Backup Lines
The voice message stayed with Aleem in the small gaps of his day.
He heard it while brushing his teeth, the water running in the background, the mirror fogging at the edges. He heard it again while walking to the MRT, his steps keeping time with the memory of her syllables. He heard it even in the way he stirred his kopi at lunch, absentmindedly, the spoon clinking against the cup like a soft metronome.
Ashita mo… yoroshiku ne.
See you tomorrow.
Please take care of me tomorrow too.
It wasn’t dramatic. Sharon hadn’t said she missed him. She hadn’t used big words or attached hearts.
She had simply offered continuity–tomorrow, again, as if she believed there would be more nights like this.
That belief was a kind of intimacy.
It tightened something in his chest because it felt like a responsibility he wanted, even if he didn’t know what to do with it.
By late afternoon, he realized he had been making plans without realizing it.
Not fantasy plans.
Practical ones.
A private realm. A whitelisted server. A backup contact method she could trust. A way to make sure she didn’t disappear because the account was new, because the world was complicated, because there were too many eyes.
Aleem didn’t know what those eyes were.
But he understood the feeling of being watched.
Not in the same way.
Not with the same stakes.
But enough to know that once someone learned to measure their life by what others might see, they never fully relaxed again.
After work, he met ABIX.
It wasn’t a planned intervention. No one had staged an ambush.
They were simply… his friends.
And he needed to hear himself say things out loud in a room that wasn’t only screen light.
They met at a café near Tanjong Pagar, where the air-conditioning always ran slightly too cold and the coffee always tasted like it had been designed to keep you awake rather than to make you happy. The place was busy in the quiet way of Singapore–laptops open, low conversations, the gentle hiss of espresso machines like a background sigh.
Aleem arrived first.
He chose a table in the corner, where the wall would guard his back and he could see the entrance without looking paranoid. He told himself it was habit. He was an engineer; he liked structure.
It wasn’t paranoia.
It was simply that his mind had been running on caution lately.
Ivan arrived next, as punctual as a meeting invite.
He slid into the seat opposite Aleem, placed his phone face down on the table, and studied Aleem with the calm focus of someone who liked problems.
“You look like you haven’t slept,” Ivan said.
Aleem scoffed.
“I slept,” he replied.
Ivan raised an eyebrow.
“That was not an answer,” he said.
Aleem sighed.
“I slept,” he repeated, slightly more defensive. “Just… later than usual.”
Ivan’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes softened by half a degree.
“Okay,” he said. “So she’s still around.”
Aleem’s throat tightened at how easily Ivan had labeled her.
“She is,” he admitted.
Crystal arrived with less precision and more presence, sliding her chair into place like she owned the space. Isabelle followed right behind her, hair slightly wind-tossed, holding her drink in both hands as if it was something warm she could borrow confidence from.
Crystal’s gaze flicked between Aleem and Ivan.
“So,” she said. “Is this the part where you reveal you’re getting married next week?”
Aleem gave her a look.
“Don’t start,” he said.
Isabelle sat down, eyes gentle.
“We’re not here to tease,” she said, scolding Crystal lightly. Then she looked at Aleem. “Are you okay?”
The question landed with quiet weight.
Aleem stared at the condensation on his glass.
He could say yes.
He could say no.
He chose honesty without drama.
“I’m… managing,” he said.
Crystal leaned forward.
“That means you’re not okay,” she translated.
Aleem exhaled.
“It’s not bad,” he said. “It’s just… new.”
Ivan tapped once on the table.
“Start from the facts,” he said. “Timeline. Interaction frequency. Risk exposure.”
Crystal rolled her eyes.
“You talk like he’s reporting a security incident,” she muttered.
Ivan didn’t react.
“It’s close enough,” he replied.
Aleem hid a smile behind his glass.
He had missed this–this familiar friction, the way their differences fit together.
He looked up.
“We confessed,” he said.
Isabelle’s eyes widened softly.
Crystal’s mouth opened.
Ivan’s face remained calm, but his gaze sharpened.
“You confessed,” Crystal repeated. “You. Aleem. Confessed.”
Aleem frowned.
“Yes,” he said. “It happened.”
Crystal stared at him like he had grown a second head.
“I want that on record,” she said. “Aleem confessed.”
Isabelle’s smile was small and warm.
“How did it go?” she asked.
Aleem’s throat tightened.
“She said she likes me too,” he answered.
Silence.
For a second, even Crystal didn’t joke.
Isabelle’s expression softened into something like relief.
“That’s… sweet,” she said.
Crystal blinked, then regained her usual sharpness.
“Or it’s a lie,” she said bluntly.
Aleem stared at her.
Crystal held his gaze.
“Sorry,” she added, not looking sorry. “I’m just saying. People can lie online.”
Ivan nodded once.
“Correct,” he said. “But behavior patterns matter too. Has she asked you for anything?”
“No,” Aleem replied immediately. “Nothing. She doesn’t ask for money. She doesn’t ask for personal details. She’s… private.”
Crystal lifted her cup.
“Private can also mean married,” she said.
Isabelle gave her a look.
“Crystal,” she warned.
Crystal shrugged.
“What? I’m not wrong,” she said.
Aleem exhaled.
“She’s not married,” he said.
“Do you know that,” Crystal asked, “or do you feel that?”
Aleem hesitated.
Isabelle’s voice softened.
“Hey,” she said gently. “It’s okay to not know everything yet.”
Aleem nodded.
“I don’t know everything,” he admitted. “But I know… enough to trust her intentions. She’s careful. She worries about pressuring me. She apologizes for taking my time. That doesn’t feel like someone trying to use me.”
Ivan’s gaze stayed steady.
“Good,” he said. “Then your next question is: how do you protect both of you?”
Aleem’s chest tightened.
“That’s why I asked to meet,” he said.
Crystal’s brows lifted.
“Okay,” she said. “Serious mode.”
Aleem looked down at his hands.
“She asked about video calling,” he said quietly.
Isabelle’s breath caught.
Crystal’s eyes widened.
Ivan didn’t change expression, but he leaned forward slightly.
“And?” Ivan asked.
“I told her we can do it when she’s ready,” Aleem said. “I promised no screenshots, no recordings. I suggested a private world so we don’t have to worry about other players.”
Ivan nodded.
“Good,” he said. “Private world is necessary.”
Crystal tapped her nails lightly on the table.
“You’re sure she’s real?” she asked.
Aleem met her gaze.
“Yes,” he said. “Her voice is real. Her reactions are real. Her exhaustion is real.”
Crystal held his gaze for a moment, then sighed.
“Okay,” she conceded. “Then your job is to not become stupid.”
Isabelle smiled faintly.
“I think Aleem is being careful,” she said.
Crystal’s eyes softened slightly.
“Yes,” she agreed. “That’s why we’re here.”
Ivan’s tone remained practical.
“If she video calls, she exposes herself,” he said. “So you need to reduce the chance of accidental leaks. Use a trusted device. Close all screen capture software. Do not take screenshots. No cloud backups that automatically save images. And do it in a private space. Not in public. Not with anyone walking behind you.”
Aleem blinked.
“I wasn’t going to video call in a public place,” he said.
Crystal snorted.
“He’s not an influencer,” she muttered.
Ivan continued.
“And you should have a plan if she needs to end the call suddenly,” he said. “No guilt. No interrogations. If she says she has to go, you let her go.”
Aleem’s throat tightened.
“I already do that,” he said.
Ivan nodded once.
“Good,” he replied.
Isabelle’s voice was gentle.
“Does she sound scared?” she asked.
Aleem paused.
“Sometimes,” he admitted. “Not of me. Of… something.”
Crystal’s gaze sharpened.
“Something like what?”
Aleem shook his head.
“I don’t know,” he said. “She just says her life is complicated. She says there are too many eyes.”
Isabelle’s eyes softened.
“That sounds lonely,” she whispered.
Aleem nodded.
“It is,” he said.
Crystal leaned back.
“Okay,” she said, thinking. “So you can’t fix her life. But you can be consistent. You can be safe. You can not demand what she can’t give.”
Aleem’s chest tightened.
“I’m trying,” he said.
Ivan’s gaze stayed focused.
“Then make your boundaries explicit,” he said. “Don’t just assume she knows them. And don’t assume you know hers.”
Aleem nodded.
“I’ll do that,” he said.
Crystal narrowed her eyes.
“And don’t fall into some savior complex,” she added. “Because you like her. That’s fine. But she is not your project.”
The bluntness stung because it was true enough to be a warning.
Aleem held her gaze.
“I know,” he said quietly. “I don’t want to save her. I just want her to breathe.”
Isabelle’s expression softened further.
“That’s… a good reason,” she said.
Ivan’s voice remained steady.
“Okay,” he concluded. “Set up the private world. Establish a backup contact. And if video call happens, treat it like a gift. Not a right.”
Aleem exhaled.
“Yes,” he said.
Crystal lifted her cup.
“And if she learns one more Singlish phrase,” she added, “make sure it’s not something embarrassing.”
Aleem frowned.
“Like what?”
Crystal’s grin turned wicked.
“Like ‘bojio,’” she said.
Aleem stared.
“I’m not teaching her that,” he said.
Isabelle looked curious.
“What is bojio?” she asked.
Aleem sighed.
“It means… you didn’t invite me,” he explained. “Like you went out without telling me.”
Isabelle laughed softly.
“That’s cute,” she said.
Ivan’s face remained blank.
“Not relevant,” he said.
Crystal smirked.
“It will be relevant when Aleem starts getting jealous,” she said.
Aleem groaned.
“I am not jealous,” he said.
Crystal raised an eyebrow.
“Not yet,” she corrected.
Aleem looked away, annoyed at how easily she saw him.
That night, Aleem set up the private world.
He waited until everyone in the house was asleep. Until the corridor outside his room quieted. Until his phone stopped buzzing.
Then he turned his chair toward the desk, put on his headset, and opened his laptop settings like he was preparing for surgery.
No screen recording.
No screenshot shortcuts.
No cloud auto-save.
He closed every unnecessary program.
Then he opened Minecraft.
He created a new world.
A clean slate.
A place with no strangers.
No unknown footsteps.
No random usernames drifting too close to their door.
He named it simply:
Redstone Between Us
He stared at the name after typing it.
It looked too intimate.
He kept it anyway.
Then he opened the world settings and added a whitelist.
Only two names.
His.
And hers.
When the world loaded, he spawned on a plain under a sky full of stars. The air felt different–not because the game had changed, but because the meaning had.
This world was theirs by design.
Not by accident.
He took out a torch and placed it on the ground.
A first marker.
A first light.
Then he began building.
He didn’t replicate their old base exactly. That base had been built out of improvisation–fear, comfort, early rituals.
This base needed to be deliberate.
He outlined a new courtyard.
He laid stone paths.
He dug a pond.
He set a lantern gate.
And behind the main room, he built the quiet room again–bookshelf door, lantern light, chest, small bench.
When he finished the basic shell, he looked at the structure and felt a strange tenderness.
He had built a second home.
Not because the first wasn’t enough.
Because he wanted to protect the feeling the first had created.
He opened Discord.
Sharon was online.
His pulse kicked.
He sent a message, careful.
Aleem: I made a private world. Only you and me. No one else can join. If you want, I can invite you tonight.
A few seconds later:
Sharon: you did it already?
Aleem smiled.
Aleem: Yes.
The typing indicator appeared.
Sharon: i want
Then, almost immediately:
Sharon: but i’m scared
Aleem’s chest tightened.
He typed slowly.
Aleem: That’s okay. We can do it when you’re ready. Nothing changes if you don’t want it to.
A pause.
Then:
Sharon: i want it because i’m scared
The line sat there like an honest confession.
Aleem’s throat tightened.
Aleem: Then we do it tonight. I’ll be with you the whole time.
Three dots.
Sharon: can we call?
Aleem: Yes.
He started the call.
She picked up quickly.
“Hi,” Sharon said.
“Hi,” Aleem replied. “Are you okay?”
A small laugh.
“You always ask,” she said.
“Because I mean it,” Aleem answered.
Sharon was quiet for a moment.
Then she said softly, “Okay. Let’s go.”
Aleem swallowed.
“Log in,” he said gently. “I’m waiting.”
When Sharon joined the private world, her avatar appeared beside him on the plain.
For a moment, neither moved.
The sky above was dark and clean, stars scattered like someone had thrown salt across a black table.
In the headset, Sharon’s breathing sounded steady but cautious.
“It’s empty,” she whispered.
“Yes,” Aleem said. “It’s new.”
Sharon’s voice dipped.
“It feels… quiet,” she said.
Aleem smiled faintly.
“That was the idea,” he replied.
Sharon took a few steps forward, then stopped.
“Aleem,” she said softly.
“Yes?”
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Aleem’s throat tightened.
“You don’t have to thank me,” he said.
“I know,” Sharon replied. “But… I will anyway.”
Aleem exhaled.
“Okay,” he said. “Come. I built something.”
He led her toward the base.
The lantern gate came into view, warm light cutting through darkness. The courtyard pond reflected the sky. The stone path looked clean and intentional.
Sharon’s voice softened.
“It looks like our home,” she whispered.
Aleem swallowed.
“It’s a version of it,” he said. “A safer version.”
Sharon stepped into the courtyard.
She went quiet.
Then she laughed softly.
“You even built the quiet room,” she said.
“Yes,” Aleem replied.
Sharon’s voice warmed.
“You remembered,” she said.
Aleem’s chest tightened.
“I remember everything you tell me,” he admitted.
Silence.
Then Sharon said, quietly, “That’s dangerous.”
Aleem’s mouth curved.
“So I’ve been told,” he teased gently.
Sharon laughed, breathy and relieved.
“It’s different here,” she said.
“How?” Aleem asked.
“It feels… private,” Sharon replied. “Like no one can suddenly appear and watch.”
Aleem’s chest tightened at the word watch.
“Good,” he said softly. “That’s what I wanted.”
Sharon’s voice dipped.
“Aleem,” she said.
“Yes?”
“Can I say something?” she asked.
Aleem’s pulse steadied.
“Of course,” he replied.
Sharon took a breath.
“When I play on public servers,” she said slowly, “I always feel like I have to be careful. Even when no one knows me. Because… people can be cruel. People can take things.”
Aleem listened.
He didn’t interrupt.
“And in real life,” Sharon continued, voice quieter, “I always feel like someone is looking. Even if they are not. I feel it anyway.”
Aleem’s throat tightened.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Sharon exhaled.
“Don’t be,” she replied softly. “Just… thank you for building a place where I don’t feel that.”
Aleem swallowed.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he said.
Sharon’s voice warmed.
“Me too,” she replied.
They stood by the pond for a while.
Not building.
Not mining.
Just listening to the quiet.
In that stillness, Aleem became aware of how intimate it was to be alone with someone, even through a game.
It was not about the blocks.
It was about attention.
Presence.
The choice to stay.
Sharon spoke again, careful.
“Aleem,” she said.
“Yes?”
“If we do video call,” she whispered, “I want to do it here. In this world. In the quiet room.”
Aleem’s pulse kicked.
“Okay,” he said, voice steady. “We can do that.”
Sharon exhaled.
“Not tonight,” she added quickly. “I’m not ready.”
Aleem’s chest tightened.
“That’s fine,” he said gently. “No rush.”
Sharon’s voice softened.
“Cheoncheonhi,” she murmured.
Cheoncheonhi (천천히, cheon-cheon-hi) – “Slowly.”
“Yes,” Aleem replied. “Cheoncheonhi.”
A quiet pause.
Then Sharon asked, almost shy, “Can I hear you say it in Malay again?”
Aleem blinked.
“Say what?”
“That sentence,” Sharon said softly. “The one you taught me.”
His throat tightened.
He knew what she meant.
Saya suka awak.
I like you.
He could say it.
He had said it before.
But hearing her ask for it made it feel different–less like a language lesson, more like a request for comfort.
He breathed in.
“Saya suka awak.” (sa-ya su-ka a-wak) – “I like you.”
Sharon repeated it quietly.
“Sa-ya… su-ka… a-wak.”
Her pronunciation was careful.
Tender.
Aleem’s chest warmed.
“Good,” he said softly.
Sharon laughed, shy.
“It’s a good sentence,” she murmured.
Aleem swallowed.
“It is,” he agreed.
A pause.
Then Sharon asked, “Do you want to hear it in Japanese?”
Aleem’s pulse kicked.
“Yes,” he admitted.
Sharon’s voice turned quieter, almost intimate.
“Suki.” (好き, su-ki) – “I like you.”
Aleem closed his eyes briefly.
The word sounded different in her mouth.
Softer.
Like something she was offering carefully.
He opened his eyes.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
Sharon’s laugh was faint.
“You’re welcome,” she replied.
Then, gently, she added, “But you should sleep too.”
Aleem blinked.
“I’m fine,” he said.
Sharon hummed.
“You say that like you’re always fine,” she teased.
Aleem smiled.
“I’m an engineer,” he said. “I’m trained to pretend everything is stable.”
Sharon laughed softly.
“That’s a scary job,” she said.
Aleem allowed himself one minimal Singlish slip, soft and playful.
“Can manage,” he said.
Silence.
Sharon paused.
“Can… manage,” she repeated slowly. “Like you can control?”
Aleem smiled, amused.
“It means… I can handle it,” he explained. “It’s a Singapore way of saying it.”
Sharon hummed.
“So it means you’re okay,” she said.
“Yes,” Aleem replied.
Sharon’s voice turned playful.
“Then I can manage too,” she said, trying the phrase.
Aleem laughed.
“You can,” he said. “But don’t say it at work in Korea. They will look at you strangely.”
Sharon laughed softly.
“Okay,” she promised.
They spent the next hour building small things in their new world.
Not out of necessity.
Out of comfort.
Sharon planted flowers by the pond again, as if every world needed softness. Aleem added lanterns along the stone path, making sure the light was warm and even.
In the quiet room, Sharon placed a single painting on the wall–an abstract image that looked like a window into a brighter place.
“Why this one?” Aleem asked.
Sharon paused.
“It looks like escape,” she said softly.
Aleem’s chest tightened.
He nodded.
“Then it stays,” he said.
Sharon’s breathing sounded steadier after that.
And Aleem realized, with a quiet ache, that building wasn’t what soothed her.
It was the feeling of being allowed.
Allowed to choose.
Allowed to breathe.
Allowed to exist without being consumed.
Later, when they finally returned to the courtyard and stood by the pond again, Sharon spoke with more seriousness.
“Aleem,” she said.
“Yes?”
“If we do video call,” she said slowly, “I want to set rules.”
Aleem’s pulse steadied.
“Okay,” he replied. “Tell me.”
Sharon’s voice was careful.
“Rule one,” she said. “No screenshots. No recording.”
Aleem nodded.
“I promise,” he said.
“Rule two,” Sharon continued, “if I say I have to go, you won’t ask why.”
Aleem’s chest tightened.
“Yes,” he said immediately. “No questions. No guilt.”
Sharon exhaled.
“Rule three,” she said, voice quieter, “you won’t tell anyone my face. Even your closest friends.”
Aleem swallowed.
“Yes,” he said. “I won’t.”
Sharon’s voice softened.
“Then,” she added, almost shy, “rule four… you will tell me if you feel uncomfortable.”
Aleem blinked.
That rule surprised him.
“You want me to tell you?” he asked.
“Yes,” Sharon replied. “Because I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to become a secret that makes you lonely.”
Aleem’s throat tightened.
“You won’t hurt me,” he said.
Sharon’s voice sharpened slightly.
“You don’t know that,” she repeated, echoing her earlier fear.
Aleem breathed in.
He chose honesty.
“I’ll tell you,” he promised. “If something feels heavy, I’ll tell you. I won’t pretend.”
Sharon exhaled.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Aleem’s chest tightened.
“When do you want to do it?” he asked gently.
Sharon hesitated.
Then, quietly, she said, “Tomorrow.”
Aleem’s pulse jumped.
“Tomorrow,” he repeated.
“Yes,” Sharon whispered. “If I don’t do it soon, I will keep delaying. And… I don’t want to delay forever.”
Aleem swallowed.
“Okay,” he said softly. “Tomorrow.”
Sharon’s breath came out slow.
“What time?” she asked.
Aleem glanced at the clock.
“I can be free at midnight,” he offered. “Singapore time. That’s one a.m. in Korea.”
Sharon made a small sound.
“That’s late,” she said.
“I know,” Aleem replied. “But I don’t want you to risk doing it when people can check.”
Silence.
Then Sharon whispered, “You think about that.”
Aleem’s throat tightened.
“Yes,” he admitted.
Sharon’s voice softened.
“Okay,” she said. “Midnight your time. One a.m. my time.”
Aleem’s pulse steadied.
“Yaksok,” he murmured.
Yaksok (약속, yak-sok) – “Promise.”
Sharon exhaled.
“Yaksok,” she repeated.
They stood in the courtyard in silence for a moment, as if both of them needed to feel the weight of what they had agreed to.
Then Sharon laughed softly, trying to lighten it.
“You will probably rehearse what you want to say,” she teased.
Aleem smiled faintly.
“I won’t,” he lied.
Sharon laughed.
“You already are,” she accused gently.
Aleem sighed.
“Maybe a little,” he admitted.
Sharon’s voice warmed.
“It’s okay,” she said. “It makes me feel safer.”
Aleem’s chest tightened.
“Then I’ll rehearse properly,” he said.
Sharon laughed again, breathy and relieved.
When the call ended, Aleem did not immediately log off.
He walked alone through their private base.
Lantern gate.
Pond.
Quiet room.
He stood in front of the bookshelf door and stared at it.
Tomorrow, he would see her.
Not her avatar.
Not her words.
Her face.
He felt his chest tighten with a strange mix of anticipation and fear.
Fear, because it would become real in a way that could not be undone.
Fear, because whatever she was hiding might have edges sharp enough to cut.
Fear, because he might not be as composed as he wanted to be.
He thought about Ivan’s advice–treat it like a gift, not a right.
He thought about Crystal’s warning–don’t turn her into a project.
He thought about Isabelle’s gentleness–protect peace, but don’t forget real life.
He looked at the lantern light.
He placed a sign in the quiet room, above the lantern.
NO RUSH. NO PRESSURE.
Then he hesitated, and added another line beneath it.
JUST YOU. JUST ME.
He stared at the words.
They looked too intimate.
He left them anyway.
Because tomorrow, she would show him the thing she was afraid to show.
And if she was going to step into that vulnerability, he wanted the room to say what he might not be able to say smoothly.
He logged off.
In the real world, Singapore’s night was still, the hum of the city softened by distance and walls.
He lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling.
He did not rehearse.
He absolutely did.
Not a script.
Just reminders.
Be calm.
Be respectful.
Do not react like a fan.
Do not stare.
Do not make it about you.
If she leaves suddenly, let her.
If she looks scared, soften your voice.
If she asks for silence, give it.
He turned onto his side.
His phone buzzed.
A message from Sharon.
Sharon: thank you for making a place where i can breathe
Aleem’s chest tightened.
He typed back slowly.
Aleem: Thank you for trusting me enough to enter it.
A pause.
Then:
Sharon: see you tomorrow
Aleem stared at the words.
Tomorrow.
The day that had become a cliff.
He typed:
Aleem: See you tomorrow. Take your time.
Sharon replied with one word.
Sharon: cheoncheonhi
Aleem closed his eyes.
He could almost hear her saying it.
Slowly.
Slowly.
In the dark, Aleem whispered to himself, as if anchoring the night with language.
“Okay,” he said.
But this time, the word carried a new edge.
Not fear.
Not doubt.
Only the quiet understanding that tomorrow could change the shape of everything.
And that he would have to be worthy of it.