The Week Between
The week after the wedding did not feel like a week.
It felt like a long held breath.
Nadia returned to Singapore with the sea still clinging to her skin in an invisible way–salt and sunlight that should have faded after a shower, but didn’t. Monday came with its usual noise: MRT crowds, office air-conditioning, Slack messages, the steady hum of spreadsheets and deadlines.
On the surface, her life resumed.
She answered emails.
She smiled at colleagues.
She ate lunch at her desk.
She went home and washed her face and watched a show she didn’t really care about.
But underneath all of it, a single sentence kept repeating.
Next Saturday. Ten a.m. Kovan.
It had lodged in her like a pebble in a shoe–small, irritating, impossible to ignore.
She hadn’t told anyone.
Not her friends.
Not Sherlyn.
Not even her mother, who had only sent one more message after the wedding:
Mum: Be kind ah.
Nadia stared at those words a lot that week.
Be kind.
To him.
To yourself.
She didn’t know what kindness looked like when it involved letting someone close enough to hurt you again.
On Wednesday, while she was pouring water into her tumbler at the pantry, a colleague asked casually, “How was the wedding? Fun?”
Nadia smiled on instinct. “Yeah. Very nice.”
The colleague nodded. “You post photos? I saw some stories. You looked so good.”
Nadia’s throat tightened.
Photos.
Those images of her beside Rai–two bodies close enough for the camera to suggest something neat.
She kept her tone light. “I didn’t really post.”
The colleague shrugged and moved on.
Nadia returned to her desk, fingers cold.
She opened her phone at lunch and scrolled without purpose.
Her thumb paused on Rai’s chat.
She hadn’t messaged him again since that morning at the resort, when he left for the hospital.
He hadn’t messaged her either.
Except for one short text later that day.
Rai: Kovan Starbucks is closed now. Same street, but the café is called Mizu. 10am.
No emojis.
No fluff.
Just logistics.
It should have made her laugh.
It should have reassured her.
It did both, in a way that felt dangerous.
Because it meant he was still thinking about it.
He was still planning.
He was still… showing up.
The thought made Nadia’s chest ache.
He’s trying, a softer part of her whispered.
He’s always tried, another part snapped.
Just not in the way you needed.
The week dragged.
Nadia slept poorly.
She dreamed once–something hazy and cruel: a coffee shop, a chair across from her empty, the sound of a door opening and closing, her own hands wrapped around a mug gone cold.
She woke with her heart pounding.
Friday came.
She stood in her bathroom before work, applying lipstick in the mirror, and caught herself whispering:
“Don’t be stupid.”
Her reflection didn’t answer.
Saturday morning arrived bright and clear.
Nadia took the MRT to Kovan with her headphones on but no music playing. She sat near the door, watching the tunnel lights streak by. Her hands were steady on her tote strap, but her stomach felt tight.
At the station, she climbed the escalator and stepped into the neighborhood sunlight.
Kovan still smelled the same–bakery air, coffee, faint exhaust, the warmth of a place that was neither city nor suburb, just something in-between.
She walked toward the café Rai had mentioned: Mizu.
She hadn’t been there before.
But she knew the street.
They had walked this stretch years ago, after hall dinners, their shoulders brushing, their laughter low.
Nadia remembered that version of herself–the one who could hold Rai’s hand without thinking about consequences.
Now she walked alone.
Mizu sat on the corner, small and understated. Glass front. Wooden signage. Inside, warm light and the quiet clink of cups.
Nadia stopped outside.
Her chest tightened.
She checked her phone.
9:57.
She stared at the time.
Three minutes.
She looked around.
Then she saw him.
Rai stood across the street near a traffic light, wearing a simple dark polo and jeans, hair slightly tousled, posture straight as if his spine didn’t know how to relax. His hands were in his pockets, but his shoulders were tense.
He looked like he had been there for a while.
Nadia’s throat tightened.
A car passed, briefly blocking her view.
When it cleared, Rai was still there.
Waiting.
As if he had decided this mattered enough to arrive early.
As if he had decided, finally, not to be late for her.
Nadia’s heartbeat hammered.
Rai’s gaze lifted.
He saw her.
For a beat, he went completely still.
Then he stepped off the curb when the light changed and crossed the street in steady strides.
Nadia didn’t move.
She watched him approach.
The closer he got, the more details sharpened.
The faint shadow of stubble.
The slight crease between his brows.
The way his eyes stayed on her, steady and careful, as if he didn’t trust her to remain real.
He stopped a few feet away.
“Hi,” he said.
Nadia’s voice came out quieter than she expected.
“Hi.”
A pause.
Rai glanced at the café door. “You want to go in?”
Nadia nodded. “Yeah.”
They walked inside.
The café was not crowded. A few people sat near windows with laptops. A couple shared pastries quietly. The air smelled like espresso and vanilla.
Rai ordered black coffee.
Nadia ordered iced latte.
When the barista asked if they wanted anything else, Rai glanced at Nadia.
“Croissant?” he asked, as if offering a neutral truce.
Nadia shook her head. “I’m okay.”
Okay.
The word again.
But it landed softer today.
They took their drinks and found a small table near the back–private enough, not hidden.
Rai pulled out the chair for her.
Nadia paused.
It was such an old habit it made her chest tighten.
She sat.
Rai sat across from her.
The table between them held cups and space and years.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Nadia watched Rai’s fingers wrap around his cup.
His knuckles looked slightly white.
Nervous.
Rai, nervous.
It made something in her soften.
Rai cleared his throat.
“Thanks for coming,” he said.
Nadia inhaled slowly.
She had come because she was tired of the door being ajar.
She had come because she couldn’t keep pretending that the weekend hadn’t cracked something open.
She had come because she wanted to know if Rai could finally meet her where she needed him.
But the truth of it was simpler.
She had come because she missed him.
Even after everything.
“You said if you’re not here, I never have to talk to you again,” Nadia said softly.
Rai’s jaw tightened. “Yeah.”
“You’re here,” she said.
Rai nodded once. “I’m here.”
The words felt like a small miracle.
Nadia took a slow sip of her iced latte.
Cold sweetness.
Her throat was tight.
Rai stared at his coffee for a moment, as if gathering courage from bitterness.
Then he lifted his gaze.
“I want to start by saying–” he began.
His voice caught.
He exhaled.
Nadia waited.
Rai’s eyes held hers.
“I didn’t come after you because I was scared,” he said.
The sentence was simple.
No justification.
No logic.
Just fear.
Nadia’s breath caught.
Rai continued, voice low. “Not scared of you. Scared of myself. Scared that if I begged you to stay, you would… stay. And then I’d still be the same man. And you’d suffer again.”
Nadia’s chest tightened.
She stared at him.
His honesty wasn’t polished.
It was blunt, rough at the edges.
It sounded like someone pulling words out of a locked room.
Rai swallowed.
“I thought letting you go was… the right thing,” he admitted. “Because you were tired. Because you deserved someone who could give you what you asked for without making it feel like work.”
Nadia’s throat tightened.
“And you didn’t think you could be that?” she whispered.
Rai’s eyes flickered.
“I didn’t trust myself,” he said.
Nadia felt the ache bloom.
Because she remembered.
She remembered asking for softness and watching him stiffen like it was a trap.
She remembered feeling guilty for needing more.
She remembered telling herself she was asking too much.
Rai continued, voice quieter. “I didn’t know how to be vulnerable without feeling… weak.”
Weak.
Nadia swallowed.
“That’s not weakness,” she said softly.
Rai’s mouth tightened, almost rueful. “I know that now.”
Nadia stared at him.
Now.
The word carried weight.
It meant time.
It meant growth.
It meant regret.
Rai’s fingers tightened around his cup.
“The day you left,” he said, “I wanted to stop you.”
Nadia’s breath hitched.
Rai kept speaking, as if he couldn’t afford to pause. “I wanted to say, ‘Don’t go.’ But the words didn’t come. I was… angry. Not at you. At myself. And I thought if I said anything, it would turn into a fight, and you would hate me, and it would be worse.”
Nadia’s eyes burned.
She blinked fast.
Rai looked at her, his gaze softer now.
“I didn’t realize silence could be worse than fighting,” he said.
Nadia’s throat tightened.
“Silence is always worse,” she whispered.
Rai nodded once.
They sat in quiet for a moment.
Outside, traffic moved.
Inside, the café continued its soft rhythm.
Nadia took another sip.
Her hands trembled slightly.
She set the cup down.
“Why now?” she asked quietly. “Why are you saying this now?”
Rai’s eyes held hers.
“Because you asked for properly,” he said.
Nadia swallowed.
Rai continued, voice steady. “And because when I saw you at the wedding, I realized… I don’t want to spend the rest of my life pretending you didn’t matter.”
Nadia’s breath caught.
She stared at him.
Part of her wanted to lean forward.
Part of her wanted to run.
She forced herself to stay still.
“And what do you want?” she asked.
Rai hesitated.
His throat moved.
Nadia could see the fear in his eyes.
Not fear of rejection.
Fear of hoping.
“I want…” Rai began, then stopped.
He exhaled.
“I want to try again,” he said.
The sentence hung between them.
Nadia’s chest tightened until it hurt.
Try again.
She had imagined those words in the worst moments of loneliness, when she was tired and missed him and hated herself for missing him.
Now, hearing them out loud made her feel dizzy.
She swallowed hard.
“I can’t,” she whispered.
Rai froze.
Nadia’s eyes burned.
She forced herself to keep going. “Not like before. I can’t go back to being the woman who keeps knocking while you keep the door locked.”
Rai’s jaw tightened.
He nodded once, slowly.
“I know,” he said.
Nadia stared at him.
He didn’t argue.
He didn’t defend.
He just… accepted.
That alone felt different.
Rai leaned forward slightly, voice low.
“I’m not asking you to go back,” he said. “I’m asking if you’re willing to see if I can be different.”
Nadia’s throat tightened.
Different.
She had heard men promise change before.
Promises were easy.
Living them was not.
Nadia looked at Rai.
His eyes were steady.
Tired.
Honest.
And there was something else beneath it.
Fear.
Not of losing her.
Of hurting her again.
Nadia’s chest ached.
She exhaled slowly.
“How?” she asked.
Rai blinked.
“What?”
“How will you be different?” Nadia’s voice was calm, but sharp. “What are you going to do differently, Rai? Not say. Do.”
Rai swallowed.
He looked down at his coffee.
Then he lifted his gaze again.
“I started therapy,” he said.
Nadia froze.
The sentence landed like something unreal.
Rai, in therapy.
He watched her reaction, eyes tense.
“Don’t make it a big thing,” he said quickly, as if embarrassed. “It’s… necessary. My mum kept saying I’m always quiet. And after you left, it got worse. I thought I was fine. I wasn’t.”
Nadia’s throat tightened.
He continued, voice low. “I’m not good at talking. But I’m learning. I’m trying to understand why I shut down. Why I always think I have to carry everything.”
Nadia stared at him.
Her chest ached.
Because a part of her had wanted this for him years ago.
Not for their relationship.
For him.
Rai’s fingers tightened around his cup. “I’m not doing this to win you back,” he said. “I’m doing it because I don’t want to live like this anymore.”
Nadia’s breath caught.
The sincerity in his voice made it hard to breathe.
She swallowed.
“And your aunt?” she asked softly, remembering the call.
Rai’s face tightened. “She’s okay now. It was scary, but… she stabilized. Hospital kept her overnight. She’s home now.”
Nadia nodded.
Rai exhaled. “That day at the resort… I hated leaving. I hated it so much.”
Nadia’s chest tightened.
“You left anyway,” she said quietly.
Rai flinched.
“I know,” he said. “And I’m sorry. But I also–”
He stopped.
His jaw tightened.
He looked like he was fighting with language.
“I also needed to go,” he said finally. “Because family is… family. But I understand why it felt like a pattern to you.”
Nadia’s throat tightened.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Rai nodded.
A long silence settled.
Nadia stared at her drink.
Ice clinked softly.
Her heart felt heavy.
Because everything in her wanted to believe him.
Because everything in her feared believing him.
Finally, Nadia lifted her gaze.
“I don’t know if I can trust you again,” she said.
Rai’s eyes didn’t move.
He took the sentence without defense.
“I know,” he said.
Nadia’s throat tightened.
“But,” she added softly, almost hating the word as it left her mouth, “I don’t want to keep carrying this either.”
Rai’s breath caught.
Nadia continued, voice steady. “So… if we do this, it has to be slow.”
Rai nodded once. “Okay.”
Nadia’s mouth tightened. “Not just okay. You agree?”
Rai’s gaze held hers. “I agree.”
Nadia exhaled.
“Boundaries,” she said. “We don’t jump into anything. We don’t pretend the past didn’t happen. We meet. We talk. We rebuild. If you shut down, you tell me. If I feel myself getting overwhelmed, I tell you.”
Rai nodded slowly.
“I can do that,” he said.
Nadia stared at him, searching.
Rai’s expression remained steady.
Not perfect.
But present.
She swallowed.
“Okay,” she said.
The word landed like something new.
Not a wall.
A beginning.
Rai exhaled, relief sharp enough to hurt.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then, softly, Rai asked, “Can I walk you home?”
Nadia blinked.
The question was simple.
But it carried weight.
It reminded her of the old Rai–quiet, protective, steady.
It also reminded her of the old pain.
She hesitated.
Then nodded once.
“Okay.”
They left the café together.
Not holding hands.
Not touching.
Just walking side by side.
The street was bright. Shops opened. People moved.
They walked toward the MRT station.
At the crossing, Nadia stopped.
The pedestrian light was red.
Cars passed.
Rai stood beside her, hands in his pockets.
Their shoulders were close.
Not touching.
Nadia could feel his presence like warmth.
She glanced at him.
Rai’s gaze was on the road, expression calm.
But his jaw was tight.
She realized he was nervous too.
As if he didn’t know how to behave now that he had been given a small opening.
The light turned green.
They crossed.
At the MRT entrance, Nadia stopped.
The moment felt like a cliff edge.
This was where they would separate.
Rai turned to her.
His eyes held hers.
“Thank you,” he said.
Nadia’s throat tightened.
“For what?” she asked.
Rai swallowed. “For… not closing the door.”
Nadia’s chest tightened.
She didn’t answer immediately.
Because the door wasn’t open yet.
It was simply not sealed.
But she could see Rai standing there, waiting.
Not pushing.
Not running.
Just… waiting.
Nadia took a slow breath.
“Don’t make me regret it,” she whispered.
Rai’s jaw tightened.
He nodded once.
“I won’t,” he said.
The certainty in his voice startled her.
Not arrogant.
Just determined.
Nadia stared at him.
Then she nodded once, small.
“Okay,” she said.
Rai’s mouth curved faintly–an almost-smile.
Then Nadia turned and walked down into the station.
She didn’t look back.
Not because she didn’t want to.
Because she needed to hold onto the boundary she had set.
As the escalator carried her down, Nadia felt her heart thudding.
Relief.
Fear.
Hope.
All tangled.
She stepped onto the platform.
The train arrived.
Doors opened.
She stepped in.
As the train pulled away, she caught her reflection in the glass.
Her face looked calm.
But her eyes looked like someone who had just agreed to something dangerous.
A slow second chance.
A seat reopened.
A door unlatched.
Nadia exhaled slowly.
She didn’t know if Rai would truly change.
She didn’t know if she would be strong enough to walk away if he didn’t.
But for the first time in three years, she felt something shift.
Not closure.
Not forgiveness.
Just movement.
And somewhere aboveground, on a street in Kovan, Rai was still standing in sunlight–watch on his wrist–
finally learning how to stay.
That night, Nadia lay in bed staring at her ceiling.
Her phone buzzed.
A message from Rai.
Rai: Thanks for today. I’ll text you after my therapy session next week. If you’re free, maybe dinner after.
Nadia stared at the message.
Dinner.
Ordinary.
A small step.
Not a grand confession.
Not a dramatic gesture.
Just time.
She exhaled.
Her fingers moved.
Nadia: Okay. Let me know.
She sent it.
Then she placed the phone down.
In the dark, the word okay didn’t feel like avoidance.
It felt like a thread.
Thin.
Fragile.
But real.
And Nadia fell asleep with a question she couldn’t answer yet:
Was this kindness?
Or was this how heartbreak began again?