Booked Together
Chapter 2 – Booked Together
The next morning, Singapore behaved like nothing had happened.
The trains ran.
The aunties argued over the price of vegetables.
The sun rose, then hid behind clouds like it was shy.
But the internet–
The internet did not move on.
It clung to the seventeen seconds the way humidity clung to skin.
Adam Lim learned this at 8:57am, when his manager slid her phone across the conference table like a piece of evidence.
He didn’t need to pick it up to know what was on the screen.
He had watched the clip enough times last night that it had started playing behind his eyelids.
Still, he lifted the phone.
It was worse now.
Not the clip itself.
The captions.
The edits.
The comments.
Someone had slowed down Suyin’s blink and added dramatic violin music.
Someone had cut his name–Adam Lim–into glowing neon text like it was a prophecy.
Someone had already written a thread titled:
THEY’RE MEANT TO BE (PROOF INSIDE)
His manager, Lydia, watched him with a stare that could cauterize.
“How many times did you watch it?” she asked.
Adam’s mouth twitched.
“Is there a correct answer?”
“There is one answer that keeps you employed.”
He placed the phone down carefully, as if it might explode.
Lydia sighed, pinched the bridge of her nose, and flipped open her folder.
“Okay,” she said, shifting into the tone she used when she wanted to sound calm. “We’re not panicking. But we’re not going to be stupid either.”
Adam leaned back in his chair.
The office meeting room smelled of coffee and printer ink. Behind Lydia, the city looked sharp through the glass: buildings stacked like clean rectangles, the sky pale and undecided.
“What do you want me to do?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Lydia said immediately. “You do nothing. You do not joke about it. You do not respond. You do not like any comments. You do not–”
Her phone buzzed.
She glanced at it.
Her expression changed.
Adam felt his stomach tighten.
“What?”
Lydia inhaled.
She looked up slowly, the way someone looks up when they’re about to deliver news that is going to annoy you but is not technically their fault.
“We have a shoot,” she said.
Adam blinked.
“We always have a shoot.”
“No,” Lydia corrected. “We have that shoot.”
She turned the folder around.
A production sheet.
A schedule.
A title at the top:
Sheltered Walkways – Episode 12: Rainy Day Challenge
Under “Guest,” there were two names.
Adam Lim.
Lin Suyin.
For a moment, Adam didn’t speak.
He read it again, as if the letters might rearrange themselves into a kinder reality.
“They’re doing this on purpose,” he said finally.
Lydia lifted a shoulder.
“They’re doing this because it’s gold,” she replied. “And because we are in Singapore, where everyone knows everyone, and somehow the production office and your mother probably got the same memo.”
Adam let out a laugh that wasn’t laughter.
“I haven’t even met her.”
“You will,” Lydia said. “Tomorrow. Call time six. Location Outram Park area, then Chinatown Complex, then Kallang Riverside. They want you to do the whole day.”
Adam’s eyes narrowed.
“Do I have a choice?”
Lydia held his gaze.
“We could say no,” she said.
Adam waited.
“But,” she added, “the producers will act hurt, and the sponsors will act disappointed, and the internet will act like you’re rejecting a nice girl who admires you.”
Adam stared at the schedule.
The word “admire” sat heavy.
It made things sound clean.
Not complicated.
Not dangerous.
He ran a hand through his hair.
“What’s her team saying?”
Lydia’s expression softened a fraction.
“Same thing we are,” she said. “No statements. Keep it light. Treat it as a compliment. Don’t–”
“Don’t fall in love,” Adam finished for her.
Lydia did not smile.
“That one,” she said, “is not a PR strategy. That one is your personal problem.”
Suyin’s day began with her manager repeating the same sentence at least four times.
“Be normal.”
Her manager, Mei, said it while fastening Suyin’s seatbelt.
“Be normal,” she said again while scrolling through her phone.
“Be normal,” she insisted while the car crawled along the PIE, as if normality was a destination they could arrive at.
Suyin sat in the back seat and watched the road.
The sky was a dull white, the kind that made buildings look washed out.
She had barely slept.
Not because she regretted what she said.
Because she couldn’t stop thinking about what it would mean.
Adam Lim.
A name she had spoken like a truth.
Now it had become a story.
Now it had become everyone’s entertainment.
Her phone was in her lap, screen down like a guilty thing.
Mei’s voice cut through the quiet.
“Tomorrow,” Mei said, “you will meet him.”
Suyin swallowed.
“We are professionals,” Mei continued. “This is work. You will not be flustered. You will not look like a fan. You will not–”
“I’m not a fan,” Suyin said.
Mei paused.
Then she looked at Suyin through the rearview mirror.
“Okay,” Mei said, carefully. “You are not a fan. You are an actress who has admired his work from a respectful distance. You are calm. You are steady. You are…”
Mei searched for the word.
“Reasonable,” she concluded.
Suyin looked out the window.
Reasonable.
She didn’t know how to be reasonable about someone who made her feel safe, even when he was only a face on a screen.
She didn’t know how to be reasonable about the fact that he had probably watched the clip.
That he had probably felt something.
Or nothing.
The uncertainty was what kept her awake.
Mei tapped her phone.
“They’re already drafting the social posts for tomorrow’s shoot,” she muttered. “They want a teaser. Wah, these people.”
Suyin closed her eyes.
Tomorrow.
The word felt like rain gathering.
If Singapore had a universal language, it was not English or Mandarin or Malay or Tamil.
It was the sound of people pretending not to be curious.
Adam heard it the moment he arrived on set.
It was still dark, the kind of early morning that made streetlights look tired. The sheltered walkway outside Outram Park MRT station was already alive with movement: crew members unloading equipment, assistants carrying garment bags, a production intern half-running with a clipboard.
Adam stepped out of the van and the air hit him–warm, damp, smelling faintly of wet concrete.
Not raining yet.
But the clouds above looked full.
He adjusted the strap of his backpack and scanned the area.
A production assistant jogged toward him.
“Adam! Morning!”
He smiled automatically.
“Morning.”
“We’re doing mic fitting first,” she said, already leading him. “Then we’ll brief you. Suyin is coming soon.”
She said the name like she was placing a delicate object on the table.
Adam nodded.
He could feel eyes on him.
Crew who had worked with him for years, suddenly looking like they were trying to read his face for spoilers.
He hated that.
He hated being a story.
Inside the makeshift holding area–a small tent with fans blowing and plastic chairs lined up–he sat while the sound technician clipped a mic pack to the back of his waistband.
The technician grinned.
“Wah, bro,” he said softly, as if sharing a secret, “you really got game.”
Adam’s jaw tightened.
“I got schedule,” he replied.
The technician laughed.
“That one also game.”
Adam forced a smile and looked away.
Lydia was nearby, arms crossed, expression warning him to behave.
A producer approached with a bright face.
“Adam!” he said, too loudly. “Thanks for coming, thanks for coming. Today is going to be fun.”
Adam stared.
“Is it?”
The producer laughed as if Adam had made a joke.
“Yes, yes. Our concept today is Rainy Day Challenge. We will do a scavenger hunt–couple style, but friendly, friendly,” he added quickly, eyes darting to Lydia. “We have sponsor integration, we have punny lines, we have a small punishment at the end. Nothing crazy.”
Adam leaned forward.
“Who decided this schedule?”
The producer beamed.
“The universe,” he said.
Adam sat back.
So that was what they were calling opportunism now.
Suyin arrived at 5:58am.
Adam didn’t know the exact time because he was counting.
He watched the entrance of the walkway the way people watched the sky before it rained.
When she appeared, she looked… normal.
Not in a boring way.
In a startling way.
She wore jeans and sneakers, an olive windbreaker, her hair tied into a low ponytail. Minimal makeup. A canvas tote bag slung over one shoulder like she was a student late for class.
She looked like someone you might see at a hawker centre in the morning buying kopi, and not recognize until the second glance.
Her manager, Mei, walked beside her, eyes sharp.
The crew noticed.
Their heads turned in unison.
The silent curiosity.
Suyin’s gaze swept the area.
And then it landed on him.
Adam felt it like a hand on his chest.
Not heavy.
Just firm.
A recognition.
Suyin didn’t rush.
She walked toward him at a steady pace, and the closer she got, the more Adam realized this was not going to feel like a clip.
This was going to feel like a person.
She stopped a respectful distance away.
Her eyes were dark, calm.
Her smile was polite–professional.
But something in it was also… careful.
As if she didn’t want to frighten him with the truth.
“Hi,” she said.
Her voice was the same as in the clip.
Only now it wasn’t trapped in speakers.
It was real.
Adam stood.
“Hi,” he replied.
There was a pause.
Not awkward.
Just… new.
They were two people meeting under fluorescent lights, surrounded by strangers holding cameras.
It was a terrible way to begin anything.
Suyin held out her hand.
Adam looked at it for a fraction of a second too long.
Then he took it.
Her grip was warm.
Steady.
Not a fan.
Not trembling.
Just a person.
“I’m Lin Suyin,” she said, as if he hadn’t already memorized her name.
“Adam,” he answered.
And then, because his instincts were built from years of deflecting tension with humour, he added,
“I heard you said something dangerous.”
Suyin’s lips curved.
“Did I?”
Adam glanced toward the crew.
Someone was already aiming a camera.
He lowered his voice.
“You started a storm.”
Suyin looked up at him.
“I didn’t mean to,” she said.
Adam studied her face.
He tried to find the performance.
He tried to find the calculation.
But all he saw was sincerity held carefully between them like a fragile glass.
He swallowed.
“Okay,” he said quietly. “Then we survive today.”
Suyin blinked.
“Survive?”
He shrugged.
“This place loves stories,” he said. “We just… don’t give them too much.”
Suyin’s expression softened.
“I can do that,” she said.
And Adam was surprised by how much he believed her.
The crew called them together for briefing.
They stood side by side under the shelter, and Adam could feel the space between their shoulders–the thin gap that felt louder than it should.
The producer clapped his hands.
“Okay! Welcome, welcome. Today’s concept is couple teamwork. But friendly ah, friendly,” he repeated, as if the word could protect them from the internet.
He held up a laminated card.
“First challenge: Hawker Harmony. You two will go Chinatown Complex. You must buy five items from our list using only twenty dollars. You must also–”
He grinned.
”–feed each other one bite on camera.”
Adam’s head snapped toward Lydia.
Lydia’s face remained neutral.
Which meant she had already lost this battle.
Suyin’s eyes widened a fraction.
Then she recovered.
“Okay,” she said, voice steady.
Adam stared at her.
She said okay like she had trained for embarrassment.
Like she knew how to keep her dignity in front of hungry cameras.
The producer continued.
“Second challenge: Sheltered Sprint. You will do a scavenger run along the covered walkway route from Outram Park to the riverside. You must stay under shelter the whole time. If you step out into the rain–punishment!”
Someone laughed.
Adam’s gaze flicked upward.
The sky was still dry.
But it looked patient.
As if it was waiting for the right moment.
The producer finished with the kind of excitement that made Adam tired.
“Okay, okay. Let’s roll. Adam, Suyin–today you two are a team. Give us chemistry!”
Adam felt his jaw clench.
Chemistry.
Like it was a button.
Like it was content.
He glanced at Suyin.
She was watching the producer politely.
But when she turned to him, her eyes told a different story.
She was nervous.
Not childish nervous.
Adult nervous.
The kind that came from not wanting to ruin something before it even existed.
Adam exhaled.
He leaned closer, voice low enough that only she could hear.
“Just follow my lead,” he said.
Suyin blinked.
“Your lead?”
Adam’s mouth tilted.
“I’m very experienced,” he said dryly. “In looking stupid.”
Suyin’s lips parted.
Then she laughed–soft, genuine.
And in that laugh, Adam felt something loosen.
Not the tension of cameras.
The tension inside his own chest.
“Okay,” Suyin said, eyes warm. “Then I’ll be experienced too.”
Adam looked at her.
The crew called for them to move.
The cameras started rolling.
And as they stepped forward together into the first scene of the day, Adam realized something with reluctant clarity:
They weren’t just filming.
They were walking into a story already written by strangers.
The only thing they could control was how honestly they would exist inside it.
Outside the shelter, the first raindrop hit the pavement.
Then another.
Then the city exhaled, and the rain began.