Chapter 13 - The Way Forward
Chapter 13: The Way Forward
There was no formal “So… are we dating?” moment.
It just happened.
Not with a confession. Not with fireworks.
But with a message Hana sent one weekday night:
I’m free this Saturday. Want to go get lost in a bookstore and pretend we’re literary snobs?
Aleem stared at it for a moment, smiling.
Only if we also judge people’s coffee orders.
Deal.
Scene 1: The Bookstore Test
The bookstore in Tiong Bahru was quiet, cozy. Narrow aisles. Shelves stacked high like secrets. Hana navigated them like she belonged there. Aleem trailed a few steps behind — not because he didn’t know what to say, but because he liked watching her be.
Halfway through the fiction section, she paused and handed him a book.
“Read this,” she said. “It made me cry.”
He glanced at the cover. Romance.
He raised a brow. “Not usually my genre.”
She tilted her head. “You don’t like crying?”
“I prefer slow-burn existential dread.”
She smirked. “You’re exhausting.”
He laughed, but tucked the book under his arm anyway.
She noticed. And smiled.
Scene 2: The Café Vulnerability
Later, they sat by the window at a nearby café. It had started raining — soft, rhythmic. She ordered hojicha latte. He stuck with kopi peng.
“How’s your heart?” she asked.
Aleem blinked. “That’s… abrupt.”
“You don’t strike me as someone who likes small talk.”
He shrugged. “It’s steadier. Still cautious. But not scared.”
She looked at him, quiet for a beat. Then asked, “What’s the part of you you’re afraid I’ll see?”
He didn’t expect that.
He looked down, fiddling with the straw.
“That I overthink things. That I still doubt myself, even when things are going well. That I’m scared I’ll mess this up just by being… me.”
She reached over and gently touched his wrist.
“Aleem, I see you. And I’m still here.”
Scene 3: The Ghosts of Old Habits
After dinner, they browsed a weekend night market. There was a stall selling handmade bracelets. Aleem pointed one out — simple, dark green thread with a silver bead.
“That suits you,” he said.
Hana smiled. “Want to get matching ones?”
He paused.
Matching.
His past relationship trauma flared — the last time he’d done something like that, he’d been left with a bracelet and no one’s hand to hold.
He didn’t say anything.
She noticed.
“You okay?”
“Yeah… just—sorry. Ghost moment.”
“You don’t have to do anything that makes you uncomfortable.”
He looked at her then.
Truly looked.
And slowly said, “Let’s do it. Not because I have to. But because I want to.”
They bought the bracelets. She tied his for him, gentle fingers brushing his wrist like a promise.
That night, in bed, Aleem opened his notes app.
She asked what I was afraid she’d see in me. I answered honestly. She didn’t flinch.
That’s new.
Maybe the test isn’t whether she understands all my wounds. Maybe it’s whether she stays, even when I don’t have the words for them yet.
The next morning, her message:
Still wearing it?
He sent a photo of his wrist.
Still feels strange. But… good strange.
Her reply:
Like us?
He smiled at the screen. Not too wide. Just enough.
Exactly like us.