Voice Chat

Aleem spent the whole day telling himself not to anticipate it.

It was a ridiculous thing to anticipate, if he stripped it down to facts. It was a voice call with someone he’d met in a sandbox game where the sun rose in a single smooth motion and trees fell into neat blocks if you hit them long enough.

A voice call.

Not a confession.

Not a date.

Not anything that required his pulse to speed up every time his phone vibrated.

Still–every time his screen lit up, he felt his body lean forward slightly, as if the skin on his forearms had developed its own hunger.

The hours crawled.

At dinner, he ate more slowly than usual. He listened to his mother talk about something–an aunt’s health, a cousin’s wedding plans, the way life always arranged itself into obligations–and he nodded at the right times, offered the right sounds of attention. His mind stayed polite, present.

But in the background, like a tab left open, a different thought waited.

Tomorrow. Voice.

By the time he retreated to his room, the air felt warmer, the city outside his window more restless. A line of lights cut through the night far below: cars moving like determined insects. He washed his face again even though he had already showered.

He brushed his hair.

He adjusted his desk lamp, then turned it off again, as if deciding how much light he deserved.

He opened Discord.

Her username sat there: Sharon.

No profile picture, no status message–only a quiet online dot when she was around. It was strange, how a small green circle could make his chest tighten.

He hovered over the call button.

Did he look nervous?

Of course he did. But only to himself.

He put on his headset and tested the microphone twice.

His voice sounded normal through it, slightly lower, slightly more intimate than he was used to hearing.

“Hello,” he said, then cleared his throat and muttered, “Why are you rehearsing, bro?” to himself.

He glanced at the clock.

She had said tomorrow, but not a time.

He opened Minecraft anyway.

The familiar loading screen felt like stepping into a room where the furniture remembered you.

When he spawned in, the base greeted him like it had been holding its breath.

The lanterns at the entrance still glowed warmly, even in daylight. The sign Sharon had placed–WELCOME BACK–sat beneath them with the blunt sincerity of someone who didn’t realize how intimate it sounded.

Aleem walked into the shelter.

Two beds.

Side by side.

The redstone dust line Sharon had placed between them still glimmered faintly, a small pulse on the wooden floor.

He stared at it.

Then he looked away quickly, annoyed at himself.

He went to the shared chest and opened it.

Everything was neatly stacked–more neatly than he remembered leaving it. Iron ingots lined up in multiples, coal stacked, food separated, blocks arranged like someone had taken the time to care.

Aleem smiled.

She really did make it feel like home.

He heard the soft chime of Discord.

A message.

Sharon: are you free now?

His stomach flipped.

He typed, trying to keep his English calm.

Aleem: Yes. I’m free.

A pause.

Then:

Sharon: ok. i will call… i’m nervous

Aleem stared at the sentence.

Nervous.

The admission made him feel less ridiculous for his own anxiety.

He typed back:

Aleem: It’s okay. I’m nervous too.

The typing indicator appeared, disappeared, appeared again.

Then:

Sharon: really?

Aleem: Really.

He watched the call window light up.

Incoming Call – Sharon

For a second he didn’t click.

Not because he didn’t want to.

Because wanting felt like standing too close to the edge of something.

He inhaled.

Then accepted.

There was a brief hush.

A soft static.

And then–

“Hi.”

It was a woman’s voice.

Not the exaggerated bright tone some people used online. Not a forced cheerfulness.

Just… a quiet, steady warmth. Clear enough to sound confident, soft enough to sound careful.

Aleem felt his mind stutter.

In Minecraft, he didn’t move. His avatar stood by the shared chest like someone caught in the middle of stealing.

“Hi,” he replied, voice suddenly too loud in his own ears.

There was a faint laugh from her end. Not mocking–more like relief.

“You sound exactly the same as in chat,” she said.

Aleem blinked.

“In chat?” He tried to keep his voice even. “I thought I sounded like a robot in chat.”

“You type like you are very calm,” Sharon said. “So I imagined your voice would be… very calm.”

Her English was good. Smooth, lightly accented. The kind of English that came from years of using it professionally.

He swallowed.

“And?” he asked, as if it mattered.

“And it is calm,” she said, then added quickly, “but also… nicer than I expected.”

Aleem’s grip tightened on the mouse.

He forced himself to move his character so he wouldn’t sit frozen like an idiot.

“Are you… at home?” he asked.

He heard a small exhale.

“Yes,” she said. “Finally. It was a long day.”

Aleem wanted to ask what she did for work.

He stopped himself.

He didn’t want to pry. Not yet.

Instead he said, “Thank you for calling.”

“You are welcome.” Another faint laugh. “You sound very formal.”

He frowned, then realized he did.

“Sorry,” he said. “I don’t know why I’m acting like we are in a meeting.”

That made her laugh properly–still quiet, but real. The sound did something to him, like it slid down his spine and settled there.

“It is okay,” she said. “I also don’t know what to do with my hands.”

Aleem’s mouth curved.

“You can use your hands to build walls,” he suggested, trying to sound light.

“Yes,” she said, voice softening. “We have pretty walls now.”

He glanced at the entrance, the spruce arch she’d designed, the lantern glow.

“We do,” he agreed. “I was thinking we can expand the garden today. Make a proper courtyard.”

“Courtyard,” Sharon repeated, like she liked the word.

Aleem cleared his throat.

“Before that–are you okay with… voice while we play?”

“Yes,” she said immediately, then hesitated. “Unless it is distracting?”

“It’s not distracting,” Aleem replied too quickly.

Silence.

He realized how eager he sounded.

He added, more carefully, “It’s… nice.”

There was a quiet pause on the line.

Then Sharon said, almost inaudible, “It’s nice for me too.”

Aleem’s chest tightened.

He focused on the game.

“Okay,” he said, voice steadier now. “Let’s do the courtyard. Then we mine for more iron. We used a lot.”

“We used iron for lanterns,” she said with a hint of guilt.

Aleem smiled.

“It was worth it,” he said.

Her voice softened.

“Thank you.”

They walked outside the base together.

Night had already begun to form in the server. The sky deepened into blue-black. The lanterns looked warmer against it, like small moons.

Aleem heard her small breath through the headset, the subtle shift of air that indicated she was leaning closer to her microphone.

“Why do you put torches on the right?” she asked.

Aleem chuckled.

“You remembered,” he said.

“Yes,” Sharon replied. “But I want to hear you say it.”

His fingers paused.

It was an innocent request, but it felt like a kind of intimacy–wanting to hear his logic spoken aloud.

“So when we leave,” Aleem explained, placing a torch, “the torches will be on our left. It helps us find our way back. Less chance of getting lost.”

There was a faint hum of approval.

“You think like an engineer,” Sharon said.

Aleem’s lips twitched.

“I am an engineer.”

“Ah.” She sounded pleased, like she’d collected a small piece of him and filed it somewhere safe. “What kind?”

Aleem hesitated.

This was a real question.

A real-world question.

He could feel his instincts trying to retreat.

But he remembered the sign at the base.

WELCOME BACK.

He answered.

“I’m in process engineering,” he said. “Mostly… optimization. Making things better, cheaper, less wasteful. It sounds more exciting than it is.”

“It sounds exciting,” Sharon said simply.

Aleem looked at the pixel grass.

He didn’t know how to respond to sincerity without making it awkward.

“So what about you?” he asked, keeping his voice gentle. “What do you do in Korea?”

There was a pause.

He could almost hear her thinking.

“I work,” she said carefully.

Aleem smiled a little.

“Yes, I assumed,” he said. Then, softer, “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

Her breath came out slow.

“Thank you,” she said. “It is not that I don’t want to tell you… it is just complicated.”

Complicated.

Aleem felt his chest tighten. Not suspicion–something closer to protectiveness.

“I understand,” he said.

Sharon sounded relieved.

“I am Japanese,” she said, as if offering the part that was safe. “I moved to Korea for work. I like it here sometimes. But it is… busy.”

Aleem nodded.

“You said you finally had time to play again,” he said.

“Yes.” Her voice softened. “Minecraft is… my comfort game. When everything feels noisy, I can come here and it is quiet. Just blocks. Just light.”

He placed another torch.

“Just light,” he echoed.

Sharon laughed softly.

“And monsters,” she corrected.

“That’s why you have me,” Aleem said before he could stop himself.

The sentence hung between them.

Not boastful.

Not flirtatious.

Just a quiet declaration.

He heard her inhale.

“Mm,” she said, soft, almost shy. “That’s why I have you.”

Aleem’s pulse kicked.

He distracted himself by digging.

“Okay,” he said briskly. “Courtyard. We need fences. And maybe a small pond.”

“A pond!” Sharon sounded genuinely excited. “Yes, please.”

He smiled.

“Let’s do it.”

They built like two people learning how to share space.

Aleem laid down the foundation–stone path, fence lines, a small gate. Sharon added life–flowers, lantern placement, a little bench made from slabs.

The courtyard began to take shape.

As they worked, they talked.

Not about anything dramatic.

About small things.

Food.

Weather.

The way Korean convenience stores had too many choices.

The way Singapore’s humidity made you feel like you were permanently slightly damp.

Her laughter came more easily now. His replies stopped sounding like he was in a meeting.

At one point, Sharon asked, “Do you speak Korean well?”

Aleem made a small sound that was half-laugh, half-groan.

“No,” he admitted. “I can understand a bit, but I’m not fluent.”

“Your pronunciation is cute,” Sharon said.

“Cute,” he repeated, mildly offended. “I’m trying to sound serious.”

“You cannot sound serious when you say ‘괜찮아요’ like you are reading a menu,” she teased.

Aleem laughed.

“That bad?” he asked.

“It’s okay,” Sharon said, then added the Korean carefully.

“괜찮아.” (Gwaenchan-a, gwen-chan-ah) – “It’s okay.”

Aleem repeated it.

“Gwen-chan-ah.”

“Better,” she said, pleased.

He felt a small satisfaction, like he’d solved a tiny puzzle.

Then, without thinking, he said, “Can lah.”

Silence.

Sharon paused her building.

“What… is ‘can lah’?” she asked, genuinely confused.

Aleem froze.

Oh.

Singlish.

He had slipped.

“It just means… yes, okay,” Aleem explained quickly. “Like… ‘can do.’”

Sharon hummed.

“Ah. ‘Can’ like a tin can?”

Aleem blinked.

“No.” He laughed, then tried to clarify. “Not a can. Like… possible.”

“Possible lah?” Sharon said tentatively.

Aleem snorted.

“Please don’t add ‘lah’ to everything,” he said.

“Why?” Sharon asked. “It sounds cute.”

He groaned.

“There it is again,” he muttered.

She laughed, warm and delighted.

Aleem found himself laughing too, helplessly.

“Okay,” he conceded. “You can use ‘lah’ sometimes. But not in serious conversation.”

Sharon’s voice softened.

“What is serious conversation?”

Aleem’s fingers slowed.

He didn’t know whether she meant it innocently.

Or whether she was testing something.

He chose the safer answer.

“Like… if you are apologizing,” he said.

Sharon paused.

Then she said, carefully, “I am sorry lah.”

Aleem burst out laughing.

It startled him–how easy it was now, to laugh with her.

“Okay, no,” he said, still laughing. “Definitely not.”

“I’m sorry,” Sharon said, laughing too. “I had to try.”

Aleem shook his head.

“You are trouble,” he said.

“Possible trouble lah,” Sharon replied.

Aleem covered his mouth with his hand as if that could hide his smile.

He didn’t want her to hear how much the joke pleased him.

But the laugh was already in his voice.

By the time the courtyard was finished, the base looked… different.

Not just bigger.

Kinder.

A stone path led from the entrance to a small pond Sharon had insisted on, lined with flowers and lanterns. A bench sat beside it, facing the water. The torch path from the forest now ended at the lantern gate like a gentle invitation.

Aleem stepped back and looked at it.

“It’s really… nice,” he said, meaning it.

Sharon’s voice softened.

“It feels like a place to breathe,” she said.

Aleem swallowed.

“Yeah,” he replied. “A place to breathe.”

A brief silence stretched.

Then Sharon asked, almost hesitant, “Aleem?”

“Yes?”

“When you said you are Muslim…”

His heart tightened.

“Yes,” he said softly.

“I hope it is okay,” Sharon continued, voice careful. “I don’t know much. I want to be respectful. In Korea, people do not talk about religion much.”

Aleem leaned back in his chair.

This was a serious conversation.

No lah.

He chose his words.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I’m not… strict in the way people assume. But it matters to me. It’s part of who I am.”

There was a quiet pause.

Sharon’s voice came softer.

“I like that,” she said. “That you have something you hold onto.”

Aleem’s throat tightened.

He didn’t know how to respond without sounding dramatic.

So he kept it simple.

“It keeps me grounded,” he said.

“Grounded,” Sharon repeated. “Like redstone.”

Aleem blinked.

“What?”

“Redstone,” Sharon said, gentle. “It needs to be placed properly. If it is not grounded, it doesn’t connect.”

Aleem stared at the screen.

He felt something move inside him–something small, like a wire snapping into place.

“You think about redstone a lot now,” he said, trying to sound amused.

“I think about what you like,” Sharon replied.

The words were simple.

But Aleem’s chest tightened like he’d been punched softly.

He forced himself to breathe.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “We should mine for iron now. We used too much.”

Sharon didn’t argue.

“Okay,” she said. “But–please don’t let me die.”

Aleem felt his mouth curve.

“I promised,” he said.

They went into the cave together.

This time, Sharon carried torches on her right side like it was instinct. She placed them with a steady rhythm, a soft confidence she hadn’t had on the first night.

Aleem watched her.

Pride rose in his chest again–ridiculous, tender.

“You’re getting better,” he said.

Sharon hummed.

“It’s because you teach me,” she said.

Aleem swung his pickaxe into an iron vein.

He could hear her breathing softly through the headset, a quiet presence that made the cave feel less claustrophobic.

They hit a deeper passage.

Water echoed.

Sharon’s voice dipped.

“This is scary,” she whispered.

Aleem’s instincts sharpened.

“Stay behind me,” he said.

He heard her swallow.

“Okay.”

They moved deeper.

A skeleton’s arrow pinged off Aleem’s shield. He advanced, killed it quickly. A spider crawled along the ceiling; he took it down before it could drop.

Sharon gasped once, then steadied.

“You are very fast,” she said.

“I’ve played too long,” Aleem replied.

Sharon’s voice softened.

“I’m glad you were there when I met you,” she said. “If it was someone else… I would have logged off.”

Aleem’s hands slowed.

He didn’t like imagining that.

“What made you stay?” he asked quietly.

Sharon paused.

Her voice came smaller.

“You didn’t laugh at me,” she said. “You didn’t call me stupid. You didn’t demand things. You just… helped.”

Aleem’s throat tightened.

He found iron. He mined it, but the motion felt distant.

“I’m sorry people made you feel like you had to expect that,” he said.

There was a long pause.

Then Sharon’s voice softened.

“It’s okay lah,” she said.

Aleem stopped moving.

He stared at the screen.

“No,” he corrected gently, trying not to laugh. “That one–actually, you used it correctly.”

Sharon laughed, breathy and relieved.

“I learned,” she said.

Aleem’s chest warmed.

“Good,” he said softly.

They mined for another hour. The cave yielded iron, coal, even a small pocket of redstone deeper down.

When Aleem mined the redstone, the dust glowed bright as it broke apart–tiny sparks scattering into his inventory.

Sharon made a small sound of delight.

“Redstone!” she exclaimed.

Aleem smiled.

“Yes,” he said. “Now we can make the alarm better.”

“More time,” Sharon whispered.

Aleem paused.

“What?”

She hesitated.

“More time,” she repeated, voice quiet. “Your alarm gives time. Redstone gives time.”

Aleem swallowed.

He didn’t know how to answer without revealing too much.

So he said the truth that felt safest.

“I like giving you time,” he said.

Silence.

The cave felt suddenly too small.

Then Sharon’s voice came, soft and steady.

“I like when you give me time,” she said. “Because my days feel like they belong to everyone else.”

Aleem’s heart thudded.

He didn’t ask what she meant.

He didn’t want to corner her.

But he stored the sentence carefully, like redstone dust in a shared chest.

“I’m here,” he said quietly.

Sharon inhaled.

Then, with a small, shy laugh, she said, “You always say that.”

Aleem smiled.

“Because it’s true,” he replied.

They returned to the base at dawn.

The courtyard looked even better in the pale morning light. The pond reflected the sky. The lanterns glowed warmly even when they didn’t need to.

Aleem and Sharon stood by the entrance.

Neither moved for a moment.

It felt like lingering at the door of a place you didn’t want to leave.

Sharon spoke first.

“I have to go soon,” she said quietly.

Aleem’s chest dipped.

“Work?”

“Yes,” she replied, then hesitated. “But… this was good.”

“It was,” Aleem said.

He found himself wanting to ask if she would call again.

He didn’t.

He didn’t want to sound needy.

But Sharon’s voice softened.

“Can we do voice again tomorrow?” she asked.

Aleem’s relief was so sharp it almost hurt.

“Yes,” he said quickly. Then, calmer, “Yes. If you want.”

“I want,” Sharon said.

Aleem swallowed.

“Okay,” he replied. “Then it’s a promise.”

Sharon’s voice brightened slightly.

“약속,” she said.

Yaksok (약속, yak-sok) – “Promise.”

Aleem repeated it.

“Yak-sok.”

“Good,” Sharon murmured.

A small pause.

Then she said, in Japanese, soft and intimate.

“Oyasumi.” (おやすみ, o-ya-su-mi) – “Good night.”

Aleem blinked.

It was morning in the game.

But he understood what she meant.

“Good night,” he replied, then added, stumbling slightly, “Oyasumi.”

Sharon laughed softly.

“You said it nicely,” she said.

Aleem smiled.

“I try.”

There was a short silence.

Then Sharon’s voice dipped, as if she were speaking to herself more than to him.

“Thank you,” she said.

“For what?” Aleem asked.

“For not making this weird,” Sharon replied.

Aleem’s chest tightened.

He wanted to say, It is weird.

Not in a bad way.

In the way that certain things felt improbable and precious.

Instead he said, “It’s not weird. It’s just… nice.”

Sharon’s breath caught softly.

“Nice,” she repeated.

Then she added, playful again, “Nice lah.”

Aleem laughed.

“Okay, you are officially improving,” he said.

“I am Singaporean now,” Sharon declared.

Aleem snorted.

“Please don’t,” he said. “You will start ordering kopi like a pro and then you’ll blame me.”

“Kopi?” Sharon asked.

Aleem froze.

Oh no.

He was doing it again.

“Kopi is coffee,” he explained quickly. “A Singapore way of saying it.”

Sharon hummed.

“Kopi,” she repeated carefully. “Ko-pi.”

Aleem’s chest warmed.

“Yes,” he said softly. “Kopi.”

“Then tomorrow,” Sharon said, her voice returning to that gentle steadiness, “we play, we mine, and you teach me kopi and lah.”

Aleem smiled.

“Tomorrow,” he agreed.

Sharon’s microphone picked up a faint sound on her end–something like a distant door closing, a soft voice in Korean too far away to hear clearly.

Sharon went quiet for half a second.

Then she said, a little more formal, “I should go.”

Aleem’s instincts sharpened.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“I’m okay,” Sharon replied quickly. “괜찮아.”

Gwaenchan-a (괜찮아, gwen-chan-ah) – “I’m okay.”

Aleem nodded even though she couldn’t see.

“Okay,” he said gently. “Rest when you can.”

“I will,” Sharon said. “Good night–good morning–whatever. See you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow,” Aleem replied.

The call ended.

In his room, the silence hit differently now.

Not empty.

Just… quiet.

He sat there for a moment with his headset still on, listening to nothing, as if part of him expected her voice to return like a torch flame that refused to go out.

In the game, his avatar stood in the courtyard by the pond, lantern light casting warm shapes on stone.

Aleem looked at the redstone dust in his inventory.

He placed it in the shared chest.

Then, without fully understanding why, he crafted one more sign and placed it near the pond–somewhere Sharon would see it when she logged on next.

TAKE YOUR TIME.

He stared at it.

It felt too direct.

He left it anyway.

Because tonight, for the first time, her voice had made the world feel less sharp.

And now Aleem couldn’t stop wondering–

What kind of life demanded so much from her that she had to hide in blocks and lantern light to breathe.

What kind of work made her say complicated.

And what kind of darkness waited just outside her room, the moment she hung up.

Outside his window, Singapore continued to glow.

Inside his headphones, her laughter still lingered, faint as a redstone spark.

Aleem took off the headset slowly.

He pressed his fingers to his temple, then let his hand fall.

“Okay,” he whispered.

But this time, it sounded like something he was afraid to name.

Something he would have to be careful with.

Because now that he had heard Sharon’s voice, he understood the simplest danger of all:

She wasn’t a username anymore.

She was a person.

And Aleem had started to care in a way that didn’t switch off when the screen went dark.