeah. She does this when she thinks I’m eating badly.”
Belle’s mouth twitched. “Are you eating badly?”
Aleem’s lips pressed together.
It wasn’t a lie.
It wasn’t a confession.
It was… an avoidance.
“Sometimes,” he admitted.
Belle stared at him.
Then she reached for her bag.
“I can come with you?” she asked.
Aleem looked up.
His expression was careful.
Not alarmed.
Checking.
“Do you want to?” he asked.
Belle swallowed.
Her heart was already running.
“I think… yes,” she said. “Not to force a meeting. I can just… stay in the car if they’re not ready.”
Aleem’s gaze softened.
“Mak asked to meet soon,” he said quietly. “But I didn’t set a date. I told her you’re healing and learning. She understood.”
Belle’s throat tightened.
Understood.
Even cautious people could understand.
Belle inhaled.
“I’m okay to meet,” she said softly. “Not a big dinner. Just… hi. Short.”
Aleem studied her face.
He didn’t rush into yes.
He didn’t protect her so hard she became a secret.
He nodded.
“Okay,” he said. “We do short. Proper.”
Belle exhaled.
“Okay,” she whispered.
Then, after a beat, she added, “What do I… bring?”
Aleem’s mouth twitched faintly.
“You don’t have to bring anything,” he said.
Belle stared at him.
“Aleem,” she said, “I’m Chinese. We don’t go empty-handed.”
His eyes softened further.
“Okay,” he conceded. “We bring fruit.”
“Fruit,” Belle repeated, relief flickering.
Safe.
Neutral.
Not performative.
“Okay,” she said.
On Sunday afternoon, Belle stood outside Aleem’s door in a simple long-sleeved blouse and loose pants.
She had tied her hair back.
She wore nothing flashy.
No heels.
No perfume.
She didn’t want to arrive like a statement.
She wanted to arrive like a person.
Aleem opened the door.
He looked… normal.
Clean-cut.
T-shirt.
Jeans.
Keys in hand.
But his eyes held a quiet alertness.
“You okay?” he asked.
Belle nodded. “Okay.”
Then she corrected herself, because her mother had taught her the difference.
“My okay,” she said.
Aleem’s shoulders loosened slightly.
“Okay,” he replied.
He glanced at the fruit basket in her hands.
“That’s… a lot,” he said.
Belle stared at the basket.
It wasn’t extravagant.
Just oranges and pears.
Still, her nerves had made her pick the nicer ones.
“It’s not a lot,” Belle protested quietly.
Aleem’s mouth twitched.
“It’s a lot for my mother,” he said. “She’ll worry you spent money.”
Belle’s stomach tightened.
Worry.
Not insult.
Just a different instinct.
“What should I do?” Belle whispered.
Aleem paused.
Then he did something small.
He reached into the basket and removed two pears.
He handed them back to Belle.
“Put these in my fridge,” he said.
Belle blinked.
Aleem’s gaze stayed calm.
“Now it’s less,” he said.
Belle stared at him.
Then she let out a shaky laugh.
This was his way of smoothing an edge without making her feel stupid.
“Okay,” she whispered.
Aleem nodded. “Okay.”
He locked the door.
They took the lift down.
Belle’s fingers kept tightening and loosening around the basket handle.
Aleem noticed.
He didn’t touch her.
But he stood slightly closer in the lift–close enough that she felt anchored, far enough that it didn’t feel possessive.
Proper.
His parents’ flat was in the same kind of HDB estate Belle had grown up in.
A void deck with potted plants.
A lift lobby with a notice board full of faded flyers.
The smell of cooked food in the corridor.
Normal Singapore life.
Belle’s heart hammered as they walked to the unit.
Aleem knocked.
Mak opened the door.
She was in her tudung, sleeves rolled up slightly, eyes soft but sharp.
She looked at Aleem first.
Then her gaze moved to Belle.
Belle’s throat tightened.
She bowed her head slightly.
“Hello, Auntie,” Belle said.
Mak’s expression didn’t change dramatically.
But her eyes took Belle in.
Clothes.
Hair.
Hands.
The basket.
Mak’s voice was gentle.
“Hello,” she replied. “You Belle?”
Belle nodded. “Yes.”
Mak’s gaze softened a fraction.
“Come in,” Mak said.
Just that.
Come in.
Not an interrogation at the door.
Belle stepped inside.
The living room was clean and lived-in.
A sofa with neatly arranged cushions.
A small Quran on a shelf.
Family photos.
A faint smell of sambal and fried ikan.
Warm.
Belle held the basket out with both hands.
“Auntie, this is… just fruit,” Belle said quietly.
Mak’s eyes widened slightly.
“Aiyo,” Mak murmured, immediately worried. “No need lah.”
Belle’s cheeks warmed.
She didn’t know what to say.
Aleem stepped in gently.
“It’s okay, Mak,” he said. “She insisted.”
Mak looked at Aleem.
Then back at Belle.
Her voice softened.
“Thank you,” Mak said. “Next time no need so much.”
Belle nodded quickly. “Okay.”
Mak took the basket and walked into the kitchen.
“Sit,” she called.
Belle sat on the edge of the sofa, posture straight.
Aleem sat beside her.
Not too close.
But beside.
Then Ayah appeared from the hallway.
He wore a simple shirt and glasses.
He looked at Belle.
His face was unreadable–calm, steady.
Like Aleem, but older.
“Assalamualaikum,” Aleem greeted.
“Waalaikumsalam,” his father replied.
Then Ayah nodded at Belle.
“Hello,” Ayah said.
Belle swallowed. “Hello, Uncle.”
Ayah sat down on the armchair opposite.
His gaze stayed on Belle.
Not hostile.
Assessing.
Belle’s palms were damp.
She pressed them lightly on her thighs.
Mak returned with drinks–tea for Ayah, and a glass of water for Belle.
Belle’s throat tightened.
Water.
Small hospitality.
Mak placed the water down in front of Belle.
“Drink,” Mak said gently.
Belle nodded. “Thank you, Auntie.”
Mak sat down too.
The air held a quiet tension.
Not anger.
Just unfamiliarity.
Aleem broke it, calmly.
“Mak cooked a lot,” he said. “I came to take food.”
Mak sniffed. “You always eat outside. Outside food not healthy.”
Ayah muttered, “He’s grown man.”
Mak shot him a look. “Grown man still can die of cholesterol.”
Belle blinked.
Aleem’s mouth twitched.
The banter was normal.
A family.
Belle’s chest loosened slightly.
Mak turned to Belle.
“You work?” Mak asked.
Belle nodded. “Yes, Auntie.”
Mak nodded. “What you do?”
Belle swallowed.
This was safe territory.
Work.
Neutral ground.
“I’m in corporate,” Belle said. “Admin side.”
Mak nodded slowly.
Ayah asked, calmly, “You live with parents?”
Belle nodded. “Near. I visit a lot.”
Ayah’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“Good,” he said.
Good.
Belle’s throat tightened.
Ayah continued, “Parents… important.”
Belle nodded quickly. “Yes.”
Mak’s gaze sharpened slightly.
“And your parents… they know?” Mak asked.
Belle inhaled.
“Yes,” she said softly. “They know we’re… trying.”
Mak glanced at Aleem.
Then back at Belle.
“How they feel?” Mak asked.
Belle’s throat tightened.
She didn’t want to dramatise.
But she also didn’t want to lie.
“They’re scared,” Belle admitted softly. “But they… they love me. They said they will show up. Their only boundary is… they don’t want me isolated from them.”
The words landed.
Mak’s eyes softened.
Ayah’s gaze remained steady.
Mak nodded slowly.
“That’s… love,” Mak murmured.
Belle’s chest tightened.
Mak looked at Belle, voice gentle.
“You must keep them close,” Mak said.
Not accusation.
Advice.
Belle nodded hard. “Yes, Auntie. I will.”
Ayah watched Belle for a moment.
Then he asked, calmly,
“You learning?”
The question was simple.
But it held weight.
Belle swallowed.
“Yes,” she said. “I went for a session with an ustazah. Just to ask questions. No pressure.”
Mak’s gaze sharpened.
“Who?” Mak asked.
Belle blinked. “Ustazah Sara.”
Mak’s shoulders loosened slightly.
“Okay,” Mak murmured.
Okay.
That word again.
Ayah nodded once.
“Good,” he said.
There was that word again.
Good.
Belle’s throat tightened.
Not because she wanted approval.
Because the lack of rejection felt like mercy.
Mak asked, gently, “Why you want to learn?”
Belle’s heart hammered.
This was the question.
The one that separated sincerity from romance.
Belle inhaled slowly.
She chose truth.
“Because… I want to understand what shapes him,” Belle said softly. “And… when I watch the way he practices, it feels calm. Not… scary.”
Mak’s eyes studied her.
Ayah watched too.
Belle continued, voice trembling but steady,
“And because he told me… if I ever convert, it must be for Allah, not for him. So I’m learning first. Honestly.”
Silence.
Mak’s gaze softened a fraction.
Ayah’s eyes narrowed–then relaxed.
Mak exhaled.
“Okay,” Mak said again.
Belle’s chest loosened.
Mak wasn’t saying yes.
Mak wasn’t saying blessing.
But Mak was… listening.
Ayah asked, calmly,
“You feel pressured?”
Belle shook her head quickly.
“No,” she said. “He is… very careful. He keeps telling me no rush.”
Mak glanced at Aleem, a look that was half-pride, half-warning.
Aleem’s expression remained calm.
Ayah nodded once.
“Good,” Ayah said.
Then, unexpectedly, Mak stood.
“Eat,” she declared.
Belle blinked.
Mak walked into the kitchen and returned with a plate of kuih.
She placed it on the coffee table.
“Take,” Mak said.
Belle stared at the kuih.
A plate offered.
Not pushed.
Just placed.
A quiet gesture.
Softening.
Belle swallowed.
“Thank you, Auntie,” she whispered.
Mak waved her hand. “Eat lah.”
Belle reached for one piece.
Her fingers trembled slightly.
She took a small bite.
Sweet.
Warm.
Home.
Mak watched her eat.
Not like a judge.
Like a mother.
Then Mak said, softly,
“You know, Belle… people talk.”
Belle’s stomach tightened.
Ayah’s gaze sharpened.
Mak continued, voice gentle but firm,
“If you come into this world, some people will say things. They will say you do for man. They will say you not sincere. They will ask you many questions.”
Belle’s throat tightened.
Mak’s eyes softened.
“It can be very tiring,” Mak said.
Belle nodded slowly.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Mak looked at Aleem.
“Aleem must protect you,” Mak said.
Aleem nodded once. “I will.”
Mak looked back at Belle.
“And you… you must protect yourself,” Mak said gently. “Don’t try to prove to everyone. Prove only to Allah, if you reach there.”
Belle’s eyes burned.
The advice wasn’t a sermon.
It was… care.
Belle swallowed.
“Okay,” Belle whispered.
Mak’s gaze softened.
“Okay,” Mak echoed.
Ayah cleared his throat.
He leaned forward slightly.
His voice was calm.
“If you want to be family,” Ayah said, looking at Belle, “you come properly. No hiding. No rushing. We talk like adults.”
Belle nodded quickly.
“Yes, Uncle.”
Ayah’s gaze stayed steady.
“And you keep your parents close,” Ayah added. “We don’t want to steal someone’s daughter. We want to… add family. Not break family.”
Add family.
Belle’s throat tightened.
Her chest felt full.
This.
This was what she had feared losing.
Her family.
And now, in this living room, she heard Aleem’s world speak the same language:
Integration.
Not replacement.
Belle blinked hard.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I want that too.”
Ayah nodded once.
“Okay,” he said.
Okay.
Two parents.
Two different worlds.
Same word.
Not acceptance.
Not rejection.
A bridge.
The meeting didn’t last long.
Because Aleem didn’t let it.
He stood after twenty minutes and said, calmly,
“We should go. I don’t want to take her time. And I need to bring food back.”
Mak glanced at the clock.
Then at Belle.
A flicker of surprise.
Aleem was setting a boundary.
Protecting the pace.
Mak didn’t argue.
“Okay,” Mak said. “You take food.”
Mak disappeared into the kitchen and returned with containers.
Not only for Aleem.
She placed one smaller container in a bag.
Then she held it out to Belle.
Belle froze.
Mak’s voice was brisk, as if making it casual.
“This… for you,” Mak said. “Vegetable. Not spicy.”
Belle’s throat tightened.
A container.
A mother’s love language.
Food.
Care disguised as practicality.
Belle accepted it with both hands.
“Thank you, Auntie,” she whispered.
Mak waved her off, but her eyes were soft.
“Take care,” Mak said.
Take care.
Not goodbye.
Not see you never.
Take care.
Ayah stood too.
He didn’t hug.
He simply nodded at Belle.
“Okay,” he said.
Belle’s eyes burned.
“Okay,” she replied.
Aleem held the containers.
He looked at his parents.
“Assalamualaikum,” he said.
“Waalaikumsalam,” they replied.
Then they stepped out.
In the lift, Belle finally exhaled.
Her body felt like it had been holding itself upright through sheer will.
Aleem glanced at her.
“You okay?”
Belle nodded, then shook her head, then nodded again.
“I’m… okay,” she said, voice trembling. “But my heart is very loud.”
Aleem’s mouth twitched faintly.
“Normal,” he said.
Belle stared at the bag in her hands.
“Auntie gave me food,” Belle whispered.
Aleem glanced at it.
His eyes softened.
“That means something,” he said quietly.
Belle swallowed.
“It does?”
Aleem nodded once.
“My mother doesn’t give food to just anyone,” he said.
Belle’s throat tightened.
Softening.
A small sign.
Not approval.
But care.
They reached the car.
As Aleem unlocked the door, Belle hesitated.
Then she asked, softly,
“Did I say anything wrong?”
Aleem looked at her.
His gaze was steady.
“No,” he said. “You were honest. You were respectful. That’s all.”
Belle’s eyes stung.
She nodded.
Aleem’s voice softened.
“And you didn’t perform,” he added. “You didn’t try to impress. You just… showed up.”
Showed up.
Belle’s throat tightened.
That was her only goal.
To show up.
Without taking.
Without rushing.
Without disappearing from her own family.
When Belle got home that evening, her mother opened the door before Belle could knock.
Her mother’s eyes scanned Belle immediately.
“You okay?” her mother asked.
Belle swallowed.
She held up the bag.
“Aleem’s mum gave me vegetables,” Belle said softly.
Her mother froze.
“Aleem’s mum?”
Belle nodded.
“I met them,” she said quietly. “Just short.”
Her mother’s throat moved.
She stared at the bag like it was proof of something complicated.
Then she looked at Belle.
“How was it?” her mother asked, voice tight.
Belle inhaled slowly.
“They were… cautious,” Belle admitted. “But they were polite. They said… add family, not break family.”
Her mother’s eyes shone.
“Did they say anything bad?”
Belle shook her head.
“No,” she said. “They told me people will talk, and I shouldn’t prove to everyone. Only… if I ever reach there, to Allah.”
Her mother blinked.
Then her mother exhaled shakily.
“Okay,” her mother whispered.
Belle’s chest tightened.
Okay.
Her mother took the bag from Belle’s hands.
Not rejecting.
Not accepting.
Holding.
“I heat,” her mother said briskly, as if to stop herself from crying.
Belle nodded.
She followed her mother into the kitchen.
Her father appeared behind them, attracted by the sound of the microwave door.
He looked at Belle.
His eyes asked the question.
Belle answered with the only word that could carry everything.
“Okay,” she said.
Her father nodded once.
“Okay,” he replied.
In the warmth of her kitchen, with vegetables from another mother heating in the microwave, Belle felt something settle.
Not peace.
Not certainty.
But the first softening.
A quiet sign that two worlds could touch without breaking.
A plate offered.
A word repeated.
A door opened–just a crack.
Enough for hope to slip through.
Enough for Belle to keep showing up.
Properly.
Slowly.
One small mercy at a time.