Two Breakups, One Afternoon
The elevator at Meridian Harbor Systems always had too-bright lights.
Faris had noticed it in his first year–how the ceiling panels cast a ruthless clarity over everyone’s faces, sharpening pores and shadows and the tired corners of eyes. On good days, it didn’t matter. On bad days, it felt like being inspected by a machine.
Today, it was worse because Amani stood beside him.
The lift doors slid shut with a soft hiss. The numbers above the panel glowed as they descended. Seventeenth. Sixteenth. Fifteenth.
Amani’s perfume was subtle–something clean and expensive that didn’t cling but still managed to linger. She stared at the reflective metal wall, her expression controlled, as if she had rehearsed it.
Faris watched their reflections without looking directly at her.
His own face looked calm.
That was the problem.
“Are you free tonight?” Amani asked, voice light, careful.
Faris didn’t answer immediately.
He could. He could say yes, and they could fall back into routine the way tired people fell back into habit. He could pick her up, drive to a place that looked nice enough for Instagram but quiet enough for avoidance. She would talk about her day. He would listen. They would pretend this was intimacy.
The thought made something in his chest tighten.
Faris cleared his throat. “Why?”
Amani’s eyes flicked toward him briefly. “I thought we could go for dinner. It’s been a while.”
“It hasn’t been that long,” he said.
Amani’s smile wavered, then steadied. “You’ve been busy with SkyFreight.”
Faris swallowed.
Busy.
That was the word people used when they wanted to believe distance was accidental.
“Yeah,” he said.
The lift passed the tenth floor. The silence stretched, pressed thin between them.
Amani shifted slightly, her arm brushing his.
Not an accident.
Not quite a claim.
Faris stared at the floor numbers as if they would give him instructions.
His phone buzzed.
Amani’s.
She glanced down automatically, and for a second her expression softened–something warm and private crossing her face.
Faris saw it.
The lift lights made it impossible not to.
Amani typed quickly, thumb moving with familiarity.
Faris’s stomach dropped with the unpleasant certainty of intuition.
“Your friend?” he asked, keeping his voice neutral.
Amani hesitated.
The lift reached the fifth floor.
Then she said, softly, “Faris…”
His name sounded like a request.
Or a warning.
The doors opened at the lobby. Warm air from downstairs hit them–coffee, human bodies, the faint scent of rain from outside.
People stepped in. The lift grew crowded.
Amani leaned closer, lowering her voice so no one else could hear.
“I think you should know,” she said.
Faris’s fingers curled around his phone in his pocket.
He didn’t want to know.
He had wanted to be wrong.
Amani continued, her eyes still on the floor numbers as if confession was easier when you didn’t look at the person you were hurting.
“I’ve… been seeing someone.”
A beat.
The lift felt smaller.
Faris’s heart thudded once, heavy.
“Okay,” he said.
Amani glanced up, startled by how calm he sounded.
“It’s new,” she added quickly. “I didn’t plan it. It just–happened.”
Faris nodded slowly.
Something inside him went quiet.
Not numb.
Just… still.
Amani’s voice dropped further. “He’s serious about me.”
Faris met her gaze then.
Her eyes looked almost apologetic.
Almost.
He had promised her something months ago–said it clearly, like a line drawn in ink.
If one of us finds someone else, I leave.
He had meant it.
He’d said it because he needed a boundary to prove he still had dignity.
Now the boundary stood in front of him, demanding payment.
Faris exhaled.
“Good,” he said.
Amani blinked. “Faris–”
“It’s good,” he repeated, voice steady. “You wanted someone who could… align.”
Amani’s throat moved like she swallowed something.
“Don’t make it sound like I used you,” she said quietly.
Faris’s jaw tightened.
He didn’t want to argue.
He didn’t want to explain the strange ache of being half-chosen for too long.
So he simply nodded.
“Okay,” he said.
The lift doors opened.
Amani stepped out first.
Faris followed.
In the lobby, the world moved normally–people tapping access cards, security guard nodding, delivery rider wheeling a cart toward the loading bay.
Amani paused near the turnstiles.
“I still want us to be friends,” she said.
Faris looked at her.
Friends.
The word was always offered at the end of a story, like a consolation prize that expected gratitude.
He felt tired.
“I’ll be professional,” he said.
Amani’s brows knit. “That’s not what I meant.”
Faris’s mouth twitched without humour. “It’s what I can do.”
Amani opened her mouth, then closed it.
Her phone buzzed again.
She glanced down.
And there it was again–softness. That private warmth.
Faris watched it cross her face.
His chest tightened.
Then he stepped back.
“I should go,” he said.
Amani’s eyes searched his face, perhaps looking for anger.
There wasn’t any.
Anger required energy.
Faris turned away and walked out of the building.
Outside, the sky was heavy with late-afternoon rain. Cars moved in slow streams along the road, headlights already on. The air smelled like wet concrete and the faint metallic bite of impending storm.
Faris stood under the sheltered walkway for a second, letting the humidity replace the office cold.
Then he took his car keys out and pressed the unlock button.
The beep sounded too cheerful.
He got into the driver’s seat and shut the door.
For a moment, he simply sat.
His hands rested on the steering wheel.
His phone buzzed again.
Amani.
He didn’t open it.
Instead, he stared at the rain-streaked windshield.
He had kept his promise.
He should have felt proud.
What he felt instead was a hollow quiet, like a room after everyone had left.
Two days later, Faris walked into the office with a face that did not show the room he was carrying inside.
He arrived early, before the CIS floor filled with voices. The pantry kettle hadn’t started its routine. The meeting rooms sat empty behind their glass walls, chairs neatly pushed in as if no one ever sat there long enough to leave a mess.
His desk looked the same as always.
Laptop.
Notebook.
A small stack of project documents.
And in the top drawer, a hard envelope that had been waiting for a different life.
Faris stared at the drawer.
He didn’t open it.
Not yet.
He logged in, opened SkyFreight’s tracker, and started working.
Work was clean.
Work was predictable.
Work did not ask you to explain why you had stayed too long.
By nine-thirty, the office began to fill.
Jiawen arrived at nine-forty-seven, apologising to Ben as she slid into her seat, blaming the train delay like it was a personal betrayal.
Her hair was tied in a neat ponytail today, and she wore a muted blouse that made her look slightly older than her usual streetstyle office outfits. She carried a plastic bag from the downstairs bakery.
She had remembered breakfast.
Faris noticed the bag before he noticed her face.
Then Jiawen turned toward him and smiled.
Something in him flinched.
Not because the smile was too bright.
Because he needed it.
“Morning!” Jiawen chirped, settling into her chair and immediately fiddling with the height lever like she was determined to win against it.
Faris murmured, “Morning.”
Jiawen paused.
She tilted her head slightly.
Faris felt her gaze land on him like a hand.
“Eh,” she said, voice softer. “Why you sound like… dying?”
Faris didn’t look up. “I’m not dying.”
Jiawen squinted. “You’re more quiet than usual.”
“I’m always quiet,” Faris said.
Jiawen’s mouth opened.
Then she made a face.
A face that said: Liar.
Faris caught it in his peripheral.
He felt the faintest pull at the corner of his mouth.
He hated that it worked.
Jiawen reached into her plastic bag and pulled out a small paper-wrapped bun.
“Want?” she offered.
Faris blinked. “No.”
Jiawen held it out anyway, arm stretching across the gap between their desks.
“It’s curry puff,” she said. “You look like you need curry puff.”
Faris stared at the bun.
Then, against his better judgment, he took it.
“Thanks,” he muttered.
Jiawen’s eyes widened, pleased. “Wah, you accepted. Means you really not okay.”
Faris sighed. “Don’t analyse me.”
Jiawen leaned back in her chair with exaggerated confidence. “I am analyst. I analyse.”
Faris’s mouth twitched.
Jiawen saw it and beamed.
Her face betrayed her delight.
Faris forced himself to look away.
If he kept watching her, he might forget the weight of his own thoughts.
By late morning, SkyFreight had thrown a new fire at them.
The client wanted to pull the go-live date forward.
Not by weeks.
By days.
The email came with the kind of cheerful language that disguised panic.
“We’d like to accelerate deployment to align with internal stakeholder expectations.”
Faris read it twice.
Then he closed his eyes.
Jiawen, now two months into full-time, read the email over his shoulder.
She made a face.
A face that went from disbelief to offence.
“Are they insane?” she whispered.
Faris opened his eyes. “Don’t say that in writing.”
“I didn’t say in writing,” Jiawen protested.
“You said it out loud.”
“Only to you.”
Faris exhaled slowly.
He could feel the day stretching ahead like a rope about to tighten.
“We need to align internally,” he said, already clicking into the tracker. “We need to check resources, testing completion, documentation readiness.”
Jiawen nodded, posture shifting into focus.
In the past weeks, Faris had watched her transform in small increments–less flustered by emails, more comfortable with calls, more confident when speaking. She still made dramatic expressions when annoyed, but she recovered faster.
She had learned the rhythm.
Faris called Priya.
He scheduled an internal war-room.
He asked Ben to verify integration stability.
He assigned Jiawen to update the risk log and draft a structured response to the client.
Jiawen nodded, fingers already moving.
Faris watched her.
She was good.
The thought should have been satisfying.
Instead, it came with a strange ache.
Because he had invested care into her growth the way he invested care into everything.
And he had learned, painfully, that investing care was not the same as being chosen.
At noon, the team went out for lunch.
Faris went with them because it was expected.
Because if he stayed behind, someone would ask.
Because if someone asked, his face might betray the room he was carrying inside.
At the food court, Reza talked loudly about how clients always thought “accelerate” meant “you can just press fast-forward.”
Jiawen laughed.
Then she made a face mimicking the client email tone.
“Hi team, can you just… work faster? Thanks,” she said in a fake sweet voice.
Ben snorted noodles.
Priya laughed.
Even Faris–despite himself–felt a short burst of amusement.
Jiawen noticed.
Her eyes widened.
Her face betrayed triumph, like she had just achieved a personal milestone: making Faris laugh in public.
Faris quickly looked down at his food.
Reza pointed at Jiawen. “Eh, you. You very good at imitating people. You should be actress.”
Jiawen puffed her cheeks. “No, later I become famous then you all ask me for free tickets.”
The word hit Faris like a stone.
Tickets.
His chest tightened.
He set his fork down carefully.
Jiawen, mid-joke, noticed the shift.
Her smile softened.
She glanced at him.
Faris forced a small neutral expression.
“Eat,” he told her, voice quiet.
Jiawen frowned, then nodded.
The lunch continued.
But Faris felt himself moving through it like a man walking underwater.
That afternoon, the office became a pressure cooker.
The client’s acceleration request needed a response.
The go-live checklist needed updating.
Priya ran from meeting room to meeting room.
Ben disappeared into code logs.
Jiawen built a risk log update that was clean enough Faris didn’t have to correct it.
At three-fifteen, the internal war-room started.
Faris spoke in his sharp meeting voice.
He kept the team on track.
He held the line against unrealistic promises.
His face remained composed.
But inside, his thoughts kept circling back to a moment in the lobby two days ago–the way Amani’s expression had softened when she looked at her phone.
The way it hadn’t softened for him in a long time.
When the meeting ended, Faris remained seated, staring at his screen.
He should have been tired.
Instead, he felt wired.
Jiawen leaned over the partition slightly. “Faris?”
He looked up.
Jiawen’s eyes searched his face.
Her expression was softer now, less comedic.
“You sure you okay?” she asked quietly.
Faris hesitated.
The simplest answer would be no.
But the office was still full of ears.
He glanced around.
Priya was on a call.
Ben had headphones in.
Reza was nowhere.
Jiawen watched him.
Her face did not betray impatience.
Only concern.
Faris swallowed.
“After work,” he said. “We talk.”
Jiawen blinked.
Then she nodded. “Okay.”
Faris went back to his screen.
His heart thudded.
He didn’t know why he’d offered.
Maybe because he was tired of swallowing things.
Maybe because Jiawen’s concern felt… uncomplicated.
And he had just lost something that had been nothing but complicated.
By six-thirty, the office had thinned.
The sun outside had dipped low, turning the windows into gold-tinted mirrors. The air-conditioning continued its steady cold, but the floor felt quieter, like it had finally stopped pretending the day was still beginning.
Jiawen packed her bag slowly, eyes flicking toward Faris as if waiting for him to confirm their earlier promise.
Faris closed his laptop.
He hesitated, then reached into his drawer.
The hard envelope waited.
He pulled it out.
The paper felt heavier than it should.
Jiawen’s eyes widened as she watched him.
“Wah,” she whispered. “What’s that? Secret file?”
Faris’s mouth twitched. “Not secret.”
He stood. “Come. Pantry.”
Jiawen grabbed her bag and followed, almost tripping on her own feet because she was trying to keep up with his longer strides.
In the pantry, the lights were warmer than the open office. The tables were mostly empty. Someone had left a half-finished bubble tea in the sink area like evidence of a life abandoned mid-sip.
Faris sat at the window-side table, the same one where he had told her about no status.
Jiawen sat opposite him.
She looked suddenly smaller in the quiet.
Faris placed the envelope on the table between them.
Jiawen stared at it.
Then at him.
Her face betrayed her curiosity so strongly Faris almost smiled.
“What happened?” she asked, voice low.
Faris exhaled slowly.
He didn’t want to dramatise it.
He didn’t want to make himself the victim of a story he had participated in willingly.
So he told it plainly.
“Amani found someone,” he said.
Jiawen froze.
Her eyes widened.
Then her brows knit, anger flashing across her face like lightning.
“Wait,” she whispered. “The one she’s seeing now?”
Faris nodded once.
Jiawen’s mouth opened, then shut.
Her face went through a sequence–shock, disbelief, then outrage.
It was so animated Faris felt something in his chest loosen despite himself.
“She–she really did it?” Jiawen demanded softly, as if the pantry walls might judge.
Faris’s mouth twitched.
“She’s allowed to,” he said.
Jiawen leaned forward, eyes fierce. “But you said you told her you’d leave if she finds someone else.”
“Yes.”
Jiawen blinked. “So… you left?”
Faris nodded.
Jiawen sat back slowly.
Her expression shifted.
For a moment, her anger softened into something that looked almost like grief–on his behalf.
Faris’s throat tightened.
He looked down at the envelope.
“Good,” he said, mostly to himself. “It’s better. No point staying.”
Jiawen stared at him.
Her face betrayed her disbelief.
“Faris,” she said softly, “are you okay?”
The question landed differently in the pantry than it did at the desk.
It sounded like permission to be human.
Faris swallowed.
He didn’t want to say yes.
He didn’t want to say no.
So he said the truth in the only way he could.
“I’m… irritated,” he admitted.
Jiawen blinked.
“Irritated?” she echoed.
Faris let out a quiet laugh that held no humour. “Yeah. Because it’s ridiculous. Because I knew. Because I still stayed. Because now I have to deal with this stupid feeling like my time was… borrowed.”
The words came out more raw than he intended.
Jiawen went still.
Then her expression softened–no jokes now, no performance.
“You didn’t waste time,” she said quietly.
Faris looked up.
Jiawen held his gaze.
“You learned,” she continued. “You were sincere. That’s not waste. She’s the one who–who couldn’t align.”
Faris exhaled.
Her words warmed him and frightened him at the same time.
Because they sounded like care.
Care was dangerous.
To shift the weight, Faris tapped the envelope.
“I bought tickets,” he said.
Jiawen blinked, startled by the change.
“Tickets?”
Faris nodded. “For a concert. Not SkyFreight.”
Jiawen’s lips parted.
Her face betrayed sudden excitement.
Then she remembered herself and tried to look neutral.
She failed.
“What concert?” she asked, too eager.
Faris slid the envelope toward her.
Jiawen opened it carefully, like it might explode.
Inside were two thick tickets printed on elegant cardstock.
Singapore Symphony Orchestra – Concerto & Play
The date was circled in black ink.
Jiawen’s eyes widened.
“Wah,” she breathed. “So atas.”
“It’s not that atas,” Faris muttered.
Jiawen flipped the tickets over, scanning details. “Dress code?”
“Smart.”
Jiawen looked up at him, eyes sparkling. “You were going with Amani?”
Faris’s jaw tightened.
“Yes.”
Jiawen’s face betrayed indignation again. “And now she got new guy so you don’t have partner.”
Faris’s mouth twitched. “Yes.”
Jiawen frowned at the tickets, as if they were evidence of a crime. “Wah. Waste.”
“I don’t want to waste,” Faris said.
He took the tickets gently from her fingers and held them in his own hand for a moment.
The cardstock was smooth.
Expensive.
Too real.
“I thought,” he said, keeping his tone careful, “I can give you. You go with your boyfriend.”
The words left his mouth like a sensible solution.
A neat ending.
A way to close the drawer.
Jiawen went still.
Faris noticed immediately.
Her face–always expressive–froze in a way that was unfamiliar. Like someone had pressed pause.
Faris’s stomach tightened.
“What?” he asked quietly.
Jiawen stared at the tickets.
Then she looked up.
Her expression shifted.
Not dramatic.
Not comedic.
Something quieter.
“He’s not my boyfriend anymore,” she said.
The sentence landed in the warm pantry like a sudden drop in temperature.
Faris blinked.
“What?”
Jiawen’s mouth twitched, as if she was trying to smile and couldn’t decide if she was allowed.
“We broke up,” she repeated, softer.
Faris stared.
His mind immediately flashed to the lunch table conversations, to Reza teasing about “the one,” to Jiawen’s flushed embarrassment as she defended Junhao with the stubborn certainty of youth.
He had assumed.
He had filed her relationship in his mental ledger as stable.
Now the file had been ripped out.
“What happened?” he asked, then immediately regretted it.
Jiawen’s eyes flicked away.
Faris felt the boundary line in his own chest.
He cleared his throat. “Sorry. You don’t have to tell me.”
Jiawen glanced back at him.
Her expression softened.
“It’s okay,” she said.
Faris waited.
Jiawen took a breath.
For a second, Faris thought she would cry.
But instead, she let out a small laugh.
Not a funny laugh.
A release.
“I thought he was the one,” she admitted quietly. “But… turns out, he’s not.”
Faris’s chest tightened.
He wanted to ask again.
He wanted to know what kind of thing had cracked her certainty.
But he remembered his own words.
Don’t pry.
Don’t push.
So he asked the only thing that felt safe.
“Are you okay?” he said gently.
Jiawen blinked.
Then she nodded.
“Yes,” she said, surprising him. “I’m okay.”
Faris frowned. “Really?”
Jiawen hesitated.
Then she said, with quiet honesty, “I feel… relieved.”
The word hung in the air.
Relieved.
Not heartbroken.
Not devastated.
Relieved.
Faris stared at her.
Jiawen looked down at her hands on the table.
Her fingers were clasped together, knuckles slightly pale.
She was holding herself together with intention.
Faris felt something shift in him.
Not attraction.
Not yet.
Respect.
Because ending a relationship you once called “the one” took courage.
And because the relief sounded like someone stepping out of a room that had been suffocating slowly.
Faris swallowed.
“I’m glad,” he said quietly.
Jiawen looked up, startled.
Faris continued, voice steady. “I mean… I’m glad you did what you needed. If you’re relieved, that means you were carrying something heavy.”
Jiawen’s eyes shimmered slightly.
Her face betrayed it.
She blinked fast, looking away.
“Ya,” she murmured. “It was… heavy.”
Faris’s hand moved unconsciously, fingers tapping the ticket edge.
He wanted to offer comfort.
Not as a man.
As a colleague.
As someone who understood the weight of leaving.
“You don’t have to talk about it,” he said. “But if you ever need to… I’m here.”
Jiawen’s throat moved like she swallowed.
She nodded.
“Okay,” she whispered.
The word sounded different now.
Not teasing.
Not agreement.
A small acceptance.
Silence settled between them.
Outside the pantry window, the sky had darkened further, rain streaking down the glass.
The office lights reflected in the window, making it look like the city was floating.
Faris looked down at the tickets in his hand.
Two seats.
Printed ink.
A date circled for a different story.
He felt absurdly angry at the paper.
Then Jiawen sniffed quietly.
Faris looked up.
She wasn’t crying.
She was making a face.
A face that was somewhere between annoyance and disgust.
“I can’t believe we both single now,” she whispered, as if the idea was rude.
Faris blinked.
Then, without warning, a laugh escaped him.
It was low and brief, but real.
Jiawen stared at him.
Her face betrayed surprise.
Then delight.
Then she made an exaggerated proud expression like she had just achieved something again.
Faris shook his head, still smiling.
“You’re ridiculous,” he said.
Jiawen grinned. “Thank you.”
Faris looked at the tickets again.
The laugh had softened something in him.
Not the ache.
But the sharp edge of it.
He exhaled slowly.
And then he heard himself say words he hadn’t planned.
“Why not,” he began, voice careful, “we go together?”
Jiawen froze.
Her grin vanished.
Her face betrayed shock so cleanly Faris almost regretted it.
Faris raised a hand quickly. “Not–like that. Just… I don’t want to waste. We can treat it as… celebration.”
Jiawen blinked.
“Celebration of what?” she asked, voice small.
Faris swallowed.
“Of being single again,” he said, trying to sound casual. “Like… okay, both of us… reset. We go enjoy music. Then we go eat. That’s all.”
Jiawen stared at him.
Her expression shifted through a dozen possibilities.
Suspicion.
Surprise.
A flicker of something softer.
Then she looked down at the tickets again.
Two seats.
She chewed her lip.
Faris watched her, heart thudding for reasons he didn’t want to name.
If she said no, it would be fine.
It should be fine.
He would give the tickets away.
Or let them expire.
He would go back to work.
He would keep his life clean.
But Jiawen lifted her head.
Her eyes met his.
And for once, her face didn’t betray her thoughts immediately.
She looked… composed.
As if she was making a decision.
“Okay,” she said softly.
Faris blinked. “Okay?”
Jiawen nodded. “Okay.”
Then her face betrayed her again–she smiled, bright and slightly nervous, as if she couldn’t help it.
“But,” she added quickly, lifting a finger like a condition, “you cannot treat me like your intern.”
Faris’s mouth twitched.
“You mean?”
“I mean you cannot lecture me the whole night,” Jiawen said, eyes narrowing playfully. “I want to enjoy. If you lecture me about music also, I will throw myself into the orchestra.”
Faris laughed.
This time, it was louder.
It startled him.
Jiawen beamed.
Her face betrayed triumph.
Faris shook his head, still smiling.
“Fine,” he said. “No lecturing. Only enjoyment.”
Jiawen nodded firmly. “Good.”
Then she glanced down at the tickets again, her smile softening.
“It’s been a while since I… dress up for anything,” she admitted quietly.
Faris’s chest tightened.
He nodded once, careful.
“It’ll be nice,” he said.
Jiawen looked up at him.
“Faris,” she said softly.
He met her gaze.
Jiawen hesitated.
Then she smiled again–small, sincere.
“Thank you,” she said. “For telling me. For… not being alone.”
Faris felt something shift in him.
A dangerous warmth.
He nodded, because he didn’t trust his voice.
“Okay,” he managed.
Jiawen smiled. “Okay.”
They sat in the pantry for a moment longer, rain tapping softly against the glass.
Outside, the city blurred in the downpour.
Inside, two tickets lay on the table like a quiet invitation.
Faris picked them up carefully and slipped them back into the envelope.
For the first time in days, the envelope didn’t feel like a punishment.
It felt like a door.
And Faris–who liked clarity, who liked finishing projects, who liked life to be neat–felt the faintest unease in his chest.
Because he had just agreed to step into something that wasn’t work.
Something with no checklist.
No tracker.
No guarantee.
He stood.
“Come,” he said, voice steady. “I’ll walk you to the lift.”
Jiawen stood too, sling bag on her shoulder.
As they walked out of the pantry, her small footsteps quickened to match his stride.
In the open office, the lights were still bright, the air still cold.
But the space between their desks felt… changed.
Not obvious.
Not yet.
Just a subtle shift.
Like the turnstile downstairs had flashed green for something that wasn’t access.
Like two seats had been reassigned.