Kampung Duo

Chapter 1 – Kampung Duo

Kampung people always knew before you did.

Not in the mystical way the old aunties liked to dramatize–hands on hips, eyes narrowing like they could measure the size of your future with a glance–but in the practical way of a place where windows were never truly closed, where the same five roads led to the same kopitiam, and where the sound of your slippers on cement could be identified the way a mother identified her child’s cough.

They knew Chen Wei and Mei Xuan were a pair long before either of them could name what that meant.

To the aunties at the wet market, they were dua budak itu–those two kids–always together, always making noise, always acting like they were enemies who had accidentally been assigned the same fate. To the uncles at the sundry shop, they were the ones who argued over the last orange soda but still split it anyway. To the old lady who sold kuih in the morning, they were the ones who bickered while lining up–aiya, why you so slow one?–then turned their bodies without thinking so their shoulders shielded each other from the crush of adults.

Chen Wei would have denied it if anyone asked.

Mei Xuan would have denied it louder.

But denial was part of their rhythm, stitched into the small, daily choreography of growing up in a kampung that carried a Chinese pocket of homes between a rubber estate and a palm oil stretch, where monsoon rain made the world smell like wet soil and pandan leaves, and where nights were filled with crickets loud enough to feel like static in your bones.

Theirs was a world of sun-bleached zinc roofs, of laundry lines and plastic chairs, of motorbikes and barking dogs, of old men playing Chinese chess under a tree, and children who learned early how to run barefoot on hot cement without looking like it hurt.

Chen Wei and Mei Xuan learned early, too, how to find each other.

It started with a wall.

Not a tall wall–just a waist-high partition between their houses, built from old bricks and mismatched cement that had been patched more than once. Over the years, vines had tried to claim it, and someone–usually Chen Wei’s mother–would yank them out while grumbling, later snake come then you know.

On one side lived the Chen family: a small wooden house with a concrete extension, a fading red paper charm on the front door, and a kitchen that always smelled like soy sauce and garlic because his mother cooked like feeding people was her love language.

On the other side lived Mei Xuan’s family: a slightly newer house, also modest, with a neat little porch where her mother arranged potted plants in obsessive rows–money plant, jasmine, aloe vera–like order could keep life from getting messy.

Between those houses, between those lives, was a wall that meant nothing.

At seven, Chen Wei learned how to climb it.

At seven, Mei Xuan learned how to stop him.

“Oi! Chen Wei!” Mei Xuan’s voice came like a slingshot, sharp and accurate. “You want die ah? Later you fall, then my mother scold me!”

Chen Wei froze at the top of the wall, one leg swung over, his fingers gripping the rough cement. He squinted down at her, cheeks flushed from the heat. “Then you catch me la.”

“Why I must catch you?”

“Because you the one who shouting.”

Mei Xuan planted her hands on her hips and tilted her chin up, as if the sky itself had offended her. “You always like this. You do stupid thing, then you ask other people to help.”

Chen Wei grinned, teeth too big for his face. “So you helping or not?”

She should have said no.

She did say no.

But her arms still lifted.

He dropped, and she staggered back with his weight, the two of them tumbling onto the grass in a clumsy heap. Their laughter exploded immediately–hers reluctant but bright, his full-bodied and shameless–and somewhere behind her, Mei Xuan’s mother called, “Mei Xuan! Don’t roll on the ground! Later mosquito bite you!”

They scrambled apart like guilty criminals, dusting themselves off, pretending they hadn’t been caught.

That was how it always was.

They fought.

They laughed.

They found their way back to each other like magnets, no matter how many times they tried to pretend they weren’t.

As they grew older, their kampung grew around them.

Primary school mornings began with the smell of Milo and fried egg, with mothers shouting reminders–bring your water bottle!–and fathers revving motorbikes like it was their job to announce the day. The school bus never came on time, so Chen Wei and Mei Xuan walked instead, their slippers slapping the road, their bags bumping their backs.

They walked past the row of wooden houses where the Malay kids lived–kids they sometimes played with during Hari Raya open houses, eating kuih and laughing at fireworks. They passed the small surau with its green roof, where the call to prayer floated like a soft ribbon in the early morning air. They passed the banana trees and the drain where frogs hid.

And they argued the whole way.

“You always walk too fast,” Mei Xuan complained, tugging her bag higher. “You want to go school or run marathon?”

“You the one short legs,” Chen Wei shot back.

“I’m not short. You’re just too tall.”

Chen Wei scoffed. “I’m normal height.”

Mei Xuan turned her head, squinting at him like she was taking measurements. “Your head big. That’s why you look tall.”

He sputtered. “My head is normal.”

“Your hair also messy. Like broom.”

“Your hair also messy. Like… like…” He searched for something cruel and came up empty.

Mei Xuan raised one eyebrow, smug. “Like what? Say la.”

Chen Wei opened his mouth, then shut it. In the end he muttered, “Like princess.”

Mei Xuan blinked at him.

Chen Wei didn’t look at her. He kicked a pebble down the road, suddenly very interested in the movement of the pebble.

Mei Xuan’s cheeks warmed in spite of herself. “Don’t suddenly say weird thing. Later people think you…”

“Think I what?” Chen Wei asked too quickly.

Mei Xuan tossed her head, pretending she wasn’t flustered. “Think you got problem.”

Chen Wei laughed, relief splashing through him. “You also got problem.”

They arrived at school like that–banter as armor, friendship as habit.

In class, they sat near each other because their surnames put them close in the register, and because even if the teacher separated them, they found ways to communicate anyway. Chen Wei would flick the corner of Mei Xuan’s workbook when she wasn’t paying attention. Mei Xuan would steal his eraser and only return it after he begged.

When he got scolded for talking, she would smirk.

When she got scolded for daydreaming, he would smirk.

They were each other’s witness.

And in a kampung, being witnessed meant more than people realized.

By the time they reached twelve, the world began to tilt.

It started with bodies changing. Voices cracking. Arms stretching. Skirts feeling too short, shorts feeling too tight, the awkward horror of suddenly being aware of the shape you took up in the world.

For Chen Wei, the changes came with an unexpected side effect: a restless sense that he didn’t know where to put himself.

He grew taller, yes. His shoulders broadened. His voice began to deepen in uneven steps–some days smooth, some days betraying him mid-sentence.

But along with that came a strange observation he never said out loud.

Mei Xuan’s world was changing differently.

She began to tie her hair in new ways. She started caring about things that had never mattered before–whether her school pinafore fit properly, whether her socks matched, whether her skin looked too dark under the noon sun.

It bothered Chen Wei how often the aunties commented on her.

“Aiyo, Mei Xuan grow pretty already.”

“Aiyo, next time many boys chase.”

“Aiyo, don’t always run like boy, later cannot find husband.”

Chen Wei would stand nearby, pretending not to listen, but his hands would curl into fists by his sides.

Mei Xuan would roll her eyes and say something sharp–“I run my own legs, not your business”–and the aunties would laugh like she was entertainment.

Chen Wei didn’t understand why their laughter made him feel protective, angry, and… something else.

It was too early to call it jealousy.

He didn’t have the language.

He only knew that when men looked at her for too long, when boys at school started trying to impress her, when a classmate passed Mei Xuan a note with a heart drawn in red ink, Chen Wei’s stomach felt like it had swallowed a stone.

He started getting into fights.

Not dramatic, movie-style fights–kampung fights, where boys shoved each other behind the canteen and threw words like stones.

“Why you always stick to her?” one boy sneered.

“None of your business,” Chen Wei snapped.

“She’s a girl. You cannot always like that. Later she find boyfriend then you cry.”

Chen Wei lunged without thinking, and his fist hit the boy’s shoulder hard enough that the boy stumbled.

Teachers broke it up. Chen Wei got scolded. His mother sighed, tired. Mei Xuan, furious, tugged him by the ear later and hissed, “Are you stupid? Want to get expelled is it?”

Chen Wei, eyes still hot with adrenaline, snapped back, “He talk nonsense.”

Mei Xuan glared. “People always talk nonsense. You want punch everyone ah?”

Chen Wei looked at her–really looked–and the heat in him shifted.

He saw the way her eyebrows knitted when she was angry, the way her lips pressed together like she was trying not to show she cared, the way she stood too close, like his trouble was also her trouble.

He swallowed.

“I only punch the ones I want to,” he muttered.

Mei Xuan’s expression softened for a fraction of a second, then she scoffed. “Then you want to punch yourself also la.”

He laughed, because laughter was easier than explaining why his heart suddenly felt too big for his chest.

High school arrived like a door opening.

The uniforms changed: white shirts sharper, skirts pleated, trousers longer. The days became longer too, packed with tuition and exams, with promises about the future that sounded heavy even when spoken softly.

They entered Form 1 together.

On the first day, the sun was brutal, slicing down from the sky like it was personal. The school was bigger than their primary school, with more students, more noise, more rules.

Mei Xuan’s hands were sweaty as she clutched her timetable.

Chen Wei, sensing her nervousness, leaned in and whispered, “Don’t worry. If you get lost, just shout my name.”

Mei Xuan hissed, “Don’t be stupid. Everyone will stare.”

Chen Wei grinned. “Let them stare.”

Mei Xuan glared. “You like attention. That’s why your head big.”

Chen Wei laughed so loudly that two seniors turned to look.

Mei Xuan turned red and punched his arm.

He didn’t mind.

In class, they ended up seated apart.

Chen Wei didn’t like it.

He spent the first week finding excuses to cross the room–borrow a pen, ask about homework, pass a note that only said, your face macam ikan bilis (“your face like anchovy”), just to make her scowl.

At recess, he saved a seat for her even when she pretended she didn’t care.

At after-school co-curricular activities, he joined badminton not because he loved it but because Mei Xuan did.

And in the quiet, private corners of his mind, something settled in.

A truth he had been circling for years.

He liked her.

Not in the childish way of pulling pigtails.

Not in the lazy way of assuming she would always be there.

He liked her in a way that frightened him.

In a way that made the future look like it had a shape.

The first time he understood the difference between “friend” and “something else” was not in a dramatic confession or a sudden kiss.

It happened on a night when the power went out.

It was monsoon season. Rain had been falling for three days straight, turning the kampung roads into shallow rivers, making the air feel thick and intimate.

The electricity cut off with a flicker.

Fans died. Lights died. The TV in Chen Wei’s living room went black mid-drama.

His mother cursed softly in Hokkien and lit candles.

Outside, the world turned into a dark, wet whisper.

Chen Wei stood on the porch, watching the rain pour like it wanted to erase the earth.

Then he heard it.

A soft knock on the wall between houses.

Tok tok tok.

His heart jumped like it had been waiting.

He climbed the wall in the dark, careful this time, and dropped onto Mei Xuan’s side.

Mei Xuan was on her porch too, holding a candle in one hand. The flame made her face glow warm and soft.

“You also no electric,” she said, as if this was new information.

Chen Wei snorted. “Whole kampung no electric.”

Mei Xuan rolled her eyes, but her shoulders relaxed like she was glad he was there. “My mother say don’t use phone too much. Battery important.”

Chen Wei nodded like he understood. He didn’t–his phone battery was always low because he played games like a fool–but tonight it didn’t matter.

They stood in the rain’s shadow, listening.

At some point, Mei Xuan sat down on the porch step.

Chen Wei sat beside her.

Their shoulders didn’t touch at first.

Then, slowly, like the world was nudging them, they leaned closer.

The air smelled like wet wood and candle wax.

Mei Xuan’s candle flickered as a gust of wind passed. Chen Wei instinctively lifted his hand to shield the flame.

Mei Xuan looked at him.

Her eyes were dark in the candlelight, reflecting the small fire like two little stars.

“You scared?” she asked quietly.

Chen Wei scoffed. “Scared what? Ghost meh?”

Mei Xuan smiled faintly. “Rain like this… sometimes got weird sound.”

Chen Wei wanted to laugh, wanted to tease.

But then he realized she had asked because she was trying to talk about something else–something softer.

He swallowed.

“If you scared, I sit here la,” he said.

Mei Xuan’s lips pressed together, her expression suddenly unfamiliar–something like gratitude, something like relief.

“Who asked you,” she muttered.

But she didn’t tell him to go.

Rain kept falling.

The darkness felt less scary with her beside him.

And in that moment, Chen Wei understood.

He wanted to be the one she looked for when the lights went out.

He wanted to be the reason the dark didn’t feel so heavy.

That desire sat in his chest, quiet and undeniable.

It was not a childish crush.

It was a beginning.

The next day, the electricity came back.

They went back to being noisy.

Mei Xuan scolded him for forgetting his homework.

Chen Wei called her “bossy auntie.”

Life continued like it always did.

But Chen Wei couldn’t forget the way she had looked in candlelight.

Couldn’t forget how natural it had felt to sit beside her in the dark.

He started noticing things he had never noticed before.

The way her laughter came out when she tried to hide it.

The way she bit the inside of her cheek when she was thinking.

The way she always offered him the spiciest piece of fried chicken just to watch him suffer, but then handed him a drink immediately after.

He told himself it was normal.

They were best friends.

Of course he noticed.

Of course he cared.

But deep down, he knew.

The caring had changed shape.

Form 3 came with pressure.

PMR exams, tuition, teachers talking like the entire future rested on a single grade.

Chen Wei and Mei Xuan began staying in school later, studying in the library because it was cooler there, because it was quieter, because being together made the stress feel lighter.

One afternoon, Mei Xuan fell asleep at the table.

Her head rested on her folded arms, her hair spilling across the desk like a dark curtain.

Chen Wei stared at his math worksheet, pretending not to notice.

But his eyes kept drifting to her.

Her eyelashes were longer than he remembered.

Her lips were slightly parted in sleep.

There was a small crease between her brows, like even in rest she was carrying something.

Chen Wei felt a tenderness so sudden it startled him.

He reached for his jacket and hesitated.

If he put it over her, would that be weird?

He looked around.

Nobody was paying attention.

He draped his jacket gently over her shoulders.

Mei Xuan shifted slightly, murmured something he couldn’t hear.

Chen Wei held his breath.

Then she settled.

He sat back, heart beating too loud in his ears.

The world felt absurdly quiet.

A moment later, a thought arrived, clear and terrifying.

I want to tell her.

Not now.

Not like this.

But soon.

He wanted to tell her that she was not just his friend.

That she had become the axis of his days.

That when he imagined the future, she was in it.

He stared at her sleeping face and promised himself, silently.

After PMR.

After Form 5.

After things settled.

I will tell her.

He didn’t notice the way Mei Xuan’s fingers curled lightly around the edge of his jacket.

As if even in her sleep, she knew exactly who had covered her.

When Mei Xuan woke up, she jerked upright, startled.

Her hair was messy, her eyes blurry.

She looked down at the jacket on her shoulders, then at Chen Wei.

He forced his face into its usual expression–annoyed, casual.

“Eh, you drool on table already,” he said.

Mei Xuan blinked. “I didn’t drool.”

Chen Wei leaned forward, pointed at nothing, just to see her panic.

Mei Xuan slapped his hand away. “You stupid.”

He laughed, relief loosening something in him.

Mei Xuan tugged the jacket tighter around herself, pretending she didn’t care.

“Why you give me your jacket?” she asked, voice too casual.

Chen Wei shrugged. “Library cold.”

Mei Xuan stared at him like she wanted to peel open his skull and look inside.

Then she looked away.

“Thanks,” she muttered.

The word landed in his chest like warmth.

He pretended not to hear.

But he did.

He stored it away, quietly, like a secret.

That night, Chen Wei lay on his bed listening to the ceiling fan spin.

The kampung outside was alive with its usual noises–distant motorcycles, dogs barking, someone’s radio playing an old Teresa Teng song too loud.

He stared at the dark ceiling and thought about Mei Xuan.

He thought about how they had always been a duo.

How everyone around them assumed they would stay that way.

How the aunties always joked about them getting married one day.

Chen Wei used to hate those jokes.

He used to shout, “Ew!” and run away.

Now, the thought made his chest ache.

Not because he feared it.

Because he wanted it.

And wanting it made him afraid.

Afraid of ruining what they had.

Afraid of hearing her laugh and say, don’t be stupid, Chen Wei.

Afraid of seeing her face change into something distant.

But the fear couldn’t erase the truth.

He wanted her.

Not in a way that was loud.

In a way that was steady.

In a way that felt like home.

Outside, the kampung crickets sang.

And somewhere, just over the wall, Mei Xuan’s house lights clicked off one by one.

Chen Wei closed his eyes.

He told himself again, like a vow.

Soon.

When the time is right.

I’ll tell her.

He fell asleep thinking of candlelight and rain, of laughter and arguments, of the strange, quiet feeling in his chest that had started to grow–small at first, then bigger every day.

In a kampung, people always knew before you did.

But Chen Wei was catching up.

And he didn’t yet understand how much the world was about to change.