The Seat Beside You
The weeks that followed didn’t feel cinematic.
There were no grand gestures.
No surprise bouquets.
No sudden declarations under rain.
Just… consistency.
A text after therapy.
A dinner that ended before midnight.
A walk to the MRT.
A message that said, I’m feeling overwhelmed today, instead of silence.
It was ordinary.
And because it was ordinary, it was terrifying.
Nadia kept waiting for the pattern to return.
For Rai to disappear the moment things became emotionally demanding.
For him to revert to okay as a shield.
For her to feel herself knocking again.
But Rai did something she didn’t expect.
He kept showing up.
Not with romance.
With presence.
On the third week, he texted her a day before his therapy session.
Rai: Tomorrow might be heavy. If I’m quiet after, it’s not you. I’ll tell you when I’m okay.
Nadia stared at the message until her chest tightened.
Because it was exactly what she had needed three years ago.
A warning.
A bridge.
Not a door slammed shut.
She replied with the smallest honesty she could manage.
Nadia: Okay. Thanks for telling me.
When he texted later that night–
Rai: I’m okay. Just tired.**
–she felt a quiet relief that startled her.
Not because he said he was okay.
But because he had come back and said anything at all.
Still, she didn’t let herself soften too quickly.
Nadia had learned the hard way that hope could be a trap.
So she stayed cautious.
She kept boundaries.
She told herself it was slow.
She told herself she was in control.
And then, on a Friday evening, Rai texted:
Rai: My mum wants to meet you.
Nadia’s fingers went cold.
Her stomach dropped.
Meet you.
Not “again.”
Not “to say hi.”
Just… meet you.
As if Nadia was being reintroduced into a life she once belonged to.
She stared at the message.
The world around her kept moving–MRT announcements, office chatter, the hum of Singapore’s constant motion.
But in her chest, everything went still.
She typed:
Nadia: Why?
Rai replied quickly.
Rai: She asked. She saw the wedding photos. She said, “That girl still looks like she cares.”
Nadia’s throat tightened.
Rai added:
Rai: No pressure. If you’re not ready, I’ll tell her no.
Nadia stared at the last line.
No pressure.
The old Rai would have decided for her.
He would have said, It’s okay, don’t come, and kept her outside his family like protection.
This Rai was asking.
Offering choice.
Nadia’s fingers trembled slightly.
She typed:
Nadia: When?
A pause.
Rai: Sunday lunch. My place. Just her and me.
Nadia swallowed.
His place.
Not his mother’s.
Not an extended family gathering.
A controlled environment.
A compromise.
Her chest tightened.
She forced her reply.
Nadia: Okay. But we keep it short.
Rai responded:
Rai: Okay.
The word again.
But it didn’t feel like avoidance.
It felt like agreement.
Sunday arrived with rain.
Not heavy thunderstorm rain–just that steady Singapore drizzle that blurred the world into softened edges. Nadia stood under her umbrella outside Rai’s block, staring up at the familiar HDB façade.
She hadn’t been here in years.
Not this block.
Not this version of his life.
She exhaled slowly and adjusted the container of fruit she had brought–a polite offering, not a bribe.
Her phone buzzed.
Rai: I’m downstairs.
She looked up.
Rai emerged from the lobby, holding his own umbrella. He wore a simple t-shirt and jeans, hair slightly messy, expression calm but his eyes alert.
He walked toward her.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” she replied.
Rai glanced at the fruit. “You didn’t have to.”
Nadia shrugged. “Your mum is meeting me. I’m not coming empty-handed.”
Rai’s mouth curved faintly. “Okay.”
They walked toward the lift lobby.
Nadia’s heart hammered.
Not because she feared Rai.
Because she feared the significance.
Meeting a parent wasn’t just lunch.
It was a statement.
It was a seat being offered.
Inside the lift, the mirrored wall reflected them side by side.
Nadia looked composed.
Rai looked steady.
But Nadia’s fingers were tight around the fruit container.
Rai noticed.
He didn’t comment.
Instead, he shifted slightly so his shoulder was closer–close enough to be felt, not touching.
A quiet reassurance.
The lift dinged.
They stepped out.
Rai’s corridor smelled like detergent and someone’s cooking drifting from a neighboring unit. Normal life.
His door was near the end.
He unlocked it.
“Come in,” he said.
Nadia stepped inside.
The apartment was small but neat, similar to how Rai always lived–order as comfort. Shoes aligned, surfaces clean, no clutter.
But it was not sterile.
There was a small plant by the window.
A framed photo on the shelf–Rai with Brennan and Kelvin and Sherlyn at some old gathering, laughing.
A quiet sign that he still had a life.
His mother’s voice came from the kitchen.
“Rai? You bring her already ah?”
Nadia’s throat tightened.
Rai’s jaw moved slightly. “Yes.”
His mother appeared.
She was smaller than Nadia remembered, hair tied back neatly, face lined with years of work and worry. She wore a simple blouse and house pants, but her eyes were sharp.
Her gaze landed on Nadia.
Nadia straightened automatically.
“Aunty,” Nadia greeted softly, forcing warmth. “Long time.”
Rai’s mother stared for a beat.
Then her expression softened.
“Aiyo,” she said, voice warm. “You still same. Pretty.”
Nadia’s chest loosened slightly.
She offered the fruit container. “I brought some fruit.”
Rai’s mother waved a hand. “No need lah. But okay, thank you.” She took it, then looked Nadia up and down with the casual bluntness of mothers.
Nadia braced.
Rai’s mother turned her gaze to Rai.
“You look thinner,” she said.
Rai sighed. “Mum.”
His mother ignored him.
Then she looked at Nadia again.
“Sit,” she said.
Nadia sat on the sofa.
Rai sat beside her.
Not too close.
But present.
His mother moved back to the kitchen, clattering lightly as she prepared dishes.
“I just cook simple,” she called. “You all eat, talk.”
Nadia swallowed.
Talk.
Rai’s mother came out with plates, setting them on the table.
They ate in a small triangle of conversation.
At first, it was polite.
Work.
Traffic.
Weather.
Then Rai’s mother, after pouring soup into bowls, asked the question Nadia had been waiting for.
“So,” she said, looking at Nadia over the rim of her bowl, “you and Rai… what is this now?”
Nadia’s chest tightened.
Rai stiffened.
His hand shifted slightly on his thigh.
Nadia forced a breath.
“We’re… talking,” she said carefully.
Rai’s mother frowned. “Talking like friends? Or talking like…” She waved a hand vaguely, as if the word relationship was too dramatic.
Nadia’s throat tightened.
Rai’s jaw moved.
Before Nadia could answer, Rai spoke.
“We’re rebuilding,” he said.
His mother blinked.
Nadia’s chest tightened.
Rai continued, voice steady. “Slowly. No pressure.”
His mother stared at him.
Then she surprised Nadia by laughing softly.
“Wah,” she said. “You say ‘no pressure’. You learn already ah?”
Rai’s mouth tightened slightly. “I’m trying.”
His mother’s laughter faded into something gentler.
She looked at Nadia.
“You know,” she said softly, “after you left, he became more quiet.”
Nadia’s chest tightened.
Rai’s fingers clenched.
His mother continued, “Before that, he already quiet. But after you left… different. Like his house got empty seat. Even when people come.”
Nadia’s throat tightened.
Rai looked down.
His mother’s voice softened further. “I didn’t ask him too much. Because I know he hate talking about feelings. But mother can see lah.”
Nadia’s eyes burned.
She forced her voice steady. “Aunty, I’m sorry.”
Rai’s mother waved a hand. “Don’t say sorry to me. You don’t owe me.”
Then she looked at Rai.
“You owe her,” she said simply.
The sentence landed like a stone.
Rai’s breath caught.
Nadia froze.
Rai’s mother kept her gaze on her son. “You always think being strong means being silent. But silence can hurt people too.”
Rai’s jaw tightened.
His mother sighed. “I also did that. I carry everything. I never ask help. I thought I protect my family. But sometimes…”
She paused.
Her eyes looked tired.
“Sometimes I just make everyone lonely together,” she finished quietly.
The room went still.
Nadia’s throat tightened.
Rai’s eyes glistened faintly.
His mother looked away, clearing her throat as if embarrassed by her own honesty.
She busied herself with soup, pushing it toward them.
“Eat,” she said brusquely, voice returning to practical. “Food get cold.”
Nadia swallowed.
She took a spoonful.
It tasted like home.
Simple, warm, honest.
Across from her, Rai sat very still.
His shoulders were tense.
Nadia’s heart ached.
Because she could see how hard it was for him to hear this.
From his mother.
In front of her.
Rai’s mother glanced at Nadia again.
“You still like kaya toast?” she asked suddenly.
Nadia blinked, surprised by the shift.
“Yes,” she said.
Rai’s mother nodded. “Next time I make for you.”
Nadia’s chest tightened.
Next time.
The words landed like an unexpected gift.
Rai’s mother looked at her son and added, bluntly, “But you must not waste her time, ah.”
Rai’s throat moved. “Mum.”
His mother shrugged. “I old already. I don’t like drama.”
Nadia almost laughed.
Rai’s mother leaned back slightly, studying Nadia.
“You still love him?” she asked.
The question was direct.
No cushioning.
Nadia’s chest tightened so sharply she felt dizzy.
Rai froze.
His eyes snapped to his mother.
“Mum–”
His mother raised a hand. “I ask her, not you. You always answer for people.”
Nadia’s throat tightened.
She stared at the bowl in front of her.
Her hands trembled slightly.
Then she lifted her gaze and met Rai’s mother’s eyes.
“I… care about him,” she said carefully.
Rai’s mother snorted. “Care? Everyone care. I care also. That’s why he still alive.”
Nadia’s cheeks warmed.
Rai’s mother continued, softer now, “You don’t need to say big words. But I want to know if you coming back into his life will be good for you. Not just for him.”
Nadia swallowed hard.
The gentleness of the question made her eyes burn.
She nodded once.
“I don’t know yet,” she admitted.
Rai’s mother nodded slowly.
“Good,” she said. “Honest.”
The lunch ended soon after.
Not because the conversation was finished.
Because the emotional weight had filled the room enough.
Rai’s mother began clearing plates with brisk movements as if cleaning could erase vulnerability.
Nadia stood.
“Aunty, thank you for lunch,” she said softly.
Rai’s mother nodded. “Next time come earlier. I cook more.”
Next time.
Again.
Nadia’s chest tightened.
Rai walked her to the door.
His mother remained in the kitchen, clattering lightly, giving them space.
In the corridor outside his unit, the air smelled of someone frying garlic.
Nadia adjusted her tote strap.
Rai stood in front of her, eyes steady.
“You didn’t have to answer her questions,” he said quietly.
Nadia’s mouth curved faintly. “She’s your mother. She would have asked anyway.”
Rai’s jaw tightened. “She doesn’t usually talk like that.”
Nadia blinked. “She cares.”
Rai’s eyes softened.
“Yeah,” he admitted.
A pause.
Nadia looked at him.
His face looked slightly shaken.
But not closed.
That was new.
Nadia swallowed.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
Rai’s mouth tightened.
He exhaled slowly.
“I’m… uncomfortable,” he admitted.
Nadia’s chest tightened.
Then Rai added, softer, “But I’m glad she said it.”
Nadia’s throat tightened.
Because that was growth.
Rai–glad someone had spoken the truth.
Nadia nodded once.
“Me too,” she whispered.
Rai hesitated.
Then, carefully, he asked, “Can I–”
He stopped.
His jaw tightened.
He was about to ask permission.
Nadia felt it.
She waited.
“Can I hold your hand?” Rai asked softly.
The question landed like electricity.
Nadia’s chest tightened.
Her hand was right there.
So close.
So familiar.
So dangerous.
She stared at him.
His eyes held hers.
No demand.
No entitlement.
Just a request.
Respect.
Nadia swallowed hard.
She thought of the watch.
The seat.
The vow room.
His mother’s words.
Don’t waste her time.
Nadia drew a slow breath.
Then she extended her hand.
Rai’s breath hitched.
He reached for her slowly, as if afraid she would pull away.
His fingers closed around hers.
Warm.
Steady.
Familiar in the way that made Nadia’s chest ache.
Not a spark.
A returning current.
They stood like that in the corridor, hands joined, not moving.
Nadia felt her throat tighten.
Rai’s thumb brushed lightly over the back of her hand.
A small, careful stroke.
Nadia’s eyes burned.
She didn’t pull away.
Rai’s voice was low.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
Nadia swallowed.
Her voice came out almost breathless.
“Don’t make it mean nothing,” she whispered back.
Rai’s grip tightened slightly.
“It doesn’t,” he said.
The certainty in his voice startled her.
Not dramatic.
Just honest.
Nadia exhaled.
Then she let go gently.
Not ripping away.
Just… releasing.
Because she still needed boundaries.
She stepped toward the lift.
Rai walked beside her.
When the lift arrived, Nadia stepped in.
Rai didn’t follow.
He stood outside, watching.
As the doors began to close, Nadia looked at him.
His eyes held hers.
And in that narrowing gap, Nadia realized something that made her chest tighten with both fear and hope:
The seat beside him–
the one he had kept empty–
was no longer just empty.
He was offering it.
Not as a demand.
Not as a fantasy.
As a place she could choose to sit.
The doors slid shut.
Nadia exhaled slowly.
Her hand still felt warm where his had held it.
She leaned her head lightly against the lift wall, heart pounding.
She didn’t know if this would end in love or in pain.
But she knew one thing, with aching clarity.
This wasn’t the past repeating.
This was something new.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Two people learning that strength wasn’t silence–
it was staying.