Confession on the Cliff
Aleem told himself it was only a build.
A lookout point. A path. A small project to make the world feel larger.
He repeated the thought as he walked home from work, as if saying it often enough would make it true. He had spent the day moving through conversations that required his polite attention, through tasks that could be measured and optimized. In between, his mind had drifted–quietly, carefully–to the memory of Sharon’s humming through his headset and the soft way she had said cheongcheonhi like she was borrowing time from someone else’s clock.
He did not like how much he noticed.
The world had trained him to treat emotions like weather: something you acknowledged, then continued walking through. If it rained, you brought an umbrella. You did not stare at the sky and ask why it wanted to fall.
But Sharon’s presence did not feel like weather.
It felt like a door he had opened without realizing he did not know how to close it again.
When he reached home, he kept his routine intact on purpose. He washed up. He prayed. He ate dinner. He listened to his mother and answered in full sentences that matched the tone of the room. He kept himself normal.
Only when he finally retreated to his room did his body relax in a way that felt almost guilty.
He closed the door.
He sat down.
He opened Discord.
Sharon was offline.
Aleem stared at the greyed-out name and felt something in his chest tighten. Not disappointment. Not exactly.
Expectation.
He disliked that word.
Expectation was how you got hurt.
He forced himself to look away, opened Minecraft, and joined the server.
The world loaded around him with familiar quiet.
The base greeted him the way it always did now–lantern glow at the entrance, stone path to the pond, the bench facing water that never moved except when he decided it should. The sign beside the pond still read TAKE YOUR TIME, and every time he saw it he felt a small flinch of self-consciousness.
He walked into the shelter and opened the bookshelf door.
The quiet room waited, lantern light soft against wood.
He read the sign he had placed above it.
QUIET ROOM.
WHENEVER YOU NEED.
He stared long enough that the words began to look like something else. Like a promise.
He closed the bookshelf door.
He needed a new task.
So he turned his attention outward.
The base was safe for now, but safe didn’t mean complete. He wanted to expand the world in a way that wasn’t purely defensive. A place to stand and look at what they had made, to feel the distance between danger and home.
A lookout point.
Somewhere high.
Somewhere that held the sky.
He left the base, following the torch path out through the forest, and began walking toward the hills he had seen in the distance during their sheep hunt.
The terrain rose gradually–grass giving way to stone, trees thinning out until only shrubs clung to the edges. The sky shifted through the server’s twilight cycle, bruised purple and deepening blue.
He climbed.
At the top of the first ridge, he stopped.
From there, he could see the base far below–a small cluster of light in the dark, lanterns glowing warmly like someone had set a handful of stars on the ground.
Aleem felt something in his chest soften.
He placed a torch at the ridge as a marker.
Then he built a small cobblestone platform.
A place to stand.
A place to breathe.
He was arranging the edges when Discord chimed.
His pulse jumped.
He clicked over.
Sharon: hi
It was only two letters.
It felt like someone had touched the back of his neck.
He typed back quickly.
Aleem: Hi. How are you tonight?
Three dots appeared.
Then:
Sharon: i’m here. i’m tired but… i’m here
Aleem’s throat tightened.
He hesitated over the keyboard, then typed in the same careful English he always tried to use with her.
Aleem: I’m glad you’re here. Do you want to call?
A pause.
Then:
Sharon: yes
The call came a second later.
Aleem accepted.
Static, then breath, then her voice.
“Hi,” Sharon said.
“Hi,” Aleem replied. “You sound tired.”
Her laugh was small.
“I always sound tired,” she said.
“Not always,” Aleem corrected. “Sometimes you sound… calm.”
A pause.
“Do I?” Sharon asked softly.
“Yes,” Aleem said. “Usually when we are building.”
Her voice warmed slightly.
“Then we should build,” she said.
Aleem smiled.
“I already started,” he admitted.
“What are you building?” Sharon asked.
“A lookout,” Aleem said. “A place on the hill. So we can see the base from far away.”
Sharon made a quiet sound of interest.
“That sounds… nice,” she said.
“It is,” Aleem replied. Then, carefully, “I thought you might like it.”
Another pause.
Her voice dipped.
“I like when you think of me,” she said.
Aleem’s fingers tightened on the mouse.
He forced himself to keep his tone light.
“Then log in,” he said. “I’ll show you.”
“I’m logging in now,” Sharon replied.
Aleem returned his focus to the game and waited at the ridge.
A few seconds later, Sharon’s avatar appeared at the base entrance in the distance.
He watched the small figure move along the torch path, cross the lantern gate, then start toward the hills–her avatar’s pace steady, as if she knew where she was going.
“You’re coming up alone?” Aleem asked, instinct sharpening.
“I know the path,” Sharon replied. “And I have armor.”
“That doesn’t mean you should go alone,” Aleem said.
Sharon’s voice held a hint of amusement.
“You are worried,” she observed.
Aleem exhaled.
“I’m careful,” he corrected.
“Yes,” Sharon said, sounding pleased. “You are careful.”
Aleem started down the ridge to meet her halfway.
The hill path was narrow in places, forcing them into single file. He placed torches at intervals, right wall when the path cut through stone. Sharon followed, matching his pace.
When she reached him, her avatar paused as if catching her breath.
“Wow,” Sharon murmured. “It’s high.”
“It’s not that high,” Aleem said.
“It is high for me,” Sharon replied.
Aleem smiled at the honesty.
“Then we’ll go slowly,” he said.
Sharon’s voice softened.
“Cheoncheonhi,” she said.
Cheoncheonhi (천천히, cheon-cheon-hi) – “Slowly.”
Aleem’s chest warmed.
“Yes,” he replied. “Cheoncheonhi.”
They continued upward.
A zombie appeared behind a boulder. Aleem killed it before it could approach.
Sharon exhaled.
“You move so fast,” she said.
“I’ve been doing this too long,” Aleem replied.
“I’m glad,” Sharon said softly. “If I met someone else first, I would have stopped playing.”
Aleem’s throat tightened.
“I’m glad you didn’t,” he said.
They reached the platform.
The cobblestone base was still rough, but the view was immediate.
From the ridge, the forest spread out like a dark sea. The river cut through it, catching starlight. Far below, their base glowed–lanterns warm, torches steady, the courtyard pond reflecting a thin strip of sky.
Sharon’s voice went quiet.
Then she whispered, “It looks like… a little home.”
Aleem swallowed.
“It is,” he said.
He placed a few lanterns along the edge of the platform. The warm light softened the stone, made the high place feel less exposed.
Sharon walked to the edge and looked down.
“Can we sit here?” she asked.
Aleem smiled.
“In Minecraft?” he teased.
Sharon laughed softly.
“I know we cannot sit,” she said. “But we can… stay.”
“Then we’ll stay,” Aleem replied.
They stood there in comfortable quiet, the kind that did not demand words.
In his room, Aleem became aware of Sharon’s breathing through the headset–steady, present. The sound made the space between them feel smaller than it should have.
He heard himself ask, without planning it, “How was your day?”
Sharon’s answer came slowly.
“Busy,” she said. “Too many people.”
Aleem’s chest tightened.
“Too many?” he asked.
Sharon let out a small breath.
“Yes,” she said. “Too many eyes.”
Aleem’s hand stilled on the mouse.
He did not ask what she meant.
He had learned that if he pushed, she pulled away.
But he could not ignore it either.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
Sharon’s laugh was faint.
“You don’t have to be sorry,” she said.
“I know,” Aleem replied. “But I am.”
There was a pause.
Then Sharon said, softly, “Thank you.”
“For what?” Aleem asked.
“For being gentle,” Sharon replied.
Gentle.
Aleem swallowed.
He did not see himself as gentle.
He saw himself as careful.
But perhaps the difference was how it felt to someone else.
They fell into silence again.
Then Sharon asked, “Are you always like this?”
Aleem blinked.
“Like what?”
“Like… steady,” Sharon said. “Even when something scary happens, you sound calm.”
Aleem stared at the lantern light on the platform.
He considered lying.
He considered making a joke.
Instead, he said the truth he could afford.
“I have practice,” he said.
“With what?” Sharon asked.
Aleem’s throat tightened.
“With being the one who handles things,” he said. “In my family, in my friend group… people expect me to be composed.”
Sharon was quiet.
Then she said, softly, “Is it tiring?”
The question landed with surprising precision.
Aleem exhaled.
“Yes,” he admitted. “Sometimes.”
Sharon’s voice dipped.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
Aleem smiled faintly.
“You don’t have to be sorry,” he echoed.
“I know,” Sharon replied. “But I am.”
The symmetry of it made him laugh quietly.
“You’re learning my habits,” he said.
“I’m learning you,” Sharon replied.
The sentence tightened something inside him.
He stared down at the base.
The lanterns.
The sign at the pond.
The quiet room behind the bookshelf.
All of it had been built with her in mind.
And it was beginning to feel impossible to pretend that was normal.
Aleem cleared his throat.
“Sharon,” he said.
“Hmm?”
He paused.
He wasn’t sure what he was about to say.
He only knew it had been accumulating in him for days–small words, careful choices, a growing warmth that had started to feel like weight.
He said, “Can I ask you something?”
Sharon’s voice softened.
“Yes,” she replied. “Ask.”
Aleem swallowed.
“Why did you choose me?” he asked. “That night… when I saved you. You could have logged off. You could have avoided me. Why did you stay?”
Sharon was quiet for a long moment.
In the headset, Aleem heard only the faint hiss of her breathing.
Then she said, slowly, “Because you didn’t try to win.”
Aleem blinked.
“What do you mean?”
“You didn’t try to show off,” Sharon explained. “You didn’t try to make me owe you anything. You just… helped. And then you asked if I was okay.”
Aleem’s throat tightened.
“That’s normal,” he said.
Sharon’s laugh was small.
“It should be normal,” she corrected gently. “But it isn’t always.”
Aleem stared at the horizon.
He felt a quiet anger on her behalf–at whoever had taught her to expect less.
He kept his voice steady.
“I’m glad you stayed,” he said.
Sharon’s voice softened.
“So am I,” she replied.
Another pause.
Then Sharon asked, cautious, “Why are you asking me this now?”
Aleem’s fingers tightened on the mouse.
Because he was tired of holding the thought.
Because the nightly ritual had become something he didn’t want to name.
Because he had started to care in a way that didn’t vanish with the sunrise.
He could have avoided it.
He could have let it remain safe.
But something inside him–something tired of being composed–wanted honesty.
“I think…” Aleem began, then stopped.
Sharon waited.
He heard her breathing, quiet, patient.
Aleem tried again.
“I think I like you,” he said.
The words felt too small for the thing they were carrying.
He rushed to clarify, voice controlled.
“I don’t mean in a childish way,” he continued. “I mean… I look forward to talking to you. I feel calmer when you’re here. I care about you being safe. And I know we’ve never met, and I haven’t seen your face, and maybe it’s ridiculous, but–”
“Aleem,” Sharon interrupted softly.
He froze.
Her voice held no amusement.
No discomfort.
Only attention.
“Yes?”
“You’re not ridiculous,” Sharon said.
Aleem’s throat tightened.
He forced himself to continue, because stopping now would hurt more than finishing.
“I like you,” he repeated, quieter. “A lot. And I don’t expect anything. I just… needed to say it.”
Silence.
The world on the ridge felt suddenly too exposed.
The lanterns glowed warmly, but Aleem’s chest was cold.
He had spoken.
He could not take it back.
In the headset, Sharon was quiet long enough that Aleem’s palms began to sweat.
He waited.
He kept his breathing steady.
He told himself that if she rejected him, it would be okay.
It would hurt.
But it would be okay.
Finally, Sharon exhaled.
“Aleem,” she said.
Her voice shook slightly.
Not with fear.
With something closer to relief.
“I was scared you would say something like that,” she admitted.
Aleem’s stomach dropped.
He forced his voice to stay calm.
“Because you don’t feel the same?”
“No,” Sharon said quickly. “Not because of that.”
Aleem blinked.
“Then why?”
Sharon’s voice softened.
“Because if you say it,” she whispered, “then I have to admit I feel it too.”
Aleem’s chest tightened so sharply he had to inhale.
“You…” he began.
“Yes,” Sharon said, voice quiet and certain. “I like you too.”
Aleem stared at the horizon.
His vision blurred slightly, not from tears–he refused to be dramatic–but from the sudden rush of warmth in his eyes.
“You do?” he asked, stupidly.
Sharon laughed softly.
“Yes,” she said. “I do.”
Aleem swallowed.
“Why?” he asked, because he couldn’t help it.
Sharon’s voice warmed.
“Because you protect me,” she said. “Even in a game. You don’t laugh at my mistakes. You don’t treat me like I’m weak. You make me feel like… I can breathe.”
Aleem’s throat tightened.
“That’s all I wanted,” he said quietly.
Sharon was silent.
Then she added, softer, “And because when you speak, you mean it.”
Aleem’s chest ached.
He looked down at the base again.
The lanterns.
The pond.
The sign.
Their small home.
He said, “I’m glad.”
Sharon exhaled.
“I’m glad too,” she whispered.
They stayed on the ridge as the server night deepened.
They didn’t rush into anything.
Aleem didn’t ask for photos.
He didn’t ask for a real name.
He didn’t ask for promises.
He had learned from her pauses that safety mattered more than romance.
But now that the confession had been spoken, the silence between them felt different.
It wasn’t empty.
It was full.
Sharon spoke first.
“I don’t know what this means,” she admitted.
Aleem’s pulse steadied.
“It means we like each other,” he said simply. “And we keep doing what we’ve been doing. Slowly.”
Sharon made a soft sound.
“Cheoncheonhi,” she murmured.
“Yes,” Aleem said. “Cheoncheonhi.”
Sharon hesitated.
“Can I ask you something?” she said.
“Of course,” Aleem replied.
“Are you… a romantic person?” Sharon asked, as if the question embarrassed her.
Aleem blinked.
“No,” he said honestly. “I’m… practical.”
Sharon laughed softly.
“Yes,” she said. “You are practical.”
Aleem felt warmth in his chest.
“But,” he added, because he needed to be fair, “I can be romantic if I choose to be.”
Sharon hummed.
“That sounds like an engineer’s answer,” she teased.
Aleem smiled.
“Everything is an engineer’s answer,” he said.
Sharon laughed, then grew quiet.
“Aleem,” she said softly.
“Yes?”
“I want to tell you something,” Sharon said. “Not everything. But something.”
Aleem’s chest tightened.
“Okay,” he said gently.
“I’ve been very busy,” Sharon said. “More busy than usual. Sometimes I feel like my time is not my own. That’s why Minecraft feels safe.”
Aleem listened.
He did not interrupt.
He did not demand more.
When she paused, he said, “Thank you for telling me.”
Sharon’s breath came out slow.
“I’m afraid,” she admitted quietly. “Of making you uncomfortable. Of being… too much.”
Aleem’s chest tightened.
“You’re not too much,” he said.
Sharon was silent.
Then she asked, cautiously, “Even if my life is complicated?”
Aleem stared at the horizon.
He chose his words.
“I don’t know your complications,” he said honestly. “But I know you. And I like you. If you need boundaries, we can have boundaries. If you need time, we take time.”
A pause.
Then Sharon’s voice softened.
“You always say ‘time,’” she whispered.
Aleem smiled faintly.
“Because you deserve it,” he said.
The silence that followed felt like a held breath.
Then Sharon laughed softly.
“You are… very dangerous,” she said.
Aleem blinked.
“Dangerous?”
“Yes,” Sharon said. “Because you say things that make me want to trust you.”
Aleem’s throat tightened.
“I won’t force you,” he said.
“I know,” Sharon replied.
And somehow, that made the intimacy sharper.
The server sky began to lighten.
Minecraft dawn was abrupt, but tonight it felt ceremonial.
The horizon brightened from deep blue to pale gold. The first sliver of sun rose, spilling light across the forest and river.
The base below glowed less dramatically now, lanterns swallowed gently by daylight.
Sharon gasped softly.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered.
Aleem smiled.
“This is why I wanted the lookout,” he said.
Sharon’s voice softened.
“You wanted to see sunrise with me,” she said, not as a question.
Aleem’s chest tightened.
“Yes,” he admitted.
A pause.
Then Sharon asked, quietly, “Do you do this often? Watch sunrise?”
Aleem considered.
“No,” he said. “Not in real life. I’m usually asleep.”
Sharon laughed softly.
“Me too,” she said.
Then her voice dipped, gentler.
“But I think… I would like to, one day.”
Aleem’s pulse kicked.
“One day,” he echoed.
Sharon hummed.
“One day,” she repeated.
The phrase sat between them like a lantern.
Not bright.
Not loud.
Just warm enough to hold.
Aleem watched the sunrise, then said quietly, “Sharon.”
“Yes?”
“I’m glad we met,” he said.
Sharon’s breath caught.
“Me too,” she replied.
A pause.
Then she spoke in Japanese, the words careful.
“Watashi mo… suki.” (私も…好き, wa-ta-shi mo… su-ki) – “Me too… I like you.”
Aleem’s throat tightened.
He repeated softly, clumsy but sincere, “Watashi mo.”
Sharon laughed quietly.
“You don’t have to repeat,” she said.
“I want to,” Aleem replied.
Sharon’s voice warmed.
“Okay,” she said. “Then… do you know how to say it in Malay?”
Aleem blinked.
He did.
He just hadn’t planned to say it.
He cleared his throat.
“Saya suka awak.” (sa-ya su-ka a-wak) – ‘I like you.’
There was a pause.
Then Sharon repeated it, carefully.
“Sa-ya… su-ka… a-wak.”
Aleem’s chest warmed.
“Good,” he said softly.
Sharon laughed, shy.
“It sounds sweet,” she said.
Aleem swallowed.
“It is sweet,” he admitted.
They stayed on the ridge until the sun fully rose.
Neither of them moved.
Neither of them wanted to be the first to leave.
Finally, Sharon sighed.
“I should sleep,” she said quietly.
Aleem’s chest dipped.
“Yes,” he agreed. “You sound tired.”
Sharon was silent.
Then she said, softly, “Aleem?”
“Yes?”
“I’m glad you said it,” Sharon whispered. “Even if it’s scary.”
Aleem inhaled.
“I’m glad you didn’t run,” he replied.
Sharon laughed softly.
“I thought about running,” she admitted. “But you make it hard.”
Aleem’s mouth curved.
“Because I’m dangerous,” he teased.
Sharon’s laughter warmed.
“Yes,” she said. “Very dangerous.”
Aleem hesitated, then allowed himself one minimal slip of Singlish, careful and small.
“Don’t bluff,” he said, amused. “You also quite scary, you know.”
Sharon paused.
“Quite scary?” she repeated. “Did I scare you?”
Aleem blinked.
He realized how it sounded.
“No,” he said quickly, laughing under his breath. “It means… you are also dangerous. In a good way.”
Sharon hummed.
“So ‘scary’ can be good?”
“In Singlish, sometimes,” Aleem admitted.
Sharon laughed softly.
“Singlish is complicated,” she said.
Aleem smiled.
“Yes,” he agreed. “It is.”
Sharon’s voice softened again.
“Aleem,” she said. “Can we… keep this private?”
Aleem’s chest tightened.
“Yes,” he replied immediately. “Of course.”
Sharon exhaled.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Aleem stared at the sunrise.
He thought about his friends. About ABIX. About the way they would tease him if they knew he had confessed to someone he’d never met.
He thought about boundaries.
“I won’t tell anyone,” he said. “Not until you want me to.”
Sharon was quiet.
Then she whispered, “Thank you.”
Aleem’s throat tightened.
He did not ask why she needed secrecy.
He did not push.
He simply held the line.
“Get some sleep,” he said gently.
Sharon’s voice softened.
“Okay,” she replied. Then, in Korean, like a small benediction:
“Jal ja.” (잘 자, jal ja) – “Sleep well.”
Aleem answered in Malay.
“Selamat malam.” (seh-lah-mat mah-lahm) – “Good night.”
Sharon exhaled, as if the words made her feel held.
The call ended.
Aleem remained on the ridge for a long moment.
The sunrise continued without them.
The world did not pause.
But inside him, something had shifted.
He had said it.
He had crossed a line that could not be uncrossed.
And Sharon–this woman with a soothing voice and a life that sounded crowded–had not rejected him.
She had said it back.
Aleem looked down at their base.
He could see the lantern gate, the pond, the sign.
From this height, the home they’d built looked small.
But small did not mean insignificant.
In his room, the morning outside his window had not arrived yet. Singapore remained a deep, quiet night.
Aleem took off his headset and sat in silence, hands resting on the desk.
He tried to measure what he felt.
Relief.
Joy.
Fear.
A quiet devotion that had no right to exist so quickly.
He breathed out slowly.
“Okay,” he whispered.
The word didn’t feel like a promise this time.
It felt like acceptance.
He logged off.
And as the screen went dark, Aleem realized the simplest danger had already begun:
He was going to carry her voice with him into the day.
Not as a distraction.
As a quiet anchor.
And he did not yet know what it would cost to keep it.