Chapter 13 - Of Milestones and Missed Calls
Chapter 13: Of Milestones and Missed Calls
There is a peculiar silence that comes with adulthood—not the kind that’s peaceful, but the kind that creeps in when group chats grow quiet and plans start with “we should” but never become “we will.”
In the months that followed their JB escape room adventure, the ABIX group slowly began to drift—not in a dramatic, falling-out kind of way, but in the inevitable current of growing up. It was subtle at first. A few unread messages. A raincheck here and there. And then it snowballed.
Aleem started work at a local software company, juggling backend deployments with client calls that started at 9AM sharp. His days blurred into nights of quiet coding and scheduled solitude. He thought often of the past—badminton courts, study corners, late-night bubble tea—but rarely had the energy to act on those memories.
Crystal was thriving in her own right, now working in communications for an NGO. She was always “just finished a meeting” or “prepping a deck for tomorrow.” Her voice notes were cheerful, her Instagram stories full of smiles, but even the others could sense the fatigue behind her emojis. She was in control. But she was tired.
Ivan, still deep in his final year, was now the only one on campus. The one left behind. He found himself walking through familiar places with unfamiliar faces. The benches, the lecture halls, the canteen—it was all there, yet everything had changed. He still tried to update the group. He shared memes. He posted photos. But replies were slow. Sometimes, they never came.
And Isabelle, now in Year 3, was quietly burning out.
Her lab work had intensified, her social battery was flatlining, and her coursework felt like quicksand. She rarely reached out—not because she didn’t care, but because she didn’t know what to say. Everyone else seemed to be doing fine. She didn’t want to be the one pulling them back.
Then came the missed call.
It was a rainy Friday night when Aleem saw it. A single call from Isabelle. One ring. Then nothing.
He stared at his phone for a long moment. They hadn’t spoken directly in weeks.
He texted immediately:
You called? Everything okay?
No reply.
He waited an hour. Two.
Then he called back.
Still no answer.
He wasn’t sure what to do. But he knew one thing—Isabelle didn’t just call for no reason.
It wasn’t until the next morning that she responded. A simple line:
Sorry. Didn’t mean to worry you. Just… overwhelmed. Can we talk?
And so they did.
They sat at a quiet café near Bukit Timah. Isabelle had barely touched her drink. Her hands were clasped around the cup like it was the only thing anchoring her.
She didn’t cry. She wasn’t falling apart. But she was tired—mentally, emotionally, academically. She told him about the lab work that never seemed to end, about feeling like she was drowning while everyone else had already made it to shore.
Aleem listened. He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t try to solve it. Just listened.
When she was done, she looked up and asked softly, “Are we still ABIX?”
Aleem’s answer was quiet, but firm.
“Yes.”
And that’s when something shifted.
He texted the group that night.
[ABIX 2.0]
Aleem: We haven’t met in a while. Let’s fix that. Next weekend. No excuses.
The replies came slower than they used to. But they came.
Ivan: Can.
Crystal: I’ll clear my calendar.
Isabelle: I’ll be there.
And so, the following Saturday, they found themselves together again—at a hawker center this time, sharing satay and stories.
The reunion wasn’t flashy or dramatic. There were no fireworks, no emotional speeches. Just warm food, familiar faces, and laughter that came more easily than expected.
They didn’t talk about the silence. They didn’t need to.
Because in that moment, amidst the clinking of plates and smell of grilled chicken, they remembered.
Friendship isn’t about how often you talk.
It’s about who answers when you finally do.