Nightly Rituals
Aleem began to recognize the shape of his days by what they led to.
Not his work, not his responsibilities, not the errands that padded his hours like harmless obligations.
What his days led to was night.
It was a quiet realization, almost embarrassing in its simplicity. He would be sitting through a meeting, listening to someone talk about deliverables and timelines, and the back of his mind would already be counting the distance between now and the moment he could return to his room, put on his headset, and hear a soft voice say hello.
It wasn’t that he thought about Sharon constantly.
That would imply he was dramatic.
He wasn’t.
He was careful.
But careful people still wanted things.
The difference was that careful people learned to want in small increments, as if measuring desire could keep it from becoming dangerous.
That evening, he came home earlier than usual, and he hated himself a little for how relieved he felt. He washed his hands, prayed quickly–Maghrib–the motions familiar and anchoring, the words steady in his mouth. When he finished, he sat on the edge of his bed for a moment and stared at the blank wall.
His room was tidy in the way it always was: clothes folded, desk uncluttered, cables routed like invisible rules. The kind of order that made other people assume he never had messy thoughts.
He turned his phone over so the screen faced down.
Then he turned it back up again five minutes later.
No notifications.
He told himself to be patient.
Sharon had a life.
A complicated one.
The word still hovered in his mind from yesterday like an unfinished sentence. Complicated. Not a refusal, not an excuse–something heavier. Something you said when the truth was too large to fit into the space you were allowed to offer.
He didn’t know what her life was.
He didn’t know what kind of room she sat in, what kind of noise lived beyond her door.
But he had heard it yesterday, faint through her microphone–the distant closing of a door, a muffled Korean voice too far away to understand.
And he had felt, in that half-second of her silence, the way her world could press in.
He opened Minecraft anyway.
The title screen bloomed with color, and the familiar music made his shoulders loosen as if they were allowed to unclench only here. He joined the server, spawned in the courtyard by the pond, and stood still for a moment to listen.
The lanterns glowed warmly. The bench Sharon had placed sat beside the pond like it was meant to hold a conversation.
On the edge of the water, his sign waited:
TAKE YOUR TIME.
He stared at it.
It looked like something a person might say in real life.
That thought made him shift uncomfortably.
He wasn’t supposed to be like this.
He wasn’t supposed to leave messages that sounded like feelings.
But he had.
And now it existed.
He walked into the shelter.
The shared chest sat in the corner, labeled and orderly. He opened it to check inventory the way he always did.
Food. Iron. Coal.
And the redstone dust–two pieces now that he’d mined yesterday.
A small red spark among practical things.
He closed the chest and turned toward the beds.
Two beds, side by side.
The redstone line between them glimmered faintly like a heartbeat, stubborn against the wooden floor.
Aleem took a breath.
He began working.
If he kept his hands busy, his mind would stop spiraling.
That was the theory.
He expanded the perimeter alarm first–more pressure plates hidden in grass, a slightly longer redstone line, and a second note block placed farther away to create a softer warning rather than a sudden shock. He tuned it until the sound was gentle, almost musical.
A chime, not a scream.
Then he started on something he hadn’t told Sharon about.
A hidden room.
It wasn’t a big plan, nothing dramatic. Just a small space behind the wall, concealed by a bookshelf door triggered by a lever hidden beneath a flower pot.
He thought about how Sharon had said she liked light.
How she’d said she felt like she disappeared in the dark.
How she’d admitted–quietly, without dramatizing it–that her days sometimes didn’t belong to her.
He wanted to build her a place where she could disappear without fear.
The thought made his chest tighten, because it felt too intimate.
But he kept building anyway.
He placed the bookshelf. He wired the redstone behind it. He tested the lever.
The bookshelf slid open.
A small room revealed itself.
It was simple: a chest, a lantern, a chair made from stairs (as close to sitting as Minecraft allowed), and a single painting on the wall.
He stood there, staring at the room.
It felt… quiet.
Too quiet.
Like waiting.
He was about to add a sign when Discord chimed.
His heart jumped in a way he didn’t approve of.
He clicked out to check.
Sharon: hi
Not are you free.
Just hi.
A soft knock.
He typed back immediately.
Aleem: Hi. How was your day?
The typing indicator appeared.
Then disappeared.
Then:
Sharon: busy… but i wanted to hear you
Aleem’s fingers stilled.
He stared at the sentence.
His throat tightened.
He could have answered casually.
He could have joked.
Instead, he typed the truth, small and measured.
Aleem: I’m here. Call when you’re ready.
The call icon lit up a few seconds later.
He accepted before he could overthink it.
A brief static.
Then her voice.
“Hi.”
It was the same quiet warmth as yesterday, but there was something slightly different tonight–fatigue, maybe. A softness that sounded like she’d been holding herself together for too long.
“Hi,” Aleem replied, gentler than he intended. “Are you okay?”
A pause.
“I’m okay,” Sharon said quickly, then corrected herself as if honesty required precision. “I’m… tired.”
“Tired in a normal way,” Aleem said.
Sharon gave a small laugh.
“Yes,” she said. “Normal tired.”
Aleem heard her shift, a faint rustle of fabric, as if she had leaned back in her chair. He imagined her in the grey hoodie from the cover concept he’d pictured unconsciously–soft, unguarded, real.
He reminded himself he had never seen her.
And that was fine.
“Are we playing?” Sharon asked.
“We are,” Aleem said. “I’m already in the world. I was building.”
“What were you building?”
Aleem hesitated.
He glanced at the hidden bookshelf door.
He could tell her.
He could also keep it as a surprise.
“Something,” he said lightly.
Sharon made a small sound that conveyed suspicion.
“You sound like you are hiding something,” she said.
“It’s not hiding,” Aleem replied, smiling. “It’s… a surprise.”
“A surprise is hiding,” Sharon argued.
Aleem chuckled.
“Fine,” he conceded. “I’m hiding something.”
“And you are proud,” Sharon teased.
“A little,” he admitted.
Sharon’s laugh warmed, less tired.
“Okay,” she said. “I’m logging in.”
Aleem returned his focus to the game.
He moved his avatar to the courtyard, stood by the pond, and waited.
A few seconds later, Sharon’s avatar appeared at the edge of the torch path.
She walked toward the lantern gate, paused for half a beat as if appreciating the light, and then entered.
Aleem felt his chest ease.
It was becoming a ritual.
Her arrival.
The way she always crossed the threshold as if stepping into a softer world.
She walked directly to the pond and stopped in front of the sign he’d placed.
TAKE YOUR TIME.
She didn’t move for a moment.
Then her voice came, quiet.
“You wrote that?”
Aleem cleared his throat.
“Yes,” he said.
“Why?” Sharon asked.
The question wasn’t accusatory.
It was careful.
Like she was holding the words gently to see if they would cut.
Aleem stared at his screen.
Because he meant it.
Because she needed to hear it.
Because he wanted her to believe she was allowed to exist without rushing.
He chose a smaller answer.
“Because you always sound like you have no time,” he said.
Sharon didn’t reply immediately.
He heard her inhale, then exhale slowly.
“Thank you,” she said.
Aleem’s throat tightened.
He shifted his character toward the shelter.
“Come,” he said, keeping his tone light. “I made something.”
Sharon followed.
Inside the shelter, she paused near the beds as she always did–half a second of stillness as if acknowledging the space.
Then her avatar turned toward the shared chest.
“You reorganized again,” she said, amused.
Aleem felt mild defensiveness.
“I didn’t,” he said. Then, after a beat, “Okay, I did.”
Sharon laughed.
“You are very… neat,” she said.
“I like things in order,” Aleem replied.
“Is your life in order?” Sharon asked casually.
The question slipped out like it was harmless.
Aleem froze.
In the game, his avatar didn’t move.
In his room, his fingers tightened around the mouse.
He could have answered with a joke.
He could have said yes.
He could have said no.
Instead, he chose honesty that didn’t expose too much.
“I try to keep it in order,” he said.
Sharon hummed.
“I think you do,” she said.
The way she said it made it sound like a compliment.
Or an observation.
Or a warning.
Before he could overthink it, he moved toward the bookshelf.
“Okay,” he said briskly. “Here.”
He walked to the flower pot, clicked the hidden lever, and watched the bookshelf door slide open.
The hidden room revealed itself.
Sharon’s avatar stopped.
In the voice chat, Sharon went completely silent.
Aleem’s pulse kicked.
Did she hate it?
Had he overstepped?
He forced himself to sound calm.
“It’s just a small room,” he said. “For… when you want quiet.”
Sharon finally spoke.
Her voice was softer than before.
“You made this… for me?”
Aleem swallowed.
“For us,” he corrected automatically, then regretted it because it sounded too intimate.
He added quickly, “But you can use it anytime. If you feel overwhelmed.”
A pause.
Sharon’s voice dipped.
“It’s very… thoughtful,” she said.
Aleem felt heat rise behind his ears.
“It’s only blocks,” he said.
“It’s not only blocks,” Sharon replied.
Her voice was steady, but it carried something underneath–recognition. Like she understood exactly what it meant to build a private room behind a public wall.
Aleem opened his mouth, then closed it again.
He didn’t know how to respond without making it too much.
So he did what he always did.
He adjusted something practical.
“I put a lantern inside,” he said. “Not torches. Softer.”
Sharon made a small sound that was almost a laugh and almost something else.
“You notice everything,” she said.
Aleem’s lips curved.
“I’m an engineer,” he reminded her.
“Yes,” Sharon said softly. “You are.”
They spent the next hour expanding the base.
Aleem worked on the outer wall, integrating Sharon’s spruce beams so the structure looked less like a fortress and more like a proper house. Sharon worked on the courtyard–planting flowers in patterns, replacing a few torches with lanterns where the glow could soften the corners.
As they built, their voices filled the space between clicks and blocks.
It was different from typing.
Voice made silence heavier.
Voice made laughter immediate.
Voice made the smallest pause feel like a decision.
Sharon told him about a convenience store near her place that sold bread stuffed with cream.
“It sounds like dessert pretending to be breakfast,” Aleem said.
Sharon laughed.
“It is exactly that,” she said.
Aleem told her about kaya toast and soft-boiled eggs.
“That sounds like breakfast pretending to be dessert,” Sharon replied.
He smiled.
“You should try it one day,” he said.
Sharon’s laughter softened into something quieter.
“Maybe,” she said.
The word hung there, gentle.
Not a promise.
Not a refusal.
A possibility.
At one point, Sharon asked, “Do you say ‘lah’ often in real life?”
Aleem groaned.
“No,” he said quickly. “I don’t. I mean–sometimes. But not in serious situations.”
“What counts as serious?” Sharon asked.
Aleem hesitated.
He thought about prayers. Family. Work.
And then, because he couldn’t help himself, he said, “If I’m apologizing, I won’t say lah.”
Sharon made a thoughtful hum.
“Okay,” she said. “Then teach me a serious apology.”
Aleem blinked.
“You want to learn Malay apologies now?”
“Yes,” Sharon said simply.
Aleem tried to keep his voice light.
“Okay,” he said. “You can say: ‘Maaf.’”
He pronounced it clearly.
“Maaf.” (mah-ahf) – “Sorry.”
Sharon repeated it carefully.
“Mah-af.”
“Close,” Aleem said, smiling. “More like… ‘mah-ahf.’”
“Mah-ahf,” Sharon tried again.
“Good,” Aleem said.
Sharon sounded pleased with herself.
“Maaf, Aleem,” she said.
The phrase felt strangely intimate.
Like hearing your name inside someone else’s language.
Aleem swallowed.
“Why are you apologizing?” he asked.
There was a pause.
Sharon’s voice softened.
“For taking your time,” she said.
Aleem’s chest tightened.
“No,” he said gently. “Don’t apologize for that.”
A quiet silence.
Then, to lighten it, he added a minimal slip of Singlish–more out of reflex than intention.
“Actually, you don’t need to be so paiseh.”
Silence.
Sharon stopped placing flowers.
“…Pais eh?” she asked slowly. “Is that… Japanese?”
Aleem froze.
Oh no.
He could hear the smile in her confusion.
“It’s not Japanese,” he said, laughing under his breath. “It’s… Singlish. Borrowed from Hokkien. It means… shy or embarrassed. Like you feel bad.”
Sharon made a small sound of triumph.
“Ah,” she said. “So if I feel embarrassed, I say I am… paiseh.”
“Yes,” Aleem said. “But–don’t use it too much. It will sound like you are pretending to be Singaporean.”
Sharon laughed.
“Maybe I want to pretend,” she teased.
Aleem felt warmth creep into his voice.
“Then you will start saying ‘can’ and ‘lah’ and you will confuse everyone,” he said.
Sharon hummed thoughtfully.
“I already confuse you,” she said.
Aleem’s hands slowed.
He didn’t know if she meant it playfully.
Or if it was an accidental truth.
Before he could respond, Sharon changed the subject with the suddenness of someone who felt too exposed.
“Teach me Korean too,” she said.
Aleem blinked.
“You are living in Korea,” he said. “You already speak Korean.”
“Not perfectly,” Sharon replied. “Sometimes I forget words when I am tired.”
Aleem smiled.
“You want me to teach you Korean when I’m not good,” he said.
“Yes,” Sharon said. “Because when you say it, it sounds… sincere.”
Aleem stared at the screen.
That sentence landed softly and dangerously.
He cleared his throat.
“Okay,” he said, voice quieter. “Then I will teach you one phrase I know.”
Sharon made a small encouraging sound.
Aleem said slowly, “‘Cheoncheonhi.’”
He pronounced it carefully.
“천천히 (cheon-cheon-hi) – ‘slowly.’”
Sharon repeated it.
“Cheon-cheon-hi.”
“Good,” Aleem said. “It means… take your time.”
There was a pause.
Then Sharon’s voice softened.
“You wrote it on the sign,” she said.
Aleem swallowed.
“Yes,” he admitted.
Sharon didn’t tease him.
She didn’t make it a joke.
She simply said, quietly, “Cheoncheonhi.”
Like she was tasting it.
Like she was accepting it.
Aleem felt something shift inside him.
A circuit closing.
The night on the server deepened.
Mobs spawned beyond the walls. A zombie groaned. A spider crawled along the edge of darkness.
The alarm chimed softly.
Sharon hummed.
Aleem paused.
“Did you just–” he began.
“Hm?” Sharon responded, as if surprised by his attention.
“You were humming,” Aleem said.
A pause.
Sharon’s voice went smaller.
“Was it annoying?” she asked.
“No,” Aleem said quickly. “No. It was… nice.”
Silence.
Then Sharon laughed softly.
“I didn’t realize I was doing it,” she said.
“What were you humming?” Aleem asked.
Sharon hesitated.
Then, quietly, she hummed again–three notes, then a fourth that softened into a sigh. It sounded like a melody that had lived in her bones for years.
Aleem’s hands stopped moving.
The sound came through his headset like warm water.
He didn’t recognize the song.
But it didn’t matter.
It sounded like comfort.
When she stopped, Sharon cleared her throat.
“I hum when I’m calm,” she said, as if explaining herself.
Aleem swallowed.
“Then I’m glad you’re calm,” he said.
Sharon didn’t reply.
But her breath sounded slightly uneven.
Aleem forced himself to return to building.
He placed a lantern at the entrance of the hidden room.
Then another.
He wanted to say something that would not scare her.
So he said something safe.
“Your humming makes the base feel… alive,” he said.
Sharon laughed softly.
“You make it alive,” she corrected.
Aleem’s chest tightened.
He didn’t argue.
He didn’t know how.
They mined later, as planned.
By then, Sharon sounded less tired, more present. She placed torches steadily on the right wall. She followed his pace. When a skeleton appeared, she raised her shield instinctively. When a spider dropped, she backed up instead of panicking.
Aleem noticed every improvement.
He didn’t praise her too much.
He didn’t want to make her self-conscious.
But when she successfully blocked an arrow and retaliated with a clean strike, she let out a delighted breath.
“Did you see that?” she asked.
“I did,” Aleem said, voice warm. “You’re getting good.”
Sharon’s laugh sounded shy.
“Because you are always there,” she said.
Aleem’s throat tightened.
“Mm,” he managed.
They found a deeper pocket of redstone.
Sharon made a small excited sound.
“Redstone,” she whispered, as if the word carried meaning.
Aleem smiled.
“Yes,” he said. “Our base will be safe.”
“Our,” Sharon repeated.
It wasn’t teasing.
It was soft.
Aleem’s heart thudded.
He forced his attention back to mining.
If he let himself stare too long at the way she said our, he would slip into dangerous territory.
He would start wanting things.
And wanting things from someone whose life was complicated felt like stepping onto a bridge without checking if it could hold.
They returned to the base later than usual.
The server’s sky began to lighten.
Dawn.
Aleem and Sharon stood in the courtyard by the pond.
Their avatars were still.
In his room, Aleem realized his shoulders had dropped without him noticing.
Like he’d been holding tension in his body all day and only now remembered he was allowed to let it go.
Sharon spoke first.
“I should sleep,” she said quietly.
Aleem’s chest dipped.
“Yes,” he agreed. “You sound tired.”
There was a pause.
Then Sharon said, softly, “I like this.”
Aleem swallowed.
“The game?” he asked, even though he knew that wasn’t all she meant.
Sharon’s laugh was small.
“All of it,” she said.
All of it.
The words made his pulse kick.
He tried to keep his voice steady.
“I like it too,” he said.
A quiet silence.
Then Sharon spoke again, more careful.
“Today was very busy,” she said. “I didn’t eat properly.”
Aleem frowned.
“Why?”
Sharon hesitated.
“It’s hard,” she said simply.
Aleem felt frustration flare–at her job, at the world, at whatever demanded so much from her.
He didn’t let it sharpen his voice.
“Please eat,” he said quietly.
Sharon’s laughter returned, faint.
“You sound like my mother,” she teased.
Aleem smiled.
“Your mother is correct,” he said.
Sharon hummed.
“Yes,” she admitted. “She is.”
A soft pause.
Then Sharon said, unexpectedly, in Japanese–gentle, like confession disguised as language.
“Arigatou.” (ありがとう, a-ri-ga-tou) – “Thank you.”
Aleem blinked.
“You said thank you already,” he replied.
Sharon’s voice dipped.
“This one is… for the room,” she said. “The hidden room.”
Aleem’s throat tightened.
“You like it?”
Sharon’s breath came out slow.
“Yes,” she said. “It feels like a place I can be… just me.”
Aleem’s chest tightened.
He didn’t know how to respond without revealing how much that mattered to him.
So he said the simplest truth.
“I’m glad,” he said.
Sharon was quiet.
Then she said, softly, “Cheoncheonhi.”
Aleem swallowed.
“Yes,” he replied. “Cheoncheonhi.”
A faint sound came through her microphone–like fabric rustling, a door opening far away.
Sharon stopped breathing for half a beat.
Aleem’s instincts sharpened.
“Is someone there?” he asked gently.
There was a pause.
Sharon’s voice returned, a little tighter.
“It’s fine,” she said. “Just… someone checking.”
Someone checking.
The phrase made his chest tighten.
“Do you need to go?” Aleem asked.
Sharon hesitated.
“Not yet,” she said, but her voice sounded like she was holding a line.
Aleem chose his words carefully.
“If you need to hang up, it’s okay,” he said. “You don’t have to explain.”
Silence.
Then Sharon exhaled.
“Thank you,” she said. “Really.”
He heard the faintest tremor in it.
Aleem’s fingers curled around the edge of his desk.
He wanted to tell her she didn’t have to live like this.
He wanted to tell her she deserved time.
But he didn’t know enough.
He didn’t have the right.
So he offered what he could.
“We can meet in the hidden room tomorrow,” he said, keeping it light. “If you want. It’s quieter there.”
Sharon’s laugh returned–soft, grateful.
“Yes,” she said. “That sounds nice.”
Aleem smiled.
“Okay,” he said. “Then… good night.”
Sharon’s voice softened.
“Good night,” she replied.
Then, because she couldn’t resist, she added lightly, “Good night lah.”
Aleem laughed.
“Your ‘lah’ is improving,” he said.
“Thank you,” Sharon said, amused. “I have a good teacher.”
Aleem felt warmth in his chest.
“Sleep,” he reminded her.
“I will,” Sharon said.
A pause.
Then, as if she couldn’t leave without one last careful offering, she said in Korean:
“Jal ja.” (잘 자, jal ja) – “Sleep well.”
Aleem blinked.
He answered softly, in Malay.
“Selamat malam.” (seh-lah-mat mah-lahm) – “Good night.”
Sharon exhaled like the words comforted her.
The call ended.
Aleem sat still for a long moment, staring at the courtyard on his screen.
The pond reflected the pixel dawn.
The lanterns glowed warmly.
The sign he’d placed–TAKE YOUR TIME–stood beside the water like a quiet insistence.
In the shelter, behind the bookshelf, the hidden room waited.
A place for her.
A place for breathing.
Aleem removed his headset slowly.
His ears felt too quiet without her voice.
He placed his hands flat on the desk and took one steady breath.
He wasn’t a person who fell quickly.
He wasn’t a person who chased fantasies.
But tonight, Sharon’s humming had threaded itself through his ribs like light through a crack.
And the worst part was the simplest truth:
He didn’t just look forward to playing.
He looked forward to her.
Outside his window, Singapore continued to glow.
Inside his room, the silence felt different now–no longer empty.
Just waiting.
Aleem glanced at his phone.
No new notifications.
He should have been relieved.
Instead, the phrase someone checking tightened in his chest.
He stared at the dark screen of his phone as if it could tell him what kind of world lived on the other side of Sharon’s door.
Then he turned it face down again.
He could not fix a life he didn’t understand.
But he could build a place where she could breathe.
Even if it was only blocks.
Even if it was only light.
He returned to the game for one last minute, walked into the hidden room, and placed a small sign above the lantern.
QUIET ROOM.
It looked too plain.
He added another line beneath it.
WHENEVER YOU NEED.
Aleem stared at the words.
Then, with a soft exhale, he logged off.
Tomorrow, she would return.
And he would listen.