No Status
The first time Faris heard Jiawen laugh in the office, he thought–briefly, irrationally–of how a cracked window changed the sound of a room.
It was not a loud laugh. It wasn’t the kind that demanded attention.
But it carried.
It slipped through the low partitions and the hum of keyboards, rose above the polite murmur of morning greetings, and made even the air-conditioning feel less sterile for a second. As if the seventeenth floor, with its glass walls and white lights, had accidentally become human.
Faris didn’t look up right away. He kept his eyes on the dashboard logs, on the string of timestamps that refused to align. He told himself he was only tracking data, only doing his job.
Still, the corners of his mouth lifted before he could stop it.
He hated that.
Not the laughter.
The reflex.
Across the pod, Jiawen’s voice flitted–half protest, half performance.
“No, I didn’t press that button. The button press itself pressed me. You understand or not?”
Ben snorted from behind his monitor, and Priya made a dismissive sound that was secretly amused.
Faris finally glanced up.
Jiawen was seated at her desk, tiny frame perched on a chair that still looked too big for her. She had both hands raised, palms out, like she was being accused of a crime and trying to convince the jury with sincerity and drama. Her eyebrows were drawn together so intensely it would’ve been convincing if her lips weren’t twitching with the effort not to smile.
Her face told stories before her mouth did.
She caught Faris looking.
For one heartbeat, she froze.
Then her expression shifted–defensive pride sliding into sheepishness, like she had been caught doing something slightly childish in a place that pretended adulthood meant never being childish.
Faris lifted an eyebrow.
Jiawen narrowed her eyes at him, as if daring him to comment.
He turned back to his screen.
But the smile stayed for a moment longer than it should have.
By nine-thirty, the office had sunk into its usual rhythm–calls scheduled back-to-back, calendar reminders popping up like warnings, someone in the pantry clinking a spoon against a mug as if stirring could fix the day.
SkyFreight was supposed to be simple on paper: integrate warehouse status feeds, display dashboards that made operations teams feel in control, then hand over documentation and training so the client could run without you.
In reality, it was a living thing that kept growing new limbs.
The client wanted more metrics.
They wanted different filters.
They wanted the dashboard to match their warehouse report, even though their warehouse report was built on logic that changed depending on who was pulling it.
Yesterday’s “urgent discrepancy” email had been answered cleanly, thanks to Jiawen drafting with Faris reviewing. The client had responded with screenshots and a terse line about “needing assurance this won’t happen again.”
Faris had seen worse.
Still, he disliked the way such emails sat behind his ribs, like a debt that didn’t go away until the project was finished.
He opened the internal daily sync call.
Faces appeared in the grid.
Glenn’s tired eyes. Priya’s sharp focus. Ben’s slight frown as he read something off-screen.
And in the corner, a new tile blinked to life.
Amani N.
Faris’s hand paused above his mouse.
He hadn’t expected her to join this call.
Amani was not on SkyFreight. She belonged to a different client vertical–banking, risk workflows, compliance rollouts. Her calendar lived in a separate world of MAS deadlines and audit trails.
She was here because she had asked to be.
And Faris, predictably, hadn’t said no.
The camera came on.
Amani’s face filled the tile–clean makeup, hair tied neatly back, expression composed to the point of being unreadable. She looked professional, immaculate, as if she never lost sleep.
Faris felt the familiar tightening in his chest.
Not pain.
Not longing.
Something like… old muscle memory.
Someone who had once been close enough to map his habits.
“Morning,” Amani said. Her voice was light, polite, the same tone she used when speaking to managers.
“Morning,” Faris replied.
His voice sounded normal.
He hated that too.
Priya spoke first. “Amani, you joining because you need something from SkyFreight? We’re in a bit of a fire today.”
Amani smiled slightly. “No, I just wanted to listen. I heard there was a discrepancy issue and I thought maybe I could help with the client comms framing. Bank clients are similar–when they panic, they need structure.”
Faris’s jaw tightened. That was his line. He had said something similar to Jiawen yesterday.
He couldn’t tell if Amani was being genuinely helpful or quietly territorial.
Probably both.
Faris pushed that thought away. Work first.
“Okay,” he said briskly. “We’ll keep it quick. Ben, where are we on the mapping check?”
The call moved forward.
Faris asked his questions. He assigned tasks. He kept his tone steady.
He did not look at Amani’s tile more than necessary.
Still, he felt Jiawen watching him from the side.
He didn’t need to turn his head to know it. He could sense it the way you sensed someone standing too close in a lift.
Faris ended the call at ten.
As soon as the meeting grid disappeared, he exhaled slowly.
Jiawen had been quiet throughout, listening, taking notes like he had taught her. She sat with her shoulders straight, pen moving steadily across her notebook.
Now she looked up.
Her eyes flicked to his phone on the desk.
Then to him.
Her expression said: Who is that?
Faris pretended not to notice.
He turned to his laptop and opened the dataset again.
Work.
He could keep everything contained if he stayed in work mode.
It was a useful skill.
A survival skill.
“Faris,” Jiawen said finally.
He looked up.
She hesitated, then slid her notebook toward him.
“I wrote down the discrepancy possibilities,” she said. “Time range mismatch, timezone conversion, duplicate status updates, warehouse report using ‘completed’ definition differently… I’m not sure if I’m overthinking.”
Faris scanned the list.
It was good.
Not just good for a newcomer.
Good.
He felt a small, reluctant pride.
“You’re not overthinking,” he said. “You’re doing analysis. That’s the job.”
Jiawen blinked.
Faris saw her chest rise slightly, like she had been holding her breath.
He added, almost against his will, “Nice work.”
Jiawen’s face lit up.
Then she tried to hide it.
She failed.
Faris looked away, because if he watched too long, he’d start thinking about things that weren’t safe.
“Okay,” he said, tapping the notebook. “Pick one and validate. Start with timezone conversion. It’s the most common silent killer.”
Jiawen nodded quickly. “Yes, sir.”
Faris paused. “Don’t call me that.”
“But you look like–”
“Don’t.”
Jiawen pressed her lips together, clearly trying to contain a grin.
Faris stood. “I’m going to grab water. Don’t break anything while I’m gone.”
Jiawen gasped dramatically. “Excuse me.”
Faris walked away before her expression could do more damage.
The pantry smelled of instant noodles and lemon cleaner. Someone had left a half-empty packet of biscuits on the counter, open like an invitation no one wanted to be responsible for.
Faris filled his bottle at the water dispenser and tried to clear his head.
It wasn’t difficult to focus on work.
It was difficult to focus on anything else.
His phone buzzed.
He didn’t need to look.
He already knew who it would be.
Still, his hand moved automatically, pulling it out.
Amani.
A message.
Amani: You free for lunch later?
Faris stared at the screen.
A simple question.
Harmless.
Yet it carried the weight of routine–of lunches that weren’t really lunches, of conversations that weren’t really just conversations.
He could picture it easily.
They would sit somewhere slightly nicer than the food court. Amani would talk about her current rollout, about her frustration with stakeholders, about how tiring it was to keep explaining the same thing to clients who didn’t listen.
Faris would listen.
He always listened.
And at some point, Amani would soften, and her voice would drop, and she would mention something personal–something about family pressure, about religion, about why she couldn’t give him what he had once asked for.
And then, inevitably, she would do that thing where her hand brushed his wrist, not quite affection, not quite accident.
He would tell himself it meant nothing.
He would tell himself it was fine.
He would tell himself he was not being used.
Faris exhaled.
He typed back:
Faris: Lunch with team today. Maybe another day.
He hit send before he could reconsider.
His chest tightened anyway.
When he returned to the pod, Jiawen was hunched over her laptop, brows furrowed in concentration. Her hair was pinned back on one side today, exposing her ear. The small detail made her look older in a way that surprised him.
She didn’t look up until he reached his desk.
“Faris!” she whispered urgently.
He paused. “What?”
“I think it’s timezone.”
He leaned over, reading her screen.
She had pulled the dashboard timestamps and compared them against the warehouse report screenshots the client sent. The mismatch aligned exactly with a time range offset.
“Nice catch,” Faris murmured.
Jiawen’s eyes widened. “Really?”
“Yes. This is exactly it.”
She exhaled in relief so obvious it was almost funny.
Faris felt the smile return.
Jiawen looked up at him, triumphant. “See? I’m useful.”
“You’re useful,” he agreed.
The words came out softer than he intended.
For a second, Jiawen’s expression shifted–pride sliding into something gentler.
Then she blinked, and it was gone.
Faris straightened quickly.
“Okay,” he said, voice brisk again. “We update the client. You draft again. I’ll review.”
Jiawen nodded, fingers already moving.
Faris watched her work.
She was still new, still fumbling occasionally, but she moved with determination. Like she refused to let her fear decide for her.
It reminded him of himself, once.
Before he learned how expensive it was to be soft.
Lunch came with the usual tide of bodies.
By noon-thirty, the pantry was crowded. The lifts were full. The food court lines moved with the efficiency of people who had done this every weekday for years.
Faris walked with the team, Jiawen beside him.
She wore a light cardigan today–finally listening to the collective wisdom about office cold. The sleeves were too long, covering her hands slightly.
Faris’s eyes caught on the detail and he looked away.
He had learned, over time, that noticing too much was dangerous.
At the table, Reza immediately began talking about a new cafe he had discovered.
“It’s at Tanjong Pagar,” he said, animated. “Very atas. Coffee like perfume. But nice lah. Good for dates.”
Ben snorted. “You always talk about dates. You got date or not?”
Reza shrugged. “Got lah. Sometimes.”
Priya rolled her eyes. “He thinks talking to barista is a date.”
Reza clutched his chest dramatically. “Priya, why you so cruel.”
Jiawen giggled.
Faris ate quietly, listening.
Then Reza turned toward him, grin widening.
“Faris, you should bring Amani there.”
The table fell into a different kind of silence.
Not awkward.
Interested.
Jiawen froze, fork halfway to her mouth.
Faris’s jaw tightened.
He kept his tone neutral. “Why?”
Reza shrugged, pretending innocence. “Aiya, you two always together what.”
Priya shot Reza a look. “Reza, don’t.”
“What? I’m just saying,” Reza protested. “They got chemistry lah.”
Ben coughed into his drink, hiding laughter.
Jiawen’s eyes flicked between faces, unsure if she should laugh or disappear.
Faris didn’t move.
He set his fork down slowly.
“Reza,” he said, calm but firm. “Eat your food.”
The words were quiet.
But they carried enough weight that Reza immediately shut up.
Priya changed the subject quickly, launching into a rant about SkyFreight’s latest request.
Jiawen exhaled silently.
Still, the name lingered in the air.
Amani.
She had seen the Teams tile.
She had seen the message pop up on Faris’s screen for a split second when he wasn’t paying attention.
Now she saw how the team reacted–teasing with an undercurrent of assumption.
Faris kept eating, expression composed.
But Jiawen noticed something else.
He didn’t smile at the joke.
He didn’t play along.
He looked like a man who hated being watched.
The thought sparked something sharp in Jiawen–curiosity, yes, but also an odd protectiveness.
Because Reza’s joke had felt like a hand pushing on a bruise.
When lunch ended, the group dispersed.
Priya went ahead, already answering a call.
Ben lingered behind, scrolling through his phone.
Reza walked off with someone else, laughter following him.
Jiawen found herself walking with Faris alone.
The afternoon sun outside the food court was bright, almost indecent compared to the office cold.
Jiawen glanced up at Faris.
His expression was neutral, but his shoulders looked slightly tighter.
“Sorry about Reza,” she said quietly.
Faris glanced down. “Not your fault.”
Jiawen hesitated. “Are you… close with Amani?”
The question came out before she could filter it.
Immediately, she regretted it.
Faris’s gaze held hers.
He didn’t look angry.
He didn’t look amused.
He looked like he was deciding whether to open a door or leave it shut.
Jiawen’s cheeks warmed. “You don’t have to answer. I’m just–kaypoh.”
Faris’s mouth twitched faintly.
“You’re not subtle,” he said.
Jiawen sighed. “I know.”
They stepped into the lift.
For a moment, the only sound was the soft hum as it rose.
Then Faris spoke, voice low.
“She’s… a colleague.”
Jiawen blinked.
A colleague.
The phrase was technically true. It also felt like a careful lie.
Faris continued, as if hearing his own words and deciding they weren’t enough.
“It’s complicated,” he added.
Jiawen’s heart did a small, eager jump.
Then she told it to calm down.
She wasn’t entitled to his private life.
Still, she found herself saying, gently, “Complicated how?”
Faris exhaled.
When the lift doors opened, he didn’t walk out immediately.
He paused, as if the office hallway was too public, too full of ears.
“Later,” he said.
Jiawen nodded quickly.
Later.
The word felt like a promise.
The afternoon went by in a series of tasks.
They updated the client about the timezone mismatch.
They proposed a fix.
They scheduled a quick verification call.
Jiawen listened on the call, then surprised Faris by answering one question directly when the client asked about expected impact.
Her voice was steady.
Her words were careful.
Faris watched her, proud in a way he didn’t want to acknowledge.
After the call, he leaned toward her and said quietly, “Good.”
Jiawen beamed.
Then tried to hide it.
Then failed.
Faris pretended to focus on his screen.
At five-thirty, the office began to thin.
People packed bags. Chairs rolled back. Lights remained bright because corporate spaces didn’t believe in softness.
Jiawen glanced at the time and sighed.
Faris looked up. “You have plans?”
Jiawen hesitated. “Junhao wants to meet.”
Faris nodded once. “Go.”
Jiawen chewed her lip. “But I also want to finish the UAT script review. I don’t want to leave it hanging.”
Faris watched her face.
She looked torn.
He knew that look.
It was the look of someone trying to do everything right.
“You can continue tomorrow,” he said.
Jiawen frowned. “But you always say don’t leave loose ends.”
“That’s for me,” Faris said, and the honesty surprised him even as he said it. “Not for you. Not yet.”
Jiawen stared. “Why not?”
Because if you learn my habits too quickly, you’ll learn my mistakes too.
Faris didn’t say that.
Instead, he said, “Because you’re new and you need balance. If you burn out in your first month, you’ll hate this job. And then my mentoring fails.”
Jiawen’s lips parted.
Then she smiled. “Wah, you talk like you care.”
Faris’s chest tightened.
“I care about the project,” he said dryly.
Jiawen narrowed her eyes. “Liar.”
Faris’s mouth twitched. “Go.”
Jiawen gathered her bag slowly, then paused.
“Later you said you’ll tell me,” she reminded, voice softer.
Faris looked at her.
He hadn’t meant to offer “later” so easily.
Now he was trapped by his own word.
He exhaled. “Okay. Ten minutes. Pantry.”
Jiawen’s eyes widened. “Really?”
“Ten minutes,” he repeated.
Jiawen nodded rapidly, then hurried toward the pantry like a child promised dessert.
Faris watched her go.
Then he looked down at his phone.
Amani had messaged again.
Amani: Another day then. You free this weekend?
Faris stared.
A part of him wanted to say yes.
Not because he believed it would lead anywhere.
Because he was tired of being alone.
And Amani was familiar.
Familiar was easy.
Easy was dangerous.
He locked his phone without replying.
Then stood.
The pantry at six was quieter.
The kettle had stopped boiling. The microwave beeped occasionally from someone heating leftovers. Outside the glass wall, the evening sky had turned a muted gold.
Jiawen was already there, sitting at a small table near the window, legs swinging slightly because the chair was too tall for her.
When Faris walked in, she straightened, trying to look casual.
She failed.
Her face betrayed her anticipation.
Faris sat opposite her, bottle in hand.
For a moment, he didn’t speak.
He wasn’t used to talking about his personal life in the pantry.
He wasn’t used to offering pieces of himself to someone who wasn’t already inside his complicated orbit.
Jiawen watched him carefully.
Her usual bubbly energy had softened into something patient.
It made him even more uneasy.
“So,” she said gently, “Amani is… complicated.”
Faris exhaled slowly.
“Yeah,” he admitted.
Jiawen leaned forward slightly. “Like… ex?”
“No.”
“Like… crush?”
Faris’s mouth twitched faintly. “You’re going through a list.”
Jiawen shrugged. “I’m trying to categorise. My brain needs categories.”
Faris looked out the window for a second.
The city beyond one-north was bathed in evening light, buildings turning into silhouettes.
Then he said, quietly, “We go out.”
Jiawen blinked.
Faris clarified, because the words sounded like a confession. “Not officially. We… have been going out for a while. We do couple things.”
Jiawen’s eyebrows shot up.
Her face went through three expressions so fast Faris almost laughed–shock, delight, then a sudden seriousness as she tried to control herself.
“Okay,” she said slowly. “So you are together.”
Faris shook his head. “No.”
Jiawen frowned. “But you do couple things.”
“Yes.”
“And you confessed?”
Faris froze.
Jiawen immediately waved her hands. “Sorry, sorry. I’m guessing.”
Faris studied her.
He didn’t know why he was telling her this.
Maybe because she asked with sincerity, not gossip.
Maybe because her presence made honesty feel less heavy.
Or maybe because he was tired of carrying the story alone.
“Yes,” he said. “I confessed before.”
Jiawen’s eyes widened again. “And?”
Faris’s jaw tightened. “She said no.”
A pause.
Jiawen’s mouth opened. Closed.
Her face betrayed her outrage on his behalf.
“She rejected you?” she whispered, as if the pantry might hear.
Faris let out a small, humourless laugh. “It’s not like that.”
“How is it not like that?” Jiawen demanded, leaning forward. “You confess, she say no, but then still go out and do couple stuff? That’s… that’s…”
She searched for the word.
Her frustration was almost adorable.
Faris felt something soften in him.
“It’s… no status,” he said, using the phrase Reza liked to throw around. “She said religion makes things complicated. She doesn’t want to start something she can’t finish.”
Jiawen blinked, processing.
Faris continued, voice steady, as if explaining a system design. “She’s single. I’m single. We enjoy each other’s company. We do things together. But there’s no label.”
“That’s so… unfair,” Jiawen said softly.
Faris looked at her. “Unfair to who?”
“To you,” Jiawen said immediately.
Faris’s chest tightened.
He hadn’t expected that.
Most people, when they heard about no-status situationships, made jokes. Or offered shallow advice. Or judged.
Jiawen looked genuinely upset.
Faris reached for his bottle, taking a sip just to occupy his hands.
“It’s my choice,” he said. “I stayed.”
Jiawen’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
The question landed too close.
Because the true answer was not flattering.
Because he stayed because he thought patience could buy love.
Because he stayed because loneliness made you accept half-measures.
Because he stayed because he had been taught, all his life, that being steady was virtuous even when it hurt.
Faris swallowed.
He chose the safer truth.
“Because,” he said quietly, “I liked her.”
Jiawen’s expression softened.
Then she looked at him with sudden suspicion.
“Wait,” she said. “Then why everyone tease you like you’re already together?”
Faris sighed. “Because people see us eating together, going home together sometimes, and they assume.”
Jiawen stared. “Going home together?”
Faris felt heat creep up his neck.
He hated that he was embarrassed.
“Yes,” he admitted. “Sometimes I send her home. I have car.”
Jiawen’s lips parted.
Her expression shifted.
Realisation.
Then outrage.
“You send her home, you buy her dinner, you do couple things, you confess, and she still say no?”
Faris held up a hand. “Jiawen.”
“What?”
Her face was fierce, and it startled him. For someone so small, she carried emotion like a weapon.
Faris couldn’t stop the laugh that slipped out.
It was quiet, but real.
Jiawen froze.
Then her face betrayed confusion.
“Why you laughing?” she demanded.
Faris shook his head, still smiling. “You’re angry like it happened to you.”
“Because it’s ridiculous,” Jiawen said, voice dropping into seriousness again. “You deserve better.”
The words landed in Faris’s chest.
He felt them like a weight.
He looked at her, and for the first time since she joined as a full-timer, he saw past the cute expressions and humour.
He saw someone who cared.
That kind of care was dangerous.
Faris leaned back slightly, letting the chair carry some of his heaviness.
“I know,” he said.
Jiawen blinked. “You know?”
“Yes.”
“Then why you still–”
Faris cut her off gently. “Because sometimes knowing doesn’t make leaving easy.”
Jiawen’s anger faded into quiet.
She stared at the table.
Faris watched her fingers fidget with the edge of her cardigan sleeve.
Then she looked up again, more cautious.
“So… you’re just… waiting?”
Faris shook his head.
“No,” he said. “I told her something.”
Jiawen leaned forward. “What?”
Faris hesitated, then said, “I told her I won’t stay if one of us finds someone else. If she gets a partner, I leave. If I get a partner, I leave. No point staying if you’re not the end game.”
The phrase came out harsher than he intended.
But it was the only line he had that felt like dignity.
Jiawen went still.
Her face didn’t betray anything for once.
She simply looked at him, eyes steady.
“That’s… very you,” she said softly.
Faris frowned. “What does that mean?”
Jiawen shrugged, a small smile returning. “You like clarity. You like… finishing projects.”
Faris snorted. “You compare relationship to project?”
Jiawen lifted her hands defensively. “No! I mean–yes! But like in a good way. You don’t like wasting time.”
Faris stared.
Then, unexpectedly, the tension in his chest loosened.
Because she had understood.
Not perfectly.
But enough.
“You’re weird,” he said.
Jiawen grinned. “Thank you.”
Faris shook his head, amused despite himself.
Then his phone buzzed in his pocket.
He didn’t need to look.
He already knew.
But Jiawen’s eyes flicked to his pocket.
Her face betrayed curiosity again.
Faris exhaled and pulled out the phone.
Amani.
Another message.
Amani: Are you okay? You seemed quiet today.
Faris stared.
Jiawen watched him.
Something in her expression softened–not teasing now, not comedic. Just… attentive.
Faris realised, abruptly, that he had told her too much.
He had given her a piece of his life.
Now she could see him.
And being seen meant being vulnerable.
He locked the phone without replying and slipped it back into his pocket.
Jiawen didn’t ask what it said.
She simply said, quietly, “You don’t have to carry everything alone, you know.”
Faris’s throat tightened.
He looked away.
Outside the pantry window, the sky darkened slowly, the first hints of evening rain gathering over the city.
Faris didn’t trust himself to answer.
So he stood, clearing his throat.
“Okay,” he said, voice brisk again. “Ten minutes over. Go meet your boyfriend. Don’t make him wait.”
Jiawen blinked, as if pulled out of a different world.
She stood too, slinging her bag over her shoulder.
But before she left, she hesitated.
“Faris,” she said softly.
He looked at her.
Jiawen held his gaze, and her expression–miraculously–didn’t betray anything dramatic.
It was simple.
Sincere.
“I’m glad you told me,” she said.
Faris felt a strange warmth rise in his chest.
He nodded once.
Then Jiawen turned and walked out of the pantry.
Her small figure disappeared into the hallway.
Faris stood alone for a moment, listening to the quiet hum of the office.
His phone buzzed again, heavy in his pocket.
He didn’t look.
He didn’t need to.
Because the complicated part of his life had already followed him into the pantry.
And now–unwanted, undeniable–so had something new.
Not romance.
Not yet.
But the dangerous comfort of being understood.
As he returned to his desk, he caught sight of Jiawen at the lift lobby, typing rapidly on her phone, her face shifting through a dozen expressions as she read whatever Junhao had sent.
Faris watched for a second too long.
Then he forced himself to look away.
Work first.
Always.
But the thought stayed, stubborn as a notification you couldn’t clear:
No status was supposed to protect you from heartbreak.
And yet, somehow, it was already reaching into places it had no right to touch.