Orientation
The air-conditioning in Meridian Harbor Systems always felt like a warning.
It wasn’t just cold–it had a way of stripping warmth out of the room until you were left with the clean bones of things: glass walls, pale carpet, rows of desks laid out like a grid that promised order whether you earned it or not. Even the morning light came in disciplined angles through the floor-to-ceiling windows, bleaching the outside skyline into something distant and untouchable.
Jiawen stood at the reception turnstile with her new access card pinched between her fingers, the lanyard still stiff from being unpacked. The card’s surface was glossy, the company logo embossed so neatly it might have been printed with a ruler. There was her photo–slightly startled, eyes too wide, smile rehearsed. Below it: CHONG JIAWEN. Then the title she still didn’t fully believe:
Associate Solutions Analyst.
Her thumb hovered over the sensor. The turnstile didn’t look like it would forgive mistakes.
“Morning.”
The security guard looked up, friendly in that uniquely Singaporean way that was half acknowledgement, half efficiency. “First day ah?”
Jiawen’s laugh came out small, like she didn’t want to take up too much air. “Is it that obvious?”
“New card. Still shiny.” He nodded toward the reader. “Tap, then push.”
She did what he said, and the green light blinked like a soft approval.
That was the thing. Approvals. Green lights. Access. The sense that you belonged only when a system decided you did.
As she walked in, her heels clicked too loudly on the polished floor. She’d chosen them in a rush the night before–nothing too tall, nothing too flashy, just something office-appropriate. She had worn sneakers as an intern. Intern Jiawen had been allowed to be comfortable. Full-time Jiawen, apparently, needed to sound like she was arriving somewhere important.
The lobby smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and coffee from the café downstairs. She passed a wall of framed awards–“Fastest Growing SaaS Provider”, “Innovation in Enterprise Workflow”–and tried not to feel like she was walking into a building full of people who had already decided what excellence looked like.
Her phone buzzed.
A WhatsApp message from her mother.
Ma: First day work. Eat breakfast. Don’t skip. And don’t talk too fast. 😌
Jiawen stared at the message for a beat, then typed back.
Jiawen: I ate already la.
She hadn’t. She’d been too nervous. But mothers didn’t need the truth in the mornings; they needed reassurance.
When the lift doors opened on the seventeenth floor, a gust of colder air met her like the company itself was breathing out. The hallway was quiet, carpet swallowing footsteps. The CIS department sat behind a glass door with a keypad and the words Client Implementation & Solutions etched in a clean font.
Her stomach tightened.
She tapped her card, heard a beep, and stepped inside.
The office floor was exactly as she remembered from internship–open-plan desks, monitors in neat rows, the occasional plant trying its best to look alive under fluorescent lights. But the difference sat in the small, invisible things: the pace in the way people typed, the tightness around mouths during early meetings, the subtle way everyone seemed to already be mid-sentence in the story of their day.
Intern Jiawen had been a footnote.
Full-time Jiawen felt like she was expected to be a paragraph.
“Jiawen!”
The voice came from her right, bright and brisk.
Daphne, HR, waved her over. She wore a navy blazer and the kind of smile that said she was good at making nervous people feel less alone. “You made it. Come, I bring you to your team lead first. Then you can settle.”
Jiawen followed, hands clasped in front of her like she was afraid they’d betray her by shaking too obviously.
As they walked deeper into the office, Jiawen caught snippets of conversation.
”–need the updated mapping by noon.”
”–UAT still failing on the edge case.”
”–client wants a call at 10, can you join?”
Everything was calls and deadlines and acronyms that felt like a private language. She’d learned some as an intern, but internship knowledge was like borrowing a book. Full-time meant you had to write in the margins.
Daphne stopped at a row of desks near the windows. “Okay, this is your pod. You’re under CIS Logistics for now–fast pace, but good learning. Your implementation lead is Faris.”
Jiawen’s eyes followed where Daphne gestured.
A man stood at the end of the desk row, one hand braced on the back of a chair, the other holding a laptop. He was tall in a way that made the ceiling seem slightly lower. His hair was neat, trimmed, and he wore a crisp shirt with sleeves rolled to the forearm–practical, not trying too hard.
When he looked up, his gaze was direct but not heavy. Like he had already noticed you, already decided you were someone worth being present for.
He smiled.
“Morning. You must be Jiawen.”
The way he said her name made it sound simple. Not a thing you could stumble over.
Jiawen swallowed, and her voice came out higher than she intended. “Yes. Hi. I’m–”
“I know.” His smile widened just a fraction, gentle teasing without edge. “Unless HR made a mistake and gave me the wrong person.”
Daphne laughed. “Faris, don’t disturb her lah. She already nervous.”
“I’m not disturbing,” he said, mock innocence. “I’m welcoming.”
Jiawen’s cheeks warmed. “I’m not nervous.”
Faris lifted one eyebrow.
Her face betrayed her.
The eyebrow became a full grin.
“Okay,” he said, tone mild, like he was conceding for her dignity. “Not nervous.”
Daphne clapped her hands once, satisfied. “Good. Faris will take you from here. Lunch later with the team, okay? Don’t hide.”
“I won’t hide,” Jiawen promised.
The second Daphne walked away, Jiawen exhaled, as if she’d been holding her breath on instinct.
Faris leaned slightly on the desk edge. Up close, she could see faint shadows under his eyes–like he didn’t sleep enough. But his posture was steady, shoulders relaxed. Someone who could carry pressure without making it everyone else’s problem.
“So,” he said, “welcome back.”
Jiawen blinked. “Back?”
“You interned here last year, right? I remember you. Logistics pod. You were the one who asked too many questions.”
“Hey!” Jiawen’s protest came fast. “I asked the right amount of questions.”
“That’s what all question-askers say.”
She stared at him, and for a second her expression shifted through three different emotions–offended, amused, then slightly proud.
Faris’s eyes flickered, like he was watching a show.
“You have a very… expressive face,” he observed.
Jiawen froze.
He said it without judgment. Just a fact. But the attention made her suddenly aware of her own cheeks, her eyebrows, her mouth that probably did too much.
“I–no I don’t.”
“You do.”
“I don’t.”
He tilted his head, still smiling, and Jiawen hated that she was already entertained against her will.
“Okay,” he said, in a tone that suggested the conversation was already decided. “You’ll learn quickly here. First lesson: don’t lie when the evidence is obvious.”
Jiawen narrowed her eyes. “Wah. First day you already lecture me.”
“Mentoring,” he corrected. “And it’s not a lecture if I’m right.”
Her mouth opened, ready to argue, then shut when she realised she didn’t have a comeback.
Her cheeks puffed slightly.
Faris’s smile broadened, and he looked away quickly, as if hiding laughter was part of workplace etiquette.
“Come,” he said, pushing off the desk. “Let’s get you settled. Your laptop here?”
She nodded, holding up the slim black company-issued bag.
“Good. Your seat is here–next to mine.”
Jiawen followed him down the row. The desks were arranged in clusters, each with low partitions that created the illusion of privacy without the comfort of it. Her space had a monitor, a docking station, a new keyboard still wrapped in plastic.
The chair looked too big for her.
When she sat, her feet barely touched the ground.
She tried to adjust the chair height and almost spun herself into the desk.
Faris reached out, steadying the chair with one hand, his other hand resting on the desk edge.
“Careful,” he said.
His voice was calm, but Jiawen’s heart did something annoying.
“I’m fine,” she said quickly.
He didn’t move away immediately. “You sure?”
Jiawen looked up.
His face was neutral now–focused. No teasing. A switch had flipped.
“I’m sure,” she said, softer.
He nodded once, then reached for the cable management tray under the desk like he’d done this a hundred times.
“Okay. Plug in here. Docking station here. The network sometimes slow in the morning because everyone logs in. If it hangs, don’t panic. Just wait. It’ll resolve.”
He spoke in short, practical sentences. Jiawen’s fingers fumbled with the cables, and she felt heat rise in her neck.
“I used this before,” she mumbled, half defensive.
“I know.” Faris didn’t look up. “I’m not explaining because you’re clueless. I’m explaining because full-time is different. When you’re stuck, you don’t have the luxury of saying, ‘I’m just an intern.’”
The words landed clean.
Jiawen swallowed.
It was true.
Her internship had been a safe sandbox. Now she was being handed real deadlines, real stakes, real clients.
She glanced at him.
Faris’s face was calm, but there was something in his eyes–like he understood the weight of responsibility because he carried it daily.
“Okay,” she said, and meant it.
He glanced at her then, and for a moment his mouth softened.
“Don’t worry. You won’t drown,” he said. “Not on my watch.”
It sounded like a joke.
It sounded like a promise.
Jiawen’s throat tightened unexpectedly.
She cleared it quickly. “Wah, so dramatic.”
“Dramatic is for theatre.”
Jiawen blinked. “Huh?”
He nodded toward the small stack of papers on his desk–a brochure with elegant fonts and a picture of an orchestra stage.
She stared.
Her brain connected the dots too fast and her face probably did the thing again.
Faris watched her reaction and looked faintly satisfied.
“It’s not mine,” he said casually, as if reading her mind. “Just something I picked up.”
Jiawen pointed at the brochure. “You like orchestra?”
“I like good music.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Work first,” he said, and tapped her monitor. “We can talk later.”
She opened her mouth to protest, then remembered she was on probation.
So she shut it.
But her eyes still lingered on the brochure.
Something about it felt like a door that wasn’t meant for her life.
Faris pulled his chair closer to his own desk, posture shifting into a different gear. “Okay, onboarding. I’ll add you to the CIS Logistics channel. We use Teams for internal, but clients mostly email. Your first week, you shadow me.”
She nodded, trying to look competent.
He began to type, moving quickly. “You’re on the SkyFreight project. Integration and dashboard launch. It’s fast. It’s messy. But you’ll learn a lot.”
“SkyFreight,” Jiawen repeated, as if tasting the word.
“Logistics client. Regional. They want everything yesterday.”
“That sounds… fun.”
Faris’s eyes flicked to her face again. “You’re either brave or delusional.”
“Maybe both.”
His mouth twitched. “Good. Both helps.”
He leaned slightly closer to show her the project folder, pointing at a list of documents: requirement mapping, integration specs, UAT scripts, risk logs.
Jiawen’s stomach did a small flip.
There were so many.
Her gaze darted across the screen, trying to process it all at once like she could absorb competence through her eyeballs.
Faris noticed.
“Don’t try to swallow everything today,” he said. “One thing at a time.”
Jiawen exhaled. “I just don’t want to be useless.”
Faris’s tone shifted, quieter. “You won’t be. But you might feel like it sometimes. That’s normal.”
She looked at him.
The office hummed around them–keyboards clicking, a printer whirring, someone laughing softly near the pantry. But in the small space between their desks, it felt briefly still.
Jiawen’s voice came out small. “Did you feel like that before?”
Faris held her gaze for a moment too long.
Then he nodded once. “Every first job makes you feel like a fraud. The only difference is whether you let it stop you.”
Something inside Jiawen steadied.
She nodded. “Okay.”
“Okay.”
The word sounded like an agreement.
He went back to his screen, clicking through systems access. Jiawen tried to follow, but her laptop took longer to load, spinning wheel mocking her.
Faris glanced at it. “Don’t panic.”
“I’m not panicking,” Jiawen said.
His eyebrow went up.
Her face betrayed her.
Faris’s laugh was quiet–more breath than sound. It surprised her, because it didn’t feel like he laughed often.
And because it felt like she’d done something useful on her first day after all.
By 11 a.m., Jiawen’s brain felt like it had been force-fed acronyms.
API. UAT. SIT. SOW. SLA.
Even the simplest tasks came with hidden rules. Where to store documents. How to label emails. When to tag the group. Which channel to post updates in.
Faris guided her through it with a patience that made her suspicious. He didn’t sound irritated when she asked something twice. He didn’t sigh when she took too long to find a folder.
Instead, he corrected gently, precise.
“Name it like this.”
“Send the email with this subject line.”
“Don’t promise timelines. Confirm first.”
At one point, Jiawen accidentally replied-all to an internal Teams thread that wasn’t meant for her.
She realised immediately.
Her stomach dropped to her shoes.
She stared at the screen, eyes wide, face probably doing a full panic performance.
Faris turned his head slowly.
“What did you do?” he asked, voice calm.
Jiawen swallowed. “I… I replied.”
“To…?”
“To everyone.”
Faris blinked.
Then, instead of scolding, he leaned over, looked at the message, and hummed.
“It’s okay,” he said. “You didn’t say anything weird.”
Jiawen stared at him. “It’s still embarrassing.”
“It’s only embarrassing if you act like it’s the end of the world.”
“It feels like the end of the world.”
Faris’s mouth twitched. “Then pretend you’re calm. The world doesn’t end if you look composed.”
Jiawen’s lips parted, unsure whether to be offended or relieved.
Faris tapped the desk once, like a period at the end of a sentence. “Welcome to corporate.”
Jiawen exhaled shakily, then laughed despite herself.
Faris looked at her, and for a second his gaze softened–like watching her recover amused him in a quiet way.
Her face betrayed her again.
She quickly looked away.
At noon, the lunch crowd began to rise like a tide.
Chairs rolled back. People stood, stretching arms, yawning. A few colleagues called across desks, making plans.
Faris glanced at Jiawen. “You okay?”
She nodded too fast. “Yes.”
He stood. “Lunch with the team. You need to show your face so they don’t think you’re shy.”
“I’m not shy,” Jiawen protested.
His eyebrow lifted.
Her face betrayed her.
Faris grabbed his phone and wallet. “Okay, not shy.”
Jiawen huffed, standing. Because her chair was too tall, her feet hit the floor with a tiny thud that made her want to disappear.
Faris’s eyes flickered down for a split second, then away, but his shoulders shifted like he was suppressing a smile.
“Don’t laugh,” Jiawen warned.
“I’m not laughing.”
“You are.”
“I’m smiling.”
“Same thing.”
He held the pantry door open as they walked out. “You talk a lot for someone not shy.”
Jiawen pointed at him. “You started it.”
Faris’s smile deepened. “Maybe I did.”
They joined a small group heading to the lifts–three colleagues from CIS Logistics: Ben, a lanky guy with glasses; Priya, who walked fast like she had places to be; and Reza, who had the relaxed confidence of someone who always knew what was happening.
“Eh, this is the new one ah,” Reza said, grinning. “Jiawen, right?”
“Yes,” Jiawen said, trying not to sound like a child.
Priya looked her up and down with brisk kindness. “You intern before right? So you know our nonsense already.”
“A bit,” Jiawen admitted.
Ben waved. “Welcome back. If you need help, ask Faris. He’s like department Wikipedia.”
Faris rolled his eyes. “Don’t call me that.”
Reza laughed. “But true what. He knows everything. Just don’t ask him about his love life.”
Jiawen froze.
The lift doors opened. Everyone stepped in.
The air inside was slightly warmer than the office, but Jiawen’s face suddenly felt hot.
Faris’s posture stayed neutral. He didn’t look at Reza.
“Don’t,” he said, voice calm. “First day, don’t scare her.”
Reza shrugged, still smiling. “I’m just saying.”
Jiawen’s eyes flicked to Faris.
His expression was composed, but something in his jaw tightened and released.
She stored that away.
Maybe there were lines in this office she hadn’t seen yet.
They went to a nearby food court–one-north always had options that looked trendy but tasted like the same comfort food wearing different outfits.
The group found a table.
Jiawen sat between Priya and Faris, feeling like a small object placed carefully among people who knew how to occupy space.
As the conversation flowed–about client demands, about last night’s football match, about someone’s sudden resignation–Jiawen listened, laughed when appropriate, tried not to let her nerves show.
Faris ate quietly, but he wasn’t withdrawn. He looked up when someone spoke to him, answered in measured sentences, occasionally dropping a joke so dry it made Ben snort noodles.
Jiawen found herself watching him more than she watched her own food.
It wasn’t attraction.
Not yet.
It was… curiosity.
How someone could be both easy and serious. Friendly but not flimsy. Present without performing.
Reza nudged Jiawen. “So, first job?”
“Yes,” she said.
Priya leaned in. “Wah, welcome. First job is like being thrown into pool.”
Jiawen laughed weakly. “I can swim.”
Ben pointed at Faris. “With him there, you won’t drown. He’s very… how to say… responsible.”
Faris shot Ben a look. “Stop giving me more work.”
“It’s not work,” Ben said. “It’s your passion.”
Jiawen’s eyebrows lifted. “Your passion is teaching newbies?”
Faris glanced at her, eyes amused. “My passion is finishing projects without disasters.”
Priya snorted. “Same thing.”
Reza grinned at Jiawen. “You have boyfriend or not?”
The question came casually, like asking if she preferred kopi or teh.
Jiawen choked slightly on her drink.
Faris’s gaze flicked up.
Jiawen recovered, face undoubtedly betraying her shock. “Uh–yes.”
Reza nodded like he’d expected it. “Malaysian also?”
“Yes,” she admitted, cheeks warm.
Priya smiled. “Aiya, okay lah. At least you already stable.”
Jiawen laughed, a little embarrassed. “We’re… okay.”
Faris didn’t react much. He simply went back to his food, but Jiawen caught the smallest shift in his expression–like a door closing softly.
Reza elbowed him. “See lah, Jiawen already taken. You don’t disturb.”
Jiawen stared. “Huh? Why you say like that?”
Reza shrugged. “Faris like to disturb people. He’s the kind that will tease you until you cry.”
Faris finally looked up, deadpan. “I don’t tease until people cry.”
Jiawen’s eyes narrowed. “You already tease me until I almost panic.”
“That’s not crying,” Faris said.
“Almost.”
He leaned back slightly, eyes on her face like he was studying it again. “You’re funny.”
Jiawen blinked. The compliment landed unexpectedly.
Before she could respond, Priya cut in. “Okay, after lunch we have SkyFreight call. Jiawen, you just listen first. Don’t worry.”
Jiawen nodded quickly.
Faris stood, gathering his tray. “Let’s go. I’ll brief you before the call.”
As they walked back to the lift, Jiawen fell into step beside him.
“So,” she said, because silence made her nervous and she hated that about herself. “You really remember me from internship?”
Faris glanced down at her. “You were short. Hard to miss.”
Jiawen gasped, offended. “Excuse me.”
Faris’s smile appeared, slow. “And you asked questions with full confidence. I liked that.”
Jiawen’s mouth opened.
She almost smiled.
Then she realised what he’d said.
Her cheeks warmed.
Her face betrayed her.
Faris’s eyes crinkled slightly, satisfied.
“You see?” he murmured, as the lift doors closed. “Expressive.”
Jiawen groaned, leaning her head back against the metal wall.
Faris’s laugh was quiet again.
And for the first time that day, the air-conditioning felt less like a warning.
Because somewhere between the green light at the turnstile and the crowded food court table, Jiawen had found one steady thing.
A colleague who made the office feel survivable.
She didn’t know yet how dangerous that kind of steadiness could become.