Chemistry, But Make It Work
Chapter 3 – Chemistry, But Make It Work
Chinatown Complex at seven-thirty in the morning was a living organism.
It breathed steam and soy and coffee.
It pulsed with footsteps and metal trays and the low, steady hum of people who had been awake far longer than anyone with studio makeup deserved.
The rain had followed them here.
Not dramatic thunderstorm rain.
Not the kind that made the news.
Just Singapore rain–persistent, unbothered, slipping down the edges of roofs and into drains like it owned the place.
Under the shelter, the crew clustered like a flock.
Camera operators adjusted lenses.
A sound tech hovered close, listening for the slightest rustle.
The producer walked backward, grinning, speaking into his mic.
“Okay! We are at Chinatown Complex! Today we have Adam and Suyin doing Hawker Harmony! Twenty dollars only, five items, and remember–teamwork, okay? Teamwork!”
Adam stood with his hands in his jacket pockets, looking like he was trying not to look like he was trying.
Suyin held the laminated list they had been given, eyes scanning it with the calm focus of someone reading a script.
On the list:
- One kopi (hot)
- One kaya toast set
- One bowl of something spicy
- One dessert
- One “wild card” item recommended by an auntie
At the bottom, in bold:
BONUS: Feed each other one bite on camera.
Adam stared at the last line.
“Who wrote this?” he muttered.
“The universe,” Suyin said softly.
Adam turned.
She wasn’t smiling widely.
But her eyes had that faint brightness he’d noticed earlier.
A quiet humour.
A willingness to play without turning herself into a caricature.
Adam let out a breath.
“Okay,” he said. “We do this fast. Efficient. Like we’re buying lunch during peak hour.”
Suyin glanced around.
“It’s not peak hour,” she said.
Adam’s mouth twitched.
“Give it ten minutes.”
The producer clapped.
“Action!”
And just like that, the cameras began to drink them in.
The first stall they reached was kopi.
The uncle behind the counter looked up, squinted at Adam, then squinted harder as if his eyes were trying to confirm reality.
“Eh,” the uncle said. “You that Adam ah?”
Adam leaned forward politely.
“Yes, uncle.”
The uncle’s face broke into a grin.
“Aiyo, my wife always watch you. She say you stupid, but funny.”
Adam laughed.
“Thank you, uncle.”
“Today you come with girlfriend ah?”
The word landed like a pebble thrown into still water.
The ripples spread immediately.
Crew members shifted.
The camera lens angled.
Suyin’s fingers tightened slightly on the list.
Adam didn’t even glance at her.
He smiled at the uncle like it was any other day.
“Uncle,” he said, gentle, “today I come with teammate. We doing challenge.”
The uncle nodded, unconvinced.
“Teammate,” he repeated, as if tasting the word. “Okay lah, okay lah. Kopi one cup?”
“Yes,” Adam said.
Suyin leaned in.
“One kopi, hot,” she added.
The uncle poured, the coffee dark and fragrant.
As he passed it over, he looked from Adam to Suyin.
“You two match,” he declared.
Suyin froze.
Adam laughed too quickly.
“Uncle,” he said, “you trying to make my manager cry.”
The uncle cackled.
Behind the camera, the producer made a delighted noise.
Adam accepted the kopi, then turned slightly away from the stall.
In the brief privacy of their own bodies, he lowered his voice.
“You okay?” he asked.
Suyin blinked.
“Yes,” she said.
But her cheeks had warmed.
Adam nodded.
“Good,” he said. “If you not okay, just tell me. We can… manage.”
Manage.
A word that meant control.
A word that meant survive.
Suyin looked down at the kopi.
The steam rose, curling like thought.
“I’m okay,” she said again, softer.
Adam studied her face.
Then, without thinking, he said,
“You’re very steady.”
Suyin looked up.
“I have to be,” she replied.
Adam didn’t know what to say to that.
So he did what he always did.
He moved.
“Okay,” he said, louder for the cameras. “Next item! Kaya toast set. Where is the best one here?”
Suyin pointed.
“There,” she said.
And they walked.
Side by side.
Under shelter.
The kaya toast queue was already long.
Singaporeans didn’t need peak hour to queue.
They could queue for joy.
The auntie at the stall moved quickly, buttering toast with efficient anger.
Adam leaned closer to Suyin.
“Twenty dollars,” he whispered. “We must be smart. If we buy toast set, we already spend maybe five… plus kopi two… okay still okay.”
Suyin nodded.
“We need something spicy,” she murmured. “And dessert.”
Adam frowned.
“Dessert confirm expensive one.”
Suyin’s lips curved.
“Not if we share,” she said.
Adam glanced at her.
Share.
The word shouldn’t have felt intimate.
But it did.
Maybe because sharing was what couples did.
Maybe because the cameras would make anything look like a confession.
Adam cleared his throat.
“We share,” he agreed.
The auntie shoved a plate toward them.
“Toast set! Two eggs! Kopi already got or not?”
“Got,” Adam said.
The auntie looked them up and down.
“You two filming ah?”
“Yes,” Suyin said politely.
The auntie’s eyes narrowed.
“You the girl who say ideal type Adam Lim?”
Suyin’s stomach dropped.
Even here.
Even at seven-thirty.
Even with rain.
The clip had arrived first.
Before her.
Before her explanations.
Before her humanity.
Suyin managed a small smile.
“Ya,” she said.
The auntie cackled.
“Aiyo, good taste!”
The auntie slapped Adam’s shoulder with unexpected force.
“You better treat her well ah!”
Adam’s eyes widened.
“Auntie,” he said quickly, “today we just buying breakfast.”
The auntie waved dismissively.
“Breakfast also can fall in love,” she said.
The producer’s laughter sounded too pleased.
Adam’s manager, somewhere behind them, probably died a little.
Suyin stared at the toast set.
The eggs wobbled slightly in their saucers.
She could feel her professionalism slipping at the edges.
Not because she was flustered.
Because the world was forcing meaning into her words.
Adam noticed.
He leaned closer, voice low.
“Sorry,” he said.
Suyin looked up.
“Why are you apologizing?”
Adam’s eyes held hers.
“Because this is… a lot,” he said.
Suyin’s throat tightened.
She nodded once.
“It is,” she admitted.
Adam exhaled.
Then, as if making a decision, he lifted his hand.
He took one of the half-boiled eggs and peeled it carefully, the way people did when they’d grown up with eggs on plastic trays.
He cracked it into the saucer, poured dark soy, sprinkled pepper.
Then he pushed the saucer toward her.
“Eat first,” he said.
The cameras zoomed.
The crew made small noises.
The producer whispered something excited.
But Adam didn’t look at any of them.
He looked only at her.
Suyin stared at the egg.
Such a small act.
So ordinary.
Yet it made her chest ache.
She picked up the spoon.
Took a bite.
Warm.
Soft.
Comfort.
“Nice?” Adam asked.
Suyin swallowed.
“Yes,” she said.
Adam nodded.
“Okay,” he said, turning to the camera with a practiced grin. “We got breakfast. Now we need something spicy. Let’s go find something that can make us cry.”
Suyin laughed, a small sound.
It came out before she could stop it.
Adam glanced at her.
There.
A crack in her steadiness.
Not weakness.
Humanity.
They walked deeper into the hawker centre.
The air grew thicker.
Char kway teow smoke.
Curry.
Fried garlic.
People carrying trays moved like tides.
The crew struggled to keep up.
Adam kept glancing at the roofline, checking the edges of shelter.
“You very serious about sheltered walkway,” Suyin observed.
Adam pointed.
“Punishment if step out,” he said. “And also–Singapore rain will destroy my hair. I cannot allow.”
Suyin’s smile widened.
“Your hair already destroyed,” she teased.
Adam gasped theatrically.
“Wah, you savage.”
The producer laughed.
“Good, good! Banter!”
Adam rolled his eyes.
“Don’t encourage,” he muttered.
Suyin’s gaze slid to him.
“You don’t like the cameras?” she asked quietly.
Adam hesitated.
He could have lied.
He could have said he loved it.
He could have played the role.
Instead, he said,
“I like making people laugh,” he admitted. “I don’t like… being watched for the wrong reasons.”
Suyin nodded slowly.
“I understand,” she said.
And Adam believed her.
Because she didn’t say it like a slogan.
She said it like she had lived it.
They stopped at a nasi padang stall.
The trays of food glistened under the fluorescent lights–fried chicken, sambal, vegetables swimming in coconut gravy.
Adam leaned forward.
“Spicy,” he declared. “This one can destroy us.”
Suyin glanced at the price list.
“We must not overspend,” she warned.
Adam nodded.
“We take one portion, share,” he said.
Share again.
Suyin felt her heartbeat jump.
The stall auntie piled rice, spooned sambal, added a piece of chicken.
“Two people share?” the auntie asked, eyes suspicious.
“Yes,” Adam said.
The auntie’s gaze flicked between them.
“Couple ah?”
Adam’s smile tightened.
“Teammate,” he repeated.
The auntie shrugged.
“Teammate also can share,” she said.
In Singapore, people believed food was proof.
If you shared, it meant you were close.
If you were close, it meant something.
They found a table near the edge.
Plastic stools.
Worn surface.
The smell of curry hanging heavy.
Adam sat first, then held the stool for Suyin without thinking.
She sat.
Their knees were close under the table.
Not touching.
But close enough for awareness.
Adam opened the packet of nasi padang.
“Okay,” he said. “How spicy you can take?”
Suyin considered.
“I can take,” she said.
Adam raised an eyebrow.
“Everyone say that,” he warned.
Suyin met his gaze.
“I’m serious,” she insisted.
Adam nodded.
“Okay,” he said. “Then we cry together.”
The sentence slipped out.
Simple.
Casual.
But it landed softly.
Together.
Suyin looked down quickly.
She picked up a spoon.
They ate.
The sambal hit like fire.
Suyin’s eyes watered.
Adam’s eyes watered.
The cameras captured it like comedy gold.
The producer laughed.
“Wah! Tears! Tears! Chemistry!”
Adam coughed.
Suyin laughed through the burn.
In that moment, it was real.
Not romance.
Not a ship.
Just two people suffering spice side by side.
Adam wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.
He reached into his pocket.
Pulled out a packet of tissue.
He slid it across the table.
Suyin took it.
Their fingers brushed.
Just a touch.
Brief.
Accidental.
Yet Suyin felt it like a signal.
Adam didn’t react.
But his gaze dropped to where their hands met.
Then lifted back to her face.
The space between them shifted.
Not smaller.
Just… aware.
Dessert was the fourth item.
They walked toward a stall selling chendol.
The ice shimmered.
The gula melaka looked dark and rich.
Adam peered at the price.
“Four dollars fifty,” he muttered. “Okay lah. Still safe.”
Suyin watched him count money like a real uncle.
“You very auntie,” she teased.
Adam gasped again.
“Excuse me,” he said. “I am financially responsible.”
Suyin smiled.
“I can pay,” she offered.
Adam shook his head.
“No,” he said. “We are teammates. We share budget. If you pay, then later the internet will say I using you.”
Suyin’s smile faded slightly.
The internet.
Always there.
Adam seemed to regret mentioning it.
His voice softened.
“Sorry,” he said.
Suyin shook her head.
“It’s true,” she replied.
They ordered one bowl of chendol.
They brought it to a table.
The producer hovered nearby like a hungry bird.
“Okay,” he said, eyes gleaming. “Now the bonus challenge. Feed each other one bite. One spoon each. We need close-up, okay? Romantic, romantic.”
Adam’s shoulders tensed.
Suyin’s stomach tightened.
The crew arranged the camera angle.
The sound tech leaned in.
A spotlight of attention.
Adam looked at Suyin.
In his eyes, she saw the question he couldn’t say.
Are you okay?
Suyin inhaled.
Then she nodded.
Not because she wanted to give the internet anything.
Because she didn’t want to be afraid of a spoon.
Because she was tired of living only in safe answers.
Adam picked up the spoon.
He scooped a small amount–ice, green jelly, a bit of red bean.
He held it out.
Suyin stared at it.
Then at his face.
His expression was strangely serious.
Not flirting.
Not joking.
Just careful.
Suyin leaned forward and took the bite.
Cold sweetness.
Gula melaka melting into her mouth.
Adam watched her swallow.
“Okay?” he asked quietly.
Suyin nodded.
“Okay,” she whispered.
Then it was her turn.
She took the spoon.
Her hand trembled slightly.
Not from nerves.
From the weight of cameras.
From the fact that this simple act would be looped and captioned and turned into proof.
She scooped a bite.
Held it out.
Adam leaned forward.
For a second, his eyes flicked up to hers.
A silent check.
Then he opened his mouth and took the bite.
The spoon touched his lips.
Her fingers tightened reflexively.
When he pulled back, their eyes met.
Just for a breath.
A pause longer than it needed to be.
In that pause, Suyin felt something dangerous stir.
Not infatuation.
Not fantasy.
Something quieter.
The possibility that he was not just a name she had admired.
He was a person.
And she was sitting across from him.
Adam swallowed.
Then, because the cameras were still there, because he refused to let sincerity become content too easily, he leaned back and announced loudly,
“Okay, we fed each other. Now we are officially siblings.”
The crew burst into laughter.
The producer groaned.
“Adam!”
Suyin laughed too–real laughter that surprised her.
Adam glanced at her, pleased.
But when the laughter died down, and the camera shifted away, his voice dropped.
“Thank you,” he said.
Suyin’s smile softened.
“For what?”
“For not making it weird,” Adam said.
Suyin held his gaze.
“It was already weird,” she replied.
Adam’s lips curved.
“True,” he admitted. “But you made it… manageable.”
Manage again.
Suyin felt her chest tighten.
“I’m trying,” she confessed.
Adam nodded.
“I can see.”
They still needed the wild card item.
The list demanded it.
“Recommended by an auntie,” Adam read aloud. “Okay. We find auntie.”
They walked through the hawker centre, scanning faces.
Every auntie looked like she had opinions.
Adam approached one table where an elderly woman was eating alone, her hair neatly pinned, her slippers placed carefully beside her stool.
“Ah ma,” Adam said politely, leaning down. “Can I ask you something?”
The woman looked up.
Her eyes widened.
“Aiyo! Adam Lim!”
Adam smiled.
“Yes, ah ma. Today we doing challenge. We need you recommend us one food that you think is the best here.”
The ah ma’s gaze slid to Suyin.
Then back to Adam.
She smiled slowly.
“You two together ah?”
Adam laughed.
“Ah ma, everyone asking that.”
The ah ma waved her hand.
“People ask means people see,” she said.
Suyin’s cheeks warmed.
The ah ma pointed with her spoon.
“That stall,” she said. “Popiah. Must eat. Nice. Not expensive. And,” she added, eyes twinkling, “good for couple.”
Adam opened his mouth.
“Ah ma–”
But the ah ma had already decided.
She turned to Suyin.
“Girl,” she said gently, “you good. You steady. Don’t let people talk. People always talk.”
Suyin froze.
The cameras hummed, capturing the moment.
But the ah ma’s voice felt like it wasn’t meant for them.
It felt like advice passed quietly under shelter.
Suyin’s throat tightened.
“Thank you,” she said, voice soft.
The ah ma nodded, satisfied.
“Go eat popiah,” she declared.
And that was that.
Adam stood straight, stunned.
Suyin looked at him.
Their eyes met.
Adam’s expression was unreadable.
Then he exhaled, a small laugh.
“In Singapore,” he said quietly, “even ah ma can ship.”
Suyin smiled, but her eyes were damp.
Not from spice.
Not from rain.
From the strange tenderness of being seen.
They bought popiah.
They finished the list.
They completed the challenge.
The crew cheered.
The producer was delighted.
But as they walked out of Chinatown Complex, back under the long shelter of the walkway, the energy shifted.
The cameras fell a little behind.
The crew’s chatter grew softer.
For the first time that day, there was a pocket of quiet.
Rain drummed on the roof.
The sheltered walkway stretched ahead of them, lit by warm lamps.
Adam walked beside Suyin.
He didn’t crack jokes.
He didn’t perform.
He simply walked.
Suyin held her tote strap in both hands.
Her phone buzzed inside her bag like a distant bee.
She ignored it.
Adam glanced at her.
“Are you okay?” he asked again.
This time, his voice sounded less like a check.
More like concern.
Suyin inhaled.
The rain smelled clean.
The air under the shelter felt cooler.
She looked at him.
“I’m okay,” she said.
Then, because she was tired of safe answers, she added,
“I’m just… scared.”
Adam’s footsteps slowed.
He looked ahead.
Then back at her.
“Of what?”
Suyin swallowed.
“Of being turned into a joke,” she admitted. “Of people thinking I said your name because… because I wanted attention.”
Adam’s jaw tightened.
He stopped walking.
Suyin stopped too.
Under the shelter, the rain fell hard.
Beyond the shelter, the street glistened.
Adam stared at the wet road, then spoke.
“I watched the clip last night,” he said.
Suyin’s chest tightened.
Adam continued.
“You didn’t look like you were acting,” he said quietly. “So… I didn’t think it was for attention.”
Suyin’s breath caught.
Adam turned to her.
His gaze held hers steadily.
“People will talk,” he said. “But not all talk is truth.”
Suyin swallowed hard.
She didn’t trust herself to speak.
Adam’s voice softened.
“And,” he added, almost reluctantly, “thank you. For saying something nice about me.”
Suyin’s eyes stung.
Warm.
The word came back.
She had said it in a studio, thinking it was harmless.
Now she saw the cost.
She managed a small smile.
“I meant it,” she whispered.
Adam’s gaze flicked away.
He looked almost embarrassed.
Then, because he couldn’t live inside sincerity for too long, he cleared his throat.
“Okay,” he said briskly. “Enough emotional content. Later producer will smell it.”
Suyin laughed, a shaky sound.
Adam started walking again.
Suyin followed.
But now, the space between their shoulders felt different.
Not just awareness.
Something softer.
Something that didn’t belong to the cameras.
As they walked, the rain outside the shelter continued to fall.
And inside the shelter, something else began–quietly, carefully–like a second storm gathering, one that no one could edit.