Not a Public Love
Chapter 10 – Not a Public Love
The rain lasted forty-seven minutes.
Suyin knew because Adam timed it.
Not on purpose.
He just had that habit–checking the sky, checking the pattern, checking the odds, like shelter was a math problem he could solve.
At minute thirty, he leaned back against the bench, still holding her hand, and said,
“Okay, if this rain continues, we might have to evolve.”
Suyin blinked.
“Evolve?”
Adam nodded solemnly.
“Become auntie and uncle,” he declared. “Complain about weather forever.”
Suyin laughed, real and muffled by the rain.
“You’re already uncle,” she teased.
Adam gasped.
“Excuse me,” he said. “I am youthful.”
Suyin squeezed his hand lightly.
The warmth of his fingers around hers felt like a decision they weren’t announcing.
A quiet truth.
When the rain finally softened, it didn’t stop all at once.
It thinned into drizzle.
The world outside the shelter sharpened again–wet tiles, puddles, the sheen of water on the road.
The uncles doing tai chi had moved to a different corner.
The cat had relocated under a table, annoyed by the weather.
The community centre remained stubbornly ordinary.
Adam looked at their hands.
Then up at her.
His voice turned gentle.
“We should go,” he said.
Suyin’s chest tightened.
Going meant returning to noise.
Returning to phones.
Returning to people who didn’t know the quiet part of them.
She nodded anyway.
They stood.
Not abruptly.
Carefully, like they were trying not to break the calm.
Adam let go of her hand only when they started walking.
Not because he didn’t want to hold.
Because he understood visibility.
They walked under the shelter, side by side.
The drizzle outside kept the world damp.
Singapore smelled like wet concrete and greenery.
At the end of the walkway, they stopped near a row of potted plants.
A small corner where the roof extended.
Where they could stand without being fully exposed.
Adam turned to her.
His eyes were serious now.
Not tired.
Not amused.
Serious like someone about to do something he had rehearsed in his head and still didn’t trust.
“Suyin,” he said.
Her heartbeat stuttered.
“Yeah?”
Adam swallowed.
“I want to do this properly,” he repeated.
Properly.
The word had become a motif.
A promise.
A boundary.
Suyin nodded slowly.
“What does properly mean to you?” she asked.
Adam looked down briefly.
Then back up.
“It means,” he said quietly, “I don’t rush you. I don’t hide you like shame. But I also don’t throw you into the public like content.”
Suyin’s throat tightened.
Adam continued.
“It means I’m honest,” he said. “With you. With myself.”
Suyin held her breath.
Adam’s voice softened.
“And it means,” he said, “if this becomes something… it’s because we chose it. Not because they pushed.”
Suyin’s eyes stung.
She nodded.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Adam exhaled.
Then he did something so ordinary it felt sacred.
He reached into his pocket.
Pulled out a small, folded tissue packet.
Suyin blinked.
Adam held it out like it was an offering.
Suyin stared.
“What is this?” she asked.
Adam’s mouth twitched.
“Our relationship symbol,” he said.
Suyin laughed despite herself.
“You’re ridiculous.”
Adam’s eyes softened.
“I’m serious,” he insisted. “First hawker centre, tissue. Prata shop, tissue. Today, tissue.”
Suyin shook her head, smiling.
Adam’s expression turned gentler.
He held the tissue packet out.
“Keep,” he said. “Not because it’s romantic. Because it reminds you–if things get loud, you have someone.”
Suyin’s chest tightened.
She took it.
The packet was warm from his pocket.
It was ridiculous.
And somehow, it made her want to cry.
She looked up.
“Adam,” she whispered.
He waited.
Suyin swallowed.
“I want to do this properly too,” she said.
Adam’s breath left him.
His shoulders loosened.
Then, slowly, he asked the question that made her heart stop.
“Then… can I?”
Suyin blinked.
“Can you what?”
Adam’s gaze held hers.
The drizzle outside grew slightly heavier, like the sky was listening.
“Can I court you?” he asked quietly.
Court.
The word was old-fashioned.
Not content.
Not ship.
Not headline.
Court.
A word that meant intention.
Respect.
Time.
Suyin’s throat tightened.
She felt her eyes burn.
She nodded.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Adam exhaled.
His mouth twitched.
And then he smiled.
Not the big host smile.
Not the camera smile.
A small one.
Private.
Relieved.
“Okay,” he murmured.
Okay.
That word had always been their anchor.
Suyin laughed shakily.
“Okay,” she echoed.
Adam took a breath.
Then he lifted his hand.
He hesitated–again, that careful pause.
Seeking consent.
Suyin nodded faintly.
So Adam reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
His fingers brushed her cheek.
Warm.
Gentle.
Suyin’s breath caught.
Adam’s thumb lingered for half a second.
Then he withdrew.
He looked at her with an expression that made her chest ache.
“I won’t mess this up,” he said softly.
Suyin’s eyes stung.
“You can’t promise that,” she whispered.
Adam’s mouth twitched.
“Okay,” he admitted. “Then… I’ll try. Properly.”
Suyin nodded.
“Properly,” she whispered.
They separated the way they always did.
Not dramatically.
Not with lingering touches.
With practical care.
Adam insisted on walking her close to her block, stopping at the turning point where the sheltered walkway ended and the open path began.
The drizzle fell outside the shelter.
Suyin stopped under the roof.
Adam stopped too.
He looked at the rain beyond.
Then at her.
“If you run out, you will get wet,” he said.
Suyin’s mouth twitched.
“You state the obvious,” she teased.
Adam nodded solemnly.
“I am a man of facts.”
Suyin laughed.
Then her laughter softened.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
Adam’s eyes softened.
“For what?”
“For drawing the line,” she whispered. “And still… staying.”
Adam swallowed.
He looked down briefly.
Then back up.
“I stayed because I wanted to,” he said.
Suyin’s chest tightened.
He hesitated.
Then he reached out.
Not to kiss.
Not to pull her close.
Just to touch her shoulder lightly.
A small anchor.
“Go,” he said gently. “Before your silent dad becomes louder.”
Suyin laughed through her tight throat.
“Yeah,” she admitted. “I should.”
She stepped back.
Then stopped.
She looked at him.
“Adam,” she said.
He blinked.
“Yeah?”
Suyin held up the tissue packet.
“Don’t worry,” she said softly. “I’ll keep it.”
Adam’s eyes crinkled.
“Good,” he said. “If you cry, at least got tissue.”
Suyin rolled her eyes.
“You always make everything funny,” she said.
Adam’s smile softened.
“Not everything,” he murmured.
Suyin’s breath caught.
Before she could respond, Adam stepped back.
He lifted a hand.
“Text me when you reach home,” he said.
Suyin nodded.
“I will,” she whispered.
Then she turned.
She walked into her lift lobby.
The doors closed.
She rose upward.
The drizzle outside continued.
And Suyin realized that, for once, she wasn’t afraid of rain.
Because rain was just weather.
What she had been afraid of was the world.
And the world, she was learning, could be managed.
Not controlled.
Managed.
With private rules.
With lines.
With patience.
With someone who wanted to do it properly.
That night, Clarice tried again.
She posted a story:
“Okay but why they leave early together?? 👀”
But it didn’t explode.
Because Adam didn’t repost.
Because Suyin didn’t react.
Because there were no more clues.
No more fuel.
The story faded in twenty-four hours like all stories did.
The internet moved on.
Something else trended.
A scandal.
A new couple.
A new outrage.
The city stayed small.
And life stayed stubborn.
Two days later, Adam texted:
Coffee? Just normal. No content. No photo.
Suyin replied:
Okay.
A week later, he sent:
I found a hawker centre with best chendol. We try?
Suyin replied:
Only if you don’t feed me on camera.
Adam replied:
No camera. Only spoon.
Suyin laughed.
A month later, he met her mother.
Not at a fancy restaurant.
At a neighbourhood kopi shop.
He bowed slightly, polite.
He called her mother “Auntie” with respect.
He made her mother laugh.
Her mother told him,
“You better treat her well ah.”
Adam nodded seriously.
“I will try, auntie. Properly.”
Her mother beamed.
Later that night, Suyin texted him:
Mama likes you.
Adam replied:
Good. Now only need silent dad.
Suyin replied:
Final boss.
Adam replied:
I will train.
And in the months that followed, their story remained stubbornly uncinematic.
No dramatic confession in the rain.
No public kiss.
No couple campaign.
No viral engagement.
Just two people learning how to hold something gentle inside a loud city.
Sometimes they argued.
Sometimes they misunderstood.
Sometimes the world tried to intrude.
But they returned to their rules.
To their line.
To their shelter.
And one evening, when the rain came suddenly and they found themselves once again under a sheltered walkway, Adam reached for her hand without hesitation.
Suyin slid her fingers into his.
And she realized the truth that had been there from the start:
Sheltered walkways were not built to stop the storm.
They were built to help people keep walking.
Together.
Properly.