Small City, Big Coincidence
Chapter 5 – Small City, Big Coincidence
It wasn’t the comments that got to her.
Not really.
Suyin had learned, early, that the internet was a room full of people shouting at a stage they could not reach. Some shouted love. Some threw stones. Most just wanted to feel something for a moment, then move on to the next thing.
What got to her was quieter.
It was the way her name and his name had begun to travel together–like a phrase people could say without thinking.
Like a product.
Like a joke.
Like proof.
And in the middle of it all, she and Adam were still just two people trying to walk from one sheltered space to another without being soaked.
The week after the teaser dropped became a series of controlled movements.
Interviews where she smiled and deflected.
Makeup chairs where stylists whispered gossip like it was fact.
Meetings where managers talked about “narrative” as if it was weather.
It should have made her numb.
Instead, it made her tired.
On Friday night, after a long shoot for a drama segment that required her to cry in take after take–clean, aesthetic tears–the kind that dried without leaving salt–Suyin went home and realized she had nothing in her fridge.
Not even eggs.
Not even leftover rice.
Just air-conditioning and silence.
Her mother had texted earlier:
Come home for dinner?
Suyin had replied:
Late today. Next time.
Next time was always the thing you promised when you didn’t have the energy to show up.
She changed into an oversized T-shirt and shorts, tied her hair into a messy knot, and stared at her own reflection.
No makeup.
No lashes.
No light catching her cheekbones.
Just herself.
She looked younger like this.
And more vulnerable.
She grabbed a tote bag, slipped on slippers, and headed out.
NTUC downstairs was open.
Singapore loved convenience the way it loved predictability.
The lift ride down smelled faintly of someone’s dinner–fried garlic, fish, the sweet sharpness of sambal.
At the lobby, she stepped out into the night.
The air was warm and damp.
Not raining.
Yet.
But the clouds were heavy, the sky too dark for comfort.
She walked to the supermarket, half hoping she wouldn’t be recognized.
Half knowing she might.
She kept her head down, focused on practical things.
Bread.
Milk.
Instant noodles, just in case.
Vegetables she would probably forget to cook.
She was standing in front of the eggs when her phone buzzed.
A message.
Adam.
Episode drops tomorrow. You ready?
Suyin stared at his text.
Her first instinct was to laugh.
Ready for what?
For strangers to decide what her smile meant?
For brands to call it “authentic connection”?
For her father to watch in silence and then clear his throat like judgement?
Instead, she typed:
Ready to hide.
She hit send.
Then, after a second, added:
You?
She put the eggs into her basket.
She turned.
And almost collided with someone.
The impact was soft–basket against basket.
A small jolt.
A reflexive step back.
“Sorry–” she began.
The other person said the same thing at the same time.
“Sorry–”
Two apologies, overlapping.
Singaporean reflex.
Suyin looked up.
And her brain took a moment to catch up to her eyes.
Because it was him.
Not on a screen.
Not in a teaser.
Not edited into romance.
Just… him.
Adam Lim.
In an NTUC aisle.
Holding a basket.
Wearing a cap pulled low and a plain grey T-shirt like he was trying to disappear.
He looked startled.
For a second, the expression on his face was so unguarded it felt like she’d stumbled upon something private.
Then he blinked.
And the comedian mask flickered back into place.
“Wah,” he said softly, eyes widening. “Singapore really small, ah.”
Suyin didn’t know whether to laugh or freeze.
She did both–her lips curved, but her body went still.
“Hi,” she managed.
Adam glanced around.
His head tilted slightly, listening for recognition.
No one screamed.
No one gasped.
Two aunties walked past them arguing about tofu price.
A teenage boy pushed a cart of chips.
The world kept moving.
Adam exhaled.
“Hi,” he replied.
Their baskets touched again when they adjusted their grip.
Suyin cleared her throat.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” she said.
Adam’s mouth twitched.
“I also didn’t expect to see me here,” he replied.
Suyin laughed.
It came out too easily.
Too real.
Adam watched her laugh like he was relieved.
Then, because he couldn’t stay in sincerity too long, he nodded at her basket.
“Eggs?” he asked.
Suyin looked down.
“Yeah,” she said. “I realized my fridge is empty.”
Adam’s gaze softened.
“Same,” he admitted.
He lifted his basket slightly.
Inside were instant noodles, a carton of milk, a bag of frozen dumplings, and–unexpectedly–tissue packets stacked like he was preparing for the apocalypse.
Suyin’s eyes widened.
“Why so many tissues?”
Adam’s eyes narrowed.
“Because tomorrow episode drop,” he said gravely. “Need wipe tears.”
Suyin snorted.
“You dramatic.”
“Your manager taught you well,” Adam replied.
They stared at each other for a second.
Then the air shifted.
Because this wasn’t set.
There were no cameras.
No producer urging chemistry.
No sponsor rep waiting to monetize their expressions.
It was just the fluorescent hum of supermarket lights.
The smell of chilled dairy.
The normality of the world continuing.
And in that normality, Suyin suddenly felt the weight of the week drop slightly off her shoulders.
Adam seemed to feel it too.
He looked around again.
Then he lowered his voice.
“Do you want to… talk somewhere?” he asked.
Suyin’s heartbeat stuttered.
Talk.
Not text.
Not meeting room.
Not scripted segment.
Just talk.
She hesitated.
Not because she didn’t want to.
Because she could already hear Mei’s voice in her head.
Be careful.
She could already imagine a photo–two silhouettes in NTUC, both holding baskets, captioned as proof.
But then she looked at Adam’s face.
He wasn’t asking like a man who wanted to chase gossip.
He was asking like someone who was also tired.
Someone who had run out of ways to joke.
Suyin swallowed.
“Where?” she asked.
Adam’s mouth tilted.
“Supper?” he suggested.
Suyin blinked.
“It’s almost ten,” she said.
Adam shrugged.
“Singapore. Supper time,” he said.
And Suyin, to her own surprise, nodded.
“Okay,” she agreed.
They checked out separately.
Not because they were pretending they weren’t together.
Because instinct told them: don’t make it look like a date.
The cashier didn’t look up.
The receipt machine whirred.
Outside, the night air had thickened.
The clouds were heavier.
As they stepped out of the supermarket, the first raindrops fell.
Soft.
Tentative.
Then more.
Adam looked up.
“Rain always very timely,” he muttered.
Suyin pulled her tote closer to her body.
The sheltered walkway outside the mall stretched ahead like an invitation.
Adam pointed.
“Prata shop nearby,” he said. “Under shelter all the way.”
Suyin’s mouth twitched.
“Your concept never ends,” she teased.
Adam’s eyes widened.
“This is life concept,” he said defensively. “Not show concept.”
They walked.
Under the shelter.
Their footsteps echoed against wet tiles.
The rain outside grew heavier, drumming on the roof.
The world beyond the shelter blurred into soft reflections–streetlights stretching on wet roads like gold paint.
Suyin realized, abruptly, that she had never seen Adam like this.
Not performing.
Not under studio lighting.
Just walking with a basket of groceries and a cap pulled low.
He looked… normal.
And in that normality, he looked more attractive than he had any right to.
The thought startled her.
She forced her gaze away.
They reached the prata shop.
It was one of those open-air ones tucked under HDB blocks, fluorescent lights too bright, fans spinning, the smell of ghee thick in the air.
A few late-night patrons sat scattered–uncles drinking kopi, two teenagers sharing fries, a couple in matching slippers staring at their phones.
No one looked up.
Adam chose a table in the corner.
Under the ceiling fan.
Half hidden.
Suyin sat down, placing her tote between her feet.
Adam set his grocery bag beside his chair.
The waiter approached.
“Two plain? One egg?” he asked automatically.
Adam blinked.
He looked at Suyin.
“What you want?” he asked.
Suyin hesitated.
“Plain,” she said. “And… teh tarik?”
Adam nodded.
“Two plain. One egg. Teh tarik. Kopi O,” he ordered.
The waiter scribbled and walked away.
For a moment, the only sound was rain and distant traffic.
Suyin stared at the wet street beyond the shop.
She felt oddly safe here.
Not because the world was less dangerous.
Because it was ordinary.
No one was trying to extract meaning from her expressions.
No one was calling it chemistry.
Adam leaned forward slightly.
“So,” he said.
Suyin turned.
“So,” she echoed.
Adam exhaled.
“How are you really?” he asked.
The question landed softly.
No cameras.
No polite version.
Just the real one.
Suyin opened her mouth.
Then closed it.
Because she realized she had been answering “I’m okay” so many times that she didn’t know how to say anything else.
Adam waited.
His patience made her throat tighten.
“I’m… tired,” she admitted finally.
Adam’s shoulders loosened.
“Same,” he said quietly.
Suyin stared at him.
He didn’t look at her like he wanted details for gossip.
He looked like he understood the weight of the word.
Tired.
Not sleepy.
Tired of being a story.
Suyin swallowed.
“I didn’t think it would get this… big,” she confessed.
Adam’s mouth twitched.
“In Singapore, everything big,” he said. “Small place. News travel fast.”
Suyin nodded.
Then she said the part she had been holding back.
“I’m scared of hurting you,” she whispered.
Adam’s gaze sharpened.
“Hurt me?”
Suyin’s fingers curled under the table.
“Because I said your name,” she said. “Now you’re getting dragged into this. Brands calling you. People asking questions. I–”
Adam cut in gently.
“Hey,” he said.
Suyin paused.
Adam’s voice softened.
“This is not your fault,” he said.
Suyin blinked.
“It feels like it,” she admitted.
Adam leaned back.
He looked up at the ceiling fan, as if searching for the right words.
Then he looked back at her.
“I’ve been in this long enough,” he said slowly, “to know that anything can become a storm. Even if you don’t touch it.”
Suyin swallowed.
“And you?” she asked. “Are you… angry?”
Adam’s mouth tightened.
He considered.
Then he shook his head.
“I was angry at the edit,” he said. “At the way they cut things. But… not at you.”
Suyin’s chest loosened.
A fraction.
Adam’s gaze held hers.
“You were honest,” he said quietly. “That’s rare.”
Suyin’s throat tightened.
Honest.
The word felt like both praise and warning.
The waiter arrived with drinks.
Teh tarik and kopi O set down with a clink.
The warmth rose between them.
Then the prata, golden and crisp, placed on metal plates.
The smell of ghee filled the space.
Adam pushed one plate toward her.
“Eat,” he said.
Not eat first.
Just eat.
Simple.
Grounding.
Suyin tore a piece of prata, dipped it in curry.
The curry was spicy, rich.
It warmed her from the inside.
Adam did the same.
For a few minutes, they ate in silence.
Not awkward.
Comfortable.
The kind of silence you could only have with someone who didn’t demand you perform.
Suyin realized she was relaxing.
Her shoulders dropping.
Her breath slowing.
Adam watched her for a moment.
Then he spoke again.
“Tomorrow,” he said, “people will go crazy.”
Suyin nodded.
“Yeah,” she murmured.
Adam’s voice turned practical.
“We should set some rules,” he said.
Suyin looked up.
“Rules?”
Adam nodded.
“Between us,” he said. “Not for them. For us.”
Suyin’s heartbeat picked up.
For us.
Adam continued, counting on his fingers like he was pitching a plan.
“One,” he said. “We don’t feed the internet. No vague posts, no cryptic captions.”
Suyin nodded.
“Agreed,” she said.
“Two,” Adam added. “We don’t respond to rumours. We let it die.”
Suyin hesitated.
“Some rumours don’t die,” she said quietly.
Adam’s gaze softened.
“Then we don’t water it,” he replied.
Suyin nodded again.
“Okay.”
Adam lifted a third finger.
“Three,” he said, voice slowing slightly, “we check in with each other. If it gets too much, we tell each other. Not just managers.”
Suyin’s chest tightened.
This one didn’t feel like PR.
It felt like… care.
She nodded.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Adam exhaled.
“And four,” he said.
He hesitated.
Suyin waited.
Adam looked down at his prata, then back up.
“Four,” he said softly, “if you ever feel uncomfortable with anything–like today, like meeting like this–you tell me. We stop.”
Stop.
Suyin’s throat tightened.
She didn’t want to stop.
That was the dangerous part.
She managed a small smile.
“Okay,” she said.
Adam studied her face.
Then he asked, quietly,
“Are you uncomfortable now?”
Suyin’s breath caught.
The question felt too intimate for a prata shop.
Too honest.
She looked at him.
His eyes were calm.
No teasing.
No performance.
Just… checking.
Suyin swallowed.
“No,” she whispered.
Adam’s shoulders loosened.
“Good,” he said.
Then, because he couldn’t stay in sincerity too long, he added,
“Because if you say uncomfortable, I will panic. I don’t know what to do.”
Suyin laughed.
“Adam Lim,” she said, amused, “you handle live audiences, but you can’t handle one girl?”
Adam lifted his hands defensively.
“One girl is scarier,” he insisted. “Audience you can joke. One girl… you can’t joke wrong.”
Suyin’s laughter softened.
Her chest warmed.
It wasn’t a confession.
It wasn’t romance.
But it was something.
Honest.
Careful.
The kind of something that could grow if you didn’t rush it.
Outside, the rain fell harder.
The roof rattled.
The sheltered walkway outside the shop gleamed with water.
Suyin looked at it.
Sheltered.
Safe.
She thought of the way the internet had tried to turn everything into a ship.
And here, in a prata shop at ten-thirty at night, she felt something that had nothing to do with shipping.
She felt seen.
Not as a storyline.
As a person.
Her phone buzzed.
A notification.
Probably another edit.
Another caption.
Suyin didn’t check.
She simply flipped her phone face down on the table.
Adam noticed.
He did the same.
Two phones.
Two silent rectangles.
Two small acts of rebellion.
Adam lifted his kopi.
“To surviving tomorrow,” he said.
Suyin lifted her teh tarik.
“To surviving,” she echoed.
Their cups clinked lightly.
Not a toast for love.
A toast for sanity.
And yet, as Suyin drank, she realized something that made her chest ache in the gentlest way:
Somewhere between eggs and prata and rain, Adam had become less of an ideal type and more of a person she didn’t want to lose.
The thought startled her.
She looked away, pretending to focus on the curry.
Adam tore another piece of prata.
He glanced at her.
His expression was soft.
Not romantic.
Not dramatic.
Just quiet.
Like shelter.
When they finally stood to leave, the rain had eased.
Not stopped.
Just softened into a steady drizzle.
Adam pulled his cap lower.
Suyin adjusted her tote.
They stepped out under the sheltered walkway.
The air smelled like wet concrete and fried dough.
Adam glanced at her.
“You staying nearby?” he asked.
Suyin nodded.
“Same area,” she said.
Adam nodded.
“I walk you,” he said.
It wasn’t phrased like a grand gesture.
It was practical.
Singapore practical.
It made Suyin’s chest tighten anyway.
They walked side by side.
The city was quieter now.
Most windows dark.
A few lights still on.
Somewhere, a TV glowed behind curtains.
The sheltered walkway stretched ahead, the overhead lights casting warm circles on wet tiles.
Their footsteps echoed.
Suyin felt the urge to say something important.
Something that would make this night feel less like a coincidence and more like intention.
But intention was dangerous.
So she settled for truth.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
Adam glanced at her.
“For supper?”
“For… this,” Suyin said.
Adam’s mouth twitched.
He looked ahead.
Then he said, quietly,
“Me too.”
Two words.
Simple.
Yet they landed like a hand on her chest.
Me too.
She wanted to ask what he meant.
Me too, thank you?
Me too, tired?
Me too, scared?
Me too, wanting something real?
But she didn’t.
Because some questions were better left to grow.
They reached the turning point where their paths separated.
Suyin stopped.
Adam stopped too.
The drizzle outside the shelter made the road glisten.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Adam cleared his throat.
“Okay,” he said, voice brisk again, “go home. Lock door. Don’t scroll.”
Suyin laughed.
“Yes, sir,” she teased.
Adam nodded, satisfied.
Then he hesitated.
His gaze met hers.
And for a second, the humour slipped.
He looked like he wanted to say something else.
Something softer.
Something dangerous.
Instead, he lifted his hand.
Not to touch her.
Just a small wave.
“Goodnight, Suyin,” he said.
Suyin’s throat tightened.
“Goodnight, Adam,” she replied.
He turned and walked away.
Suyin watched his back until he disappeared around the corner of the sheltered walkway.
Then she exhaled.
She stepped into her lift lobby.
She pressed the button.
As she waited, her phone buzzed once.
A message.
Adam.
Rules still stand. But… glad we met tonight.
Suyin stared at the screen.
Her chest tightened.
Glad.
Not dramatic.
Not romantic.
Just honest.
She typed back, fingers careful.
Me too. Sleep early. Tomorrow you’ll be trending again.
A moment later, his reply came.
Then I need more tissues.
Suyin laughed, quietly, in the lift.
As the doors closed and she rose upward, away from the rain and the sheltered walkway and the city’s small coincidences, she realized something with a strange mix of relief and fear:
This wasn’t a story they had chosen.
But maybe–
Maybe–
They could choose what to do with it.