Yes No Maybe

Chapter 31 – Yes / No / Maybe

Morning remembered how to be ordinary. The corridor smelled like last night’s rain being briefed on today’s sunlight; the lift rehearsed its cough; somewhere a neighbor’s radio argued gently with a kettle. Aleem woke the way a good paragraph ends: quietly, with a sense that the sentence after it will land. He checked his phone only after his feet found the floor.

A: Morning. After‑care roll call: body okay / head okay / no regret / tea still helpful?

Aleem: Morning. All green. Jaw remembers kindness. Tea passed exam. Grateful and unhurried.

A: Good. Schedule kind to me till lunch. Later – small walk? Bring the bench inside us even if benches outside are taken.

Aleem: Botanic Gardens, Healing Garden gate, 10:30? I’ll bring the map that isn’t a map.

A: Proceed.

He placed the phone face down because that was the rule and because the room behaved better when screens were domesticated.

His mother stood at the stove with a pan that believed in eggs. She glanced at his face and smiled with the ease of someone who has taught many rooms not to panic.

“Storm last night?” she asked.

“Blackout,” he said, pouring water into the kettle that had learned their house’s heartbeat. “Candles. Tea.” He let the last noun take up most of the sentence.

She slid an egg onto toast. “You are doing the quiet smile,” she observed, not pulling at the thread. “Eat before your walk. Sunscreen even if clouds gossip. Take the small umbrella; it does not bully wind.” She set a saucer beside his mug. Two pineapple tarts acted like they paid rent.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Also,” she added, wiping the stove as if finishing a chapter, “remember: small and right is bigger than big and wrong.”

“Filed,” he said, feeling the sentence accept its place on a shelf.

She stole one tart from his saucer without apology. “I will meet this girl properly again when cake is available,” she said. “Today, leave the kitchen looking as if good people live here.”

“Yes, Ma,” he said. The house liked being teased into behaving.

Before he left, he opened the locker door’s paper museum. On top: last night’s additions – Kisses are requests. After is care. Rules glow in the dark. He cut three new squares from the calendar that had given up on pretending months could supervise him.

Yes is specific.
No saves futures.
Maybe is honorable.

He slid them under Proceed by invitation and above Be the bench. The stack rearranged itself, polite clatter.

The Gardens at 10:30 wore cool like a cardigan. The Healing Garden’s gate kept its own pace; a sign asked for silence without being dramatic. Aunties practiced tai chi as if teaching the air to obey; a monitor lizard surfaced in the pond, decided against celebrity, and smoothed itself back into green.

Aoi arrived with the stride of a person who intends to be furniture and has remembered which room she belongs to. Linen, flats, a cap that apologized to the sun. She lifted two fingers in hello, palm already ready if needed.

“Good morning,” she said.

“Good morning,” he answered. “We are here for a map.”

“We are here for grammar,” she amended, amused.

They walked the path that loops past lemon balm and ginger, past a sign that called a plant mother‑in‑law’s tongue and made them both grin. He pointed at labels; she stole the Latin and made it pronounceable.

“Rules?” she asked, as they reached a bench that had elected to face shade.

“No photos. Phones only for time and… the map we’re drawing. Public words only in public spaces. We ask; we caption; we can reverse.” He paused. “And we give ourselves permission to be ridiculous if ridiculous is useful.”

“Approved,” she said. She placed a small notebook on her knee: cream paper, squared, the kind that asks for tidy ideas. “Consent glossary,” she wrote at the top in a hand that teachers would like.

“Title?” he offered. “Affection Charter (Draft).”

She wrote it down. “Drafts are kind,” she said. “Okay. Green / Yellow / Red. Public and private columns. We will be boring on purpose.”

They spoke like adults who trust language to carry its weight.

“Green–Public:” she began, pencil deliberate. “Palm to palm. Two taps, one hold. Side‑by‑side walking with shoulders negotiating like good neighbors. Bench‑lean for one count of two in, hold, three out.”

“Add,” he said. “Forehead touch for one beat if nobody’s looking at us except plants.”

She wrote: foreheads (plants only). “Okay. Green–Private:” – she glanced at him for permission; he nodded – “hand holding, hugs that stop above waist, cheek kiss, closed‑mouth kiss that fits in one breath unless both add another.” She kept her pencil calm: zero performance.

“Yellow–Public:” he continued. “None, mostly. Maybe: palm to palm longer if crowd is kind. Otherwise we keep hands in our pockets like good citizens.”

“Yellow–Private:” she said. “Longer kisses with request each time. Touch at the back of neck with request. Sitting close on the same side of the table; same couch with my head on your shoulder.” She wrote: caption: bench check.

“Add: later means later, not ‘convince me,’” he said, and she wrote, underlining later = complete sentence.

“Red (for now):” she said. “Anything under clothes. Any filming. Any overnight. Any touching that would make aunties in our heads sigh. Any public displays that turn us into someone else’s lesson.”

He smiled. “Auntie constitution,” he said. “Red = protect tomorrow.”

She added periods / jet lag / sore throat = more red days; we do not negotiate against bodies.

“Global:” he said. “Requests are captioned and reversible. If one of us says library closed, we tidy and choose small.”

“Safe words,” she echoed, pleased. “I like library closed. Also peppermint for ‘I am stuck in my head; please make the room slow.’”

He nodded. “Peppermint is good. For me, toolbox means I am in fix‑it mode; please remind me to be bench.”

She wrote the glossary with small arrows and parentheses that would make future them laugh. “Frequency rules?”

“No late‑night novels by text,” he said. “Messages okay until 11 p.m.; after that, only logistics or emergencies. We ask if one of us is with family. We keep work days sacred.”

She added: post‑show: no calls; only ‘home’ check. Then: illness days: soup policy; affection by house call later.

They looked at the list like gardeners admiring a bed ready for rain.

“May I add the line that matters most?” she asked. He tipped his head. She wrote slowly: Yes is specific. No saves futures. Maybe is honorable. Then, smaller under it: We say thank you either way.

“Filed,” he said, and meant filed in his ribcage as much as on paper.

They let the pond be clever for a while. A dragonfly auditioned for metaphor and then behaved. An uncle in a bucket hat walked past, nodded at them the way citizens nod at citizens who are not causing paperwork. The sky rehearsed cloud shapes and decided against drama.

“Mother radar?” Aoi asked lightly, as if checking the weather app.

“Gentle and accurate,” he said. “She has set herself to cake soon, not yet. She says small and right is bigger than big and wrong. Also: wipe the stove.”

Aoi smiled, something behind her eyes relaxing as if a muscle had just learned it was allowed not to work. “I would like to bring her cake that is honest,” she said. “Not pretty; correct.”

“She will approve of correct cake,” he said. “Our house is a democracy with stove‑wiping laws.”

They drank water from his flask and then committed a small administrative act: he photographed the Charter page with his phone and locked it behind an app that required mischievous thumb geometry. She did the same. No cloud backup. No sync to any hungry feed. Paper returned to pouch like a well‑fed pet.

“Archive clause respects us,” she said. “Museum gets a copy later. No exhibition.”

“Secret exhibit,” he agreed.

On the way out, the Gardens decided to do a near‑miss training. A pair of teenagers in matching hoodies approached, slowed, then looked at each other as if passing a baton neither wanted. One lifted a phone just high enough to be a possibility.

Aoi’s palm found his–two taps; one hold. Aleem turned his shoulders like a curtain closing half an inch. “Morning,” he said to the boys, polite. “Garden rules–no filming strangers.” He nodded toward a sign that said nothing of the sort but might as well have.

The taller boy flushed. “Sorry, uncle,” he said, the local honorific landing correctly. “You look… nice together.”

“Thank you,” Aoi said, inclining her head as if accepting a compliment about bench placement. “We are practicing being citizens.”

The boys bowed at their shoes and moved on, relieved to have been let off a test with a pass.

“Public first,” she murmured.

“Public always,” he answered.

They crossed to Nassim Gate for kopi. The small café practised kindness: lids that didn’t betray, staff who knew how to be brisk without making anyone feel uninvited. They sat at a corner table where trees did most of the decoration. He passed her the stirrer. She passed him the sugar packet to return unopened. The table learned their economy.

“May I check something personal?” she asked, thumb drawing the little circle on his palm–question.

“Please.”

“When you asked last night,” she said, fingers now still, “I felt… younger. Not in age; in ease. I would like us to keep asking even when we know the answer.”

“Yes,” he said. “Practice makes reflex. Reflex makes safety.” He paused. “If I ever forget and reach without words, please say caption and I will back up and try again.”

“Caption,” she repeated, amused and reassured. “Okay.” She raised two fingers to her cheekbone in the miniature that their archive had chosen. “Request – not now; just to remind the movement.”

He mirrored. “Approved later,” he said. It was absurd and correct and made the kopi taste brighter.

They did not linger long; lingering is for days without elderflower heat. At the bus stop they did the polite math of schedules and shade. Bus 7 approached like a promise; they let it go for Bus 77 which had better manners about their respective stops.

At parting, she lifted her palm–flat. Two taps; one hold; three light taps. “Here. Stay. Air.”

“Here,” he said. “Stay. Air.” He raised two fingers to his own cheekbone in a tiny salute to last night’s courage and today’s rules. She smiled, not coy, not performance; just a person happy to have both grammar and story.

Home smelled like pandan pretending to be everywhere. His mother was arranging leftover curry into portions that made sense. “How are Gardens?” she asked.

“Learning,” he said. “We drafted policy.”

“Democracy,” she approved. She slid a container toward him. “Bring this to your room–your paper museum also must eat.”

He carried curry down the hallway like a sacred text and opened the locker door with the reverence due to wood that keeps faith. He added two more squares.

Caption, then touch.
Library closed means later, full stop.

He tucked a folded copy of the Affection Charter (Draft) behind the layer that said Archive, not feed. The stack made its polite paper sound, the one only owners hear.

His phone chimed once.

A: Home. Charter filed in my museum. Mother‑in‑law’s tongue judged us kindly. Thank you for yes/no/maybe. Lunch with choreographer – boring on purpose. Later: text “home,” not novel.

Aleem: Home. Paper museum eating curry. Thank you for drafting in the Gardens’ handwriting. Later: one word check‑in. We proceed by invitation.

A: Proceed.

He set the phone down like a kept promise. The fan rehearsed rain for some hour that would need it. He lay on his side facing the wall that had memorized his breath and counted the way he had learned to count when the world finally granted him gentleness.

Two in, hold, three out. Not magic. Structure.

Respect. Distance. Gratitude.

Outside, buses negotiated shade like adults, a boy on a scooter practiced courtesy with ankles, and in a notebook closed against the afternoon, a page titled Affection Charter (Draft) waited patiently to be amended by two people who understood that rules, like love, earn their authority by making rooms kinder.